#emotional support fic

[thegreatwicked]

Letting Stories Go

I wanna talk about something that I've been wrestling with for a long while that I'm a little at odds about. So, back in 2012, I started writing a story in the Assassins Creed fandom, I've been a fan of the games for a very long time, and while I love the world within the Animus, the game itself has really become a shadow of itself after the third game. That's where this story took place in AC3 the game with Connor Kenway and taking place during the American Revolution.

By this point, I hadn't written fanfiction, probably since high school, and with the game's release I was compelled to write a character because, despite the disappointing ending, I really loved the characters in the game. I wrote an OC called Chenoa. She was the love interest of Connor, and I wrote her in about halfway through the game following the events of the game. She was the daughter of an Irish doctor (dad) and an Egyptian Assassin (mom.) She was orphaned at eight after her parent's death and raised by an associate of her mothers an Abenaki elder and thusly raised within the Abenkai community. It's a bit of a cliche but at the time I really loved what I was writing however, here in 2024, looking back at the story I never finished I'm really questioning whether or not I should.

My reasons mostly stem from the fact that I'm not sure it's the 'correct' thing to do. As a writer now, I pour in lots of research into my characters and the worlds they inhabit but back in 2012, that wasn't the case, I made it up to 30-odd chapters and I was pumping the story out as fast as I could type because it was just FLOWING.

Chenoa, is problematic because I did not pour much research into her, I was a different writer back then and the world was a different place with people not yet understanding just how murky the waters could be when it came to writing a character from a culture that wasn't your own. I'm a white woman with no indigenous background, and I was writing about Chenoa who was for all intents and purposes, an Abenaki woman but looking back now, I can see I wasn't being respectful or even devoting the care to writing her the way she should have been given that she was part of a community that I know nothing about. I had every intention of finishing the story now that I've changed as a writer but as I said, looking back at it, it doesn't feel right to do it now and I'm thinking it might be time to let the story go.

I'm sad at this realization because I think as writers we develop connections to our stories, like deep emotional connections and I definitely had one to this story. It was the most popular story I'd ever written with over 30 chapters, 74k words 100 comments, 89 favorites, and 103 follows. At the time it was some of my best writing and people really loved it. I'd wake up to new comments almost daily and people constantly telling me they loved the story and were excited for the next chapter. No story has ever reached this level of interaction/adoration/love, whatever you want to call it and it was one of the times in my life that made me the happiest (at the time.)

I had so much love for this story and the character I'd created but the more I thought about it the more I realized that continuing it didn't feel right. I've grown up and while I still love the story, I don't feel the need to continue it. I've decided to remove it and move on to other things. I've saved a copy of it so that I always have it for whatever reasons but I've also screenshotted the wonderful comments left to me. These comments are what make the fanfiction community so wonderful, guys, you're all amazing, seriously. That we form such great friendships with people we may never meet all because of people who never existed is something that will never cease to astound me.

I just wanted to get this off my chest and tell you guys about a story I began a long time ago and how you don't always have to finish things. Chenoa means 'Dove' and she was a healer like her father, she entered into the world of the Brotherhood and met Connor over chance and misdirection and the two became a team. There was meant to always be push and pull as to whether or not she would stay the path of the healer or take up her mother's crusade and take life instead of sparing it. In the end, her role was to remain a healer and stay by Connor's side, rebuilding the Brotherhood but not taking a direct role.

This feels like a eulogy almost, lol. I just wanted to share something that meant a lot to me. I'm onto working on my other projects including Shadows and Unbreakable Bonds and my army of one-shots. Thanks for listening.

[moriartyyouwhore]

as the old adage (the unreleased Olivia Rodrigo song) goes,,, I’m a feminist obviously but I wouldn’t really mind him saving me

OH MY GOSH OP THIS IS SO GOOD I AM OBSESSED AND DEAR GOD THE ANGST

— below the belt [into the fire, part iv]

part i | part ii | part iii | masterlist

cooper howard / the ghoul x f!reader

rated e - 4k

tags: dubcon, power dynamics, vault dweller!reader, bounty hunting, sex for favors, sub/dom elements, brief somno, fingering, light degradation, oral (f & m), light ass play, hair pulling, swallowing, miscommunication, cooper is a diiiccckk, canon-typical violence and death

a/n: just a small warning there’s very brief references about pregnancy and infertility in this, in reference to reader’s vault (in regards to other members)

“I don’t think I‘ve ever been more desperate. Told myself I’d do anything to make sure they didn’t find me.” A small smile, then - as you remember, "But then I found you, and..."

As you turn, you notice he's gone still. Hat tipped down low, a guarded look as the pink of his tongue slips across his teeth.

"Huh. Should've known." He muses - voice slow and rough, "Think I'm startin’ to put things together."

(Or - you open up, and things don’t go as planned)

There’s a pressure at your hips. Something nudging your thighs apart, strong and solid. The ghost of fingertips at the hem of your shirt, pushing the fabric up.

You stir in your sleep, the dark room swimming. Jerking awake at the press of something against your core - a hand splayed across your lower back, pinning you down.

A snarl in your throat, as you try to twist away.

“Easy there, you lil’ yao guai.” The Ghoul’s voice cuts through the dark, and with it - you feel your muscles start to ease.

“What are you doing?” You croak sleepily.

“Takin’,” He husks - teeth biting into the leather of his gloves, tearing them from his fingers.

Cupping you, the heel of his palm pressing against your clothed cunt. Fingers sliding beneath the thin fabric of your underwear, as your thighs nudge wider.

Back arching, as you stretch out on your belly. A rough hum as you fill his palm. Warm against his fingers, as the tip of one rubs at your clit.

“Was just gonna sleep.” It’s quiet. You don’t know if it’s early or late - the room still bathed in moonlight, “But seeing all this skin, the way you’re offering up your pussy on a silver platter…”

He tugs at your underwear, ripping it down your thighs, “Makes a man wanna take a bite.”

Teeth sink into the soft curve of your ass - a yelp as you jerk beneath him. Glaring at him from over your shoulder, from beneath heavy eyelids.

He’d been gone all day. Something about needing to check the next place out. Not wanting you slowing him down.

There had been a spike of something in your stomach at his words. Fear. Unease.

Condescension dripping in his tone, in his “You best stay put, or I’ll make you stay put.”

Funny how after all this time, it’s him being apartfrom you that had you pacing. Checking out the battered windows, ready to dart back down to the basement. Fighting the nausea of the RadAway still that lingers in your system as the radiation purges itself, after the days before.

Busying yourself with more scavenging. Scrubbing the grime and dust from your clothes in a bucket of radiated water, your pants still hanging off the back of a chair to dry.

The hours slowly ticking by, until the sun dipped under the horizon. The thin blanket pulled up to your chin, as you waited - until finally, you drifted off.

You’re not ready to unpack that. Or the fluttering in your belly now. The relief.

His features are even more skull-like in the darkness, his hat discarded on a nearby table. Faint shadows cast across his face by the still-buzzing static of the television. Dark hollows carved out at his nose, the set of his eyes.

A smear of red against his cheekbone. Flaking off the leather of his discarded gloves. Adrenaline slowly leeching from his system, from an unexpectedly rough afternoon. Unable to resist the urge to sink into something soft and wanting.

There’s a low sound of amusement as he nudges at you, urging you onto your knees. Your back still arched, shirt riding up to where your tits still press into the bed, your face now buried in the crook of an arm.

“Ain’t this a sight.” His hands grasp at your hips, fingers denting flesh as he spreads you open. Baring all of you to him.

Spit pools on his tongue. The dip of his head as his lips part - letting it drip down, warm and wet against your holes.

It makes you gasp, clenching down around nothing. He must see it, how you string tight, with the rough exhale he makes.

Your fingers curl against the mattress. Holding you breath - waiting for the press of his cock, the sharp stretch that you know will follow. Waiting for whatever he gives you.

Not expecting the brush of his tongue, as it flattens against your folds. Languid when it flicks up to your entrance. The sound you make is ragged, thighs pressing together.

They’re caught by his hands. Wrapping around the crook of your knees, forcing them apart again.

“No you don’t.” He hums, feeling your muscles flex in his grip, “You best keep these nice and spread for me.”

Another exploratory lick, tasting you - a muffled groan as he discovers how wet you are when he parts you.

He’s never touched you like this. Your mind is still caught on the kiss, his tongue against your tits, knuckles bruised by the bite of his teeth. Never expecting to know the feeling of his mouth anywhere else.

You don’t want him to stop. Arching more, using your leverage on the mattress to hike yourself higher for him.

“That’s more like it, sweetheart.” He rasps, “You learn fast, I’ll give you that.”

You keen, as he teases at your clit. Tight flicks of his tongue that have you rocking against him. Smearing his spit and your slick across your skin, before his lips are following.

Devouring you. Groaning at your taste.

“Been dyin’ for another taste,” It’s almost a coo, with the syrupy drawl of his words - muffled against your cunt, “Sweeter than stolen honey.”

Marveling at how wet you are, for him - in this dry and dead desert landscape. Nothing but sand and death for miles but you’re here, soft and slick against his mouth, biting back a muffled whine for more.

His tongue dips into your tight heat. Feeling the tight clench of you as he presses close, unhindered by the bulk of a nose.

Your hips rock against his face. Fully awake now, eyes tightly shut. Soft sounds melding with the suck of his mouth, thigh muscles tight and trembling.

“S’good,” It’s rough from sleep. Quiet, as if afraid he’ll stop if you reveal just how good he feels, “Feels so fucking good.”

A whine when his mouth does leave you.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, as his hand leave your legs. Thumbs finding the curve of your thigh, pressing into the meat of your ass, “Like getting tongue-fucked by a Ghoul?”

Opening you up, his thumb ghosting across your clit. Your answer is half-moan, half-sound, as he pinches the tight bud.

“Only if it’s yours.”

He makes a low, rough sound at that. Palming himself from his potion behind you.

“Still talkin’. Sounds like you need a little more.” It’s your only warning before two of his fingers nudge against your opening.

Your gasp rings out, turning soft when they press deep to fill you. The nudge of his thumb with each plunge of his fingers bringing you ever closer. Unable to help the rock of your hips, as his fingers curl inside you.

Each breath is a pushed from you. Ragged and high-pitched, as your fingers pinch tighter. The slight plateau spiking again as he strokes against a spot his cock had found.

Fingers twisting, as the pleasure climbs higher. A third fitting into you, one knuckle at a time. It’s almost too much, your legs pressing flush against his, knees locking as heat pools in your belly.

“Look at these tight little holes. Always takin’ what I give you,” He admires, as feels the way you clench down around him.

The tip of his thumb sweeping up. Following the path of slick and spit, until it rubs against your tight rim, “Good girl like you gonna let me in here, too?”

It shocks you. His words, that hint of praise. How unexpected his touch is. Your focus narrows to the pad of his thumb, the steady pump of his fingers. His groan rough as he feels you tighten around his fingers.

“Fuck. Filthy little thing.” He grins, adding the slightest pressure.

Your own moan is wanton, loud and needy in the near-silent room. So close you can almost reach out and taste it - ready to sink your teeth into the ripe flesh.

“I’m gonna-” You manage, but it peters off, slipping into a moan.

“What? You gonna come?” He mocks, but it’s ragged. Losing its edge with his own need - too focused the wet squelch of his fingers, how your hips buck against his palm.

The mattress is rough against your cheek as you nod. Words are all but stolen from you now, leaving unable to answer. Nothing left but the ache for your release, everything inside you winding tight.

Forgiveness in the way his head bends, another lick against your pussy, where his fingers still pound.

The next slick brush is against your clit. The tilt of his head so his tongue can flick at the tight bud. Again and again - and with the third, you feel yourself shatter.

You wail, as he rips it from you. A bright pulse that radiates inside you - your release dripping from you with the clench of your cunt. A low hum as he feels how hard you come around his fingers, against his tongue.

Eyes closed so tightly that stars spark behind your lids. There’s the rough cadence of his voice, but everything is muted except the pleasure that sends your nerves alight.

Not noticing the panting whines are coming from you, until you drift back down.

Softening, when his fingers ease from you. A hiss when he leaves you empty, already missing the heavy fullness.

“Flip over,” The Ghoul growls, as he leans back on his heels.

Your muscles tight in the best way from the bend of your knees, the pounding of his fingers. A soft groan as you shift, your back pressing into the mattress as your thighs open for him.

His eyes already there, seeing the slick shine between your legs, the pretty gape where he’s worked you open. There’s the clink of his belts, as he works himself free, achingly hard in his palm.

Anticipation swelling as you wait for him to hike your legs around his waist and bury himself in you.

That heavy gaze flicks up, instead. Bare skin, the pushed-up tangle of your shirt. The cock-drunk haze of your eyes. Your soft, parted lips as you catch your breath.

He’s like a shadow as he crawls up you. Tattered coat licking at your legs, lean thighs spreading as they bracket your ribs.

A hand plants next to your head as he arcs over you. The other wrapping around his cock - where it hangs heavy, brushing your chest.

Your eyes are wide, focused on the thick shine of him as he works your slick over his cock - how the flushed head disappears with the stoke of his fingers. Lips already parted in anticipation.

His hand unwrapping, fingers slipping against your bottom lip. Hooking around your teeth, as your tongue licks at his knuckles.

A sharp inhale, when you close around and suck.

“Gonna use this mouth,” He husks, “The way it ought to be used.”

Pressure against your jaw, until you’re opening. He leans back, thighs spreading wider. The hand by your ear leaving to curl around his base.

Eyes dark as he feeds himself into your mouth. You can’t help but moan when he hits your tongue - the musky taste of you that clings to him.

Fingers slipping free, but his eyes stay fixed as he inches between your lips. How quick you are to close around him - watching the grit of his jaw. Licking over the rough and uneven flesh, swollen and leaking against your tongue.

He eclipses everything else, with how he fills your vision. A hand slipping beneath your head to angle you, so you can take him deeper.

A shallow thrust that inches towards the back of your throat, constricting around him as you moan.

Intention in the way you slide your hands up for him. Fingers wrapped around the straps of the pack you were using as a pillow. His knees framing your tits, as he rocks into your mouth.

A silent submission that he does not miss. The curl of his lip and the shine of teeth, as you let him decide how much you can take.

His weight presses into your chest, keeping you pinned. Unable to go deep at this angle, but content with the hot suck of your mouth, the wet swirl of your tongue. Finding his rhythm, the clink of his spurs as his knees dig into the ground with each thrust.

There’s an unsteady buck of his hips, and his shaft scrapes against your teeth. You go still - eyes rounding with a jolt of fear - but all he does is let loose a rough groan, chin jutting as his teeth click together.

His hand still cradles the back of your head. Fingers twisting in the hair at the nape of your neck, but not enough to hurt. Almost as if grounding himself, as he pumps into your mouth.

“Goddamn.” He growls, “Should thank whoever taught you to suck cock. Gonna make me come, sweetheart-”

Your eyes do close then, resisting the urge to let your hands drift. To slide up his thighs, across his vest, aching to slip beneath. They curl instead, grasping at the straps.

Air rushing into your lungs, as he pulls from you. Eyes fluttering open to catch the way he strokes himself, angling the tip towards your parted and glossy lips.

“You gonna take it?” He rasps, and you nod - letting your tongue peek out for him.

His hand tugs at your hair, his chin tipping down to watch, “Wanna hear you say it. You gonna let me fill your pretty mouth?”

You don’t know when use became let, but if he wants your permission - he has it. It’s always been his, even when it’s been wrapped tightly around you. Tied up in a bow.

“Yeah,” Your eyes are on his when you say it. Focusing on the grit of his jaw, the dark shine of his eyes, “I wanna taste you.”

His fingers tighten, brow pinching. A jerk of his hips into his fist - something bitten back between his teeth, caught in the heave of his chest.

“Open.” The Ghoul groans, and it’s all the warning you get before he’s coming - spilling across your lips, and then into the wet heat of your mouth.

Your eyes flicking up to watch again, though you’re torn. Tempted to watch the rough jerk of his fist, all that exposed skin. But it’s nothing compared to the way he looks at you as you take him. The weight of his gaze, the baring of teeth that has nothing to do with anger.

The Ghoul still tastes like a man should, as the salt of him as it floods your tongue. The kick of his length between your lips with each throb, his eyes rolling shut as he milks himself into your mouth.

His thumb smears across your lower lip, before it sinks inside to join his cock. A ragged breath, when he feels you swallow around both. Your tongue flicking across your lips when he eases from you, the tips of your fingers wiping away the rest.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” It’s a low exhale, a held tension gone from his shoulders. Fingers finally loosening from your hair, though you would have kept your heady steady for him without them.

He flops down on the mattresses, where they are pushed together. Stretching out beside you, the long hours finally catching up to him.

A lift of his hips as he tucks himself away, as you reach down to find the twist of fabric around your knees - tugging your underwear back into place.

Your mind is blissfully quiet - drowsy again, in the late hour and your post-orgasmic haze. Warm, as you roll on your side, studying him from under half-lidded eyes.

He’s close. Enough you can see the rough cut of his cheekbones, the straight line of his teeth. A second as you wonder, not for the first time, what he might have looked like before.

Your cheek grazes his shoulder, as a dark eye flicks your way. An arm splayed out, still tucked beneath your neck from where he had angled your head.

The phantom pinch of his fingers still lingers. The taste of him on your tongue when you lick against your teeth.

“What?” He grouses - as he does, when he can’t read you. When you manage to surprise him.

“Nothing.” You murmur, sleepily, “Just glad you made it back.”

It’s easy then, for your head to tilt without thinking. For your lips to ghost against his throat, where his pulse flutters beneath rough skin.

A ragged breath rattles in his chest, when you press another kiss lazily against his jaw. He stiffens beside you, fingers curled in the fabric of your shirt.

Before he’s pushing - rolling you over. Tucking you between him and the old basement wall, his back to the locked door.

“Yeah, yeah.” He grunts. All bark now, with the way his bare fingers splay across your skin, where your shirt has ridden up.

“Get some sleep. Long walk tomorrow.”

The morning dawns, and there’s something about it that seems more clear.

Or maybe it’s just you, your mind drifting back to the night before. How you woke up with the heavy press of him against you.

It hadn’t lasted long - a rough groan against your ear. Nothing said as the hat fixed itself back where it belongs. A silent tilt of his head towards to door, indicating the departure.

He still follows behind you, but you think just a bit of that gap between you has closed. A silent corner being turned, somewhere between dusk and dawn.

Only thing shared is that he’s narrowed the bounty down to a settlement, six miles from here. Deeper into the desert, instead of the crop of trees you had been hoping to head towards. Shade would be a welcome improvement, to the miles on empty road.

Maybe before, you would have been disappointed. But somehow - today - you don’t mind.

"Yesterday." The Ghoul’s voice comes from behind you - some time later, "You didn't want to stay alone."

It's not a question, but you can hear the way his words trail off. A second as you pick through your thoughts, settling on something you’ve been carrying since the beginning.

"Didn't want to be found." The wind carries your words back to him.

A few more steps pass, before he's asking, "What'd a thing like you do to get a bounty?"

Your steps slow, until he's beside you. A sideways look sent his way, catching his eye.

"You took it." It's the first real time it's been addressed, after your init meeting, "Wouldn't you know?"

He could outpace you if he wanted, with those long legs. Content enough at the moment, to stick by your side, "I know what I know. Wanna hear your side."

You hum, contemplating. Wondering how to explain. If it would make sense to a man like him. If he’d think you were weak.

"Our Overseer had a… god complex," You start slowly - never having to explain it out loud, trying to find the words, "Had it coded in the beginning that only his direct, patrilineal bloodline could work the Vault. Everything went through him."

Food. Water. Power. Everything locked under codes and keys. Thumbprints and DNA, the role of Overseer shared across the current generation.

"All his sons, then their sons, and so on... they all got married off to other families in the Vault. Or they’d find a way to bring in new blood from the outside.” Your mother had been a Wastelander, carrying you when she had been traded. You had never seen the sun until a few weeks ago.

“If you couldn't produce a male heir, you disappeared. If you tried to leave, they'd bring you back, and then you'd disappear. Been like that a long time."

A whispered secret that many knew. Followed, because the security of control and safety outweighed the horrors of the unknown. The knowledge that whether you left or not, your bones would stay in the Vault.

"So what? Didn't want to play the role of broodmare in your utopia?" He sneers, and it's not the first time you've picked up on his distaste of the Vaults, of Vault Dwellers like you.

“Seems like a goddamn picnic compared to the shit you see up here."

“You asked.” Your arms cross over your chest, as you scowl at him.

A few weeks ago and you would have gone silent. Now, you’re starting to her used to his gruff comments, the sharp bristle. Waiting, until his eyes tear away, a small jerk of his chin to continue.

"My name got drawn. Was supposed to marry one. But… in the last five years he's gone through three wives. Not a single child." You can feel the weight of his gaze on your face, the pinch of his brow.

A beat, as you start off again, "Told you, I worked as a chemist. I saw his vitals. It wasn't them, but  for it."

"So you left." His words comes reluctantly, as he fits the pieces together, "I take it they weren't happy about that."

"Wasn't gonna let it be me next." You nod, "But no, they weren't. Like I said, no one truly leaves, but I was dead either way, right?”

A beat, as you take a breath to steady yourself. Stuck in the fear from that day and the ones that followed, afraid of your own shadow.

“I don’t think I‘ve ever been more desperate. Told myself I’d do anything to make sure they didn’t find me.” A small smile, then - as you remember, "But then I found you, and..."

As you turn, you notice he's gone still. Hat tipped down low, a guarded look as the pink of his tongue slips across his teeth.

"Huh. Should've known." He muses - voice slow and rough, "Think I'm startin’ to put things together."

"What are you talking about?" You ask with a frown, thrown off by the change in pace.

"I think you know." He presses, your eyes flicking down to watch the way his wrist reflexively presses against the butt of his revolver, where it juts from his holster.

Scowling now, stalking closer, "Not a bad plan, Vaultie. Was gonna have to fuck someone either way, right? Might as well pick the man with the biggest gun. That what you thought?”

There's venom in his tone, biting into you. The first time his fury has fully been directing at you, freezing you in place.

A shake of your head, your voice sounding small, "It's-, it’s not like that."

You haven’t been using him. Not like he thinks, though you don’t know why he’s so angry. He’s treated almost everything like a transaction - keeping you at arms length.

You’ve been the one that’s falling, not him.

"Christ, you really had me going. You're a damn good liar, you know that?" He spits, with a low shake of his head. A scoff, as his eyes narrow, "Been wondering why you’ve been offerin’ yourself up so eagerly to me."

It makes your head spin, as you try to make sense of his words. Another small shake, the words caught in your throat.

You don't know how to explain that your desperation in the beginning did have its roots in self-preservation. But in all the days and moments that have passed - that surely, surely he couldn’t still think so.

“I know how it sounds but, I-” Your words cut off, as a hand reaches out, wrapping around your bicep. Yanking you closer until you stumble.

"You do, huh? Let me tell you, all you did was trade one devil for another.” The words ground out, snarled between clenched teeth, “You're a goddamn fool if you think I hadn’t been planning on turnin' you in the first chance I get."

His words chip away at your heart. With an effort you try to wrench your arm away - a shove against his chest that does nothing, as your own fury boils inside you.

"How can you say that? You found me, asshole." You snarl, "I haven't lied about anything. I could have left, but I stayed because I wanted to. Didn’t last night mean anything to you?”

“It was just business.” He growls, “Ain’t that right?”

The look he gives you is the final piece that shatters you, as his fingers pinch harder against your skin.

He never cared after all.

Your throat aches. The urge to fight, to make him understand, slips through your fingers. Another shove, harder this time, right into his gut. A ragged breath as his grip loosens, and it's all you can do to twist on your heel.

Shooting him a venomous glance from over your shoulder, "If you're going to take me in, then fucking do it."

You don’t care anymore. Waiting for the rope to lasso around your waist. Bind tightly around your throat, until it chokes you.

But, it doesn't.

You don't look back.

Tears prick your eyes, as you hoist your pack higher on your shoulder. One of the few things that has made the journey with you - so much shed over the miles.

You had endured enough. Had thought something had changed, since those first days together. That maybe, as the days had passed, he had softened. That maybe you weren’t alone in your feelings. That offer just a mask, to act on them. 

All you did was trade one devil for another.

A foolish thought. It makes your jaw grit, an angry shake of your head. You wouldn't cry over him, not after everything you've been through.

The edge of the abandoned town passes, fuzzy with the way your eyes fix ahead.

Blinded to the rest of the world, as you set off for the unknown.

Small pieces forming a loose semblance of a plan. Something about another settlement, a while down the road, into the forest. No bounty there, but you didn’t give a shit anymore.

With the food in your pack, you might be able to trade for some caps. Find some work - maybe stick around, if it's safe.

If not, it's not like you're not used to sleeping on the ground.

Sand leads to dirt paths, then to grass. Brushing your ankles as you weave through the barren forest, the bark stripped bare and bleached by the sun.

The weight of him follows you, though you do not turn around. A hand held loosely on your holster by habit more than anything, as you pick your way across fallen branches.

You didn't need him. Right now you tell yourself you didn't even want him.

But, you’ve never been a good liar.

There's the snap of a branch, then. A metallic creak.

It's cruel, how your heart leaps. How you look for him, breath held with the swivel of your head.

Only to feel like you are falling, when it's not the Ghoul. When a figure steps out from the trees. Two more from an outcropping of rock.

Your body freezes on its own, when you see them. All familiar.

The two from the town, those days ago. Springing to your mind now, as you had peered from over his shoulder at the bounty board. The amateurs - the man with the scar, and his partner.

And the other. All that blue - encased in padded leather armor. He is the one that makes your blood run cold, your fingers curling into fists.

Baine. He was from your Vault. Someone they sent out to bring people back, and every time they came home battered - left to you to patch up, if they lived that long.

"Took a bit you find you," He smiles, though it does not reach his eyes, "Had to enlist in some local help. Thought you'd never split off from that creature."

Your head whips to the side, as they shift - trying to box you in. Fear and fury licks in you, as you grit out, "He's not a creature."

He scoffs, "You keep strange company, but you'll be back where you belong soon enough. I am sure the Overseer will be... forgiving, if you come quietly."

The man with the scar lunges - reaching for your arm. At the same time, you remember yourself. Just able to get your fingers around the butt of your gun, drawing it out.

There's a snarl but you're firing - downing him just before he reaches you, his body careening over the edge of the rock. Your aim twitches towards Baine, but he's faster.

His hand wrapping around your wrist, twisting until you cry out - fingers opening. A sharp pain in your chest, as his fist slams into it.

Fingers unfurling to reveal the syringe, slipped between your ribs. The plunger flush with the base - whatever was inside, already flooding through you.

"Should've gone quietly, girl." It's faded, as if you're in a tunnel. The world tilting on an axis, as your legs give out.

You cry out, for him - the broken noise sounding like it comes from a thousand miles away.

And then… there's nothing.

(someone got their feelings hurt 👀) thank you so much for reading!! 💖 I have really loved writing this and them, really appreciate all the love!!

[dad-dumpster]

smells lik gay in her e

[moonbils]

soft billie eilish one-shot. best friends, late nights, no forced romance. read it like a memory. ⋆˙⟡

tw: none

Later they would say it was love at first sight,but both knew it was a long road they had to take to get here.

It didn’t start with a spark.

There was no slow-motion glance across a crowded room. No dramatic pause in conversation. No knowing look, no skipped heartbeat.

It started at 4:12 PM, on a Wednesday.

Venice Beach was too loud. Too sunny. Too much. Billie was already sitting on the towel, sunglasses low, iced coffee sweating in her hand. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.

You walked up late, holding two iced teas and the kind of tired that sits behind your eyes. You said nothing, handed her one.

She took the wrong one. You didn’t correct her.

- - - - - - - -

“Where’s Finneas?” you asked.

“Over there.” She pointed toward the boardwalk. “On the phone. Pretending to be deep.”

You sat beside her. Close, but not enough to touch.

She looked out at the sea like she was trying to read something hidden in it.

“You ever get tired of being seen?” you asked.

The question fell out of your mouth before you could stop it.

Her face didn’t change. “All the time,” she said. “But not by you.”

- - - - - - - -

She started texting you after that.

Not every day. But enough.

Screenshots. Unfiltered selfies. Voice memos of half-written melodies. Photos of her dog doing nothing in particular.

She never explained why. She didn’t need to.

Sometimes she came over, curled up on your floor like it was easier to exist sideways. Sometimes you watched dumb cartoons. Sometimes she said nothing, and that was fine too.

Billie wasn’t performing when she was with you. And that felt like a secret you were trusted with.

- - - - - - - -

The first time she fell asleep in your bed, it wasn’t romantic.

She was wearing your hoodie, tangled in the blanket wrong, one sock on, one off. Her phone was face down. Her hand was half on your pillow.

You didn’t move her. You just turned off the light and sat on the floor beside her, finishing your tea.

It wasn’t love. Not yet.

But it wasn’t nothing, either.

- - - - - - - -

Months passed.

She blew up a little more. You stayed the same.

She’d disappear for two weeks, then show up at your door with Thai food and no explanation. You never asked. She never offered one.

“Missed you,” was all she’d say.

And that was enough.

- - - - - - - -

One night, you were brushing your teeth when she called.

“What’s your favorite soup?” she asked.

You spat into the sink. “What?”

“Like. If you were sick. Or sad. Or dying. What soup would you want?”

You told her. She hung up.

Three days later, it was waiting on your doorstep. Still warm.

You never brought it up again.

- - - - - - - -

She never said “I love you” the way people expect it.

Not on a rooftop. Not in the middle of a kiss. Not in a song.

She said it like this:

“I feel safe with you.”

And

“You always let me be quiet.”

And once, when she was half-asleep, skin soft with sleep and hair in her face

“You make the noise go away.”

You didn’t say anything back.

You didn’t have to.

- - - - - - - -

Later, they’d say it was love at first sight.

That when Billie Eilish met you, it must’ve been electric. Obvious.

But both of you knew the truth.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t shiny. It didn’t crack the sky open.

It was slow. Earned. Built between text messages and shared fries, quiet glances and mismatched socks. Built in the spaces between fame and fear, in the silences that didn’t need filling.

It was love.

Eventually.

[nevertheless-moving]

So You Just Killed Palpatine

In Which, Much To Obi-Wan Kenobi's Surprise, While Dealing With The Consequences of One's Own Action's Can Be A Lot, It Isn't Always Entirely A Bad Thing

originally inspired by this and this from anon and husborth Part One, Part Two, Part Three ... Part Fo ... uh ... there's memes somewhere... Anyway Here's Part Five:

Obi-Wan blinked awake, head cloudy and body heavy, as if under unusually high gravity. But no, there was the all-too-recognizable ceiling of the temple healing halls, its mosaic ceiling drifting in lazy, clockwise circles.

What did I do this time? Wait, there was something I had to tell the rest of the Jedi...something important...

Oh dear, he was on the good painkillers, wasn't he?

“Obi-Wan?” someone familiar asked, voice and force presence ringing with a startling jab of hope.

“Bant?” he tried to reply, only to be met with burning pain in his throat. The only thing he managed to get out was an unintelligible coughing fit which pulled sharply at his gut.

“Take it easy!” she urged, moving into his blurry line of sight. “You’ve had extensive abdominal surgery, and your throat was — was crushed rather severely — it’s going to take more time for the grafts to heal.”

Obi-Wan nodded, chastened, before cautiously starting the process of pushing himself up in bed, Bant hovering nervously all the while. The effort made his muscles ache and the room spin faster, but things settled down once he was sitting up.

He looked around, sagging in relief at a small oily handprint on one of the otherwise sterile visitor chairs. Anakin had been here recently, and was in good enough health to be tinkering. Good, that was good. That was important.

He suddenly realized half his vision was obscured and sluggishly raised a hand to his face, only to find heavy cloth.

“I’m sorry, we weren’t able to save your eye,” Bant said softly. “Once you’re a little more healed we can discuss artificial or bioengineered replacement options.”

She plucked a cup off a counter overcrowded with a dizzying array of flowers. “Here, drink some of this if you’re feeling up to it, it’ll make talking a little easier.”

Obi-Wan accepted the drink, only to feel it slide out of numb hands. Bant gently closed her hands around his, helping to guide the drink to his lips. He grimaced at the taste.

“Bacta infused water,” she apologized. “You’re going to be drinking bacta infused liquids for some time, I’m afraid.”

A wave of exhaustion swept over him and Bant set the cup down as Obi-Wan sagged.

“Anakin?” he managed to rasp out.

“Anakin’s fine, he’s completely safe,” Bant said with a comforting squeeze of his shoulder. “He’ll be annoyed to know he missed you waking up, he very much wanted to be there.”

Obi-Wan was going to say something else, but sleep dragged him under first.

//

Obi-Wan opened his eyes — his eye — to the sight of Quinlan Vos scowling over a datapad. The dark spot on the left side of his vision was more noticeable than before. What the kriff did I do to myself?

He shifted, irritated at how lethargically his body responded. The pad fell to the ground with a clatter as Quinlan lurched towards the bed.

“Obi-Wan! Hold on, let me — you’re supposed to have the water before you try to talk.”

Quinlan helped hold up a cup and straw so Obi-Wan could take several short sips of the unpleasantly viscous and vaguely pineapple flavored water.

“How are you feeling?” Quinlan asked, hovering with uncharacteristic anxiousness.

Obi-Wan paused to think. “Weak,” he replied in a hoarse whisper. “How long have I been...”

Guilt flashed over Vos’s face. “You were in and out of Bacta tanks and surgery for a full two weeks. And then another week in an induced coma. And then another week in a self-healing trance. You had...a lot of internal injuries. I’m so sorry Obi-Wan—this is all my fault.”

Obi-Wan stared at Quinlan blankly for a moment. His face helped the memories to start trickling in.

"Yes..." he said slowly. "Yes — you knocked on my door... you said... Vos... please just... just tell me if I hallucinated anything — did I try to assassinate the Chancellor of the Republic?"

"I'd say you succeeded," Quinlan replied, half-smiling, half-grimacing.

"Did I — did we think he was a pedophile, only—”

He had to pause, throat burning as he fought a coughing fit. He swallowed more disgustingly flavored water before finishing the thought.

“—only to discover that he was in fact not sexually grooming Anakin, but was doing a number of other terrible things? And did he... did he — did he electrocute me...”

Obi-Wan’s voice trailed off and he took several more sips, throat filled with an uncomfortable fizzing sensation.

Quinlan nodded, wincing. “I mean parts of that you know better than me but yeah, that matches with what I understand.”

“Hm.” Obi-Wan finished the cup, mulling it over.

Quinlan Vos muttered something under his breath that Obi-Wan couldn't quite make out, but the word "dramatic" almost definitely featured.

Grey crept in around the corners of his vision, then black.

//

When he opened his eyes — his eye, he'd have to get used to that — next, he was greeted by a convenient and increasingly familiar cup at his bedside, as well as Master Windu. Obi-Wan quickly reached for the water, clutching it in both hands and taking a long drink.

Spurred on by the sight of the Master of the Order, he also reached for the urgent thought from earlier, wanting to get it out before he slipped back under —

“Chancellor Palpatine’s a Sith Lord!!”

The corners of Mace’s eyes crinkled. “Yes, Knight Kenobi," he said. "We’re aware of that now. You’ve proved it to be the case quite publicly. And ended the threat with remarkable... thoroughness.”

Obi-Wan head fell back. “A Sith Lord... the Chancellor!” he said in amazement. He was relieved to find his throat only barely twinging at his outburst.

“It truly stretches the imagination,” Mace agreed tolerantly.

“You’re telling me!” Obi-Wan took another long drink, head spinning.

Master Windu smoothed a crease from his robe before saying, with extreme delicacy, “I don't wish to pressure you into speaking before you've healed... but I admit, we’ve all been wondering how exactly you knew.”

"He force choked me and electrocuted me with Sith Lightning. Lighting! I thought that was a myth!” He drained the cup, hands shaking slightly.

“Yes,” Mace said quietly. “The healers were amazed you survived so long... let alone had the strength to fight back with such strength. We’re all extremely grateful to the Force for keeping you alive long enough for us to reach you.”

Obi-Wan made a mental note to feel grateful later, but his mental space was a bit of a mess at the moment, and he wasn't entirely certain he had filed it away correctly.

Master Windu sighed. “We would have been there sooner but I’m afraid none of us had any idea that you were going to confront a Sith.” A twinge of reproach crept into Windu's voice, but Obi-Wan set it aside along with the gratitude, to be examined at some later date. Ideally when his head felt less full of bantha wool.

“I had no idea,” Obi-Wan said numbly.

“Well you figured it out before the Council at least,” Mace replied, not without humor.

He couldn't help but snort. “Yes, because he shot lightning at me. I mean the force choking happened first but... lightning. Lightning!”

Lines formed between Master Windu's brows as he looked down at him. “As much as it pains me, I understand the risk assessment in not telling the High Council about a Sith Chancellor of the Republic, and goading a public fight was probably the best political move possible. But why start the confrontation so privately? It seemed rather — apologies, we can debrief on that when you're rested. I presume you were trying to get a confession about the droid and clone armies?”

Obi-Wan stared at Mace Windu wide-eyed.

“The what.”

The lines on Master Windu’s face deepened. “The... Kamonian clone army — the clones of Jango Fett...”

Obi-Wan’s eyes got wider. “Jango Fett—you mean Galidrean Jango Fett? The Jedi Killer? Palpatine made a clone army of him?”

Mace was silent for a long while, staring at Obi-Wan as though he were a particularly concerning puzzle. Obi-Wan chewed on the straw, mind wandering to whether or not it would be appropriate to ask Master Windu for a refill. As unpleasant as the flavor was, the fizzing did make his throat feel better.

“Knight Kenobi...” Mace finally said, speaking very slowly. “Do you remember why Chancellor Palpatine attacked you? The soul healers were quite certain the Sith Lord didn’t breach your inner shields but I think you might be suffering from some memory loss...”

His left eye itched; he resisted the urge to reach for it. Obi-Wan sank further into the cushions behind him, trying to think. Were there gaps in his memory? No, as usual, it all seemed a fairly clear path from Quinlan Vos knocking on his door to Obi-Wan ending up unconscious in the healing halls.

“Why Palpatine starting attacking?" he mused. "I suppose he wasn't going to just dance around forever — force, when he dodged my blaster shot, I simply could not understand how — it all happened so fast, but the next thing I knew I was pinned against the wall by a Dark —”

“Stop,” Master Windu ordered, raising his hand. He took a deep breath, radiating calm into the force.

“Do you remember what Palpatine said immediately before you shot him?” he asked patiently.

Obi-Wan shifted, feeling a pang of awkwardness as he muttered the answer guiltily under his breath.

“I’m sorry, Knight Kenobi, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“He said, ah, ‘you’re a Jedi’ and ‘you can’t kill an unarmed man.’”

Mace Windu stared at Obi-Wan.

There was a long pause while Obi-Wan fidgeted with the straw. He was starting to feel that perhaps his thoughts were even less clear than he had assumed them to be, and he was not handling this conversation particularly well.

Windu took another deep breath, radiating slightly less calm then before.

“Knight Kenobi. Why did you shoot the Chancellor of the Republic?”

“...I was trying to kill him,” Obi-Wan said, looking down.

“Why?”

Obi-Wan mumbled.

“Kenobi, speak clearly.”

“Well—ah—it actually turns out that I had misunderstood...I mean it had certainly seemed like...but he wasn’t actually...doing exactly what I thought...”

Windu stared at the recumbent Knight, who flushed.

It occurred to Obi-Wan for the first time, that, considering his plan of running away and becoming a bounty hunter was no longer possible nor, perhaps necessary, he could have misrepresented some of the timeline of events vis a vis sith slaying. Or better yet, pretended to have memory loss.

In his defense, the whole experience had been extremely unnerving! For all that weeks had clearly elapsed for everyone else, Obi-Wan was still processing Chancellor Palpatine shooting lightning out of his fingers.

A wave of exhaustion flooded over him, and he sank into it with relief, recognizing now the sickly sweet painkillers pulsing through his blood, clouding his thoughts and pulling him under.

//

Unfortunately, Mace Windu was still there when he woke up. Kriff.

He opened his mouth to try and backtrack, but Windu raised his hand, cutting off any poorly thought out explanations.

Master Windu took a deep breath, radiating very little calm by this point.

“Let me get this clear. Nod if yes, shake your head if no, did you go into the Chancellor’s office with the intent to assassinate the Chancellor of the Republic?”

Obi-Wan nodded.

“Did you know he was a Sith before you went into his office?”

Obi-Wan shook his head.

“Did you suspect he was a Sith?" Mace asked, slightly desperate.

Obi-Wan shook his head, cringing in apology.

“Before you went into the Chancellor’s office, were you aware that he was working with the Kaminoians to commission a clone army?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, biting back questions.

“Did you know he was working with the trade federation to commission a droid army?”

Another no.

“Did you suspect anything about these armies? Anything about a larger plot to destabilize the Republic? Destroy the Jedi? Become Emperor?”

Obi-Wan shook his head at each question, eyes widening with shock.

Mace Windu was radiating absolutely no calm at this point.

“Knight Kenobi...” he asked with a pained expression. “Did you... attempt to assassinate the Chancellor of the republic for personal reasons born out of some sort of misunderstanding? Only to inadvertently save the Republic?”

“I mean once I found out that he was a Sith... I of course changed tactics... and personal is a bit... but... that... Well. More or less sums the situation up, yes.”

Mace WIndu stared at Obi-Wan Kenobi, who wasn’t sure if he should keep talking or not. He didn't entirely trust his ability to explain things well at the moment, and ultimately decided to err on the side of silence.

Obi-Wan vaguely wished he could slip into sleep, but was fairly sure that it would be rude and possibly obvious to do twice in one conversation. His throat itched and he considered once again asking for more water, ultimately deciding against it.

Minutes passed, Master Windu staring blankly at the wall above Obi-Wan’s shoulders, while Obi-Wan's mind started to wander.

Who on earth had been paying to feed a clone army? How was Quinlan doing at getting Anakin to brush his teeth? Am I going to prison? Ohh that’s why the force was so insistent on killing Palpatine. Maybe that would help explain things to Master Windu? Though 'the force told me to' is  generally not considered a good excuse, in of itself, for acts of violence...though this is a rather unique situation...

Eventually Master Plo walked in, letting out a pleased noise.

“There he is! The Hero of the Republic!”

Mace Windu closed his eyes.

“Is that what they’re calling me?” Obi-Wan asked weakly, when it became clear Master Windu wasn’t ready to address everything wrong with that.

“Oh! Your drink is empty! Mace, Vokara was very clear with her instructions!” Master Plo scolded.

Mace Windu didn’t reply.

Plo-Koon snatched the cup, filling it up from a pitcher across the room and talking boisterously. “Well, the public is throwing around a lot of titles, but since you already had Sith Slayer...”

“Oh dear,” Obi-Wan said faintly, accepting the terrible water and drinking it for lack of anything better to do.

Plo-Koon patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. “I’m afraid to tell you it’s going to be very difficult for you to dodge commendations for your actions. Now that you’re awake you’re going to be faced with quite a backlog of requests for ceremonies and interviews—”

Obi-Wan choked. “Ceremonies?” he repeated in a higher pitch. He snuck a look at Master Windu. His eyes were closed, though he didn't appear to be meditating.

That probably wasn't a good sign.

"Yes, ceremonies," Plo-Koon said with far too much relish. "Turns out there are quite a lot of old traditions on the books regarding —"

Master Healer Vokara Che entered the room at brisk pace. “I thought I heard voices — I will remind you that before he is the ‘Sith Slayer Returned’ or ‘The True Chosen One’ or any such nonsense he is first and foremost my patient.”

She gave a sharp look to both Council Members. Plo-Koon nodded contritely while Master Windu continued to not say or do anything.

“The — no, no Anakin’s the chosen one —" Obi-Wan sputtered. "Anakin’s the reason — people aren’t actually calling me that, right?” he asked, drugs doing an admirable job at suppressing the panic he was fairly sure he was going to feel later. The device in Master Che's hand beeped faintly in answer.

“That and more, young Kenobi,” another familiar voice suddenly added, below his field of vision. “To collect your honors, expect to survive, you did not, mmn?”

“Master Yoda! No, I—I really didn’t expect... any honors... at most I was hoping that people would understand...” Obi-Wan protested weakly, shooting Windu a beseeching look which yet again failed to garner a response.

Che rolled her eyes, flipping a lek behind her somewhat sarcastically as she attached a glowing device to his chest. "Of course you didn't."

He barely refrained from wincing as several needles bit into him.

“Perhaps we would have had a better chance of understanding had you left us any of your evidence,” Master Koon chided gently.

“Put together the pieces we did, in our time,” Yoda added, hopping up on the nightstand to affectionately poke his shoulder.

Obi-Wan leaned back, feeling increasingly light-headed.

“Your vitals look good, all things considered,” Master Che said, sounding smug. “You should be back to getting into trouble in a year or so.”

Obi-Wan jerked his head in her direction, aghast. “A year?!”

“Busy, you will be, if work you wish. A seat, open there is for you. Comfortable chair, good company, important duties.”

Master Windu’s eyes squeezed further closed.

“What?” Obi-Wan asked, bewildered.

The healer scowled. “You were bleeding heavily into more or less all your major organs, including your brain. Really, it would be faster for me to list organs that weren't damaged. The fact that you recovered at all is only because Master Gallia conducted ill-advised on-scene amateur healing—"

"Is she alright?" Obi-Wan asked.

"—ill-advised, but successfully non-self-detrimental amateur healing, and I’m a miracle worker, and, credit where credit is due, you’re a stubborn bastard; not to mention your padawan has far too much energy to throw around — you really should consider enrolling him some healer’s courses—”

“Is he alright?” Obi-Wan asked, more urgently.

“He’s fine,” Master Plo reassured him with a gentle hand on the shoulder. “Everyone is fine except for you. He just tired himself out a few times, but Knight Vos has been keeping a close eye on him, and Anakin understands that the best thing at this point is to let you heal under your own power."

“Can I see him?” he asked. His voice was growing hoarse despite the dutifully refilled cup.

Vokara’s face softened. “Of course. He’ll be stopping by after class, in another hour or so. He’s been very punctual.”

“Master Windu? Alright are you? Silent, you have been.” Mace flinched upon being prodded with a stick. He opened his eyes, pinning Knight Kenobi with a steely gaze. Obi-Wan shrunk back, but Windu just sighed.

“You...” he trailed off. He stood up slowly, as if the movement pained him.

"I —" he said authoritatively, quieting the room. "—am taking a sabbatical. Call me when—” Windu gestured vaguely. “—you all sort out this mess.”

He walked out.

A long moment passed. “What did you tell him?” Master Plo finally asked in a hushed whisper.

"Ah..." Obi-Wan paused, limbs heavy with fatigue. "Well — you see— " He closed his eyes, feeling slightly cowardly as he did so.

//

When he opened them again, the light hadn't shifted nearly as much as other inbetweens, and his bandages hadn't been changed. Master Plo was still there, speaking quietly with Yoda.

Shit.

"Not too long that time," Vokara said, pleased. "I've lowered the dose on some of your medications, it should make it easier to stay awake."

"Oh. Good," Obi-Wan replied.

"Young Kenobi." Plo-Koon moved closer. "I dislike pressuring you in your current state, but... Master Windu appears to have left the temple. We were wondering..."

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering. His mind was, at last, starting to catch up with mouth. “He asked me... some questions. About how I came to suspect Palpatine," Obi-Wan said carefully. "It would appear I may have forgotten some details. About the evidence...Master Windu was — distressed regarding what I did and did not recall."

Vokara nodded. "Memory loss is completely understandable with the type of injuries you recieved."

"Alright, it is, if remember everything, you cannot," Yoda added kindly. "Our own investigations, ongoing are."

"So if I, ah, can't quite remember everything that led up to our fight," Obi-Wan asked, feeling guilty, but force, that blank look in Master Windu's eyes. "I mean I definitely remember the force willing me to decisively seek his end — really it was unusually loud about it," he added hastily. "If that helps."

Yoda nodded slowly. "This reason, understand we do. But, present to the public, perhaps not a good idea would be."

"Yes," Obi-Wan said. "I think — I'm not certain but I believe Quinlan Vos may have helped me collect some evidence..."

"Said as much, he did. Wait to confer with you, he wanted."

Obi-Wan sagged backwards with relief. "Yes. Yes! We had security concerns... Palpatine was so highly placed..." he trailed off.

"Considering Sifo-Dyas's and Count Dooku's entanglement in all this I can hardly blame you for hesitating to reach out to the council," Plo-Koon said, exhaustion audible even through his vocoder.

Obi-Wan choked on his spit; the following coughing fit was soon rewarded with a fresh bacta drink from Vokara.

Dooku?? Sifo-Dyas??

"Perhaps after I speak with him I'll be able to better assist with the current investigations," he offered hoarsely after recovering.

"Of course," Plo-Koon said gently. "Again, we apologize for interrogating you so early into your recovery but you really can't imagine the public and political scrutiny we've all been under —" He hesitated. "Master Windu was joking about taking a sabbatical right now, was he not?" he asked, sounding strained. "I know he's been under a lot of pressure, but surely you having memory issues couldn't—"

He was thankfully interrupted by the sound of small feet moving rapidly and a gangly body launching itself at highspeeds through the doorway.

Vokara just managed to snag the back of Anakin's robes before he crashed into Obi-Wan's medbed.

"Padawan Skywalker," she said, voice tight. "I believe I have mentioned the numerous injuries your master is recovering from and the need for —"

"Care in my movements," he said sheepishly. "Apologies, master, thank you."

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said, something in his chest relaxing at the sight of his dangling student.

"Obi-Wan." His padawan's eyes immediately started filling with tears.

Obi-Wan reached out instinctively. "Oh, Anakin."

"Give you a moment, we will," Yoda said, hobbling out, as Vokara sighed, then gently placed his pupil on the floor.

"Of course," Plo-Koon agreed. "Take all the time you need." He hurried to catch up with Yoda. Obi-Wan heard him begin to say, "Mace can't actually be leaving us to deal with this clusterfu—'' Then the door closed, and Anakin was weeping at his bedside.

"Shh," Obi-Wan said, tugging his padawan up, ignoring the protestations of his abdomen. "There, there, it will be alright."

Anakin crawled up, movements ginger and uncertain around Obi-Wan's numerous injuries. Together, they somehow managed to shift Obi-Wan enough for Anakin to fit beside him. His padawan shook with suppressed sobs, and parts of him were almost certainly hanging awkwardly off the edge of the bed.

Obi-Wan ran one hand through Anakin's hair, the other hand gently resting where he could reach without twisting too much, probably an elbow, though the boy was pointy enough these days that he couldn't be sure. If Obi-Wan was also shaking, well. There was reason enough.

"Sheev," Anakin finally said, oozing misery and an overwhelming tangle of other unpleasant emotions into the force.

"...I know he was your friend—" Obi-Wan said, after what was hopefully not too long a pause. This was another conversation that probably wouldn't be helped by painkillers.

"But he wasn't, really." Anakin curled up, even more miserable. "I know. I should let go."

The side of Obi-Wan's head throbbed. On second thought, painkillers were the way to go here. "That's not what I meant," he said. "He was a friend to you. He's gone now. Because of me, your master. And... I'm sure you've found out a lot while I've been asleep. I can't imagine a single padawan learner who wouldn't be struggling with their emotions right now. I'm struggling."

"I'm angry," Anakin said into his side. "Master, I'm so full of anger."

"You think I wasn't?" Obi-Wan asked dryly.

Anakin hiccuped a sob. "I'm angry at everyone."

"It's alright, Anakin," Obi-Wan soothed. "You'll work through it in time. I'll be here to help, whenever you want. Even when I'm the one you're angry with."

Anakin sobbed another minute, force presence roiling, before finally pulling himself in with a deep breath, and wiping his nose on the sheets. "You looked so cool when you were angry," he mumbled into Obi-Wan's side.

"Oh force," Obi-Wan groaned. "Of course there was holofootage. Of course you watched."

"Are you... still angry?" Anakin asked.

Fuck.

Obi-Wan tried to think of the right answer for a padawan learner. His head throbbed again.

"Honestly? Right now I'm mostly just tired. I feel like I was run over by a pack of bantha. It's never a good idea to try and deal with large emotional gnarls while you're this exhausted, remember that my young padawan."

"You've been asleep for years," Anakin whined. "How are you still tired?"

"Years?" he asked, amused.

"At least three," Anakin huffed, curling up against him.

Obi-Wan stroked his hair in peaceful silence for a moment.

"...Did you really smash in his skull with a metal chair to protect me?"

"I would do a lot of things to protect you," he confessed. "I'm sorry Anakin — I should have talked with you when I grew concerned with his behavior. I felt at the time I had to act swiftly, but I worry I only caused you more pain."

"It was a really cool fight."

"...Thank you, padawan."

"Can you teach me how to choke people with my ankles like that?" he sniffled.

Obi-Wan groaned internally. "Of course, as a Jedi, violence—" 

"Violence is our last resort," Anakin interrupted. "Right, yeah —but if it is needed—"

"—Such as when someone," Obi-Wan said over him. "After careful consideration, is found to be both politically insulated and positioned to commit great further harm—"

"Actually, I think you, the person who killed my trusted friend, lecturing me on why he was ultra especially irredeemably evil is traumatizing, even more traumatizing than all those holo compilations of you —"

"Oh force above, of course there's — oh. Oh no — please don't tell me—"

"The latest Jizz music," Anakin said, far too gleeful.

Obi-Wan groaned. Unfortunately, the extra movement in his chest triggered an admittedly ghastly sounding coughing fit and Anakin immediately lost the small edge of grace he had managed to cultivate during their back and forth.

"Master?" he asked urgently. "Master — hold on — I'll go get—"

"I'm fine," Obi-Wan rasped. "Any more of that —"

Anakin was already scrambling to fetch the pitcher.

Such a good boy, he thought affectionately, watching him pour and carry over a glass with the same care others might have when handling molten gold.

Obi-Wan drank with a reciprocal amount of delicacy, knowing his padawan was watching falcon-eyed for any wasted drops.

"Perhaps we should finish this conversation a little later," Obi-Wan said, once his airways calmed down.

Coughing should not be this exhausting.

"Of course," Anakin said, subdued, but he crawled back into bed readily enough when Obi-Wan patted it.

“Really, though —” Obi-Wan started to say, feeling it was duty to try and wrap up the lesson, but he was fortunately cut off before he was forced to figure out exactly what that lesson was.

“It’s alright,” Anakin chimed comfortingly. “We have time to talk about it, master. Can’t you tell?”

“Hm?” Obi-Wan replied, fighting the droop of his eyelids. 

“The force clears,” Anakin said, voice sonorous. “The dark retreats.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan’s eyes started falling closed. “That’s nice.”

“So we have time. To figure out the rest.”

 “Very nice,” Obi-Wan murmured.

His padawan curled against him, force presence like ocean waves rocking him to sleep.

“The force says it’s going to be alright,” Anakin whispered, wonderingly. “It’s going to be alright.”

Obi-Wan smiled, then once again slipped back to sleep.

[deedala]

Ian and Mickey from Intro to Quantum Dating by @spoonfulstar

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

♡ chronicle #4 : welcome back ♡

wc : 5338

somehow, you've gotten used to living without your dragon man.

it shouldn't have been that hard to began with, you reason. since you'd only been living with him for a couple of weeks. you'd spent your whole life without this rude, bratty, infuriatingly handsome dragon guy. it really shouldn't have been hard.

you wake up to get ready for work feeling more tired than usual. this had been the case for the last two weeks now. you're lost at work, you've been really close to coming late more than once. you're coworker sachi has also asked if you were sick at least 5 times in one week, so you assume you don't exactly look your best right now.

you grab some leftovers from the fridge, hastily throwing them in the microwave to check up on your coffee. when you're done eating with the only background noise being the tv playing some game show reruns, you put your plate in the sink and remember a little too late that no one's there to clean them up for you anymore. you feel stupid, staring at the dishes like they'll suddenly wash themselves.

you'll wash them when you get back.

work goes by in a blur. you hardly remember what you did, who you'd talked to or what you had for lunch. the trip back home feels unfamiliar, like someone else was controlling your body for you. you don't mind as long as you can go home and sleep.

when you walk through your door, you check your couch reflexively, even though you've reminded yourself multiple times no one would be waiting there for you. the tv's turned off like it was when you'd left, there's nothing cooking on the stove, and there's no one on your couch.

despite reminding yourself.

you really need some sleep.

you order take out and eat while watching your favorite show for the 5000th time. it feels boring instead of comforting like it usually is, so you end up skipping a bunch of episodes straight to your favorite.

sometimes, you feel like it was all one big dream. falling in love with a dragon only for him to leave you seemed like something you could really only see in your own fantasy. but you know it isn't, because if it were you'd be able to forget about it. about him. but you can't.

it isn't painful, it doesn't feel like your heart is about to burst. it just feels so lonely. you feel like a part of you is missing, like a piece of your heart was filled to the brim with warmth only for that part to be taken away from you and leaving you cold and hollow. you don't like feeling like this. you shouldn't feel like this over someone you'd technically just met.

but it wasn't like that with him, it didn't feel like you'd just met. despite only living with him for a few weeks, you felt like you'd known him all your life. it was like you were catching up with an old friend the more you spoke to him. everything in you felt good with him. everything felt so right with him.

before you know it there are tears clouding your vision, you will yourself not to let them overflow. you hadn't cried since the day he left, you'd been distracting yourself with work not to. your favorite part of the episode comes up yet all you can do is focus on not bursting into tears. you can't go to bed feeling like shit since you've got work tomorrow. you decide to head to bed early tonight.

you'd like to think you can fool yourself into believing you've gotten used to living without katsuki. but unfortunately, you have to admit you aren't that good at lying to yourself when the first teardrop hits your pillow.

katsuki feels incredibly wrong.

it's way past the time he's usually asleep, but despite tossing and turning he can't keep his eyes shut because every time he does he sees you.

you, with your stupid bright smile. you with your stupid puffed out cheeks and pout when you'd caught him nabbing your food too late. you with your bright eyes when you come back from work to see he's made your favorite.

and you, with your glossy wet eyes when he told you he was leaving.

he really needs some fuckin' sleep.

for the last two weeks, he's been telling himself that this was better for you—for you both. he knows he could never truly be good for you. no matter how well he'd learn to cook your favorite meal. no matter how many movies and tv shows you watch together. no matter how good it feels to be with you, you'll always be a human and he, a dragon.

you're different beings made for different lives. he wasn't raised for battle, but it is a primary part of the dragon code, especially in his faction. survival of the fittest and whatnot. you were made for office jobs and midnight take out and romance movies, not for anything he was.

his friends were more than happy to see he'd finally come back home. they had basically choke-slammed him to the ground to hug him, and he can't deny he felt really a little bit happy to see them again.

he'd expected his mom to nag his ear off like she usually does but he was more than shocked to feel her wrap her arms around him tightly. she had told him she was happy to see he hadn't caused any trouble for himself and he could hear the quiver in her voice and feel the slight shakiness in her tightly strung limbs. he hadn't said anything and simply quietly held her back. his father had joined the group hug soon after and katsuki closed his eyes, indulging in the warmth of his parents' love.

this is good. this feels nice. this is where he's supposed to be.

it felt nice at the time, he recalls. but it didn't feel right.

for the last two weeks, he's been trying to tell himself that despite how much he aches, how much he yearns for you, you aren't made for him.

unfortunately, besides admitedly being a horrible liar, katsuki will forever be a selfish dragon. he only focuses on what he wants, and he wants you more than anything. he needs you more than anything.

" fuck this.." he mutters, throwing and arm over his eyes. he starts absentmindedly rubbing at his hair, like you used to. but it doesn't feel as comforting, so he huffs again.

he'd been told he unfortunately couldn't do anything about the tournament, but on a better note the guy he faced off again would be disqualified from participating since he did end up getting something from a witch, like katsuki thought. kirishima had wrapped an arm around his shoulder and told him it was a good thing. but to be honest, katsuki had almost fully forgotten about that shitty tournament. his father told him there would always be a next one. the next one in ten years. the thought of not seeing you in that time crosses his mind at makes him feel like he swallowed something sour. there's a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought but he can do nothing but try to ignore it.

just as he's about to turn to the other side of his bed a knock his door startles him. his mom walks in shortly after, opening the door halfway before walking in when she sees him awake.

" i didn't say you could come in." he grumbles half heartedly, sleep riddled voice slightly groggy. mitsuki simply sits on his bed near him, patting at his leg over the covers.

"m'not allowed to check up on my runaway son ? don't want you to leave again." she jests. katsuki knows she's joking, but he still feels a pang of guilt in his chest. he grumbles something unintelligible in response.

no words are exchanged for a moment, then mitsuki pats her son's leg a little harder, he snarls at her but she simply smiles at him.

"what do you say we go get some air ?"

the night air feels good.

soaring through the sky feels comforting. feeling the way the wind rushes through his scales feels almost therapeutic to him. it can be thrilling to soar through the air the same way it can also be calming. it provides him serenity he can't quite put into words.

katsuki finds himself wishing he could fly like this with you like when he brought you back home from work. he remembers how you'd screamed your lungs out, clutched onto him so tightly and when you'd landed back home with wobbly legs and messy..everything, you'd proclaimed it was the first and last time you'd ever go for a dragon ride. he remembers how hard he laughed and he chuffs to himself unconsciously at the memory.

flying around when he was irritated or stressed wasn't uncommon for him but he only remembers a handful of times he'd went flying with his mother. other than the times he was younger and still learning how to get the hang of it. he has to admit that that feels good, too.

they decide to rest on a nearby mountain they saw in the horizon. as soon as they land katsuki changes back into his human form, stretching as he let's out a yawn. the only remaining traces of his dragon form being his red horns and scaley tail accompanied by large red wings. he hears his mom flap her wings behind him as she also let's out a little yawn of her own. she sits down onto the gravely bottom and katsuki raises a brow before taking a spot next to her.

it's quiet as they both silently stare at the moon. it's a little chilly out but katsuki doesn't mind much.

"so," mitsuki sighs, taking a large gulp of the fresh air " you gonna tell me what happened when you went on your little expedition?" she bumps her shoulder with his playfully, katsuki growls but doesn't snap back like he usually would.

he simply shrugs "it wasn't an expedition." he gulps, it feels like a knot grows in his throat. "it wasn't anything." he doesn't notice the way his hands are tightened into fists, but his mother does.

"that so ?" she utters. she speaks in a nurturing way. that soft tone that only a mother could use for her child. it upset him even more as the knot in his throat tightens.

"i.." katsuki starts "i was around a lot of humans.." he admits. his mother hums in response, urging him to continue. "saw a lot of things, tried a lot of human stuff."

"human stuff ?"

"human foods and desserts and stuff. and movies. they're people moving around acting inside a big box that they call a tv." he tries his best to explain it in the simplest way considering it took him a while to grasp the concept of electronics himself. he can tell his mother doesn't really understand, but he's thankful she simply nods and let's him continue.

"it wasn't too bad." he concedes. " i didn't wanna kill too many of them." he jokes, his mother chuckles in response.

"anything else happen ?" she asks with a smile. katsuki can already tell shes's onto him. screw this mother's intuition shit.

he opens and closes his mouth a few times, nothing he wants to say seems to come out right.

"ma.." he starts, she hums " when you--how did it feel for you when you fell in love with pops ?"

her eyes widen at his question. she sits and thinks about it for a minute, then a smile grows on her face. " it's not something i can really explain. i just knew it when i saw him, i knew he was meant to be mine."

"even though he's a human..?" he mumbles quietly. his mother doesn't seem fazed, her dazed smile remains.

"yeah." she answers simply.

"it didn't bother you ?"

"nope." she immediatly answers, popping the p.

"it wasn't weird ?"

" it took a little gettin' used to." she hums "we're completely different after all. his family wasn't exactly on board with it. but they didn't say anythin' when i showed 'em my dragon form, i think they were just really amazed." she laughs at her own joke and katsuki fights an eyeroll.

"how'd you do it then ? how'd you..get used to it ?" he asks almost urgently.

her smile hasn't faltered since the beginning of the conversation. it seems to have gotten even wider and even brighter. " i didn't do anything. i loved your father, i still do." she sighs dreamily " when i was around him i didn't worry about anything. i didn't worry about what others thought to begin with, but i didn't worry about that. i wasn't scared of the future or anything."

"there was nothing for me to be worried about when i was around him. it always just felt like things would work out. we made each other happy, and when i was around him it all felt so.." she can't seem to find the right word to use but katsuki finds one for her immediatly.

"right ?" he finishes.

"yeah" she smiles, eyes softening as she looks at her son "yeah, it felt really right."

for the last two weeks, katsuki's been trying to deceive himself. by now he knows it isn't working. at all. he'd been trying to keep his mind quiet. he's been spending time with his friends and it's been nice. but there's clearly something missing. something he knows that his parents or his friends can fill, despite them caring so much for him. and he feels bad because he cares, he really does. but there's something he needs.

you're the one he needs.

"i think.." katsuki jumps a little when his mom speaks up again "i think there's somewhere you need to be, isn't there ?" she asks, though that knowing look she gives him clearly says she already knows the answer.

katsuki bites his lip, looking down towards the ground below. he can't see the bottom.

"i'm scared, ma.." he admits, meekly. mitsuki's heart squeezes at her little boy's heart showing in his eyes, scared of the unknown despite trying his best to convince himself he isn't.

his mother places her hand ontop of his and squeezes " i know, i know you are.." she comforts.

"w-what if it's too late and i messed shit up ?" she shakes her head, shushing him.

"you didn't, i know you didn't." she speaks carefully "if that person is the right one for you, then there's absolutely no way you have." she pulls him into a hug and he hugs her back tightly. no more words are exchanged as katsuki and his mother sit there. she pulls away and presses her forehead to his.

"you get goin' now, okay ?" she feels him nod after a moment and her smiles grows wider. she ruffles her son's hair and he grumbles, pushing at her arm and he fights off a smile.

he's sure, he knows what he needs to do now.

he gets up with vigor and stretches out his limbs and his wings as they flex and expand on his back. before he takes off though, he hears his mom call for him. he turns to look at her proud smiling face.

"you'd better come and visit !" she grinned, sharp fangs on display. katsuki smiles back at that, sharp grin rivaling hers.

" obviously !" he affirms, before taking off.

you wake up like you'd had the best sleep in your life. probably because you cried yourself to sleep.

you're awake an hour earlier than you usually are and you can't seem to get back to sleep. so bitterly, you decide to just get up and start your day an hour early.

you're definitely not getting ready for work at this hour, so your hello- kitty jammies are staying on. you remember you have a half eaten tub of vanilla-caramel-brownie ice cream in the freezer and it makes you a little happier. you walk over to your fridge with a little skip in your step.

when you sit down on your couch and turn your tv on you can already see the sun rising from your balcony. and it makes you dread having to go to work in an hour and a few minutes, you do your best to ignore it and watch a rerun of some old drama tv show you found.

you take your first bite and hum to yourself happily. the ice cream melts on your tongue and the flavours burst onto your tastes buds. if you could you'd eat ice cream every single day.

but katsuki would scold you for it.

it feels a little harder to swallow down your next bite.

the female and male lead on the show are arguing about something. the man says he only has eyes for the lady. he says that it's always been her, that if he were reborn in another life, in another country, he would still always find his way back to her.

you quietly keep watching, taking smaller and smaller scoops of ice cream. the lady is doubtful, she asks the male how she knows he won't break her heart. he responds that she only needs to trust him, that she needs trust herself.

"what is your heart telling you right now ?" he asks.

"it's telling me.." there's a dramatic pause " that i love you..!" she declares.

the two share a hug and an old ending song plays, you can hear an audience clapping like you sometimes do in old sitcoms. you really wish you could go back to sleep when you check your phone and see that only twenty minutes have passed. you wonder if you can call in sick as you play around with your ice cream, but you draw the line at that. that'd be too childish and you're too grown to be faking sick just because you got your heart broken.

you switch through a couple of channels before you land on an animal documentary. it's about red panda's and red panda's are adorable, so you shuffle on your couch to get comfortable and scoop up another big bite of ice cream.

the moment you bring your spoon to your lips though, you suddenly feel a big gust of wind. accompanied by a loud crash. and a giant hole through your fucking wall.

your spoon stays frozen against your lips, it's cold but you can barely feel it. slowly, you turn to look at something coming out of the cloud of smoke caused by the debris.

or no, it's a someone. you can see them stand up straighter as huge wings stretch on their back along with huge pointy horns and—actually maybe it is a something after all.

except you squint and you realise that it isn't a something.

it's katsuki.

it's katsuki and he's looking at you, bright red eyes focused solely on yours. he's here, he's here with you.

and he's once again blasted a hole through your wall.

you almost want to laugh, but you're afraid if you do you'll start crying. so you simply stare at him. he takes a deep breath and opens his mouth

“hi..” he exhales.

he’s heaving, taking in the force at which your wall was blasted into pieces one could assume it was probably because he was flying really fast, and he was. but this wasn’t really going all out for him. frankly, katsuki bakugou is heaving because he’s so incredibly nervous.

“h-hi..” you utter back, wide eyed. katsuki zones in on something on your face and furrows his brows.

“you’re eating that cold shit that early in the morning ? you’ll get sick.” he chides. this time you do laugh, because he’s so insanely ridiculous, how could you not.

“yeah well, no one was here to stop me so..” he knows the other meaning to your joke very well and his heart hurts at the sadness in your eyes when you fully realize he’s actually here.

“why did you—i thought you had to go home ?” you stutter. he takes a hesitant step towards your couch, towards you. his hand twitches, wanting to reach out to you, to touch you, but he holds back for now.

“yeah i did.” he nods “so here i am.”

your heart feels like it’s beating while being held down under a huge weight. you want to do so many things. you want to cry, ask him so many questions and kiss his mouth off but you can only bring yourself to ask “why ?”

katsuki frowns at the way your bottom lip wobbles and he immediately decides he can’t have that. he walks up to you and grabs your hand to pull you towards him, you stand up with a squeal as he pulls you into him. you’re ice cream long forgotten as neither of you notice the tub hitting the floor.

right now you’re only focused on him and he on you.

“i-i tried to tell myself that i didn’t need you at first, that it was better if i didn’t. we both know we’re—more than completely different,” he chuckles humorlessly. “tried telling myself that i didn’t need you because i didn’t need you my entire life, so why should meeting you, a human, change anything ?”

"but then—i don’t know, i realized that i’d spent so much time with you and your normal human life. with your weird habits and routines and your cheesy animal love stories. and then suddenly i just—" he stops himself mid rambling, he’s still heaving and he can’t seem to calm down. until you reach up and place your hand in his hair.

in seconds it’s feels like he can breathe again. your hands in his hair feel like taking a flight in the dead of night. your entire being is like the way it feels when the wind rushes through his scales.

he needs you, he needs you, he needs you, he needs you and he needs you so bad.

he plops his head against your shoulder and you hear the purring sound from when you’d first pet him in your office building. when you didn’t really know why you did, and that it just felt right to.

“suddenly i realized that i couldn’t be without you. i couldn’t see myself without you and your stupid smug face whenever you’re being a smart ass. without you and your weird taste in movies and your hands in my hair and your smile and—" he cuts himself off again. seemingly realizing he’d said too much. you don’t want to embarrass him too much too soon so you hold back the giggle bubbling up in your throat.

“i thought you liked my taste in movies.” you joke, playing with the hair on his nape. you feel him huff a chuckle against your shoulder.

“never said i didn’t like it. said it’s weird.”

“is there really a difference?” you snort.

“hell yeah there is,” he retorts “ya go from watchin’ that weird demon cat on your phone to watching the conjuring in the same breath.”

“ that just means i'm open to a lot of genres, it’s a good thing !” he snorts then grumbles some kind of agreement under his breath “and don’t you insult hello kitty like that ! she’s done nothing to be classified as a ‘demon cat’.”

“ it’s fuckin’ weird. why doesn’t it have a mouth ? and why are it’s black beady eyes starin’ into my fuckin’ soul ?”

“ quit calling her 'it' ? and she’s adorable !”

“she’s freaky is what she is.” you groan.

"you're insufferable. so incredibly annoying." you grumble in defeat. he lifts his head up to look at you then, his award winning cheese on display with a tiny fang poking out.

"yeah, maybe..but you missed me." he counters. you huff, but you really can't lie "yeah, yeah i did" you say. it comes out sadder than you'd wanted it to, and he seems to notice it. his eyebrows furrow and the remorseful look on his face makes your heart burn. your expression mirrors his as you speak.

"i really did miss you, katsuki. i really did." you whisper sorrowfully. you feel him wipe the tears you didn't even know where about to spill from the corner of your eyes. he grabs your cheeks in both of his large hands and wipes at your eyes, then rubs at your cheeks softly. his eyes burn with unspoken words and feelings and you don't need to hear him say anything to understand. you understand him better than anyone. human or dragon.

and that's all you need.

"i know." he leans in until you're inches away and your eyes flutter closed when he nuzzles his nose against your tenderly. he places his forehead against yours in a way you can only describe as loving. "i know." he whispers again.

"but i won't leave again. i promise." he vows, rubbing his nose against your cheek. the gesture feels very animal like and you giggle a little. he huffs against your cheek in amusement. "you're mine, you've always been. i know that—i'm sure of it now." he corrects "so i'm not goin' anywhere." he's so close. just like that night.

you want to let go, want to give yourself to him and trust him but there's something holding you back. katsuki can tell you're doubtful. he nudges his head against your softly, "talk to me." he urges.

"i just..i'm scared.." you admit "what if things don't work out ? i really, really like you katsuki." your voice trembles and your bottom lip wobbles the slightest bit "i don't want you to go away again.." he shakes his head adamntly, his hair tickles against your forehead. he breathes a sigh and pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes properly.

"i don't know how the future will turn out, or what's gonna happen." he knocks his forehead against yours again "but that doesn't scare me. mostly cus i'm not scared of anything," you roll your eyes but you can't help the chuckle that rips out of you. he smiles, obviously proud of his joke.

"but also because i know you're it for me. no matter what happens, i trust that i'll always come back to you." he seems to realize he's been awfully out of character. a cute blush grows on his face but that doesn't deter him in the slightest, as his eyes stay fixed on you. it makes chills run down your spine.

"you..were made for me. that's all i need." he closes his eyes, embarrasment catching up to him. you smile at how adorable your cranky dragon man could be when he wanted to be.

that's all he needs. you're all he needs. the thought fills your body with so much warmth and love.

you bring your hands up to his cheeks. he opens his eyes. looking down at you with half lidded eyes and so much affection it makes you giddy.

"what is your heart telling you right now ?"

you smile up at him, a watery giggle slips past your lips.

" i love you."

you trust yourself. you trust katsuki. you trust your love for him.

his eyes widen. and suddenly he's leaning down and all he gives you as a warning is a breathy whisper of your name. you don't think twice when you nod your head fervently and then he's closing the distance and kissing you.

in a second it's like you feel whole. it's like he breathes life into you with the kiss he presses onto your lips. and the next one, and the one after that.

he pulls back to catch his breath for no less than three seconds before he's stealing yours away again. but you don't mind in the slightest. you'd give all of yourself up willingly to him. you wish you could stay close with him, holding onto him like this forever.

but then there's a sudden sharp pain in your lip.

"ouch !" you yelp. katsuki immediatly pulls back, eyes racking over your face until he notices red on your lip. you lick at your bottom lip and taste blood. you look up at him, a mix of amusement and suprise on your features. after a second, you let out a chuckle.

"guess you missed me lots, huh ?" you laugh some more when he growls at you. trying his best to seem somewhat intimidating despite the state he's in. he's breathing heavy and he's sweating a little bit, cheeks fully red.

"b-be quiet, human." he leans down and licks the blood off your lip. it flusters you despite him meaning it innocently, dragons are way more direct when it comes to physical affection, it seemed. "i'll roast you alive."

"no you won't, liar." you answer arrogantly. you bring your arms to rest around his neck, your hands play around with the hair on his nape. "you like me too much."

"you're gettin' real cocky, aren't ya ?"

"am i wrong ?" you counter. he narrows his eyes at your challenge but lowers his head in defeat soon after. he shakes his head with a chuckle. "no, guess you're not." he concedes.

"you guess ?" you tease.

"don't push your luck, loser." he nips at your nose, and you giggle. he snarls at you when you tug at his horn, but he can't hide the smile on his face.

"i—uh." he looks away, off to the side towards your tv "love. you. too..or whatever you humans say.." he confesses shyly. too much direct eye contact for one day, it seems. you giggle, then lean in and press a sweet kiss to his lips. it takes him a second before he eases into it. slowly, just as passionately as the first time, but you both know there's no rush to let each other know how you feel. you've got all the time in the world together.

"i'm glad.." you say once you pull away. "so, can i assume that means you're back now?" you joke.

"i told you i'm not goin' nowhere. you're mine." he asserts " i'm back." he states with a fanged grin.

you smile wider at his words. you're smiling so hard your cheeks start to hurt but you really don't mind "welcome back." you answer lovingly.

this feels right. this feels like where you both belong. he's back.

back where he belongs.

you pat his nape "to make yourself back at home, you can make me breakfast !" you chirp. "you owe me at least twenty five homemade dinners too, so you'd better get to work." you laugh out loud when he pokes at your side with one hand, with the one on your face squeezing your cheeks out.

"cheeky brat, already puttin' me to work, hah ?!" he grins "i guess i do owe you dinner though, but definitely not fuckin' twenty five of 'em !" you both laugh at each other some more and you wish all of your days with him here could feel like this. but even if they don't, you're not worried. as long as you're together, you know everything will be okay. you trust that with all your heart.

"katsuki ?" you start after a moment. he hums in response, urging you to continue while he nibbles and presses smooches on your shoulder. you smile, you're so incredibly happy.

"fix up my damn wall, would you ?"

and here it is yall, the final chapter ! thank you all sooooo much for the overwhelming amount of love for this silly lil series. i couldn't be happier that you guys liked this fic just as much as i did writing it ! and i hope this ending makes yall happy (cuz some of yall were losin it last chap LOLOLOL) take this super fluffy ending as an apology for that then !! much luvv <333

taglist ! : @sikuthealien @rosemarygalaxy @guccirosegold @queenpiranhadon @k0z3me @katsuisbaby @lovra974 @katsus-mistress @briokayama @sixxze @lupikekee @nymphsdomain @berryvioo @roboticsuccubus83 @yao-ai @haruesme @omayrac @raatass @touyasprettydoll

[sympqthyy]

safe haven | jj maybank au

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summary: After a fight with his dad, JJ Maybank seeks comfort by sneaking into your room. Vulnerable and shaken, he finds comfort in your embrace as you soothe him with gentle words and tender care.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸·───────────· ·

JJ Maybank was a mess of emotions as he climbed through your bedroom window. The moonlight cast a soft glow on his disheveled blonde hair and the fresh bruise blossoming on his cheek. He winced as he swung his legs over the sill, but the pain seemed to melt away the moment he saw you waiting there, eyes wide with concern.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Can I stay here for a while?”

Without waiting for an answer, JJ collapsed onto your bed, his head landing gently on your stomach. You could feel his body shaking with the silent sobs he tried to hold back. Your fingers found their way to his hair, threading through the soft strands in a soothing rhythm.

“What happened, JJ?” you asked softly, your voice filled with worry. “What’s wrong?”

“I had another fight with my dad,” JJ mumbled, his voice muffled against your shirt. “I just… I couldn’t stay there.”

Your heart broke at the vulnerability in his voice. “I’m so sorry, JJ. You don’t deserve that. Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head before he shifted closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, seeking the comfort and security that only you could provide. You continued to play with his hair, your touch gentle and reassuring.

“You always make things better,” he sighed, his breath warm against your skin.

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll always be here for you, JJ. Always.”

[eobe]

Echo wearing a hoodie in the rain, trying to hide his headpiece and looking like a civilian? ☔️ This is my fanart for the amazing fanfiction ‚Starstruck‘ from @isthereanechoinhere96 🫶🏼 Sorry minors 🙈

Here en detail (for the eyes):

Taglist: @eclec-tech @lonewolflupe @bixlasagna @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @covert1ntrovert @general-ida-raven

[paperultra]

HOME (TO THE OL’ BALL AND CHAIN)

(OR, THE PIÑA COLADA SONG)

Pairing: Chilchuck Tims x Fem!Chilchuck's Wife!Reader Word Count: 2,499 words Warnings: None Summary: Five years after leaving your first and only love, you take the plunge into the dating scene – and immediately regret it. Maybe you're too picky, but none of the men you go out with seem to fit the bill; they're too non-committal, or too eager, or too happy, or too sad, or simply just too much ... so after a particularly bad experience, your youngest makes a last-ditch effort to set you up on a blind date with someone who she insists deserves a chance. You reluctantly agree. read on ao3 | read on quotev

DATE #1: CASUAL LUNCH Estranged husband — 1 Estranged wife — 1 Everything left unsaid — as desired

There’s bacon grease on his shirt.

You can see it underneath his collar, round fingerprints staining the pale linen grey, and when he leans across the threshold into Fler’s home all you can think about is laundry day at the end of the week.

It would be rude to admit that out loud, though.

“Thank you for walking me home,” you say.

“When can I see you again?”

“I don’t know.”

Abelwood teeters forward still. “Well, don’t take too long, hear? You ain’t gettin’ any younger.”

Laughter erupts from the beer in his gut, and you laugh along with him. Abelwood is a rowdy drunk, you’ve learned, which is better than a cruel drunk or a lecherous drunk. It is not the kind of drunk that you are used to bringing home, even if he is only brought to the front door, but –

You smile, regardless.

“Goodnight,” you bid, closing the door inch by inch, your last bit of energy disappearing with the click of the lock.

You hold your breath. It takes three minutes and thirty-seven seconds for the man to leave your front doorstep, and you wait thirty more seconds after that to peek through the window, verifying that he is far enough away before resting your forehead against the door with a groan.

“Oh, boy.”

“I’m too old for this, Fler,” you mutter into the wood. “He was awful.”

Flertom lets out a sigh and closes the distance to squeeze you in a hug, pressing her cheek against your back like she’s done ever since she grew tall enough to do so. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she says.

“I’m sorry too.”

As you pat her hands and turn around to smile wryly at her, Puckpatti pipes up from the middle of the living room.

“He was a pig,” she exclaims. “Calling you by your first name! And he wasn’t even that handsome!”

“Looks aren’t everything, Puck,” you reply sharply, and she pouts, squeezing the lump of clay in her hands until it squishes out between her fingers. “He was a pig for the way he acted.”

“Well … that too.”

“He also smelled like one,” Fler says.

You detach yourself from your daughter to loosen the belt at your waist, frowning down at your dress and nice leather shoes. The dress feels just about as worn out as you do, the fabric soft and droopy from the humidity, the sunshine-yellow color less vibrant than it had been earlier this evening. The man had spilled beer on the floor of the bar and your shoes still look slightly sticky. Peeling them off just reminds you of the way he had laughed.

“Fler,” you say, “get me a wet rag, would you?”

“Sure, Mama.” Flertom turns to Puckpatti. “Puck, get a wet rag.”

“My hands are all dirty!” your youngest protests, showing her grey palms. “Mei’s closer to the water bucket.” She points to Meijack, who you now notice lingering by the kitchen.

Meijack blinks slowly, then silently fetches a rag, wets it, and brings it to you.

“Are you gonna keep trying, Ma?” she asks while you scrub the heel of your left shoe. “All these guys seem to be wasting your time.”

The chuckle that leaves your mouth is short and dry. “After this one, I don’t think so.” You glance up at your daughters and smile, straightening. “Maybe I should just take you all out on a girls’ date next time, huh? Forget about men for a little while.”

Meijack shrugs. Puckpatti nods eagerly.

“I just don’t know what’s wrong,” Flertom frets. “I’ve seen most of them at work before, and they seemed nice enough even when they were drunk …”

You shrug hopelessly and cross into the living room to sit on the couch. “Maybe it’s me.” As you lean back into the cushions, Meijack and Flertom join you on either side. “I’ve only ever been with one man my whole life. Maybe I don’t even know what I want …”

There’s a moment of silence. You look up at the ceiling of Flertom’s home, rubbing your temples and willing your frustration with yourself to not spill over while your daughters are watching. How embarrassing. Here you are, their mother, who is supposed to show them an example of a happy relationship, only for them to comfort you after another failed date. It should be the other way around. Half-foots don’t live long enough for things like this; your own mother had told you when you first left him that you should’ve just sucked it up.

Finally, Flertom speaks up. “Mama,” she starts, hesitant, and you look over to see her playing with her fingers, “Do you really want to date someone?”

“It’s been long enough, don’t you think?” you answer.

As you say so, a name resurfaces in your mind, unbidden, and the face that belongs to it. Your jaw tightens and you look down at your hands.

“Well … um … Papa wrote last week, and he said that he wanted to talk to you sometime. Just a little bit.”

Your tone hardens. “And what does that have to do with me dating, Fler?”

She flinches and her lips push out. “Come on, Mama! It’s been years, and after everything he went through, I really think he’s better now! Don’t you at least want to talk to him? You were so in love with each other before he started adventuring, and now that he’s retired from it …”

You hold your hand up, and her jaw clicks shut.

“I know what you’re getting at, Flertom,” you say quietly. “And right now is not the best time to bring up your father.”

Your daughter deflates, her cheeks rosy. “But –”

“I mean it.” Standing, you heave a deep breath and examine the cluttered workstation that Puckpatti had set up on the living room table. “Puckpatti, make sure to clean up after you’re done. I’m going to bed.”

While the girls mope, you head to your bedroom, doing your best to occupy your thoughts with work at the blacksmith’s tomorrow. You think about the chain mail you’re supposed to be making, the little metal rings to form and weave together, and hope they’re what you dream of, not self-absorbed dates or unwanted kisses.

You blame Flertom for the auburn hair and hearty laughs that plague your night instead.

—

A week later, Puckpatti accosts you as soon as you walk through the door.

“Mama, I found a man for you!”

“Oh?” you reply blandly, hand still clutching at your chest from having the living daylights scared out of it. “Who is it?”

“That’s a secret! But he’s really nice, I promise.”

Sighing, you remove your vest. “I don’t know, Puck. How did you meet him?”

“He bought one of my clay sticks.” You can’t stop yourself from frowning, despite your desire to support your daughter’s entrepreneurial spirit, and she giggles. “Oh, please, Mama, he didn’t believe my pitch. I think I just charmed him into buying it. He seems really clever!”

“Are you sure he wasn’t interested in you?”

She makes a disgusted face. “Eww! No, I told him about you and he seemed interested.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mama, you’re a catch. Of course he’d want to go on a date with you.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, honey.” You glance at her before heading to the kitchen to put away the bread and cheese you’d bought. “Is he a half-foot?”

“Maybe.”

“I thought I’d met all the half-foots in Kahka Brud.”

“Maybe he just moved here.”

She looks up innocently when you raise an eyebrow at her. “And you’re sure I’ll like him,” you drawl, more suspicious by the minute. (Of what, you’re not quite sure.)

“Positive.”

It is incredibly difficult, you think with equal parts pride and concern, to say no to your youngest daughter. It’s probably why you worry about her the most. “This is the last date I’ll go on, Puckpatti. It will be on you.”

Puckpatti cheers. She hugs you as you chuckle at her enthusiasm, jumping up and down. “Yay! I’ll get a time and day that’ll work best. It’ll be great! You’ll love him!”

“For your sake, I hope so.”

—

The day arrives with a mellow sun and clear sky.

You wear your green dress with the floral details, and Puckpatti picks a necklace to go along with it, a thin, simple one that you haven’t worn in years. Flertom does your makeup and Meijack does your hair.

And as you sit in a corner of the tavern fifteen minutes early, hands nervously clasped in your lap, you wonder, just as you have with every date prior, what you’ve gotten yourself into.

Maybe he won’t show up. It would be improper, and juvenile, but then you could go home and say that you did try. Your desire for a new romance has all but dwindled completely, and as you trace the scratches on the wooden table, you wonder if it was even a desire at all.

Footsteps approach from behind. You can tell they belong to a half-foot by the weight and sound – light and small – as they come around to the other side of the table. Your shoulders tighten. Forcing a smile, you look up.

Your heart promptly surges upward into your throat before plummeting to your toes.

Chilchuck gawks down at you, eyes wide. His mouth parts to utter your full name, and you feel your lungs squeeze at how it sounds coming from him, soft from years of disuse.

“You came,” he says.

“Chil – Chilchuck.” His name is ashy and sweet behind your teeth. “What are you doing here?”

He furrows his brow. “What do you mean? The girls said that you were willing to meet up.”

“No, I’m meeting with one of Puck’s customers.”

“What? That doesn’t …” he trails off, and the two of you seem to realize the same thing at the same time.

You bury your head in your hand as Chilchuck grits his teeth.

Those scheming …

“I’m sorry they dragged you into this,” you mutter as you get up from your seat, your voice cold and flat. “I’ll be going now.”

His head snaps up. “Going? But –”

You hurry past him, dodging the hand that you know has reached out for your own.

Home is a ten-minute walk away. You can clear your head in that time, then scold your daughters for meddling, though it’s partially your fault for not questioning Puckpatti about your supposed date more thoroughly. You just didn’t think that they would try something like this.

(Or that Chilchuck would bother to go along with it.)

You pull the door open with some effort and rush out into a downpour of rain.

Your hair gets drenched before you backpedal with a yelp. Pressing against the wall underneath the awning, you look out helplessly at the soaked streets, their gutters already filling with water and debris flowing down the incline. Is … is that a drowning rat?

The storm’s earthiness floods your nose, late in its prediction by half an hour. Just your luck.

You fumble with the clasp of your necklace to remove it, not wanting to get it wet. While you struggle, the tavern door creaks open behind you.

“So you don’t even want to talk. Even after all these years, you’re going to walk away again.”

“Do you know why I walked away the first time?” The damn thing won’t unhook. You scowl, the presence at your back making your usually nimble fingers clumsy.

“No,” Chilchuck says. “I don’t. Not for certain.”

“That’s why.” With each failed attempt to separate the rings, your fingertips grow sorer, your throat thickening. He’s too close. You hate how he’s watching you fail such a simple task. “You stopped knowing, Chilchuck. That’s why.”

Underneath the sharp sound of rain, you can hear his breath hitch, then quiet.

You bite your lip and let your arms fall to your sides, giving up on trying to take your necklace off. Your chest aches. You don’t want to cry in front of him.

“So, there, we talked like you wanted.”

He stops you before you can step out into the rain.

“Wait. What … what about your necklace?” he asks hesitantly, like it’s not what he really wants to say, but merely a way to stall for time.

This time, you look over your shoulder at him. “I’ll dry it real well once I get home,” you reply.

Chilchuck’s mouth presses into a fine line. He grabs the cloak folded over the crook of his elbow, and it is then that you notice the bouquet of blue and pink flowers in his other hand. The ache in your chest flares into a raw, pulsing hurt.

“I’m guessing you’d rather not have me walk you.” He speaks evenly, holding his cloak out towards you. “It’s not completely waterproof, but keep this over your head, at least …” his voice quiets, “please.”

Wordlessly, you take the garment from him. The inner lining is warm against your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you. “For not knowing.” His fist tightens around the flowers, and he stares at you resolutely. “I want to again, if you’ll let me.”

Ah.

You swallow. “I … I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t have to be today. I can wait.”

Breaking eye contact and looking down, Chilchuck roughs his fingers through his hair, mussing it up. The cut is the same as it’s always been, auburn bangs thick and soft over his brow. And you recognize the shirt he’s wearing, a practical, clean wool shirt that you made some years ago. He’s taken good care of it.

It’s all the same. All the same, and yet, something that you can’t quite identify has changed.

You bring his cloak closer to your chest and bite your bottom lip.

“… Give me a week.”

His entire body loses its tension.

“Really?” He looks at you like he can’t believe it, and you avert your gaze, ears warming and moving back the slightest bit.

“Give me a week to decide,” you clarify. “Fler or Mei will let you know … this is really abrupt, after all …”

Chilchuck nods. “That’s fine!” he exclaims. “You didn’t know, so I understand. A week is – a week’s good.”

You nod back, hesitant.

The rain continues its heavy downpour.

“Right … well …” you turn slightly, casting him one last glance, “I’ll give your cloak back, regardless. Don’t get sick.”

“Okay. Stay … stay safe.”

With that, you wrap yourself in the thick fabric, rushing out of the safety of the awning. The run back home smells of woodsmoke and thyme, and when you open the door to three guilty daughters and three apologies, it lingers.

You hang his cloak near the fireplace. It’s evidence of a weak resolve that you stay until it’s dry, and even more damning that you know your answer long before it is.

[untitled-tmnt-blog]

Nothing cures my art block quite like @dandylovesturtles's writing! Made some quick pen sketches with Emotional Support Water Bottles quotes today.

[gabriellaeva2005]

I really cannot express how much this piece of work means to me! As corny as it sounds I really found this story at the perfect point in my life, I initially started reading the impulse 1995 comics when I was 14 and I ended up falling upon this story when I was 17 I just immediately fell in love! The concept was so creative and fit into the pre-existing plot line perfectly! All the new characters are so enjoyable to read, Nathaniel and Jude have such a wonderful and also sad dynamic, as a twin my self every scene with them just really hit me in the heart! Six especially in the first several chapters was so comically annoying and clearly insecure, in a way that I think a lot of us can relate to, one way or another especially when we got to here is internal monologue, I’ve always been a sucker for the asshole character with an air of insouciance and superiority, who by the end of the story, just ends up being a pretty all right guy! And Five oh my god five! I love this guy so much! he’s just so genuine and someone who clearly cares deeply, and him being technically the physically oldest in the room, but also being the one with the least amount of experience is a very literal take on an experience I think a lot of people have felt, myself included, And I think we all know I’m a Three apologist, his whole story is just so devastating and haunting, part of me is always rooting for him, whilst also being terrified for what he might do to the other characters, there is so much complexity with his relationships with the other characters, such as five and four, every time theirs a seen with three and four the writing always makes me feel so on edge and is really able to puts me in three’s shoes! And god! The way three and five interact is so sweet and sad there relationship is just too much! The last chapter absolutely destroyed me!! And Bart and Thad are so perfectly characterized it truly just feels like a natural progression of their characters, the way they both are just really struggling to deal with the inevitability of change hit me so hard, like I said I started reading the impulse comics when I was 14 so these characters have such a place in my heart, so now being able to read about them going through these struggles, when I was also experiencing a lot of change, is such a comfort to me, it was like in a way these characters got older with me, and you know it’s always nice to see some of your childhood characters going through the same stuff as you, currently being a slightly terrified 18 year old, it was great to be able to read about two other slightly terrified 18 year olds, anyways I wanted to post some of my sketches from the past few weeks, and don’t worry there are definitely more to come cause I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop drawing these guys!

@cryptocism you really sent me on a journey, thank you for that!💖💖

[witchingwithscissors]

Canon confirmed: Rio’s the other mom.

So this is for the ones who want rough nights, slow mornings, and a body that always feels like home.

Agathario AU | Rio’s drowning in scrubs, grief, and silence. Her wife wants her back—under her, over her, beside her. They’ve got a kid. A marriage. And one hell of a flame to reignite.

The front door shut with the quiet caution of someone who didn’t want to wake the person they loved. A rush of rainwater pooled beneath Rio’s shoes as she stood in the entryway, trembling from head to toe. Lightning flickered outside, illuminating her in a quick, silver flash—her dark hair plastered to her neck, her navy scrub top turned nearly black with downpour, sweat, and the lingering scent of antiseptics.

She listened for any sign from the rest of the apartment: the hum of the fridge, the soft dripping of the rain on the windows. The only noise was the rapid thump of her heart.

She hadn’t texted Agatha—she simply couldn’t.

How was she supposed to sum up the devastation of losing yet another child on the table, let alone one who reminded her so much of their own son at home?

Slowly, she toed off her soggy sneakers. Her socked feet made no sound on the hardwood. She felt as though any loud movement, any jolt, would shatter the tenuous barrier holding back her tears. The air smelled faintly of lavender tea, which always reminded her of Agatha’s attempts to soothe them both after the hardest workdays. But the mug on the counter looked abandoned, half-filled and gone cold. Across the open floor plan, she spotted Agatha in the kitchen—barefoot, wearing an old white sweatshirt of Rio’s with a half-faded Columbia University logo. The lion mascot was missing half its mane, worn down from years of post-residency washes.

Agatha turned at the sound of Rio’s quiet approach. She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she took in the trembling corners of Rio’s mouth, the dark circles under her eyes, the way her arms were wrapped protectively around her torso. Slowly, Agatha put down the dish towel she’d been holding, like she was setting down all of her own concerns so she could hold Rio’s instead.

Rio tried to meet her gaze but faltered, head drooping, water sliding off her chin onto the floor.

“I lost someone,” she managed, voice cracking and hollow. “Nine years old. She coded right in front of me.”

The distance between them lasted only a heartbeat. Agatha stepped closer, her hands warm as they cupped Rio’s chilled cheeks.

“You did what you could,” Agatha said, her voice low, that gentle hush she used when Nicky was drifting to sleep.

Rio swallowed hard. “It wasn’t enough,” she whispered, voice raw. “She had freckles—like Nicky. She wanted to be a vet… She was so excited about animals. I tried, Agatha. I tried.”

Tenderly, Agatha smoothed Rio’s damp hair away from her forehead. “I know,” she said.

The tears came then, unstoppable. Rio sucked in a ragged breath, pressed her face into the curve of Agatha’s neck. She could feel Agatha’s heart beating in time with her own, a living metronome that steadied her just enough to keep her from collapsing onto the floor.

Agatha’s arms enveloped her entirely. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes, my love,” she whispered, mouth skimming the shell of Rio’s ear. “We can talk or not talk… whatever you need.”

But the thought of speaking more, of repeating the story of a mother’s screams and the frantic attempts at resuscitation, made Rio’s skin prickle with dread. She couldn’t talk about it yet. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. But right now, her grief and guilt were fused together, a knot in her chest.

“I want—” Rio began, then stopped. She looked up into Agatha’s enchanting blue eyes, eyes that always seemed to see right through her. “I want you.”

Understanding glimmered. Agatha gently tugged her forward. “Then let me take care of you, baby.”

Flashback to Baltimore, Four Years Ago

Rio had never believed in serendipity, or soulmates, or anything like that. It was pure coincidence that she’d been in Baltimore for a pediatric medical conference, running late and juggling a latte and her phone. She was scanning the conference schedule when she felt a solid thunk. Her foot came down on someone else’s stiletto, cracking the heel. Hot coffee sloshed onto a crisp white blouse.

She froze, mortified. The woman she’d collided with raised her eyebrows, flicking coffee droplets off her blouse with an almost amused smile.

Rio grabbed for napkins. “I’m sorry—so sorry—I’m usually more graceful than this,” she stammered.

The woman—Agatha, as she introduced herself—assessed Rio’s flushed face, her messy bun that had half-fallen out of the hair tie, the stammering apology. And then she laughed, a low, melodious sound that throbbed with humor and attraction all at once.

“Are you always this charming, Doctor?” Agatha teased.

Rio offered the handful of napkins with trembling hands, catching the stray thought that this woman was too gorgeous to be real. “Not usually. I mean, yes. I mean… I’m sorry about your shoe?”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Agatha said, her grin sly. “Otherwise, I might have pressed assault charges for the coffee fiasco.”

They ended up side by side at the same first-day lecture, exchanging glances over the top of printed slides. Later, over overpriced red wine in the noisy hotel bar, they discovered they worked in the same field: pediatrics. Agatha was a nurse practitioner with a gift for crisis management. Rio was fresh out of her internship, half-certain that her dream of working in high-stakes pediatric care would break her. But she couldn’t let it go.

Agatha asked her about that drive: “If it hurts so much, why do you keep going back?”

Rio shrugged, swirling her wine. “I guess I keep hoping the next time will be different. And sometimes it is. I really like the parts where we save them.”

Agatha’s expression was thoughtful, luminous. “You’ve got it bad for these kids,” she said softly.

“I do,” Rio admitted. “But it’s so… personal.” She exhaled, tension raw in her shoulders.

Agatha’s hand slid across the table to rest atop Rio’s. Something electric passed between them. That was it: the moment that changed the axis of Rio’s world.

Two hours later, they stumbled into Agatha’s hotel room, lips colliding in frantic passion, fumbling with each other’s clothing. Agatha’s shirt fell to the floor. Rio’s belt clanged against the bed frame.

Agatha kissed like she wanted to map every part of Rio’s body, to read her like Braille. She explored Rio’s skin with a confident ease that made Rio’s nerves buzz. When Rio tried to apologize for not being more experienced with women, Agatha silenced her with a long, thorough kiss.

“Don’t overthink,” Agatha whispered. “Just feel.”

Rio let herself be guided, let her breath stutter as Agatha trailed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, lower—until Rio could barely remember her own name. Their bodies moved in sync, a dance of discovery. And in the throes of Rio’s first orgasm with another woman, she forgot every doubt she’d ever had about the power of connection.

“Tell me you’ll remember this,” Agatha said after, voice husky, lying on her side, one hand propped under her cheek.

Rio’s heart thundered. “I don’t ever want to forget.”

⸻

Back in the present, Rio allowed herself to be led to the bedroom.

Rain battered the windows as thunder mumbled in the distance. The overhead light remained off; only the glow from the hall lamp provided a soft gold halo across the comforter. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence.

Agatha coaxed Rio onto the edge of the bed. With careful fingers, she peeled away Rio’s soaked scrub top, revealing the sports bra beneath. She pressed her lips to the hollow of Rio’s throat while reaching around to tug the elastic band free from Rio’s long hair. Her hair tumbled down, half-dry, half-soaked. Agatha stroked through the damp strands.

“You don’t have to talk,” she murmured, her voice like a lullaby. “Just let me hold you.”

But a surge of desperation flooded Rio. She wanted more than comfort. She needed to claw her way back to feeling alive, needed a visceral reminder that she wasn’t made solely of sorrow and guilt. Her hands gripped Agatha’s waist, traveling under the sweatshirt to feel the smooth expanse of Agatha’s back.

“Don’t be gentle,” Rio pleaded, voice shaking. “I don’t want gentle tonight, sweetheart.”

Agatha’s lips quirked. “Well, if it’s doctor’s orders,” she teased.

Still wearing the old sweatshirt, Agatha settled onto the bed. She arranged Rio so that she was lying beneath her, bra halfway undone. The floor was still slick with the droplets that had slid from Rio’s body, but they ignored it, lost in the moment. Agatha grazed her teeth across Rio’s collarbone, then lower, until she managed to peel off the soaked bra entirely. The cold air made Rio’s skin pebble, but Agatha’s mouth was warm, an anchor.

Rio slid her hands up the back of Agatha’s sweatshirt, nails lightly scoring her skin, wanting to claim her, to let go of the day’s horrors in the push and pull of their bodies. Agatha groaned, arching into Rio’s touch, letting the sweatshirt ride up to expose toned thighs and the curve of her hips.

Before Rio could blink, Agatha kissed down her abdomen, a trail of open-mouthed, wet kisses that seared fire into Rio’s blood. She paused just above the elastic waistband of Rio’s scrub pants, looked up, and said softly, “I love you.”

Rio’s breath caught. She combed her fingers through Agatha’s hair. “I love you,” she returned, voice trembling. “Now please—”

With a sly smile, Agatha tugged Rio’s scrub pants down, along with her underwear, in one swift motion. Cool air caressed Rio’s bare thighs for an instant, but then Agatha’s mouth was there, her hands cupping the underside of Rio’s hips. The first brush of Agatha’s tongue shot a spark through Rio’s entire body. She moaned, hips lifting, and felt Agatha’s low hum of approval ripple across her skin.

She was undone so easily by this woman. Every lick, every gentle scrape of teeth, every press of Agatha’s fingers along her inner thigh set her nerves alight. Agatha’s name became a chant on her lips. Rio’s eyes fluttered shut. Each time a memory of the day tried to intrude—pediatric code, failing vitals—Agatha’s touch brought her back to the bedroom, to the now, to what felt safe and vital.

When Agatha pressed two fingers inside her, Rio’s moan mingled with the distant rumble of thunder. She twisted her fingers in Agatha’s hair, urging her on. The speed built, a trembling wave. The coil of need tightened in Rio’s belly, not just from the physical sensation but from the emotional catharsis that came with it. In Agatha’s hands, she was never a failure. She was cherished. She was powerful and vulnerable all at once.

“Yes,” Rio gasped, “fuck—Aggie—oh my god, baby—”

She came in a white-hot spasm, her cry muffled as she buried her face in the crook of her arm. Agatha held her through every moment of the climax, lingering until Rio’s breath slowed, until her heart no longer pounded so violently. But Agatha didn’t stop there; she continued, relentless, drawing out every last tremor until Rio’s eyes glistened with overwhelmed tears. Only then did Agatha crawl up beside her and cup her cheek.

“You don’t have to hold it all alone,” Agatha said, pressing a soft kiss to Rio’s forehead.

Rio closed her eyes, chest tight with gratitude. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “for shutting you out.”

Agatha draped an arm around her. “I know. And I’m here. Always.”

Lightning streaked across the sky, highlighting the silhouette of their tangled limbs. They lay together, panting softly, hearts echoing in tandem. Rain battered the glass as though determined to wash the city clean.

Flashback, Three Years Ago

For nearly a year after that conference, Rio and Agatha tried the long-distance thing.

Agatha worked in Baltimore, while Rio was completing her specialized pediatric residency in New York City. The relationship was new, precarious; the demands of their careers left them exhausted and occasionally short-fused. Yet every phone call, every text, every video call, every stolen weekend was charged with a desperate energy to make it work.

Agatha would schedule “work trips” to New York, couching them in half-truths. Sure, there was a professional reason to go—but mostly, she just wanted to be near Rio.

She’d slip into the dingy, cramped, barely-up-to-code apartment Rio shared with another resident. A woman named Alice—who, at first, made Agatha a little jealous. But seeing how little time Rio had, and how all of it went straight to Agatha, she couldn’t really complain.

Agatha would bring fresh groceries, which they cooked together—though “together” usually meant Agatha doing the chopping while Rio sat at the counter, taste-testing and sneaking sips of wine after her late-night shifts. Rio especially loved Agatha’s mushroom risotto. She always said it was nice to eat something homemade for once, not just microwave dinners or whatever salty garbage the hospital cafeteria served. It made her feel warm. Taken care of.

Their nights fell into an easy rhythm: they’d start a movie, never make it past the first twenty minutes. As soon as Rio put her arm around Agatha, Agatha would lean in for a kiss—and it always ended with them tangled up in bed. Afterward, fully satisfied and too exhausted to do anything else, they’d barely keep their eyes open—but they were always determined to share at least a few hours wrapped around each other.

One night, near the end of their first six months, Agatha and Rio found themselves sitting on the floor of Rio’s bathroom—one of the only private spots in the tiny apartment—drinking cheap wine from chipped mugs. Tension hovered, unspoken, thick as steam.

“What are we?” Agatha asked softly, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass.

Her voice barely rose above the hum of the city outside, but it was enough to still the air between them. The question lingered—delicate, a little frightening.

Rio looked up, her heart thudding. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen this coming; it was that she didn’t know how to answer without giving Agatha the softest, most unguarded part of herself.

There was something raw in Agatha’s face, as though she was bracing for Rio to laugh it off—call this a fling or a phase. As if she was already preparing to let it hurt.

Rio swallowed, the back of her throat tight. She could lie or deflect—but this time, she didn’t want to. So she leaned in, voice unsteady with honesty.

“Something I don’t want to fuck up,” she said, and watched relief flicker in Agatha’s eyes.

Agatha let out a breath she seemed to have been holding. “Okay,” she whispered, sliding her free hand over Rio’s.

Rio exhaled, relieved and a little dizzy. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she added, “but when I’m with you…I’m not bracing for the crash. I’m just here.”

Agatha smiled then—soft, hopeful, and still a bit uncertain. She squeezed Rio’s hand, glanced away, then back again. There was a pink flush on her cheeks when she spoke.

“Soooo,” she drew out the word in a playful lilt, “we’re doing this, right? I can call you mine?”

Rio’s heart seemed to expand in her chest, filling up all the hollow spaces she’d never even known were empty. She laced her fingers with Agatha’s.

“Please do,” she murmured, a shaky smile curving her lips. “I’m yours.”

They sealed it with a kiss that tasted of sweet wine and unspoken devotion.

Over the next several months, they teased each other through late-night calls, turned phone screens into windows of desperate need. One memorable night, Agatha confessed she was transferring to New York mid-video call, and Rio climaxed so hard she nearly toppled off her couch. It was clumsy, thrilling, and sealed their commitment in more ways than words could.

After the move, they braved an apartment, half-updated, with paint-splattered floors and a perpetually broken radiator. They learned each other’s routines—who hogged the bathroom first, who folded the laundry (or forgot to). They bickered over sweaty scrubs and stolen shampoo, but they laughed even harder, especially on nights when they collapsed into bed at dawn, too exhausted to do anything but cling to each other.

They once tried a threesome on a tipsy dare. Fifteen minutes in, Rio felt a jealousy coil in her gut, while Agatha hated seeing someone else’s hands on Rio. They sent the third partner home with awkward apologies, then spent the night tangled up in each other—relieved to realize they both truly wanted exclusivity.

They attended hospital potlucks and friend gatherings hand in hand. Some nights, they’d sneak onto the rooftop for stolen sex beneath the city lights; others, they’d just binge on bad TV, exhausted from back-to-back shifts. It was in those quieter moments that Agatha would catch Rio studying her with a look that said, We can build more than a life—we can build a family.

One night, after a particularly grueling shift for both of them, Agatha sank onto the couch. She rubbed the tension from her neck and blurted, “My biological clock’s going off like an alarm I can’t snooze.” Anxiety threaded her voice; children felt like such a far-off thing, but suddenly the desire was roaring in her ears.

Rio, without missing a beat, reached for Agatha’s hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Then let’s do it. Let’s start a family.”

Agatha stared, breath caught between excitement and fear. “But your career—my career—do we have time for this?”

Rio shook her head, determination lighting her eyes. “I want to take care of you for once, Agatha. You’ve spent so long looking after me. Let me give you what you want—what we both want.”

Agatha’s throat felt tight with emotion. She exhaled a shaky laugh. “You’re serious?”

Rio just grinned. “Dead serious.”

A few weeks later, they were hunched over a fertility donor profile, scanning it in disbelief.

“Favorite color: Green,” Agatha read aloud. “Hobbies: Running, wood working, women’s basketball. Favorite movie…” she said to Rio, voice rising. “He even has your birth date!”

She glanced at Rio, half-laughing, half-freaked out. “You’re sure you’re an only child?”

Rio frowned at the screen, equal parts startled and amused. “Pretty sure. But hey, if we want the kid to look like me, we’re sure as hell rolling those dice.”

Agatha snorted. “Technically, that means I’m picking you as my baby daddy.”

Rio’s grin stretched wide. “And I’m honored.”

Nicky entered their world with all the tumult and beauty a newborn brings. Agatha carried him, and Rio joked that she paced holes in the hospital floors waiting for the moment she could hold him.

Despite wanting him fiercely, Rio was terrified. The weight of responsibility, the fear that she could lose him like she’d lost so many young patients in the hospital, pressed on her chest. But from the moment he came squalling into the world, Nicky had wrapped Rio around his tiny finger.

He had big brown eyes and a sweet laugh that infected both his mothers. He’d watch them with an intense curiosity, as if taking mental notes for how to be as determined and caring as they were. Even in that first year, when exhaustion from night shifts piled onto the sleeplessness of new parenthood, Rio and Agatha managed to keep each other afloat.

“Look at him,” Agatha would say at 3am, passing the fussing baby into Rio’s arms for a feeding. “We made this. Well, I made him, but you know what I mean.”

Rio would grin, bleary-eyed. “He’s so perfect it hurts.”

That tiny life changed them. Made them see the world with sharper edges and deeper tenderness.

Life was hectic and, admittedly, they’d talked about marriage only in theoretical ways. But on a quiet Sunday afternoon, with the city’s noise a distant murmur, Rio looked up from the laundry basket in their kitchen, saw Agatha bouncing a fussy, six-month-old Nicky on her hip, and simply knew.

“Marry me,” she said, setting aside the shirt she was folding.

Agatha glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Now?”

“Always,” Rio murmured, crossing the room in two strides. She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Agatha’s mouth, mindful that Nicky was wedged between them, babbling. “I don’t want to wait until life slows down, because that might never happen.”

Agatha’s eyes lit with joy. “I was hoping you’d ask,” she teased, voice catching with emotion. Then she broke into a beautiful, tearful smile. “Yes. Yes.”

Nicky squealed, as if in agreement, and they laughed, hugging each other right there, laundry half-folded, the ring not yet chosen. But that was them: sometimes chaotic, always certain of their love.

⸻

The storm continued most of the night.

After their intense lovemaking, Rio and Agatha drifted into a doze, limbs entwined. But sometime past midnight, Rio woke again, heart pounding. She slipped out of bed, careful not to rouse Agatha, and wandered into the dimly lit hallway.

She found herself at Nicky’s door. She cracked it open, peering in. Even in the darkness, she could make out his small form beneath the covers, breathing softly. The nightlight cast dancing shadows of animal shapes across the walls, illusions that always made Nicky giggle before sleep.

Her chest squeezed. The little girl she’d lost today had been nine, but she also had freckles, also had big innocent dreams.

In the hush of that room, Rio’s eyes stung with fresh tears. She wondered if she was selfish to keep working in such a high-stakes area. Each failure carved another piece out of her heart, leaving her feeling undone. But she couldn’t imagine doing anything else—she couldn’t walk away from saving as many children as she could.

A quiet rustle startled her. Agatha appeared behind her, wearing only a pair of cotton shorts and a worn tank top. Her hair fell around her face in gentle waves.

“You okay?” she asked softly, placing a hand on Rio’s shoulder.

Rio swallowed. “Just watching him,” she whispered. “He’s so beautiful.”

Agatha nodded. “He is.”

Rio felt a trembling sigh escape her. “I keep thinking—what if… if something happened to him? I’d lose my mind. I can’t even handle losing the kids at work sometimes.”

Agatha turned Rio gently, arms slipping around her waist. “Hey,” she murmured, pressing her lips to Rio’s forehead. “I know it’s terrifying. That’s why you love him so fiercely. Because you know how fragile life is.”

Rio sniffled, leaning into Agatha. “It’s just so hard. Balancing it all. The heartbreak. The love. Sometimes I’m afraid I’m not strong enough.”

“Bull,” Agatha said with a half-smile. “You’re the strongest person I know. And if you ever can’t hold yourself up, I’m here. We’re a team.”

Rio exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing. Together, they stepped back from the door, leaving Nicky to his peaceful slumber. They retreated to their own bedroom and lay entwined beneath the covers again. Rio pressed her face to Agatha’s shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of her skin.

“I’m sorry I disappeared,” Rio whispered after a long silence. “Not physically, but… I haven’t really been here.”

Agatha stroked her arm in slow, soothing motions. “It happens,” she said. “Especially after a bad day. But every time you get lost, I’ll help bring you back.”

Rio closed her eyes, letting the steady thump of Agatha’s heartbeat lull her. “Thank you,” she breathed.

They fell asleep like that, hearts beating as one.

Over the next few years, life marched on. They fell back into routine: early mornings, quick breakfasts, juggling Nicky’s homework and soccer practice, balancing their intense medical schedules, and occasionally stealing moments of intimacy that reminded them how lucky they were. As Nicky grew, they found themselves faced with new questions about family, about the future. Should they move to a bigger place? Should they adopt another child eventually? Could they handle that with both of their demanding jobs?

One evening, they curled up on the living room couch after putting Nicky to bed. The apartment was silent except for the hum of the old radiator. A stack of medical journals lay abandoned on the coffee table. Agatha rested her head on Rio’s lap, while Rio’s fingers absently traced patterns along her scalp.

“Remember that old dream?” Rio asked quietly, gazing at the collection of pictures on the wall—photos of Nicky at every age, their wedding day in a small garden, a shot of them in scrubs looking exhausted but triumphant.

“Which dream?” Agatha murmured, eyes half-closed.

“That we’d open our own small clinic one day, do nonprofit work somewhere less privileged,” Rio said, lips quirking in a gentle smile. “We talked about it in bed one night, after that first time Nicky slept for six hours straight.”

Agatha laughed softly. “I remember. But we never had the money, or the time, or—”

“Yeah,” Rio finished for her. “I wonder if we ever could make it work. Maybe in five years, or ten. Maybe after we’ve saved up more.”

Agatha rolled onto her back, looking up at Rio. “The idea of it still makes my heart race in a good way. We could do so much good together. No politics of a big hospital, just patient-focused care.”

A slow, mutual smile bloomed between them. For that moment, they let themselves imagine a brighter future. Despite the challenges, neither of them had lost the idealism that had first brought them together.

It was a weekend night when their next chance for “wild and exciting” intimacy came, free of interruptions. Nicky was at a sleepover with friends—his first one that lasted the whole night away from home without either mom on standby. It felt strange, slightly nerve-wracking, but also liberating.

The moment they dropped him off, Rio and Agatha returned to their quiet apartment and grinned at each other across the living room.

“It’s just us tonight,” Rio said, trying to keep her voice casual as a swirl of anticipation flared in her chest.

Agatha quirked an eyebrow, stepping out of her sneakers. “Whatever shall we do?”

For once, they didn’t have to worry about waking a child. They didn’t have to listen for small footsteps shuffling to the bathroom in the middle of the night. No babysitters’ texts. No rush to check the clock. The freedom buzzed through both of them.

Rio took Agatha’s hand. “How about dinner first? We haven’t had a real date night in forever.”

Agatha nodded, but the gleam in her eye was mischievous. “Food can wait a bit, though, can’t it?”

Rio’s stomach fluttered. “It can,” she agreed.

They tumbled into the bedroom, shedding clothes as they went. Agatha’s laugh filled the air as Rio’s shirt snagged on a doorknob. They left the lights on this time, wanting to see every inch of each other. Their bodies had changed over the years: subtle scars from life, laugh lines around the eyes, the lingering softness of post-partum curves on Agatha. But all of it was the map of who they’d become together, and each mark only deepened the love in Rio’s eyes.

Agatha pressed Rio onto the bed, pinning her wrists lightly above her head. A surge of excitement made Rio’s pulse jump. She loved the playful dominance that sometimes coursed through Agatha. She loved not being in control for once.

“Don’t move,” Agatha commanded gently, leaning down to kiss along Rio’s jaw. “Or I might stop.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Rio teased, but she obeyed, letting her arms rest above her.

Agatha’s kisses trailed down Rio’s neck, teased along the outer curve of her breast before finally circling a taut nipple. Warm lips closed around it, and Rio inhaled sharply, arching her back.

“Mmm,” Rio moaned, “that feels so—”

“Shh,” Agatha coaxed, releasing one nipple to move to the other. She let her free hand wander, drifting across Rio’s ribs, her stomach, and eventually lower. The slightest brush of fingertips over Rio’s inner thigh made Rio’s breath catch.

A slow, tantalizing exploration followed. Agatha licked and sucked at Rio’s breasts, leaving them flushed. Her tongue dipped into the hollow of Rio’s collarbone, tasted the salt of her skin. When she finally slid her hand between Rio’s thighs, she found her wet, more than ready. Rio whimpered, lifting her hips.

Agatha chuckled, a wicked smile on her lips. “So needy,” she teased, but the love shone clear in her eyes.

Rio found her voice. “Blame yourself.”

Agatha slipped two fingers inside, curling them in a way that made Rio’s eyes roll back. At the same time, Agatha leaned over to capture Rio’s mouth in a devouring kiss. Their tongues tangled, breath mingling, and Rio’s free hand latched onto Agatha’s shoulder. Though she’d been told not to move, she couldn’t help digging her nails into Agatha’s skin, urging her deeper.

The pleasure mounted fast, intense. Each thrust of Agatha’s fingers was met by Rio’s determined roll of the hips. The wet sounds and their ragged breathing filled the room. Agatha slowed, then quickened, making Rio whine in frustration and then gasp with delight. That control, that skill—Agatha knew exactly how to undo her.

When the orgasm built to a breaking point, Rio let out a frantic, breathy moan. “Agatha, I’m— I’m close—”

Agatha nipped at Rio’s lower lip. “Let go.”

Rio’s body bowed, a silent cry lodging in her throat as she came, wave after wave. Agatha never looked away from her, soaking in every pulse of pleasure that rippled through Rio’s body. Finally, Rio slumped back, chest heaving, limbs loose with euphoria.

She opened her eyes to see Agatha poised over her with a smug grin. “Don’t think I’m done,” Agatha murmured, leaning down to press a hot kiss to Rio’s neck. “We’ve got all night.”

Rio’s belly clenched with renewed arousal at the promise in that tone. “God, you’re going to kill me.”

Agatha laughed, a low, sultry sound. “Never,” she promised. “I want you alive—and begging.”

And so the night continued in a heady blur of lips and hands, breathless giggles, and hushed cries of pleasure. They switched positions, sometimes frantic, sometimes languid. At one point, Rio rolled on top and teased Agatha until the woman was delirious with want, tangling the bedsheets around them both. Their kisses ranged from gentle to biting, from playful to near-desperate. Each orgasm was its own surrender, a testament to how they trusted each other to hold any vulnerability, any fear.

By the time they finally collapsed—drenched in sweat, hearts hammering—it was almost two in the morning. No child’s footsteps. No fear of being overheard. Just the two of them, reclaiming the spark that had first drawn them together in that Baltimore hotel room.

Agatha brushed tangled hair off Rio’s forehead. “I think we should do more date nights,” she teased, voice scratchy.

Rio laughed, pressing a soft kiss to Agatha’s bare shoulder. “I agree.”

They fell asleep like that, sweaty and sated, the entire bed a tangle of limbs and sheets that smelled of sex and promise.

Sunlight found them curled under a thin blanket, exhausted but content. When Rio’s eyes finally opened around nine, she startled—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept in so late. Then she remembered: Nicky was away. For a second, she felt the pang of missing him, but it was swiftly replaced by the warmth of Agatha’s arm draped across her waist.

They spent the morning in bed, dozing in and out of consciousness, exchanging languid kisses. Around noon, they dragged themselves into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over them. More kisses, some laughter, playful splashing that turned into pinned arms and gentle moans against the shower tiles. They eventually managed to towel off and slip into clean clothes, finding an easy, tender domesticity in the aftermath of their sensual marathon.

Agatha brewed coffee while Rio flipped through takeout menus, deciding they’d treat themselves. Over greasy Chinese food containers at the kitchen counter, they talked about everything and nothing—travel plans for next summer, the new staff at the hospital, Nicky’s unstoppable obsession with dinosaurs.

“I feel more like myself than I have in years,” Rio admitted, taking a sip of coffee. “It’s like… I get lost in the heartbreak at work sometimes. But nights like last night remind me I’m more than just a doctor who can’t save everyone.”

Agatha reached across the counter and squeezed Rio’s hand, her gaze brimming with warmth. “You are enough,” she said softly. “You’re my best friend, my partner, Nicky’s mother, our provider, my rock. A thousand things at once—and I love every single one of them.”

Rio smiled, her eyes misting. “I love you too.”

They picked Nicky up from his friend’s house later that afternoon. The second he saw them, Nicky bounded over, backpack swinging, freckles dancing across his nose.

“Mami! Mama!” he shouted, launching himself into Rio’s arms. She grunted and stumbled back, then spun him around, nose buried in his hair.

“Have fun?” Agatha asked, ruffling his curls.

He nodded vigorously. “We watched a dinosaur movie and had pizza and played tag. But I missed you guys.”

Rio’s heart melted. She hugged him tighter. “We missed you too.”

In the car, Nicky chattered about his night away, oblivious to the secret little smiles exchanged between his mothers. Rio’s gaze flicked to Agatha’s, remembering how just hours ago, they’d been moaning each other’s names in bed, free and uninhibited.

A week later, another storm brewed. This time, it wasn’t the weather—it was the phone call from the hospital. A complicated pediatric emergency. Rio’s day off vanished in a flash of adrenaline. She rushed out, calling over her shoulder for Agatha to pick up Nicky and manage dinner. Agatha understood; she always did. There was no frustration in her voice, only concern.

Hours ticked by. The child survived, but it was touch-and-go. Rio stayed to make sure everything stabilized, to update the family, to hold the mother’s hand as tears of relief replaced terror. By the time she trudged home, it was nearly 2am. The door opened just enough for her to slip inside, exhausted.

Agatha was waiting in the living room, reading a book. Nicky was asleep. The table lamp cast a warm glow, haloing Agatha in golden light. Rio dropped her bag and kicked off her shoes.

“You saved them tonight, didn’t you?” Agatha asked softly.

Rio nodded, relief and weariness warring in her expression. “Yeah. That was… it was close.”

Agatha smiled. “Come to bed with me.”

Their bedroom carried the hush of night. Rio changed into pajamas, every bone in her body heavy with exhaustion. She slid between the cool sheets to join Agatha. Instinctively, they curled close, legs tangling. Agatha traced gentle circles on Rio’s arm.

“I wish I could promise that it won’t hurt so much every time,” Agatha said. “But I know you’d never believe me. And I know you wouldn’t want to believe it, because if it didn’t hurt, you wouldn’t be the same person.”

Rio swallowed. “I can’t imagine not feeling it so deeply.”

“It’s what makes you so good at your job,” Agatha said. “And also, it’s what can break you if you don’t have something to anchor you.”

Rio nestled her face in the crook of Agatha’s neck. “You. You’re my anchor. You and Nicky.”

Agatha’s eyes shone. “And you’re ours.”

Their kiss was soft, tender, no urgency this time—just two souls re-centering on each other, a promise renewed.

Somewhere down the hall, Nicky stirred in his sleep, but stayed asleep. Outside, traffic hummed, but inside their home, there was the hush of two hearts in sync.

Morning light streamed through the curtains, revealing the slow dance of dust motes. Nicky bounded in, full of morning exuberance, wearing mismatched pajamas. He climbed onto the bed between his mothers, squirming to wedge his way into the warm space.

“Mami, Mama, wake up!” he insisted, brandishing a toy dinosaur.

Agatha opened her eyes first, her grin sleepy. “Hello, munchkin. You’re up early.”

Nicky shrugged, nestling between them. “I got hungry.”

Rio yawned, arm flopping over her face. “Okay, let’s go feed you, little monster.”

He giggled. “I’m not a monster, I’m a dinosaur.”

Both women laughed. It was a simple, ordinary family moment—one that smelled of morning breath and warm blankets. But these were the instants that made every heartbreak at the hospital bearable. The unconditional love in that bed overshadowed the fear that had once plagued them.

Soon, they trailed into the kitchen, where coffee would be made and cartoons might flicker on the TV for Nicky. Agatha would inevitably slip behind Rio to murmur a little “good morning” kiss onto her neck, and Rio would steal a moment to press her palm to the small of Agatha’s back in silent gratitude.

They were far from perfect.

Nothing about their high-pressure jobs or the ache of losing patients ever truly vanished. They still argued, cried, worried over bills, daycare, and the million demands of parenthood.

Yet whenever the world threatened to pull them under, they clung to each other—anchored by the same spark that lit up a shabby conference lobby in Baltimore, where a spilled latte and a cracked heel somehow became the first step of a lifelong bond. Their love was as fierce as any storm—and it refused to break.

[tonyglowheart]

fanon Alec is so fun(ny). he's just on ice until/unless he becomes necessary for the plot or for emotional support, and then we pull him out of cold storage undercover in vaguely somewhere Russia-Slavic-maybe-Baltic-if-ur-spicy dealing with *handwaves* something or other

and then when we're done with him, back to some vague unspecified long-term undercover mission you go. seeya next time we put James in crisis and he needs Emotional Support from a friendbrother

[lyn31]

Making another ask to make a request hehe i hope it's okay with you 🥰 can you pretty please write about mc's early pregnancy stage? (If you're not planing to write it already) Like how would they feel with mc's job as a hunter? I feel like during this time they might have a little argument since zayne probably would want her to take a break from her job the moment they found out y'know since her job is very pyhsical and the risks of harming the baby but mc might be a little bit stubborn about it? imagine her fainting during her mission because of fatigue and how would zayne's reaction to it be? (maybeee just a little tiny bit of angst? but definitely with a happy ending cause i can't handle sad ending, you can add a bit of smut too if you want hohoho) I'm sorry if this is too hard for you to write 😭 anyway thank you for all the amazing stories, i'm looking forward to read more of your writings! 🥰

It ended up being a hurt/comfort 🫶🏻🥹 I never thought I'd write one of these, but then again, that’s what I said the first time I wrote smut 😂

Speaking of smut—I didn’t end up fitting any in. I was thinking maybe it could happen when they get back home. Obviously no sex smut since MC’s still in early pregnancy, but some comfort smut would be nice.

BUT I thought this ending already tied things up with such a great little bow :D

Hopefully you like it! Let me know what you think (good or bad—lay it on me) 💕

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Stubborn

Summary

In the aftermath of a close call, you navigate the haze of recovery surrounded by unwavering love—from your partner’s steady care to your sister’s fierce loyalty—until the weight of fear gives way to healing, one quiet moment at a time.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Hurt/comfort, family feels, early pregnancy.

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Zayne closes his tablet with a soft click, his gaze already on you. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks.

You shut the door a little harder than necessary when you step back into Zayne’s office, the familiar scent of disinfectant and tea grounding you just enough not to explode. He’s still seated at his desk, calm as ever, reading one of his medical cases.

You just finished a call with the HQ.

“They’re not letting me work in the field anymore,” you huff, dropping into the seat across from him. “But if I really want to work, I can be support from base. You know—report duty, logistics, the fun stuff.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t give me that look.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he replies mildly, folding his hands like he’s a neutral party in a murder trial. “But if I had, I might’ve said this was predictable.”

“I know it’s not possible,” you groan, tipping your head back. “And I don’t want to be in the field anyway. I’m not trying to hurt our baby.”

He reaches for your hand, which you take immediately.

“But they didn’t have to say it like that,” you go on, toying with his fingers. “Like I’m fragile. Like I need to be wrapped in bubble wrap and locked in a temperature-controlled room.”

“They didn’t say that,” Zayne points out, far too calmly.

“That’s what they meant.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did they also say it in a tone you invented for them?”

You shoot him a look. “You’re very smug for someone who’s supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side,” he says smoothly, standing up and walking over to you. “Which is why I’m supporting your decision to, what was it? Rot behind a desk with a highlighter and a clipboard?”

You groan again, burying your face in his stomach. “Don’t remind me.”

He chuckles, then leans down slightly, his cool fingers brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “They’re not saying you’re useless. You’re not.”

Your hands wrap around him. “I’m not.”

He tilts his head. “Then stop talking like you are.”

You purse your lips, stubborn, but you can’t hold the tension when he leans down, voice dipping just enough to soften the blow:

“You’re still you. Even if you’re not kicking down doors right now.”

That gets a small breath of laughter out of you, even as you lean your head back against the chair again.

“...I’m still going to complain,” you mutter.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Zayne murmurs, brushing a kiss to your temple. “But next time you get assigned report duty, I’ll make tea.”

You glance at him. “...With the good honey?”

He smiles faintly. “Only if you stop acting like being careful is a personal insult.”

You snort.

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The hum of the squad’s base is a quiet background drone—keyboards tapping, screens flickering, comms static fading in and out. You’re perched at the long center table, elbow-deep in reports you’d rather not be writing, a stylus clutched in your aching fingers.

Tara walks by with a cup of something steaming and suspiciously sweet-smelling. She pauses when she sees you still working.

“You’re aware no one’s asking you to finish all those today, right?” she says, eyeing your growing stack. “Unless you’re aiming for a stress-induced birth.”

“I’m behind,” you mutter, not looking up. “Someone’s gotta get them done.”

“You mean besides the two rookies we literally hired for this?”

“They’re slow.”

“They’re new.”

“They’re too new.”

Tara sips her drink and squints. “You know this is your villain origin story, right? ‘Hunter turns paperwork tyrant after desk job.’”

You give her a withering look. She grins and walks away.

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Later, Lara leans in behind you without a sound, placing a small snack packet next to your elbow.

You blink. “What’s this?”

“Protein and fiber,” she says with that calm smile of hers. “You skipped lunch just because your husband isn’t here to give it to you.”

“I did not—”

“You took two bites of toast and drank a coffee.”

You frown down at the packet. “I’m not hungry.”

Lara just squeezes your shoulder. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t eat.”

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

The next day, you’re rearranging case logs and editing mission summaries—because, of course, no one else formats headers right—and your back is killing you. You stand to stretch when Rose walks in and catches you mid-pose, one hand bracing the small of your spine.

She crosses her arms, already judging you.

“You realize you’re not obligated to be the Association’s unpaid intern, right?”

“I’m just keeping busy.”

“You’re nesting in spreadsheets.”

You glare. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m continuing.”

She tosses a folder onto the desk, tone sharpening just enough to dig in.

“You don’t like this work. You’re not even supposed to be doing it. But you’re acting like if you stop for five minutes, the world’s gonna forget you exist.”

“I’m not—!”

“You are,” she cuts in. “And the worst part is, if I were doing this? You’d be the first to tell me to sit my ass down and breathe.”

You open your mouth, but the only thing that comes out is silence—and a wave of heat rising in your cheeks.

She sighs, more gently now.

“You’re not going to disappear just because you’re slowing down. You’re pregnant, not invisible.”

You drop back into your chair, tense and unwilling to admit she’s right.

Rose lingers a second longer. “You wanna prove something? Prove you can listen for once.”

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

You're curled on the couch in the corner of Zayne’s office, tablet propped on your thighs, stylus dancing across the screen as you breeze through another stack of reports.

He’s been pretending to review scans, but he’s mostly been watching you.

“How many reports is that today?” he asks finally, eyes not leaving his tablet.

You don’t look up. “Just a couple.”

“That’s your third ‘couple’ since this morning.”

You sigh, the stylus slowing. “They pile up when no one does them.”

“There are other that can help you as well.”

“They’re busier than me.”

He hums, noncommittal. You recognize that sound—it means he’s noting everything and choosing silence for now.

He stands after a moment, crossing the room without a sound. You expect him to hover, maybe offer tea again. Instead, he crouches in front of you, cool hands gently taking your ankle before you can object.

“Zayne—”

“You’ve been sitting too long,” he says simply, thumb pressing into the soft, swollen flesh near your arch.

You let out a sharp breath—not from pain, but the sudden relief that spreads like warmth through your foot. It’s startling, how much it hurts and soothes at the same time. Like peeling off a pressure bandage you didn’t realize you were wearing.

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

“Mm,” he replies, entirely unconvinced. He keeps working, fingers precise, careful. “Do you want me to stop?”

The ache in your calves pulses in response—a dull throb reminding you of every hour spent hunched over case files and mission logs. You hadn’t meant to ignore your body. You just... forgot.

He moves to your other foot, and when he finds the sore spot along your heel, you twitch slightly.

The moment his fingers start to knead with practiced care, your shoulders sag. The tension there slips loose without permission—like your body had been waiting for someone else to give it the okay to stop.

“You didn’t even stretch today, did you?” he asks.

“I meant to.”

He glances up, expression unreadable—but the way he shifts, drawing your legs into his lap so he can rub deeper along your calf, says everything. You don't protest. You just let your head fall back against the couch cushion, exhaustion seeping out of you in slow waves.

“You’re not helping your case by spoiling me like this,” you murmur, eyes closed.

“You’re not helping mine by pretending you don’t need it.”

He doesn’t say slow down. Doesn’t tell you you’re overdoing it—you’ve heard that enough from everyone else. Instead, he presses his thumb gently behind your knee, finding the tight muscle you didn’t realize was sore, and stays silent.

It makes you feel safe enough to rest your hand on your stomach.

He notices that too.

After a while, he murmurs, “You’re not a machine.” His voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath. “Even machines get maintained.”

You sigh. “Don’t start lecturing. I already got one from Rose.”

“I’m not lecturing,” he replies, moving his hands to your leg. “I’m observing.”

You scoff. “That’s worse.”

He keeps his massage pace steady. “Your body’s telling you to rest. You’re just not listening.”

“Because if I stop, I’ll—” You cut yourself off.

Zayne’s hands still for a second, before he continues again. But he still waits. Doesn’t press.

“I just... don’t want to feel useless.”

“You’re not,” he says simply. “You’re growing a whole human. You’re working harder than all of us.”

You drop your gaze. Your hand drifts to your stomach, and for a moment, a flicker of guilt settles in your chest—before you brush it off.

He touches your knee gently. “And before you say that doesn’t count—it does.”

You exhale, stubborn to the bitter end. “I just want to do my part.”

“You are,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re quiet. You’re allowed to take care of yourself and still be part of everything.”

He stands, smooth and graceful as ever, and disappears into the office kitchenette. A moment later, he returns with a steaming mug and a little packet of dried fruit Lara had slipped you days ago.

You blink. “You kept that?”

He shrugs. “I’m observant, remember?”

He hands you the tea, careful not to say more.

But when you settle against the back of the couch again, sipping quietly, his fingers brush yours—just long enough to remind you he’s still there. Still watching. Still ready to catch you if—or when—you finally fall.

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

The mission had gone smoothly—standard sweep, zero surprises. And just when everyone was ready to head back and clock out, the patrol assignment came in.

You straighten without a second thought. “I’ll come.”

Tara, still adjusting her gloves, pauses. “Come where?”

“On patrol.”

A beat of silence.

Rose levels you with a look. “No.”

You raise a brow. “It’s just a regular route. You said yourself it’s the quietest zone.”

“That’s not the point—”

“I’ve been sitting for days, my legs are cramping, and if I stare at another report I’m going to set fire to the desk.”

Tara mutters, “That’s valid.”

Lara looks at the sky. “Please don’t actually set fire to the desk.”

“I’ll stay in the middle,” you add, like it sweetens the deal. “I’m a support unit. Ranged. I’m not going to be diving into anything.”

Rose folds her arms. “You’re still—”

“Pregnant, yes, I know,” you cut in, already tugging on your jacket. “Not made of glass. I’m not even showing yet. And HQ already approved base-side support, didn’t they?”

“They didn’t mean outside the base,” Rose mutters.

“They didn’t not mean it.”

Everyone looks at you.

You lift your chin, undeterred.

Lara speaks next, dry as ever. “Fine. But you’re in the middle.”

“I was planning to—”

Rose cuts in sharply, “You’re. Staying. In. The. Middle.”

You squint at her. “You’re not the squad leader.”

Lara, hand on her forehead. “You’re staying in the middle.”

You roll your eyes. “Noted.”

Tara snorts, clearly enjoying herself. “I’ll take rear side. Can’t have mom-to-be dodging wanderer guts and ruining her pretty boots.”

“I hate those boots,” you mumble.

“Exactly. That’s how we know you’re tired.”

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

You fall into formation—Rose at the front, Tara flanking rear-left, Lara bringing up the back, and you moving steady in the middle. It’s familiar. Easy. Your steps sync with theirs, your gun balanced at your side, Evol humming at your fingertips.

No one says it out loud, but they’re all subtly adjusting around you. Slower pace. Widened spacing. You catch it—but you let it go.

Because for the first time in weeks, your legs don’t ache from stillness. The air smells like rain instead of hospital antiseptic or your base’s office.

The zone is clean—stray wanderers here and there, nothing your squad can’t handle in their sleep.

You’re tired, sure—but this, you can handle it.

Until the air tears.

It doesn’t start as sound—it’s pressure. Your lungs forget how to breathe a moment before the world bends and tears open.

A Deepspace tunnel splits open in the middle of the street.

“Contact—two o’clock!” Rose snaps, a violet slash coming from her hands already singing through the first thing that crawls out.

You shift, instinct kicking in. Your Evol flashes, syncing instantly to Rose’s—sharpening her edges, accelerating her strikes.

Tara surges forward, intercepting another, and you link to her next, boosting her reflexes mid-movement. Lara flanks right behind with a glowing barrier.

It’s a tight formation. Efficient. You keep your distance, keep your focus. Your hands tremble a little, but you bite it back. One more boost—one more sync—

It starts getting hard to see clearly.

Your head pounds. Your knees buckle, unsteady.

You shift focus again, try to keep up with the flow, but your Evol stutters with jagged pulses, like it’s struggling to hold a signal. The edges of your vision blur.

Something disconnects. You think you hear someone yell your name—

And then nothing.

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

It’s the faint beep of a monitor you hear first. A soft rhythm, too steady to be anything from the field.

Then fingers. Wrapped around your hand, cool yet steady. Anchoring you.

Your eyes flutter open.

White ceiling. Hospital lights. The faint scent of antiseptic.

And Zayne.

His face is the first thing you see—tired, eyes ringed with shadow, but locked on you with absolute focus the moment you stir.

“You’re awake,” he says—relief and fear tangled in his voice.

His voice has that low, careful tone he uses with patients—except it’s thinner now. Strained around the edges.

Before you can say anything, he’s checking you, doctor-mode overriding everything. Fingers at your pulse, brushing against your wrist. A touch to your forehead. Gentle pressure along your wrist.

“No fever,” he murmurs to himself. “Vitals are stable... you fainted from exhaustion.”

You try to speak, but he’s already leaning in, brushing your hair from your face like he needs to see you fully to believe it.

Then, his hand lifts yours, holding it close. His lips press to your knuckles. Then your temple. Then your cheek.

No anger. No lecture. Just that quiet sorrow in his eyes.

“I was scared,” he admits, barely a whisper. “You weren’t waking up.”

Your chest tightens. You try to blink it away, but his hand squeezes yours, grounding you again.

He exhales through his nose, like he’s been holding it in for hours.

“I should be angry,” he says finally, voice low. “But I’m mostly just... terrified.”

You blink at him, throat tight.

“You could’ve gotten hurt. Worse. You and the baby.”

His eyes stay locked on yours, steady now—but not cold. Just bare.

“I know you want to help. I know sitting still drives you mad. But pushing yourself until you pass out—how is that helping anyone?”

Your lips part, but he shakes his head gently, thumb brushing your wrist.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you. I’m saying it because I love you.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry and raw. “I didn’t think it would get that bad,” you murmur, voice barely there. “I just… I thought I could still be useful.”

His expression doesn’t shift much, but his thumb stills against your skin. “You are. You always are. But not like this.”

He lowers your joined hands onto the blanket, his other hand trailing along your arm like he’s reminding himself you’re still here. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Least of all to me.”

You look away, eyes burning. “It didn’t feel that way.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s what scares me.”

He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. His touch is cool, his presence a balm—but beneath it, you feel the way he trembles. Just faintly.

“I need you to take care of yourself,” he whispers. “Not just for the baby. For me, too.”

You nod—slow and aching, the fight bleeding out like water through a cracked glass.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says, and his voice shakes just enough to break your heart. He lifts your hand again, presses it to his cheek like he needs the anchor just as much.

“I know you were trying your best. But I need you to stop carrying all of it like it’s only yours to hold.”

His eyes meet yours—clear, but so raw. “You’re not alone in this. You never were. So please… stop acting like you have to be.”

You swallow hard. “I just... I didn’t want to be a burden.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, jaw tight, like the words cut deeper than you meant them to.

“You’re not,” he says. No hesitation. “You never have been. Not now. Not before.”

Your throat stings. “Then why does it feel like I am? Like if I stop, if I let go even a little, I’ll just fade into the background while everyone else moves on without me?”

Zayne shifts, leans forward, and rests his forehead against your temple.

“Because you're so used to holding everything up, you don’t know how to not fight for space. Even when no one’s trying to take it from you.”

You breathe in slowly. His scent, the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his presence—everything about him quiets the noise in your head just a little.

“I thought I was helping,” you whisper. “I wanted to help.”

“I know,” he says again. “But pushing yourself until you collapse doesn’t help anyone—not me, not the baby, not your squad. And especially not you.”

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye where a tear slips free.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” he says gently. “I need you to be here.”

Something in you breaks—not with violence, but with mercy. Like something brittle giving way to light.

You nod, a little shaky. “I still want to do better.”

Zayne presses a kiss to your temple. “Then rest. Let yourself breathe. That’s where it starts.”

And this time, when your eyes close again, it’s not from exhaustion—but relief.

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

You wake again to the sound of a quiet page turning.

Zayne sits beside you, long legs folded, a medical file in one hand—yours, probably—but his attention snaps to you the second your breathing shifts.

He sets it down. “You’re awake.”

His voice is softer this time. Less strained. The lines around his eyes are still there, but something in them eases.

You blink at him. “You’re still here?”

“I wasn’t planning to leave.” He brushes his fingers over your wrist, like he’s making sure your pulse is still real beneath his touch. “How do you feel?”

“Tired.” Your voice comes out dry and rough.

He nods once. “That’s good.” Then he picks up the glass of water from the side table and offers it to you. His fingers graze yours as you take it—but he don’t pull away immediately.

You pause, then shift your other hand to gently hold his, anchoring it there. Your thumb brushes over his knuckles, light but deliberate. He squeezes your hand in return.

“It means you’re listening to your body, not fighting it.” His lips twitch, just a little.

You exhale before taking a slow sip of the water, letting the coolness ease the rasp in your throat. His hand stays in yours.

When you lower the glass, you don’t let go.

And for the first time in hours, you feel more at ease.

Zayne’s thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles—once, twice. Then, gently, he says, “Rose and Caleb are here. With the twins. They’ve been waiting outside—Rose didn’t want to crowd you unless you were ready.”

You go still. “The twins?”

“They were very insistent about seeing their favorite aunt.”

You arch a brow. That’s your line—he usually waits for you to say it, then replies with, “their only aunt.”

But this time, he says it for you.

And something about that—gentle, unexpected—makes a strange, delicate flutter rises in your chest.

Tender. Fragile. But steady.

Hormones, yup, that’s why.

“Can I see them?”

Zayne leans in, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back with careful fingers. Then he steps into the hallway. A few quiet murmurs follow. The door opens.

Rose is the first to step in.

She looks... fine. Hair tied up, usual jacket slung over her arm, lips pressed into a flat line. But her eyes linger too long on the monitor beside you. Her fingers twitch at her side like she wants to check the IV, double-check your vitals—anything to do something. Instead, she stops at the foot of your bed.

“You look like shit,” she says, dry as ever.

“Thanks,” you rasp, voice hoarse.

Rose exhales. Shoulders sink. “I mean. You scared the hell out of us.”

You open your mouth, but she holds up a hand. “Let me get through this without crying yet.”

Caleb enters with the twins—both wide-eyed and quiet for once, clinging to his hands. They’re three now, just tall enough to peek over the bed railing. Caleb gives you a small smile, nods once—like we’ll talk later—and steps aside.

“I shouldn’t have let you come on patrol,” Rose says, voice quieter now. “Even if it was routine. Even if nothing was supposed to happen. You’re my twin. My squadmate. I knew you weren’t at full strength. I just...” Her breath stutters. “I just thought if I said no, you’d push harder. And I didn’t want to be the bad guy.”

You swallow. “I wanted to be there.”

“I know.” She folds her arms, eyes wet. “But I should’ve been the one to stop you anyway.”

“You tried,” you say. “You did more than anyone. I just—” Your voice cracks. “I didn’t want to be left behind.”

Rose’s expression finally breaks. She moves toward you, voice shaking. “You’re not behind. You’re with us. And you always will be. Just—don’t do that again, okay? Don’t scare me like that.”

You reach for her at the same time she leans in. Arms wrap around each other tight—shaky, unsteady, clinging like you're both trying to fix something that cracked open between you. Her forehead presses to your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out.

“Me too.”

That’s when the twins—silent up to this point—decide they’ve had enough of being observers.

They scramble up the bed, climbing over your legs like determined little puppies, wedging themselves between you and Rose, their small arms trying to hug both of you at once.

And then they’re crying. Loud and messy and confused.

“Mommy’s crying,” your niece says, and your nephew wails, “Why is Auntie sick—stop being sick!”

Rose laughs through a sob, pulling them in tighter. “She’s okay, baby. She’s okay now.”

It’s a mess of limbs and tears and sniffles on the bed, and for a moment, the whole room is soft with the sound of people trying to breathe again.

At the side of the room, Zayne stands with Caleb, arms loosely crossed, watching the scene unfold.

“Should we hug it out too?” Caleb murmurs, glancing sideways.

Zayne gives him a bland look. “No.”

Caleb grins and then sighs, dramatic. “I thought we had something, Zayne. Where’s my love?”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. “Buried somewhere beneath your need for theatrics.”

“Ouch,” Caleb mutters, clutching his chest like he’s been personally wounded. “Ruthless. No wonder your patients love you—you leave just enough emotional damage for a lasting impression.”

Zayne exhales through his nose, gaze drifting back to the bed where the tangle of you, Rose, and the twins is still unfolding—small hands clinging, Rose’s face pressed against your shoulder, the kids hiccuping their tears into your sides. The corner of his mouth pulls, barely, almost a smile.

Caleb watches him for a moment longer, then, softer. “...Glad she’s okay.”

Zayne doesn’t say anything to that. Just nods once.

And that’s when Caleb pulls out his phone. He doesn’t even hide it.

“I’m taking a picture.”

Zayne lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t stop him.

“For the photo wall,” Caleb says, angling it just right. “Or the ‘look at your chaotic emotional legacy’ folder for when they’re teenagers. Whichever comes first.”

He takes the picture with the absolute stealth of a dad used to capturing chaotic moments.

Zayne watches, quiet. But this time, when the screen captures your face mid-laugh, he doesn’t look away.

Your hand in Rose’s hair. Little fingers tangled in yours. Tears drying slow on your cheeks. A smile caught between sobs, still glimmering. The moment is already saved.

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

Notes

This week is just serious week I guess... Are we all just in our period? Is that why? Cuz I am.... 🫠😂 Joking aside, hope y'all enjoy it! 🫶🏻🥹

[fan-kingdoms]

extremely silly epic the musical thought:

so imagine that everything in ithaca has settled down, suitors and families dealt with, kingdom up and running, etc. now that there isn’t an active crisis in the country, athena has to return to her usual godly duties and can’t be around all the time— she still drops in to train telemachus and check on the general state of affairs, but she can’t Always be on ithaca when she has an entire domain to rule over/business on olympus. so she comes by less often, which telemachus is obviously very sad about (she is kind of his only friend, after all)

and now imagine athena, who obviously cares about telemachus very much (and is well acquainted with his not-so-subtle abandonment issues), deciding to leave a token with him to comfort him during her absences. so she tames an owl for him, a beautiful barn owl with a massive wingspan and honey-colored feathers, because of course her student/friend deserves nothing but the best

(more under the cut bc i care for your dash)

athena gives the owl to telemachus so A. he has a loyal animal companion again (he’s been down ever since argos passed) and B. so he knows that athena might be away from ithaca, but she’s never really gone, she’s still with him

telemachus is overjoyed and he names her after one of athena’s many epithets: Acraea, meaning “of the heights” (yes, because she’s a bird. he’s not the most creative prince on the planet). and he absolutely ADORES this owl. takes her everywhere with him— to the marketplaces, on the royal hunting grounds, she even sits on the arm of his chair while he and his parents hold court. no one sees telemachus without seeing acraea perched on his forearm, or on his shoulder, or even plopping down right on his head when his arms are busy (he looks especially silly like that, average-sized prince with a very large bird roosting in his hair, but no one would dare to tell him. not because he is the prince, but because he looks so entirely happy that they don’t want to ruin it)

so everyone knows about telemachus’s (very large, very beautiful) owl friend acraea

at this point— after the trojan war, the slaughtering of the suitors, athena’s odyssey-canon appearance in order to stop more bloodshed— it’s common knowledge on ithaca that athena favors the royal family. the bards sing about odysseus’s patron all the time, and telemachus is the heir to the throne.

so now imagine. that the wires got crossed somewhere and now the entirety of ithaca thinks prince telemachus is casually carrying the goddess of wisdom around on his arm.

it all makes sense— it’s very clearly a special bird, with its size and the way its feathers seem to glitter in the light, it is attached to the ithaca royal family (it sits court with them! it must be advising them!), and it literally has one of athena’s names. that has to be it, right? right??

and one day at the market telemachus notices that more people are bowing to him than usual. as the prince, he’s used to signs of respect, but he always considered himself friendly and approachable. one of the fishermen even kneeled to him as he walked past, isn’t that strange? and when one of the guards asked him to come over to the armory and help take stock of their weapons he seemed to direct his eyes at acraea when he said “if that’s alright with you.” at first telemachus thinks it’s an odd series of coincidences, until one day a servant who came to his room to deliver a message bowed to his owl before even addressing him

and on one hand telemachus wants to immediately clear up this misunderstanding so people will stop being weird to him (and his owl) again. on the other hand, the opportunity to royally fuck with the entire island is just too good to pass up and who knows, athena might find it funny

so he starts talking to acraea more often and more loudly, publicly asking her for advice and pretending to consult with her before he makes a decision. he has her fly beside him more often to show off her wings, and best of all, he brings owl treats with him everywhere to see the look on people’s faces when they see him feeding “athena” a treat and telling her to behave. odysseus is mildly concerned that using athena’s image like this might offend some god and cause them more issues all over again. penelope thinks it’s fucking hilarious.

TLDR: athena gifts telemachus an insanely pretty owl so he doesn’t miss her too much post-odyssey and now all of ithaca is convinced that telemachus’s emotional support animal is actual literal athena