#is it so small and dull compared to the actual thing because all of the magic has been used up?

[sleepymarimo]

𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫.

summary: law might hate bread, might hate sweets, but if eating them is the only way to show you how much he cares, then so be it. pairing: law x fem!reader cw: none! fluff, awkward law. some descriptions of food and textures if you're sensitive to that! wc: ~3.5k (wow!!)

an: this is for my amazing friend @guilty-sugar ! i recall you saying that you were good at baking, but sad that law probably wouldn't eat any. so, we're gonna make him >:)

i have not posted in soooo long so pls forgive me 🥲 i hope you all enjoy law and making him suffer by eating bread!!

the air is getting warm again, he can feel it. it grows so stuffy that he shrugs off his top layer, leaving him in that buttoned shirt he couldn't stop wearing after the one time you told him it looked good.

his eyes scan the medical papers in front of him, but his mind is annoyingly slow today.

law does a grand job of pretending that he doesn't know your schedule, doesn't know the tell tale signs that point to only one conclusion. the air grows hotter, the crew buzzes with poorly repressed excitement and the sound of clinking metal bowls echoes throughout the entire submarine.

it's baking day.

he's been preparing for this. he's finally going to face his biggest enemy yet, a foe that seemed much more intimidating than any warlord or emperor of the sea.

today, granted the ocean didn't swallow him whole, law was going to try some of the baked goods that you were known for making, including the bread.

the thought alone makes his skin crawl, but it pales in comparison to how small he feels in your presence. it irritates him, especially since your intentions have been nothing short of well meaning.

that's what he thinks, anyway.

law runs his tattooed fingers through the black strands of his hair, deciding to forget about whatever paper he's reading about in a bid to feel a semblance of control. he's overthinking, looking too much into things.

do you really smile at him more than everyone else? do you ask about his coin collection because you actually care or are you being polite?

within the upper quadrants of the polar tang, he can just barely hear the others hound you with questions about what you'll be making. no matter what it was, it was sure to be gone in a snap.

a dull thump shakes the sub, but he doesn't think much of it.

bepo, he thinks, probably slipped trying to gather ingredients for you. his suspicion is confirmed when the laughs of penguin and shachi follow shortly after, but the sound doesn't begin to compare to the one that flows out of your lips.

he represses a groan, his way of ignoring how his heartbeat momentarily diverts from it's usual rhythm.

his knuckles grip the sides of his chair, using it as leverage to push himself into a standing position before grabbing his hat and making his way to the kitchen. the air is almost uncomfortably warm now, but he can't find it in himself to be upset with you.

the submarine had been navigating the undersea currents for a while now. a visit to the surface was just about due.

it's not like he planned it like that. no, of course not!

he didn't even think about how the crew would be eager to hop off the vessel, didn't think about how you'd stay behind to bake while he took on the task of keeping you company.

he steps into the kitchen with curiosity, though his expression gives nothing away. it's that same almost neutral face, his brows slightly furrowed and lips teetering on a frown.

bepo is sitting on the floor of the kitchen, the flour dusting his form barely noticeable against his plush white fur. the bear is half-apologetic and half-embarrassed, the former directed toward you while the latter stemmed from the laughter going his way.

"sorry." he grumbles again, thought it looks like you couldn’t care less. bepo seems to have enough of his crew mates, tackling the other two men and making sure to get them covered with flour.

their complaints mesh with your amused laughs, a soundtrack that the polar tang's captain knows well.

law is blind to the scene before him, everything becoming out of focus as he spots you mixing some ingredients into a bowl. you're laughing, nose crinkling and mouth stretching into a grin that almost makes his stoic expression crumble.

the corner of his lips waver, just a little bit, your joy infectious in a way that makes him believe it's an actual disease.

however, he has work to do and baked goods to stomach.

"and what are you all up to?" he asks, arms crossing as he forces his gaze away from you.

it's almost comical how the four of you straighten up, abandoning whatever you're doing to raise a hand to your foreheads in a mock solute. the "hello captain!" that echoes across the room is practically in perfect sync, or at least enough to make him shake his head.

he sighs, telling you guys to quit it. "that doesn't answer my question."

penguin brings a hand down on bepo's back, a cloud of flour puffing into the air as he does so. "sweets day, cap!"

you affirm penguin's statement, tilting your head with a smile as you give a rundown of what's on the menu for today. some cupcakes, a few cookies and a loaf of sourdough.

just the mention of the bread is enough to make him tense.

bepo laxly nods in agreement with you, his black nose twitching as he catches the scent of vanilla extract. his head is in the clouds, not so much on his captain, so he decides to join you at the counter to mix some ingredients together in a bowl.

at the doorway, law gives penguin and shachi a deadpan look.

shachi chimes in with a grin, nodding his head in your direction. his words are meant to be sly, directed toward the captain, but he's unable to hide his amusement. "sweets day with the sweetest member of the crew, don't you think cap-"

"shut up." law interjects, brows pinching together as he takes in the poorly concealed smugness written all over shachi's face. it's on penguin's too now, while bepo has long since abandoned the conversation to help you instead.

it's only because they've known law for so long that the duo know how much he likes you. no amount of scolding or scoffs can make them think otherwise.

the captain can tell by their smiles that they think they have the upper hand, but he ignores them. law speaks before they have a chance to open their mouths again.

"get the sub ready to surface." he orders, cocking his head in the direction of the control room. "we're stopping at the next island."

that seems to get their attention, their heads perking up at the thought of getting out of the cramped submarine. the duo give law their best salute, scrambling away to make preparations for the sub's surfacing.

law shakes his head and lets out a sigh, taking some strong steps toward you and bepo. your dynamic with the bear is one that melts his heart more than he'd ever admit. the way you can shift from witty and bright to determined and caring makes him want to explore every side of you.

he snaps out of his thoughts when you lightly reprimand bepo for stirring the batter too aggressively, a chuckle threatening to leave him.

an announcement is made throughout the sub to prepare the crew for what's to come.

reluctantly, law makes his leave. he'll have time, he'll have you, but he has to take a couple minutes to brace himself for what will happen once the rest of the crew leaves the submarine.

another half hour passes before the sub's hatch is opened.

the fresh air is much needed, the cool breeze like a balm that quells the unease in law's chest. a series of footsteps echo throughout the submarine as crew members make their way to the exit, smiles plastered on their faces.

this island seems lively, welcoming. the sun casts a bright glow over the town in the distance, a plethora of shops and eateries nestled side by side.

even though law is staying aboard, staying with you, there's a sense of proudness that rushes through him as he takes note of the relief plastered onto the faces of his crew. he doesn't let it show, but clearly their happiness affects him.

he lets them run loose, trusting them enough not to cause too much trouble.

his eyes do narrow at penguin and shachi though, the two men snickering a tad as they walk off with bepo in tow. it's like they see through his plot, his ulterior motive, and the captain gives them a look that serves as a warning.

as the blurb of orange jumpsuits fades out of view, law is left with the sound of crashing waves and a light breeze.

his grip tightens on kikoku's hilt, a gesture that he hopes makes what he's about to do a little more easy.

the scent of baked goods wafts out the door, overpowering the salty sea breeze without issue. he can hear you humming along to some random tune, talking to yourself as you navigate through the kitchen.

he follows the trail like a ship to a lighthouse, drawn in by the warmth and splash of color you add to his life.

upon walking into the kitchen, he takes note of how your back is turned to him. you're washing some dishes, the spoils of your work organized neatly on the counter. just the sight of all the sweets is enough to make his stomach ache, but he persists.

you call out to him first, catching him in those all too common moments when he gets lost in his head. "captain? i thought you were gonna head out with the others."

turning off the sink, you dry your hands off with a towel and focus your attention on him. he doesn't miss the slight tilting of your head, how your eyes glimmer with curiosity.

oh, he was horrible at this. no matter how many times he practiced the script in his head, you found a way to unintentionally mess with his psyche. maybe it was your hair, your eyes, everything.

"needed to finish some work here." he lies, so smooth with his words that you don't even think to question it.

with a nod, you give him that smile, the one that pops up in his head while he's reading and makes him lose focus. "if you finish up, maybe you can meet the others in town. or you can keep me company here."

he takes your words in with a hum of acknowledgement, watching you navigate through the kitchen with a natural ease. for a second, he allows the comfortable silence to stretch. he summons all of his courage, swallowing his pride and nodding toward the delicacies on the table.

"can i…" his jaw tenses, the temperature in the room feeling as though it's rising with every tick of the clock. he squeezes the hilt of his weapon more firmly, his throat feeling dry as he looks between your confused face and the frosted treats.

he gets it together, not asking, but declaring. "i want to try what you made."

your brows rise at his words. it's not like your captain to try your baked goods. you'd never taken offense to his reluctance, as you were well aware of his eating habits, but this is completely out of left field.

one could hear a pin drop, his request lingering in the air.

"you… want to try them?" you echo back, unable to hide your skepticism. your eyes browse the array of treats, including the loaf of bread that was still cooling on its rack. "are you sure? which one?"

law doesn't mean to sound so snappy with his response, but internally he's freaking out. your doubt, the subtle concern in your voice, makes him want to prove himself even more.

"i'm sure." he insists, taking some steps toward you until he's at your side. his eyes scan the table, each morsel seeming to laugh in the face of his uncertainty. "i want to try each one."

your eyes follow his, the table sporting a variety of treats ranging from cookies to cupcakes to the star of the show, your fresh sourdough bread. in your head you prepare for disaster, creating a scene that's as comical as it is mildly concerning.

"if you lost a bet to penguin and shachi…" you start, giving him an apologetic glance.

he's quick to cut your accusation short. there are no bets, no pressure from anyone but himself. "no."

when he looks back at you, expectantly, as if he doesn't know how to approach this hurdle, you grab a plate and start to load it up. there was no way you were going to give him a full serving of anything, so you chop off a piece of each dessert and make what you think is a perfect sampler.

he takes the plate from you with a degree of reluctance, but the brushing of your fingers against his acts as a reminder as to why he's doing this. words aren't his specialty. hell, it's hard for him to show how much he cares in general, but he can do this. for you.

his tattooed fingers pick up a piece of… something. it looks sweet, like something he'd hand off to bepo. those black brows of his furrow a tad, as if he's trying to break down the pastry to an atomic level.

taking note of how he seems to be losing himself in his own thoughts, you speak up with confidence and snatch the remaining portion for yourself. "it's just a chocolate chip cookie." you explain, taking a bite of it yourself to show him how it's done. "flour, sugar, eggs…"

"understood." law sighs, trying and failing to act even remotely excited about what was to come.

his teeth sink into the cookie, only a small quarter piece, and he has to keep from making too much of a reaction. from the chocolate clinging to his tongue to the sweetness practically making his gums ache, he finds each chew to be a struggle.

but when his eyes lift to meet yours, seeing the look of anticipation on your face, he finds that the cookie isn't so hard to swallow.

his tongue peeks out to catch any remaining crumbs, shuddering as the sugary sweet taste lingers in his mouth.

he takes a step toward you, a small one, nodding his head and hoping you can't see the hints of pink starting to form on his cheeks. "it's good." he states, even though from your angle it had looked like he was trying to swallow glass. "what's the next one?"

it seems like eons have passed, perhaps the longest ten minutes law has ever lived through.

he swears his stomach is starting to hurt from the amount of sugar settling in there, and the smile you give him, the appreciation you show, doesn't make it feel any better. your presence makes him more jittery than any dessert, that much was certain.

while you were hesitant at first, not wanting him to strain himself, you can't deny that your sweets-averse captain willingly trying your concoctions was flattering, meaningful.

"okay, last one." you clap your hands together, glancing at the last piece of food on his sampling plate. it's a small chunk, not even worthy of being served as an appetizer, but to law, it might as well have been a death sentence. "the sourdough bread."

hearing the word alone makes law's jaw clench, his eyes narrowing as if he had a personal vendetta against the bread. even when he's picking it up, he can't help but scrutinize it.

"yeah, last one." he echoes back, his eyes finding yours in a sort of stubborn inquiry for support.

understanding what he needs, as usual, you grab a piece of the bread for yourself and hold it up. the nod you give him, allowing him to dictate the pace, seems to give him the confidence he needs to conquer this molehill he's made a mountain of.

after a playful countdown from you, he chucks the bread into his mouth and forces his teeth to bite down on it.

the first taste of it almost has him freezing up, his chest rising and falling slowly in an attempt to not let his nose wrinkle. the texture of the bread is killing him, the roughness of it seeming to scrape against his tongue in a way he's not particularly fond of.

hearing you hum in content, clearly pleased with the taste of your own creation, is almost like a slap to his pride- in a good way. he chews a bit more, it's almost damn painful, but he does it.

finally, when the last few chunks of bread are swallowed, law feels like he can breathe a sigh of relief.

"well, that's everything, captain." you smile, taking the plate from him and lightly placing into the sink. you're aware that this wasn't exactly easy for him, yet you're happy that he tried them. "what do you think? good enough for the crew?"

the answer should be obvious, as your treats were usually devoured within only a couple days of being made. law was confident that you could place ice in a bowl and the crew would eat it up without question.

"it's… good. everything was good." he replies, eyes following your every move. his heart feels a little more heavy in his chest, the lump in his throat harder to swallow than the goods he'd just tried. "the crew is lucky to have you."

i'm lucky to have you.

he inwardly curses himself for being so inexperienced with these matters and he places his hat on a nearby counter so he could run a hand through his hair. law is so caught up with his own inner turmoil that he doesn't notice how you grow a little bashful, how the laugh you give is more nervous than playful.

"thanks, captain." comes your response, the sound of clinking drawers filling the air as you started to properly store some of the goods for later. "that's sweet of you to say."

he hums, his way of telling you that he hears you. at the moment, he doesn't quite trust himself with speaking, his brows furrowing ever so slightly.

there is a comfortable silence for a few minutes, but it's not entirely suffocating. it's comfortable, almost welcoming. there are few people law was content to simply exist with, and you were one of them.

his mouth opens, your head tilting toward him as he states the obvious. "i hate bread."

it seems like a no brainer, your arms crossing while you change your position to face him better. "yeah, i know. what about it?"

law looks at you like he was looking at the desserts earlier. intense, almost scrutinizing, as if he would rather peer into your brain instead of hold a conversation.

"i hate bread." he repeats, the tension in his frame melting away a tad. "but i like it more when it's yours."

you're not sure how to respond to his admission, your jaw tense in a bid to keep it from falling to the floor. your captain is red faced, trying oh so hard not to just blurt out what he's been thinking for the past few months. it would be easy to get it out with a scoff, acting like it's not a big deal, but he knows you deserve better.

"everything has been better since… since you joined." the confession is heavy, the implication clear. this was no simple talk between a captain and their crew member.

while his cheeks get hotter, his brows furrow, his gaze doesn't waver from yours. he's watching for every reaction, anything that he can pick up on to confirm or deny his hopes, hopes which he rarely grants himself to believe to be possible.

your smile is a balm, the relieved laugh you give making him release a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"i can never tell what's going on in your head." your shoulders rise and fall with each chuckle, your chest buzzing at his words, at what can, will, come from this. "you didn't have to try all the food. especially the bread. you know that, right?"

his lips tug upward into a small smirk, his confidence growing upon seeing how you're reacting to him. it's enough to make him take a few steps forward until he's right before you.

"thought it would be a good way to show you that i mean what i'm saying." he answers, the taste and feel of the treats now long forgotten. "besides, i see how disappointed you get when i don't try them."

the way your eyes avert, the small tilt in your head, only highlights your guilt. "yeah, okay, maybe a little, but i wasn't gonna force you to eat bread. and all those sweets…"

"i'll have to get used to it." his shoulders shrug, his expression going back into that more nonchalant one that you're used to seeing on him.

the words have your brows furrowing in confusion. "what do you mean? are you going to start joining us for baking day?"

"no. i'm not eating bread ever again, so consider yourself lucky for being the only one to see it happen." he casually states, silently reveling in how you react, before he allows his smirk to grow a little more wide. "i just have a feeling that you're sweeter, and i'm not planning on giving you up any time soon."

[jewelleria]

I don’t usually talk about politics on here, if ever. But it’s been almost six months since the conflict in the Middle East flared up again, and I’m finally ready to start. Here are some of my thoughts.

I say ‘flared up’ because this has happened before and it’ll happen again. Because, even though what's currently going on is absolutely unprecedented, those of us who live in this part of the world are used to it. Let that sink in: we are used to this. And we shouldn’t have to be. 

But I use that term for another reason: I don't want to accidentally call it the wrong thing lest I come under fire for being a genocidal maniac or a terrorist or a propaganda machine, etc., etc.—so let’s just call it ‘the war’ or ‘the conflict.’ Because that’s what it is. Doesn’t matter which side you’re on, who you love, or who you hate. 

This post will, in all likelihood, sit in my drafts forever. If it does get posted, it certainly won’t be on my main, because I'm scared of being harassed (spoiler: she posted it on her main). I hate admitting that, but honestly? I’m fucking terrified. 

I also feel like in order for anything I say on here (i.e. the hellscape of the internet) to be taken seriously, I have to somehow prove that a) I’m “educated” enough to talk about the conflict, and b) that my opinion lines up with what has been deemed the correct one. So, tedious and unnecessary though it is, I will tell you about my experience, because I have a feeling most of the people reading this post are not nearly as close to what’s happening as I am.

How do I explain where I live without actually explaining where I live? How do I say “I live in the Red Zone of international conflicts” without saying what I actually think? How do I convey the fear that grips me when I try to decide between saying “I live in Palestine” and “I live in Israel”? I don't really know. But I do know that names are important. I also know that, due to the various clickbaity monikers ascribed to the conflict, it would probably just be easier to point to a map. 

I haven't always lived in the Middle East. I've lived in various places along America’s east coast, and traveled all over the world. But in short, I now live somewhere inside the crudely-drawn purple circle. 

If you know anything about these borders you probably blanched a bit in sympathy, or maybe condolence. But in truth, it’s a shockingly normal existence. I don't feel like I've lived through the shifting of international relations or a war or anything. I just kind of feel like I did when COVID hit, that dull sameness as I wondered if this would be the only world-altering event to shape my life, or if there would be more. 

I've been told that, in order for my brain to process all the horrific details of the past six months, there needs to be some element of cognitive dissonance—that falling into a sort of dissociative mindset is the only way to not go insane under the weight of it all. I think in some ways that’s true. I have been terrifyingly close to bus stop shootings when my commute wasn’t over; I have felt my apartment building shake with the reverberations of a missile strike; I have spent hours in underground shelters waiting for air raid sirens to stop. 

But. I have also gone grocery shopping, and skipped class, and stayed up too late watching TV, and fed the cats on the street corner, and cried over a boy, and got myself AirPods just because, and taken out the trash, and done laundry on a delicate cycle, and bought overpriced lattes one too many days a week. I have looked at pretty things and taken out my phone because, despite it all, I still think that life is too short not to freeze the small moments. 

So I'd say, all things considered, I live an incredibly privileged life—compared, of course, to those suffering in Gaza—one filled with sunsets and over-sweetened knafeh and every different color of sand. One that allows me to throw myself into a fandom-induced hyperfixation (or, alternatively, escape method) as I sit on the couch and crack open my laptop to write the next chapter of the fic I'm working on. 

But there are bits of not-normalness that wheedle their way through the cracks. I pretend these moments are avoidable, even if they’re not. 

They look like this: reading the news and seeing another idiotic, careless choice on Netanyahu’s part and groaning into my morning coffee. Watching Palestinian and Jewish children’s needless suffering posted on Instagram reels and feeling helpless. Opening my Tumblr DMs to find a message telling me to exterminate myself for reblogging a post that only seems like it’s about the war if you squint and tilt your head sideways. 

These moments look like all the tiny ways I am reminded that I'm living in a post-October seventh world, where hearing a car backfire makes me jump out of my skin and the sound of a suitcase on pavement makes me look up at the sky and search for the war planes. They look like the heavy grief that is, and also isn’t, mine. 

Here's the thing, though. I know you’re wondering when the ball will drop and my true opinion will be revealed. I know you’re waiting for me to reveal what demographic I'm a part of so that you, dear reader, can neatly slap a label on my head and sort me into some oversimplified category that lets you continue to think you understand this war. 

No one wants to sit and ruminate on the difficult questions, the ones that make you wonder if maybe you’ve been tinkered with by the propaganda machine, if you might need to go back on what you’ve said or change your mind. We all strive for our perception of complicated issues to be a comfortable one.

But I know that no matter what I do, there will always be assumptions. So, while I shudder to reveal this information online, I think that maybe my most significant contribution to this meta-discussion spanning every facet of the internet is this: 

I am a Jew. 

Or, alternatively, I am: Jewish, יהודית, يَهُودِيٌّ, etc. Point is, I come from Jews. And, like any given person, I am a product of generation after generation of love. 

I'm not going to take time to explain my heritage to you, or to prove that before all the expulsions and pogroms, there was an origin point. If you don’t believe that, perhaps it’s less of a factual problem and more of an ‘I don’t give weight to the beliefs of indigenous people’ problem. But, in case you want to spend time uselessly refuting this tiny point in a larger argument, you can inspect the photos below (it’s just a small chunk of my DNA test results). Alternatively, you can remember that interrogating someone in an attempt to make their indigeneity match your arbitrary criteria is generally not seen as good manners. 

Now, let’s go back to thathateful message (read: poorly disguised death threat) I received in my Tumblr DMs. I think it was like two or three weeks ago. I had recently gained a new follower whose blog’s primary focus was the fandom I contribute to, so I followed them back. I saw in my notes that they were going through my posts and liking them—as one does when gaining a new mutual. Yippee! 

Then they sent me this: 

I tried to explain that hate speech is not a way to go about participating in political discourse, but the person had already blocked me immediately after sending that message. Then, assured by the fact that I surely would never see them complaining about me on their blog (because, as I said, they blocked me), they posted a shouting rant accusing me of sympathizing with colonizing settlers and declaring me a “racist Zionist fuck.” Oh, the wonders of incognito tabs.

Where this person drew these conclusions after reading my (reblogged) post about antisemitism…. I'm not actually sure. But I greatly sympathize with them, and hope that they weren’t too personally offended by my desire to not die. 

For a while I contemplated this experience in my righteous anger, and tried to figure out a way to message this person. I wanted to explain that a) seeing a post about being Jewish and choosing to harass the creator about Israel is literally the definition of antisemitism and b) that sending a hateful DM and refusing to be held accountable is just childish and immature. But I gave up soon after—because, honestly, I knew it wasn’t worth my effort or energy. And I knew that I wouldn't be able to change their mind. 

But I still remember staring at that rather unfortunate meme, accompanied by an all-caps message demanding for me to Free Palestine, and thinking: the post didn’t even have any buzzwords. I remember the swoop of dread and guilt and fear. I remember wondering why this kind of antisemitism felt worse, in that moment, than the kind that leaves bodies in its wake. 

I remember thinking, I don’t have the power to free anyone.

I remember thinking, I’m so fucking tired. 

And before you tell me that this conflict isn’t about religion—let me ask you some questions. Why is it that Israel is even called Israel? (Here’s why.) Why do Jews even want it? (Here’s why.) But also, if you actually read the charters of Islamist terrorist organizations like ISIS, Hamas, and Hezbollah (among others), they equate the modern state of Israel with the Jewish people, and they use the two entities interchangeably. So of course this conflict is religious. It’s never been anything but that.

But I do wonder, when faced with those who deny this fact: how do I prove, through an endless slew of what-about-isms and victim blaming, that I too am hurting? How do I show that empathy is dialectical, that I can care deeply for Palestinians and Gazans while also grieving my own people? 

There's this thing that humans do, when we’re frustrated about politics and need to howl our opinions about it into the void until we feel better. We find like-minded souls, usually our friends and neighbors, and fret about the state of the world to each other until we’ve gone around in a satisfactory amount of circles. But these conversations never truly accomplish anything. They’re just a substitute, a stand-in catharsis, for what we really wish we could do: find someone who embodies the spirit of every Jew-hating internet troll, every ignorant justifier of terrorism, and scream ourselves hoarse at them until we change their mind.

But, of course, minds cannot be changed when they are determined to live in a state of irrational dislike. In Judaism, this way of thinking has a name: שנאת חינם (sinat hinam), or baseless hatred. It's a parasite with no definite cure, and it makes people bend over backwards to justify things like the massacre on October seventh, simply because the blame always needs to be placed on the Jews. 

So when a Jew is faced with this unsolvable problem, there is only one response to be had, only one feeling to be felt: anger. And we are angry. Carrying around rage with nowhere to put it is exhausting. It's like a weight at the base of our neck that pushes down on our spine, bending it until we will inevitably snap under the pressure. I’m still waiting to break, even now.

I wish I could explain to someone who needs to hear it that terrorism against Israelis happens every single day here, and that we are never more than one degree of separation away from the brutal slaughter of a friend, lover, parent, sibling. I wish it would be enough to say that the majority of Israelis (which includes Arab-Israeli citizens who have the exact same rights as Jewish-Israelis) wish for peace every day without ever having seen what it looks like. 

I wish I could show the world that Israel was founded as a socialist state, that it was built on communal values and born from a cluster of kibbutzim (small farming communities based on collective responsibility), and that what it is now isn’t what its people stand for. 

I wish the world could open their eyes to what we Israelis have seen since the beginning: that Hamas is the enemy, Hamas is the one starving Palestinians and denying them aid, Hamas is the one who keeps rejecting ceasefire terms and denying their citizens basic human rights. Hamas is the governing body of Gaza, not Israel. Hamas is responsible for the wellbeing of the Palestinian people. And Hamas are the ones who are more determined to murder Jews—over and over and over again, in the most animalistic ways possible—than to look inwards and see the suffering they’ve inflicted on their own people. I wish it was easier to see that.

But the wishing, the asking how can people be so blind, is never enough. I can never just say, I promise I don't want war. 

When I bear witness to this baseless hatred, I think of the victims of October seventh. I think of the women and girls who were raped and then murdered, forever unable to tell their stories. I think of the hostages, trapped underneath Gaza in dark tunnels, wondering if anyone will come for them. I think of Ori Ansbacher, of Ezra Schwartz, of Eyal, Gilad, and Naftali, of Lucy, Rina, and Maia Dee, of the Paley boys, of Ari Fuld and of Nachshon Wachsman. I think of all the innocent blood spilled because of terror-fueled hatred and the virus of antisemitism. I think of all the thousands of people who were brutally murdered in Israel, Jews and Muslims and Christians and humans, who will never see peace.

My ties to this land are knotted a thousand times over. Even when I leave, a part of me is left behind, waiting for me to claim it when I return. But when I see the grit it takes to live through this pain, when I see the suffering that paints the world the color of blood, I look to the heavens and I wonder why. 

I ask God: is it worth all this? He doesn't answer. So I am the one, in the end, to answer my own question. I say, it has to be. 

Feel free to send any genuine, respectful, and clarifying questions you may have to my inbox!

EDIT: just coming on here to say that I'm really touched & grateful for the love on this post. When I wrote it, I felt hopeless; I logged off of Tumblr for Shabbat, dreading the moment I would turn off my phone to find more hate in my inbox. Granted, I did find some, and responding to it was exhausting, but it wasn’t all hate. I read every kind reblog and comment, and the love was so much louder. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 🤍

Source Reading

The Whispered in Gaza Project by The Center for Peace Communications

Why Jews Cannot Stop Shaking Right Now by Dara Horn

Hamas Kidnapped My Father for Refusing to Be Their Puppet by Ala Mohammed Mushtaha

I Hope Someone Somewhere Is Being Kind to My Boy by Rachel Goldberg

The Struggle for Black Freedom Has Nothing to Do with Israel by Coleman Hughes

Israel Can Defend Itself and Uphold Its Values by The New York Times Editorial Board

There Is a Jewish Hope for Palestinian Liberation. It Must Survive by Peter Beinart

The Long Wait of the Hostages’ Families by Ruth Margalit

“By Any Means Necessary”: Hamas, Iran, and the Left by Armin Navabi

When People Tell You Who They Are, Believe Them by Bari Weiss

Hunger in Gaza: Blame Hamas, Not Israel by Yvette Miller

Benjamin Netanyahu Is Israel’s Worst Prime Minister Ever by Anshel Pfeffer

What Palestinians Really Think of Hamas by Amaney A. Jamal and Michael Robbins

The Decolonization Narrative Is Dangerous and False by Simon Sebag Montefiore

Understanding Hamas’s Genocidal Ideology by Bruce Hoffman

The Wisdom of Hamas by Matti Friedman

How the UN Discriminates Against Israel by Dina Rovner

This Muslim Israeli Woman Is the Future of the Middle East by The Free Press

Why Are Feminists Silent on Rape and Murder? by Bari Weiss

[shalotttower]

Fractalize (part 1)

Title: Fractalize

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter

Summary: Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness.

Word count: 3700+

Characters: Chrollo x Reader (female)

Notes: yandere Chrollo, kidnapped, depressed and miserable Reader, Reader is dissociating a lot, morbid pondering, suicidal thoughts, explicit/triggering language/words, Reader's thoughts on possible sexual assault in future. Part 2

Fractalize - making things into smaller copies of themselves over and over again.

Sometimes you stand in front of a mirror and try to picture yourself in another timeline. One where your life didn’t take this specific turn. You try to imagine a different setting, a different apartment - perhaps the one you had before Chrollo started moving you around like a luggage bag. Maybe living in a cottage by the sea or an old farmhouse. Someplace rural, peaceful. With a garden and fresh air, far away from the city noises.

It's difficult at first, your reflection keeps slipping through your mental fingers every time you think the image is set in place. But with practice it becomes easier, sort of, so you can now see yourself clearly as you brush your hair - not here.

A blue dress on, made for nights at parties with friends. Laughing until your stomach hurts and eyes become sore. Making silly faces over alcoholic beverages. Or you can wear your favourite jeans with a high waist and head out to the pub, the same one with crooked stools and a broken sign. Drink cheep bear, eat greasy peanuts from a little bowl, listen to some small band play unknown and unheard songs.

Leave intoxicated, and everything is too fast and vibrant and wonderful until you're back home.

It's your favourite pastime now: imagine, remake and slip.

Imagine. Remake. Slip.

You don't quite remember the last time you laughed, a month ago maybe. Maybe more. Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness, dull, cold, you would compare it to a winter plastered all over your insides, but it's almost colder than that. It freezes everything and turns it into icicles hanging off the roof.

Remake, slip.

You have new vocabulary now.

"Mm" - is for when he asks you if you like a dress or a top and it doesn't matter how you actually feel about it, because it's going to end up being worn anyway.

"Okay" - is for when Chrollo sets another fancy meal for you on a dinner table and "Eat, don't be shy".

"I'm not hungry" - doesn't work with him, even if it's the truth. You always eat what's put in front of you, that's the rule, because he's not above shoving the spoon into your mouth, so you spare yourself the tears and sobs that will probably come with that. It's so bizarre: how much effort he puts into keeping you alive when you're anything but.

"Whatever you want" - is for when he asks you something that requires a choice, between two or three options usually. He's not one for an extensive list.

"If you say so" - for everything else.

You used to delude yourself with the idea that if you managed to appear pleasant enough, pleasant-talking, pleasant-listening, smiling a bit here and there, it would gain you some privileges and perhaps a bit more freedom. It did. But never where it really mattered. Those little things were absolutely inconsequential in the grand scheme. Yes, you can have that sweater, dear. No, you can't have your own bed. Yes, you can come shopping with me, if you give me a kiss. No, you can't take walks without me holding your hand.

Yes this and no that.

Those moments were fragile and so very takeable that they didn't give you any sense of accomplishment, just a short respite and bitter aftertaste that made you feel pathetic.

Wasn't worth it.

***

"Do you like animals, dear?" Chrollo asks out of the blue one day. He's reading something on his tablet while you're curled up on the couch, watching TV.

It's a new series that's been on the major channels for a few weeks, a mystery drama about a girl who moves into a house she inherited from her grandfather. The picture provides a distraction enough to have you forgetting where you are for a brief period three times a week.

You pull the blanket higher. "I do."

He knows it.

The girl on the screen finds a mysterious box hidden in the attic. Perhaps there's something valuable inside. Or information about her grandpa; your fingers tug on a loose blanket thread without much thought.

"What kind?"

Or maybe it's just a time capsule with photos and postcards and random objects collected over the years.

Or-

You had a cat before he took you. A foster grey ragdoll with blue eyes who liked to rest on your belly and bump her head against your chin. You called her Miss Whiskerton and kissed her little nose, because she did act like a proper lady - poised, dignified and entirely too proud to eat food mixed with medicine. The worst enemy Miss Whiskerton has ever had in her cat life was the corner of your couch. When you weren't paying attention, she would dig her claws into the fabric and leave thin lines. You hope that someone took her in.

She probably thought you abandoned her.

"Cats."

Chrollo hums in acknowledgment and continues scrolling through whatever he's looking at - maybe news or auction listings, you don't know nor do you really care. You shift under the blanket, pulling your legs closer to your body.

"We can get one, if you'd like."

"No."

Your answer is immediate and short, without thinking. You know it, you know him by now - there's nothing Chrollo does out of spontaneous generosity, it always benefits him in some way. And you've studied him enough to figure that any pet would only be a tool to keep you tamed and compliant. Puppies make life better. Happier, lighter, with goofy smiling faces and wiggling tails. Cats make life better with soft purrs and paws stomping on your chest. They're too easy to love.

"Why not?" There's a sound of tablet set on a wooden surface.

The girl on the screen is trying to solve a combination lock on the box when the TV switches off and your little world of carefully shot scenes and scripted lines vanishes. You don't need to turn around to guess where's the remote.

She almost had it, but now you won't know what's inside until Thursday evening.

Your reflection stares back from the dead screen, blank-faced and with a blanket pulled up your nose. It tickles a bit. "Because I don't want one."

A chair creaks. "Why?"

You close your eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. This is tiring. Always probing, digging, pushing. Trying to find chinks in your armor, but all you're wearing is just a flimsy dress with thin straps and a blanket you wish could swallow you whole.

"Don't need it."

"You said you like animals," Chrollo sits next to you and places a hand on top of your covered legs. He squeezes your thigh and you stare ahead, wishing he would just leave you alone tonight.

"I do." Your fingers twitch under the blanket, nails scratching at the fabric.

Strange. Sometimes it feels like he understands perfectly that you want to be alone, have time for yourself and don't want his constant physical presence. At the same time Chrollo brushes this all aside like old tin foil wrappers - insignificant. He pulls the blanket down and you cling on it stubbornly for a few seconds before letting go. His thumb and index finger grasp your chin and turn your face towards him so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

There's such still intensity within him that made your skin crawl whenever he looked at you with this much focus and attention. You don't know what he saw there most times, it used to be fear or anger or sadness - right now it's none of these things. Everything inside you feels jammed and stiff.

"We should get a fish then," he continues, brushing hair out of your forehead. "You can watch it swim around, wouldn't that be nice?"

Chrollo talks to you like this sometimes, as if you're a child who needs to be convinced to eat veggies or take medicine. Like you're simple-minded and he's reasoning with you out of good will. It's sickening. You hate it.

"I don't want a pet," you repeat the words slowly. "If you're going to give me something only to take it away, then I don't want it."

His finger leisurely stroking your chin pauses at the edge of your bottom lip. Something flickers behind his eyes, it's barely noticeable but you've become good at catching those minuscule shifts. He smiles, yet there's nothing joyful about it. "Take it away? Why would I do that, dear?"

"Because that's what you do. Because that's how you are." You don't try to pull free from his hold, he'll only tighten it; not enough to hurt, no, he is too suave and polished for that - or wants to appear so - but enough for you to feel trapped under his palm.

There's something off about you, you can tell, but are not quite able to discern what or where. It sits in the very structure of your bones and eats away with ravenous appetite. An imbalance in the gut. Fever-warm body, cold fingers. Thoughts like potholes.

"And how am I exactly, according to you?" His voice is light, playful, a stark contrast to his eyes that study you with unnerving precision. Chrollo rarely loses his temper and never gets violent with you (yet, you correct yourself), but he has other ways of expressing displeasure, and they're petty, ugly and cold.

"Cruel," the word rolls off your tongue so effortlessly that almost frightens you; it's easy to tell the truth when you're this numb.

He looks taken aback for a split second, and the smile freezes. His hand stops midway to your hair. Then everything's gone.

Chrollo releases you and leans back into the cushions, almost thoughtful, like your observation is something that requires careful consideration.

"I suppose, it depends," he says finally.

"On what?"

"On how you choose to see things. Your perspective is bound to be biased, dear."

You don't respond.

To continue this conversation would be pointless and circular, like running on a treadmill, like everything else between you and Chrollo, really. He simply has too many answers to any possible argument, and no matter how convincing you manage to make them sound, he'll poke holes into each one. You don't want a fish. Or a cat. Or a dog, a bird, anything that moves and breathes and looks at you with big, trusting eyes.

Chrollo is cruel. Not in a way that's straightforward and brutal. Not in a way of someone who'd tear your limbs apart or rip off a fly's wing to see it wiggle. You have no doubt that he is capable of such a thing, but that would be uncouth. Cruelty in his case is a quieter, more delicate affair - in a way of a sculptor who'd chisel off everything unnecessary and unneeded, no matter the size or significance, to produce something entirely his.

His hands are soft, his voice is always composed, and he wears well tailored clothes. But the rest is sharp, clean and merciless.

"I think I'll go to bed," you say and push away the blanket.

"It's early."

"Mm."

He takes your hand just as you're about to slide off the sofa. Chrollo's always faster than you, always ahead and always observing, and that little realization while bitter is not so shocking anymore, more like another fact that you file away from your interactions.

You watch him. Wait.

"You're distraught," he says. "But you should know by now that there's no need for that."

Your hand remains in his grasp, limp and heavy.

"I don't enjoy seeing you upset, dear. Even more if you make false conclusions."

You turn to see the expression on his face - and there isn't one, at least not the type that most people would make. There are no frowning eyebrows, no clenched jaw that would indicate irritation, nothing like that.

"You're giving me too little credit," his tone is quiet as he runs his fingers up and down your wrist. "My intentions are not to hurt you. They are much, much sweeter than that."

"But you would," you say quietly and lean closer, ignoring the obvious implication behind his words. There is a hollow sensation inside of your head that prompts you to speak, everything is hollow - body and mind, heart, the space in your guts, your throat. "You would hurt me, if that's what you thought was necessary. Rip me apart and leave me deformed beyond repair, to fit into whatever framework you've laid, you would do that."

You're not being deliberately cryptic or fatalistic. These are your observations, based on a period of months spent together. They take root in no one being there for you anymore, in your phone which is long gone, in your closed accounts, your missing laptop and old clothes, the entire previous life in the city that has been discarded for something new. Chrollo was very methodical, you can give him that.

He doesn't listen, he studies your responses. Every single word. He has a talent for that, for absorbing everything about you while hardly ever letting you glimpse his interior - all that you know about him are tiny slivers which you picked up through living together, observation, accidental bits.

You expect him to contradict your statement, to offer a logical explanation why you're wrong, but instead Chrollo brings your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. The touch is light and dry.

"You're not entirely wrong, dear," he says and moves closer until you can smell his aftershave, something fresh.

His proximity is uncomfortable, it always is and probably always will be.

"I'm right then," you say.

"No," he keeps your hand in his grasp. "But you're not entirely wrong either. That's what makes you interesting."

There's a strange kind of fondness in his voice, it's subtle, yet undeniably present. You've never felt less interesting in your life, in a dress with thin straps that's too fancy for a lazy day at home and your bare feet and tangled hair.

"If you say so," you respond and slowly tug your hand free. "I really want to sleep now."

You get up, and he lets you go without another proposition. The blanket falls off onto the sofa, and before you slip into the semi-darkness of the bedroom, he says,

"Not beyond repair. But I like to believe we can both agree it doesn't have to come to that."

***

The drive feels endless. Houses and streets blur in a mix of colors, shapes and people, which soon change to an empty highway with greenery on both sides. Trees and fields, tall grass swaying gently in the wind and rare cars passing you by. Chrollo's hand is resting on your leg; he hasn't moved it since the car started, but you choose to ignore it in favor of your regular pastime, the one that's made of imaginary worlds and places where the timeline stretches differently.

Mostly it's just you and the layout of your fake apartment.

Imagine, remake, slip. Repeat the steps until it becomes muscle memory.

You have this daydream on loop now. Wooden floor and wide windows, lots of sunlight. Books everywhere, comfy clothes and not a single skirt in your closet. A cup of tea with honey in the morning, and Miss Whiskerton curled into a soft grey ball on your lap. You feed her salmon in a shiny bowl, occasionally she catches a lizard outside and drops the tail on your doorstep as an offering, looking immensely proud of herself.

A smile slips on your face without meaning to, a wobbly thing; you promptly wipe it off.

It would be a crime to show such blatant joy. This fantasy has become so sweetly personal that every fiber of your being resists even acknowledging it in front of Chrollo. He can sense a stray happy thought from miles away, like a hound, and will never stop prodding until everything is raw and tender. You've learned to say less in his presence, especially if it's something that has you invested. Chrollo knows how to pick things apart.

You lean your cheek against the glass. This world would never happen, never in a million years, but dreaming doesn't hurt anyone, does it?

Your grandma, wearing an apron, sets a tray filled with fresh pastries on a table, because she's amazing like that. She fusses and worries and pretends to scold you. For not calling enough, for not coming sooner, for not eating well. For leaving.

"Dear."

You almost jump.

Chrollo's voice brings you back where his hand is heavy on your leg, you're wearing a dress above the knee and aren't allowed to use scissors or knives.

"Mm?"

"That frown of yours," he says, turning into a small road. The surroundings change again, it's quiet here, not a soul in sight. "It's been there for fifteen minutes now."

You sit up straight and move your hair out of your eyes. Chrollo's a perceptive one, so this is a reminder not to sink too deep around him, unless you absolutely need it.

"Was just thinking."

"You do it a lot lately," he states and looks at you from the corner of his eye.

True, but you have no intention to confirm it. First, he won't like the reason behind these thoughts. Second, he will dig and try to worm his way in. No. Most of what you've been fixating on, staring out of the window like a mindless drone, or reading and rereading pages that you barely grasped, would fail to create anything more complex in his heart than desire to pull it out.

For whatever twisted reason, Chrollo cares for your well-being, or, more precisely, your acceptance of his advances. Yet his way of caring isn't nurturing in any sense.

Chrollo's interest (you don't dare call it love) is crushing, too heavy to carry - he'll find what troubles you and "fix it" in way that will twist it into something pathetic. Something that shows how you have nothing else to cling on but him. You're not stupid enough to keep falling into this trap. Being a slow learner doesn't mean you don't learn at all.

He's done it before. He'll do it again. So you reply, "I haven't noticed."

His thumb rubs circles on your thigh; you press your shoulder against the car door as if hoping it might open. It doesn't, much to your disappointment.

"What was on your mind then?"

Something you shouldn't tell him, that's for sure. Chrollo's watching you, even if his eyes are trained on the road.

"Random stuff," you say. Half-truths, half-truths are safe. "A weird dream I had this morning."

If you bothered to look, you'd see a raised eyebrow and the faintest hint of amusement at the corners of his mouth. You don't.

"Tell me."

You hate when he does that.

"It was boring."

"I'm interested in anything that made you so pensive."

Chrollo likes conversations with you, even if they're short. You can tell that he does, or he wouldn't be trying to make you talk and getting subtly frustrated when you choose not to. It never shows outright, Chrollo is very gifted at keeping his calm exterior, but there are certain giveaways like the slight tightening of his hand, an emphasized "dear", a pause here, or a quiet exhale through the nose. You could make a list out of these.

If you ignore him, he gets quiet and handsy or petty enough to throw away the only dress you feel comfortable in. Stop bringing you new books. Take you to places you hate.

It's always the small things that kill you, not the big, dramatic ones. The devils in the details.

"There was a lizard," you begin, and he hums in response, prompting you to continue. "It was cute with brown spots and a tiny tail."

Lies weave themselves easily, intertwine with truths and turn it into something that resembles a story.

"It was sitting on my windowsill and I wanted to pet it. A cat came out of nowhere and almost ate it, then I woke up. It's a silly dream."

There. Nothing to dissect here, not that you can see. Just a nonsensical dream, filled with random happenings and strange emotions.

"And that's why you frowned for fifteen minutes?"

"Yes, I got sad."

Yes, you think. Yes, Chrollo. I frowned, because I care for the damn lizard that doesn't exist, an animal from a dream. A stupid musing, nothing special, a very mundane and simple thing, because people do have silly dreams sometimes, and it's not a crime. It's not a crime and has nothing to do with that fact that I have a whole dream world where I'm not with you in my head.

"How peculiar. You never struck me as the type to get upset over something like this."

"You never asked," you respond flatly and Chrollo's hand on your thigh moves an inch.

It brushes up, closer to where you really, really don't want it to be, so you squeeze his fingers hard and redirect them to the curve of your knee.

"True," he says after a pause, not sounding too bothered. A month ago you would've brushed his hand off completely, probably that's why. Chrollo is convinced that with enough patience and effort he'll be able to close that final barrier between you both. Time, coaxing, a dose or two of endearment, some carefully calculated touch - but you'd rather stick a knife through your ribs than have sex with him. Or his patience will simply run out and he'll rape you. You're not delusional. Not a fool. "Well, that can be fixed. I'll make sure to ask about your dreams more often, dear."

You lean back into the seat and stare ahead, this time without anything pleasant on your mind. Of course he will. Of course he'll take this as a sign to dig deeper and invade that small bit of solace, Chrollo can't simply co-exist. He wants it all.

"Mm," you say.

Your new vocabulary is such a handy thing.

[zoropookie]

HOW HATERS ARE BORN (HHAB)

♡ chapter twenty-nine — bittersweet (💋)

Reading the text didn’t bring tears to his eyes, but for some reason, it still stung badly.

It wasn’t the words themselves, but a twinge of disappointment that he felt shortly afterward. It ruminated in his thoughts the minute that the car ride started, and all he was left with was his own disappointment, and a lack of fight left.

And as he sat in that passengers seat, the words seemed to be knocked out of him yet again. The world blurred into a haze of colors and shapes. He clenched at his own palms until his knuckles turned white and his mind spiraled.

It suffocated him, but he knew a lot about that to endure it anyway.

"You know," A female's voice rippled through his chaos to grasp his attention. "It's not that bad."

He blinked, slowly refocusing his gaze and turning his head manually towards Furina. "What is."

"The (Y/N) stuff." She said, glancing every now and then from the road towards him.

His expression was of weary resignation. "You think so?" He sighed out, the words feeling heavy on his tongue every time he even spoke.

"They may be mad at you right now, but you have a plan." She said, her gaze steady. "It may not be fool proof, but you'll come out of it with a clearer conscience than that Tartaglia ever will. I promise."

But even with her promises, it didn't feel right to be comparing his peace of mind to another's. Maybe his conclusion would be completely different after all. Her words rushed over him like a soothing balm, the turmoil that he usually felt being nudged away.

For the first time in forever, he felt somewhat of a spark of determination. "Thanks." He murmured audibly, a small gasp coming from the former as he cringed, "For...all this, I guess. It's not often people are this nice to me."

"I didn't think you were capable of being grateful! I should gloat in this." She grinned, "You've grown used to people treating you like a liability. Whether you like it or not, it's not normal. Wean yourself off of that as soon as possible."

The rest of the car trip was silent. He couldn't entirely take his mind off of the events, and even the meeting he's taking himself to, but the passing scenery outside the car window put his mind elsewhere until the car slowed to a stop.

He put his back cap and mask on with less resolve than what he started with, unable to shake the feeling of discomfort her felt now that the gravity of the situation weighed down on him. He looked again out the window at the exact seat he wanted before exhaling. "If I don't come back, just abort mission."

"Don't be dramatic." Furina's eyes dulled, also knowing this situation was wary. "But...I'll be near, okay? Just in case this goes south and it actually is someone trying to kill you."

"Yeah, it's really fun being shark bait, thank you." He shook his head to himself, opening the car door to approach the cafe.

The building was more certain than he was in that moment, a warm glow beckoning the area. He never realized how little he went out these days, this same coffee shop was entirely different than the last time he came. The familiar sight and sounds of the city he used to know was suddenly unfamiliar to him.

Muted voices to him inside the little shop, all rambling vicariously. It was funny, the main reason he stopped even coming here was because things started getting busier and busier. Ei would apply pressure to him once he agreed to the streaming stuff. Did he ever really lose his identity if he never got to have one in the first place?

He squared his shoulders once the espresso he ordered was ready, quickly nodding in acknowledgement to the barista and sitting outside for a breath of fresh air. Everything around him was suffocating, and he never thought he'd be like one of those guys who are scared of having an actual life outside of their computer.

Maybe that was her plan, now that he was thinking about it.

He let the cool breeze wash over him, despite almost his whole face being covered except his eyes. He felt skittish, and uneasy, fingers lightly tapping at the to go cup of espresso in his hands. "What am I even looking for..." He murmured irritably, annoyance plaguing his thoughts.

It was a long, and arduous three minutes he sat there thinking about who Twitchpatch may possibly be now that he knew about Childe. How the fuck did he even know who it was? A familiar of his, maybe? But not that many people know about Narukami coffee shop unless someone who did told someone else.

And if they did...then there's also a limited amount of people. He didn't know what to think...until it hit him. Why would Twitchpatch, a news source, know about an indie coffee shop if they weren't also from Inazuma..?

And once he came to that conclusion as the cup was near his lips ponderingly, a feminine voice called, "I didn't think you'd be early."

His heart dropped to his stomach in an instant, his eyes slowly lifting up to meet the woman's voice. There, standing before him, was a sight that he never thought he'd be able to see again in his entire lifetime. Time stopped for him, and he slowly began to look mortified once he realized...

"What the fuck, Makoto." Scaramouche's voice cut through the air, sharp and accusatory. He almost lost it, if it weren't for her softer expression evening out.

"Hey, Kuzu." Makoto said with a softer tone, sitting down in front of him hesitantly. "I thought I wouldn't feel anything out of this, but...it's different when it's you."

"Fuck you." He snapped, his eye almost twitching from how many emotions were going through him in the moment. "Ei said you left us. You made that decision on your own."

"You're missing a lot of the story."

"And even with that in mind, I didn't do shit to you for you to play fake fucking journalist." He pointed. "Yeah, forgot about that little detail? The lie you capitalized off in humor of both of our downfalls? They're scattering to find a way for me to clear the controversy right now because of you."

"Is that not what Ei wanted? Controversy all of the time?" Makoto raised an eyebrow, sitting back in the chair. "It wasn't my desired effect, trust me."

"Yeah? That wasn't what you wanted to happen? I thought you were the one to always think about what you do before you do it. I guess. Fucking. Wrong." He seethed, his teeth grinding into each other. "I should narc on you right now."

Makoto's expression softened, and she reached out tentatively, her hand hovering in the air. "Please, just listen to me for a second."

"Why should I?" He recoiled. "I'm not even mad about what you did to me. But you had no place bringing other people into this. You don't get to waltz back in to my life after doing all of this and act like what you did was some sort of poetic justice. That's not how this works."

"I had no intention on it." Makoto sighed, her shoulders slumped as her eyes narrowed away from him. "Listen...Ei and I had a bad argument before I left. I felt like she was starting to change after all of this and she denied all of it and threatened me. I can't save a dying group if its leader isn't open to criticism."

He scoffed, bitterness tainting his tone. "And you only decided to tell me about this after you left me clueless? About where you were after you fucked off and went off the radar without a word? Are you not essentially just doing what she did?"

"I never said that what I did was okay!" Makoto frowned. "This meeting is harder than I thought it'd be...I wanted to figure out a way I could get you out of there as quick as possible, but I didn't have a way at that time. I was reckless...and it lead to this. If I had the ability to rally up more capable people for the job, I would. But this is all I've got. And you shouldn't be okay with how you're being treated there just because of what I did."

He knew that he wanted to clap back at her again, but he knew she was right in that accord. He chewed at the inners of his mouth, staring at her with an intense gaze.

"You lost the spark in your eyes, Kuzu." She said, "I've seen your streams. You're not even happy doing it, it's like there's nothing there. Why do you do them, in that case?"

"I didn't lose it." He corrected.

"Every time your stream, it feels like you're not passing time. You don't want to be there, and not many people can see it, but you used to look different...more lively." Makoto observed, "It feels like I'm looking at a carcass of what that used to be. You don't eat much, you don't sleep with what I've seen. You always seem like you're worried about something. It's disheartening. Excuse me for thinking of a way out for you."

He sighed fiercely at her, "What do you want from me? What do you want me to do about it?" He had trouble looking into her eyes. "You really...really fucked with me, Makoto."

Makoto sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their shared history hanging heavy in the air. But amidst her own regrets, she stood up after a second and gave a small smile. "You should stop, this isn't good for you. You're...like, deep frying your own brain at this point."

"How do you know what's good for me?" He bit back one last time before feeling his confidence weaken. "You don't even know a thing about me these days."

Her smile didn't waver at his words anymore, she gave him a light pat on his head in mild comfort before stepping back. "Stop streaming, Kuzu." She said, "And if it makes you feel better, air everything out. It's the least you could do for all that she made you do, right? I'm sorry I won't be there beside you to see it."

That light pat was something that he hated, but at the same time, haven't gotten the chance to be granted in ages. He never gave people the chance to get too close to him after all of this, nor even give them the reason to in the first place. It was bittersweet, his heart swelled with the same confusion and kindness Makoto gave him back them.

He wanted to prove her wrong, but he knew it was beyond his pride to keep her by his side. Even with how aware she was that she was right about him. Looking at her after a while, she could tell from his eyes that he was hurt. "I'll see you again sometime, okay? Reconcile with that (Y/N) if you ever get the chance; you seem to like them anyway beyond all the fake news."

She left as quick as she came, and with Scaramouche's previous arrogance and general disposition. He didn't know what to do anymore.

previous ♡ masterlist ♡ next

YOU ARE on your way to being one of the hottest streamer in your nation at the moment, racking a monthly average of 10 million viewers, but something specific bothers you about it. you know that a lot of people hate you, but there's this one account. one account that's been following you since the early days of your career. they leave a flood of rude comments in your stream, your moderators banned each account they made, but they keep making more. you are at the end of your tether. but you are yet to find out that this persistent cockroach is none other than your friend's friend (and the only other streamer that's bigger than you), scaramouche.

taglist ♡ @thystarsshine @veekoko @gumickajolli @simonisferal @kamiboo

@justpeachyteastea @feiherp @pinkismyfavcolor @aether-darling @kunisnaomi

@keiiqq @mine-lu @featuredtofu @danhenglovebot @k4zushi

@kyon-cherri @b4tm4nn @iiinaurate @quacking-simp @auroratumbles

@kookiibun @ulquiorraswife @amvpk01 @simplysm1le @h3xi2g0n3

@alatusorrow @scaranthropy @mellowberrie @magica-ren @vernith

@kabukipookie @bananasquash @suqarlaced @dellalyra @lightyagamifan

@yourfavoritefreakyhan @heartsforseo @yomishen @pwushizz @swivy123

@strxwberryfetish @ibyobi @ashfrommars4 @chemiru @ainnofinway

@agaygothicmushroom @levianamor @dragontammerz @wth121 @lylovw

@morgyyyyyyy @lovemari @suniika @littlesliceofcheese @yumejo89 @liuaneee

@franaby @tiddieshakeshownu @mimi3lover (bold users means i'm having trouble tagging you)

[wntrs0ldier]

An Offer · part 10

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 7,1k warnings: typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.), a/n: sorry if it sucks, i wanted to post it as soon as possible!

series masterlist

series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

With half of your face still snuggled into the pillow, you opened one eye and looked semiconsciously around the room again; or at least as much of it as the position of your body allowed. You took another breath and let it out heavily – you felt exhausted from waking up a moment before, but at the same time you knew you were rested. None of the worries that had been haunting you for the last few months weighed on you; as if there was someone who had taken all the weight off you. In fact, that someone actually existed; that someone wasn't marrying you purely for your own sake, but because he wanted to have you all to himself. Just you.

You felt the familiar, at the same time completely new pulsation between your thighs. You were barely awake and he was already affecting you – not even him in the flesh, but the thought of him. 

You propped yourself up on your hands, then pulled away sluggishly from the mattress, therefore awakening a dull, deep pain in your lower back. An uncontrollable gasp escaped your lips; one of your hands immediately found its way to that spot to prevent the discomfort from spreading throughout your body, but the pain stopped at that one point. You remembered perfectly well where it came from, and the memory made it pleasurable in some twisted way.

Having reached for your phone, resting on your bedside table, you checked the time – it was almost eleven. In doing so, you noticed several messages from Suzie, as well as Connie. Your sister was asking where you'd been, your friend – how the wedding had gone. In theory you knew the answers to both of these questions, but you couldn't give them. You replied to both messages with the same thing; that you would talk to them later.

You slipped out of bed, and, grabbing your bag, sneaked to the bathroom.

After the shower you searched through your bag for something appropriate, but the problem was that you had no idea you were going to Las Vegas, and the climate here compared to that in New York was dramatically different; so much so that you knew you would have fried in Vegas wearing the clothes you had packed. Still, you weren't going to walk around in nothing but your underwear; so you put on what you had, in the meantime making a note in your head that you needed to sort this out soon.

You knocked on the door of Bucky's temporary bedroom, waited a moment, then looked inside. The room appeared empty, giving you that familiar, unpleasant knot in your stomach. But there was his bag on the floor near the bed, so you told yourself that he didn't leave you at all. Even so, as you walked downstairs, that cool, throat-clenching anxiety lingered with you.

It disappeared when you reached the kitchen, but not because of relief – it was replaced by guilt, since you immediately assumed Bucky had run away again. But there he was, just by the counter; in shorts showing his long, muscular legs, a t-shirt with sweat stains visible on it, his breath uneven, his hair tied in a bun. He looked back at you, strands of his hair, which had managed to escape from under the hair tie, were sticking to his face, reddened from the effort, shiny from sweat. His lower lip wore the mark of your bite – a small wound, darker than the rest of his pink mouth. 

“You awake,” Bucky remarked, walking over to the fridge. He grabbed a small bottle of water and almost completely emptied it with only a few sips.

“Are you trying to get a heatstroke?” You asked with pretended curiosity, looking at him.

He rolled his eyes, a corner of his mouth lifted. “There are trees all around the neighborhood. I was safe,” he said. “Besides…” He shrugged casually. “I have really good stamina,” he stated,  and you knew that there was an innuendo beneath his words. And although the night before you didn't have much trouble touching him, now suddenly you couldn't look him in the eye any longer. In addition, you were still consumed by guilt. Bucky easily noticed that; all playfulness was gone from his face, and whilst a calmness appeared in return, you knew that it was of a rather negative nature. “What is it?” 

Ruining his mood was not in your intentions, but on the other hand, you had probably already messed it up. You wished you could hide your feelings from him. “I thought you ran away again. But just for a moment,” you clarified quickly. 

Bucky pursed his lips, but he wasn't angry at you. “Do you think you'll be able to forgive me? Not now, but... at some point?”

“I forgave you right away, Bucky,” you answered without the slightest hesitation. “But I need time to fully trust you.”

“As much as you want,” he said immediately, almost stepping on your last word.

Your mouth curved into a pale smile; you had the feeling that this morning could have been much more enjoyable, and you ruined it all. Even though you had every right to – your fears were justified, and Bucky didn't try to convince you otherwise. 

“Hey, umm…” you began. After all, you weren't going to let your shaky mood cast a shadow over the rest of the day. An important day. “There is a problem with my clothes. I haven't packed anything for this weather and-”

Bucky sized you up. “Wait here,” he ordered, then walked out of the kitchen.

Left alone, you looked around the room with no particular destination in mind. It was then that you noticed a small note attached with a magnet to the hood. You didn't want to read other people's memos, but your name caught your eye.

Y/N,

What do you say we spend your last hours of freedom together? Call me as soon as you are ready.

Marion.

Bucky returned to the kitchen, holding some neatly folded clothes. “Should be alright for now.” He handed you the things he brought, then glanced at the piece of paper between your fingers. “What’s that?” 

You looked instinctively at what he was also looking at, and at first you weren't sure what to answer; you hadn't even had enough time to think about Marion's proposition. “Oh, it’s just…” Having shrugged cluelessly, you raised the note to Bucky's eye level. 

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I'll have to call her. Tell her to deliver you to me in one piece.”

When Bucky went to take a shower, you first changed into what he had gotten you – shorts and a t-shirt; both of which belonged to him – and then you called Marion. After a brief, rather pointless conversation, she said she would send you the address where you were to meet. You grabbed the most necessary things, like your phone and your wallet with cash, credit cards, but most importantly documents, and ordered a cab. 

The address Marion had given you led you to a huge, jaw-dropping casino; the ones you had inherited from your father – although they didn't fall into the category of small, modest buildings – were nothing compared to this monstrous object. 

The cab stopped; you paid the driver and got out, lifting your head to continue staring at the building.

“Welcome to Black Velvet Casino.” You caught the sound of Marion's voice, and as you glanced in that direction, you noticed the woman standing at the entrance. “Come inside.” She gave you an encouraging nod, and as you walked to her, Marion put her arm around you. “Jamie told me to feed you, I heard you didn't have breakfast.”

You raised your eyebrows involuntarily. Although Bucky had said he would call his aunt, at the time you thought it was a joke; or that he would actually ask her to be careful with you. What you didn't expect, however, was for him to be overprotective even at a distance. 

You both entered the casino. Inside, dark walls, geometric patterns, especially on the marble floors, elegant vintage furniture and elements of gold dominated. All these pieces seemed to be typical of art deco.

“So, it's your casino?” you asked, unable to stop yourself from constantly looking around, absorbing the details you were discovering.

Marion, leading the way to the restaurant inside the casino, turned to gaze at you. “It belongs to Jamie.” She beamed at you, a satisfied, slightly proud smile on her face. “I just run it. It's hard to have total control of the business in Vegas when you live in New York.”

Your brows drew together. “Yes, that’s right…” you answered rather automatically, half-consciously. You didn't have the slightest idea why the fact that Bucky owned such a huge, beautiful casino had left you in such a daze. Maybe because he wasn't bragging about his wealth when asking you to marry him? Maybe because he didn't have to have it all to sweep you off your feet?

While you ate breakfast – barely, and under your own duress since your stomach, due to the sudden stress of the wedding, refused to accept any food at all – Marion absorbed one bloody mary, explaining that it was, after all, some sort of vegetable portion anyway. Towards the end, she ordered one for you and another for herself to keep you company in sipping your drink. However, the loneliness wouldn't stop you from drinking – your stomach was more than happy to open up to some alcohol.

After the meal, you and Marion hit a few places from Marion’s intangible list of things to do before the wedding.

First, shopping – you supplied yourself with a couple of summer dresses, among other things, as well as something for your Las Vegas wedding. You didn't want to look completely traditional; it didn't do you any good the first time. You bought the shortest white dress you could find – with long, flared sleeves and an open back. You completed the whole thing with flesh-tone fishnet tights, sparkling because of small rhinestones here and there, high heels and short, tacky veil that cost you five dollars. 

Then, as a wedding gift, Marion took you to a luxury spa for a massage, a series of masks and other treatments for your skin, a manicure and pedicure. All topped off with a glass of champagne. Only in your case; Marion, on the other hand, drank at least three, and you were hugely impressed by the fact that she didn't seem to be at least tipsy.

It's been a long time since you've experienced those two things at the same time – rested and peaceful both physically and mentally.

In the meantime, Bucky texted you to meet him at the address he had sent you, and to let him know when you would be getting into the cab. So you did; immediately after thanking Marion for the whole day and getting yourself a transport. 

Even though you were already about to get married for the second time - if the situation a few days ago could be described as such – the seriousness of it was starting to overwhelm you. Mainly because you were left alone and had no one to distract you from all those stressful thoughts. You didn't even know how long you had been clutching the fabric of your short summer dress in your hands, but it wrinkled at that particular spot. 

After the driver made you aware that you had arrived at the location, you paid for the ride, then left the car and your attention was drawn to the nearest building – a Marriage License Bureau sign stretched above its entrance. 

“Are you lost, ma’am?” 

You immediately turned your gaze towards the voice – you only recognised it after a second. As you got out of the cab, you didn't even think about where Bucky was; you didn't look for him, you didn't think of texting him to ask where exactly you were going to meet. And he found you, or rather he waited for you to find him – standing with his back up against one of the pillars, he was just finishing a cigarette. Apart from a smirk, there was a kind of lazy amusement on his face.

You approached him with a few, almost wobbly steps, his eyes bored into you. “How long have you been waiting here?”

“Not too long.” Bucky put out the cigarette on the edge of the dumpster, then threw the stub away. “You're nervous,” he remarked, tilting his head slightly to the side. Usually his ability to read your emotions was something you admired, but you knew that this time you were practically radiating stress.

“You are not?” 

Bucky shook his head; unlike you, he oozed calm. “One of us has to stay sane.”

“Oh, and it has to be you, poor thing?” You raised your eyebrows in pity, to which he nodded confidently. You sighed heavily, turning more serious. “How do you do it..? How do you manage to stay calm?”

Bucky was silent for a moment.

“I don't have that feeling anymore that I have to do it; that I have to marry you. I mean, I have to,” he clarified. “But because it's the only way to have you around. And I want you around, so it's like I want this marriage, huh?” He gave you a half-smile.

You looked away, smiling too; not knowing why, you felt a little shy, a little intimidated by the extent to which he was confident in his decision. 

“Do you want me around?” he asked, and you immediately turned your gaze back to him. “It's your last chance to escape.”

You both knew that there was no better candidate in the whole deal - you didn't think you would have met someone who was as agreeable and respected you as much as Bucky. Bucky, on the other hand, couldn't allow you to be given to someone else; he was too possessive of you. You were also both aware of each other's reasons, and while you might have been pleased with his, Bucky should have felt offended, being anything but the best choice among really average candidates. But he didn't feel offended; you sensed he didn’t.

“Of course I want you around.”

“Then let's go,” he said, smiling. You have probably never seen him so relaxed before – his attitude was somewhat encouraging. “I promise it won't hurt.”

Bucky was right – it didn't hurt.

On that day you were one of the really few couples who applied for a marriage license, so the whole process took a little over fifteen minutes. If someone had told you that a few months ago, you wouldn't have believed it – you wouldn't have believed that a man who shied away from marriage, who was only supposed to help you find a suitable husband, was about to become one himself. Moreover, with a smile on his face, not a look of terror in his eyes. Because that's exactly what he looked like when he held in his hands the document allowing you to get married – in addition to this constant, unrelenting calm, he seemed to feel relieved. You felt it too; you could finally breathe, since not only were you marrying a friend and ally, but you were going to be safe from now on; just like your father's business.

Once you were back at Marion's house, you each holed up in your own bedroom. On your bed were the bags from today's shopping; Bucky's aunt had promised to deliver them home so you wouldn't have to drag them everywhere with you. You laid everything out on the bed – dress, tights, shoes, veil – and looked at all these things. Preparing at the Barnes house under Winnifred and Rebecca's eye had not been a particularly traumatic experience, but now you felt more at ease. Maybe it wasn't so much the fact that you were on your own, but the whole atmosphere? The lack of forcing that Bucky mentioned?

You took another shower, rubbed some lotion on your legs, dried your hair and did some light makeup – it was far too hot for thick layers of foundation or eyeshadow. Besides, Bucky saw you without all that and didn't run away. Well, he did, you thought, but he came back after all.

The open back didn't allow for the presence of a bra, so you only put on your pants – not as stunning as before, but since you were prepared the first time and it was the groom who failed, you now felt completely blameless. Then you slid the fishnets on your legs, gently put on your dress so as not to leave any makeup smudges on it, and with the lack of a big mirror, looking at yourself from above had to be enough. And you were starting to get nervous again, but had already accepted that this was perfectly normal.

You slipped the high heels on your feet, grabbed the veil, then left the room. As you walked down the stairs, as a precaution, you kept your hand on the railing in case you were to twist your ankle in those shoes. Bucky had obviously heard your footsteps, because when you were halfway down, he appeared in the hall. You were able to observe the exact moment when his face took on a soft, slightly amazed expression; his lips almost parted and his breath trapped still in his chest as he watched your every move carefully. You grinned radiantly at him, stopping a few steps before reaching the floor. 

He was again wearing a black suit, a black shirt and a black tie, all of which made him radiate an almost crushing power, an extremely strong energy. Even if he seemed to have forgotten the whole world around him.

Bucky approached the stairs slowly; he breathed hard, blinking hurriedly as if he had just been hit on the head. “I could marry you everyday,” he said, without taking his eyes off you; his gaze wandered all over your body, over every detail.

“We're on the right track,” you remarked, allowing yourself a little pinch. After all, you were getting married for the second time in less than a week. 

Bucky chewed on his bottom lip, the sheer tenderness left in his eyes. He smiled softly. “Will you really be all mine? Just mine?” he asked surprisingly quietly.

“If you want,” you replied just as gently, and Bucky's mouth stretched into a wider, slightly teasing smile. He held out his hand to you, and as you took it, then stepped completely down the stairs, Bucky brought your hands to his lips and placed a soft kiss on your knuckles.

While you had been spending the day with Marion, Bucky had been arranging the place where you were to be married. You wanted as close to the date as possible, so it was decided on a small, definitely tacky, but at the same time charming to a fault chapel. Bucky didn't use his influence to get a better venue somewhere else – he may have been a ruthless gangster, heir to the throne of the underworld kingdom, but he wasn't a cold-hearted bastard, and as long as someone else wanted to get married, he wasn't going to disturb anyone. Besides, you didn't need royal conditions and special treatment.

The floor was covered with concrete, the walls were painted pink; there were artificial flowers and most of the space was taken up by cheap plastic chairs. Also pink. And soothingly empty.

A man in an Elvis costume guided you through the vows. And even though you didn't hear a word this time either, your lips moved in line with their content. But you were drowning – you were drowning in that gentle, happy smile of Bucky's; you were drowning in the way he held your hands the whole time – carefully, though he happened to squeeze them in a sort of nervous twitch. You were drowning in his eyes; in that stormy ocean that seemed uncommonly calm – very different from the first ceremony. 

Elvis let Bucky kiss you and all you could think about was that you were married. For real. And if he decided to run away now, he would still be your husband. 

But he didn't run away; he didn't even look like he was going to run away. He carefully cupped your face, his fingers slipped under your jaw. He smiled at you again with that striking gentleness of a man who might as well have loved you, then placed a cautious kiss on your lips. However, he immediately deepened it and quickly ruined by smiling into your mouth. You smiled back, resting your hands on his. Soon after, he pulled away from you, grabbed one of your wrists and turned it, exposing the cut in your palm. He brushed it with his lips, just as he had the night before, but this time you knew it was with different intentions - to remind you that your blood was still his blood, and his blood was yours; that no matter what, no matter your feelings for each other, no matter the situations you would find yourselves in more than once, you were one; you belonged only to each other.

And then there was that mysterious, suspicious smirk on Bucky's face. In the blink of an eye, he threw you over his shoulder, in the process probably showing Elvis your underwear, and headed for the chapel exit, carrying you – unconcerned in any way; giggling like a teenage girl.

“You didn't mention you have a casino,” you said as the car slowed down in front of the Black Velvet, then turned into the underground parking lot. “So big and beautiful casino,” you added.

“I don't like to brag about all the big and beautiful things I have.” He glanced at you meaningfully. You rolled your eyes, nevertheless unable to hold back an amused smile. “I guess it just never came up,” he answered a little more seriously, shrugging. He turned off the engine, then focused his gaze completely on you.

“You're right,” you agreed. “We were always busy only with my problems.”

“Hey.” He carefully hooked his fingers around your chin, stroked it with his thumb. “From now on, there won't be any problems. Okay?”

It wasn't that simple, there was no way to avoid problems, not in your world. But in that moment Bucky was so convincing you couldn't argue.

“Okay,” you whispered.

You got out of the car, Bucky took your luggage and then you went to the elevator and it took you to the lobby. Bucky led the way to the hotel reception.

“Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes.” The young woman behind the counter spoke. “I mean, Mr. Barnes and Mrs…-” She glanced nervously at the computer screen. Bucky looked at you unsurely, as if he didn't know if calling you that way bothered you. 

“Yes,” you said hurriedly, not wanting to keep the receptionist in an awkward position. “Sorry, I was just... thinking.” You gave the woman an apologetic smile.

“A honeymoon suite, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answered.

The receptionist typed something on the computer, then handed Bucky a key and wished you both a pleasant stay. You were going to ask Bucky to give you your bag, as you could, after all, carry it yourself, but you closed your mouth faster than you opened it when a loud roar reached you: BUCK!

A man you didn't know was heading towards you, but it seemed he wasn't as unknown to Bucky; anyway, probably everyone there knew Bucky Barnes.

“Who are you hiding there, Buck?” he asked. You leaned out from behind Bucky's back and stood right next to him. The man sized you up with a gaze so disgusting you had to stick your eyes somewhere on the floor. “Aren't you going to introduce me?” 

“No.”

“Is this your new toy? Since she doesn't have a name…” He raised his eyebrows significantly. Bucky clenched his jaw and let out a heavy breath through his nose; he'd lost any remaining patience, if he had any at all. “Listen, do you fancy a little poker game?” The man was not giving up. You supposed it was most likely the alcohol he had consumed that was blinding him to Bucky's anger.

“Yes, actually, I do,” he replied. Your forehead furrowed as you looked at him. Was he really going to play poker now? “Natalie,” he turned to the receptionist, putting your luggage on the counter in front of her. “Have somebody take this to my room,” Bucky said, and when Natalie nodded, he shifted his gaze to you. An apologetic, affectionate gaze; for although he had just emanated anger, he couldn't direct it at you. “Wait for me there, okay? I'll be with you in a minute.”

And then you watched as, clenching and relaxing his hands, he walked away with a man whose name you didn't even learn.

The honeymoon suite was larger than you'd expected. As in the rest of the casino, or at least the part you had seen, dark colors prevailed there; the navy blue walls were brightened up by the wallpaper behind the bed; the pattern was like golden peacock tails; gold sconces were placed here and there, in case the crystal chandelier couldn't handle all that darkness.

You walked up to a huge window overlooking the city. There have been times when you have preferred your own company, but this evening was not one of them. Was this what Bucky meant when he said he wasn't right for marriage? That he would always choose fun and the company of his buddies over his own wife? But you knew him – maybe not inside out, but well enough to know that he wasn't happy to leave you. Maybe he owed something to that man?

Hearing the door open, you creased your forehead. At first you thought it was room service, but you doubted they would have entered without knocking or any other warning. You also doubted that it was Bucky – after all, it had been about fifteen, twenty minutes at most. You moved tentatively towards the door, leaving the bedroom area. You were wrong – it was Bucky, but he looked a little different. You couldn't tell how different at first, but something was definitely off.

“Did you win?” you asked, watching him with your arms crossed. He was standing by the minibar, preparing a drink, but having caught your voice, he looked over his shoulder. 

“Thought you were taking a shower. Or something,” he said. Three ice cubes dropped into a wide crystal glass clinked. “Want one..?”

You expected an explanation. Any kind of explanation. But you were aware that Bucky was not effusive. “Sure.” You sighed quietly and walked closer. As Bucky handed you the glass, you noticed his bruised, bloody knuckles. And it was also then that it occurred to you what was wrong – his clothes seemed to be slightly wrinkled. “What happened?”

Bucky let out a heavy breath but said nothing; instead, he occupied himself with preparing another drink, this time for himself.

“Jamie.” Your voice was soft; you knew you wouldn't convince him to speak with hostility and determination. One of your hands touched his shoulder affectionately; he immediately turned his gaze to it, possibly even to the engagement ring around one of your fingers. “What happened?”

He put down the ice tongs and looked at your face; without taking his eyes off yours, he reached for your hand. He tied his fingers around your wrist and pulled it away from his arm only to close your hand in his. He stroked the top of your hand with his thumb, and you were forced to put your glass down to avoid dropping it.

“That guy, Loonie,” he began. He clenched his jaw helplessly before continuing: “I wanted him to lose some cash first, so I could buy you something pretty. Compensate that you had to meet him.” He smiled without any enthusiasm. “And then I was going to knock his fucking teeth out for running his mouth left and right. But by the time we got to the table, he called my wife a nice piece of ass, so it went faster than I hoped,” he stated emotionlessly, shrugging. “I'm sorry I left you,” he added more gently. “But I couldn't let him walk around and talk shit like that.”

“Bucky…” you whispered, slipping your hand out of his grasp and placing them both on his cheeks. “We need to work on communication, okay? I need to know more about what's going on inside your head.”

Bucky watched your face with heavy breathing; he paused to completely when you touched his face, so now he had to catch up. “I want to kiss you,” he confessed, sending a hot shiver along your spine.

You wanted that too – you wanted him – so you saw no reason why you should make him wait any longer. You moved your hands down to his neck and pulled him closer, making your lips collide. Bucky tightened his fingers on both sides of your body, holding your hips right against his, and he pushed against you enough that you had to lean back. He wasn't pouring the same hunger onto you as he had the night before – now you could feel the need he'd mentioned on your lips, but also the need to take care of you, to hide you from the world. 

Without taking his mouth off yours, he straightened up carefully; one of his arms went around your back, the other under your thighs, but as he lifted you up, it slid under the bend of your knees. He carried you back to the bedroom area, put you down on the bed, and unlike the previous time, you refused to let him move away.

“I'm not going anywhere.” Bucky placed a soft kiss on your forehead and stepped back a bit. 

You sat up in the middle of the big bed, covered with a dark satin bedspread, and lifted your gaze to Bucky. His fingers nimbly undid one shirt button after another, revealing more and more of his naked torso. Your throat dried up again at the sight; you wanted to touch him, or help him take off his clothes faster; you wanted to take off your own, but you were unable to move - you stared at Bucky with fascination and slight insecurity.

The black shirt landed on the floor, right next to the jacket. Your eyes traced Bucky's shoulders, his arms tensing with every movement; and you stopped on his hands – beautiful hands that suffered, bringing justice to your case. He would never let anyone hurt you, not even with a wrong look or the bad words.

His pants fell to his ankles; he stepped out of them and climbed onto the bed, sitting right in front of you. Tentatively, you reached behind your back; you found the short zipper - because of your exposed back, you might as well have taken the dress off without unzipping it, but maybe subconsciously you wanted to buy yourself more time before baring yourself completely. 

You lowered your gaze, your cheeks burning. “Could you help me?”

“Unzip the dress..?”

“Take it off,” you corrected, a slight frustration in your voice.

“Y/N,” Bucky said calmly, lifting your chin for you to look at him. “We don't have to do this if you're not ready.”

“I am,” you protested. You were ready for him the previous night, but then your head was occupied with something else; you didn't have that sober realization that Bucky would see you naked any minute. “It’s just… I'm a little nervous.”

“It's okay. I'm nervous, too.” He smiled softly. “Do you still want me to help you with the dress..?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. Bucky reached for the fabric on your shoulders and slowly, delicately pulled it down, exposing your breasts. He let out the air that had accumulated in his lungs, blowing a cool breath over them; brushing your heated skin, your hardened nipples.

“I see no reason to be nervous here,” he claimed, lifting his eyes to yours. “You are the prettiest girl I've ever seen.”

You blushed, rolling your eyes. “That’s not true.”

“And how would you know?” He raised his eyebrows. “You have a beautiful body, I promise. Let me show you.” He reached to your wrists and embraced them carefully, then directed your hands to your chest; he placed your hands on your breasts, covering them with his own. He tightened his fingers so that you did the same – so that your palms squeezed your own breasts. “Feel that? Feel how beautiful it is?” Bucky asked in a whisper, and you parted your lips slightly to breathe. Without taking his hands off yours, he slid them lower; over your ribs, stomach and hips, down to your thighs. As you looked away from what your hands were doing, you saw Bucky studying your face. You glanced at his lips and he leaned towards you and pushed against yours, therefore forcing you to lie down with his own body. 

He pulled your dress down over your legs and threw it somewhere on the floor, then your tights. Soon you felt the weight of his body on yours again – he was pleasantly closing you into some sort of safe space.

Bucky once again pressed a kiss to your lips with the longing you already knew, but also with the restraint. You didn't want anything to hold him back, so you immediately deepened the caress, invading between his lips. He murmured with delight, eagerly accepting your tongue, which effortlessly found his. They tangled together in the same wet, warm, sticky mess, but this time without the hunger there – you were giving each other time and space to explore your bodies; Bucky massaging your tongue with his pleasurably enough so that you couldn't be impatient. 

One of his hands cupped your breast, he stroked your hard nipple with his thumb and you gasped and twitched under his touch. He began to roll circles on it, pulled away from your mouth and went lower to grab the other of your nipples between his teeth. He bit it gently and then sucked on it, teasing this one of the many tender points with his tongue. Your breathing became uneven, shallow. You felt the throbbing heat between your legs, your pants soaked with your burning need to be filled.

Bucky placed several kisses below your breasts and on your stomach, leaving a wet trail down to your belly button. He hooked his fingers around the edge of your underwear and pulled it down; you lifted your hips to make it easier for him to get rid of that too.

You felt his heated, soft lips on the inside of one of your thighs. He sucked at your skin in that spot.

“Bucky,” you whimpered.

“Yeah?” he answered quietly. 

“I need you inside me. Now,” you said, not quite believing that this desperate request had left your mouth. But you were too dazed with desire, too smitten with everything he was doing to you. “Please.”

“You don't have to ask me for anything, baby,” Bucky protested immediately. He took off his underwear and towered over you again. You stared at the taut length between his legs.

Bucky grabbed his cock and, settling more comfortably between your thighs, directed it at your wet, waiting entrance; he brushed hard against it with the head, and you moaned uncontrollably. Soon you felt his tip thrust into you cautiously but firmly; Bucky groaned softly, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes. Yes,” You replied without thinking. Bucky thrust his hips against yours, sliding in full length. You parted your lips and a hollow breath escaped your throat.

He began to move; slowly and gently at first, so that he could study the new territory, and your every little reaction. You placed one of your hands on the nape of his neck, then slid your fingers into his hair and clenched them there, giving release to the pleasure rippling through your body. You looked into Bucky's eyes while doing so, and although your mind was working less and less consciously, you could see some nervousness in them.

“Jamie,” you said. Your voice was now a mixture of soft moans and heavy, shaky breaths. “Relax. Everything is..- f-fine,” you assured honestly. Bucky smiled crookedly, but without conviction. “Come here.” Your hand put a little pressure on the back of his neck, making him lean even closer to you. You kissed him as much as your parted lips would allow, your other hand clenching on his shoulder; your nails dug somewhere into his shoulder blade, and Bucky let out a quiet whimper. Immediately afterwards, he placed a few wet, sloppy kisses on your cheek, and his movements quickened – still not very rapid, but his dick was rubbing against your walls, stretching you again and again, bringing almost overwhelming pleasure. 

You could feel his hot breath on the side of your face as he moaned softly directly into your ear – something you would never expect from him, but the sounds only intensified the sensations. That was enough for you to reach orgasm – just listening to the evidence of the pleasure he was taking from your body.

You couldn't bear it any longer. You wanted the whole act to last for an eternity, but the built-up tension in your lower stomach had to explode eventually. Your head tilted back, your back detached from the mattress, arching; your whole body stiffened, paralyzed by the satisfaction spilling everywhere. Only after a moment were you able to let out a few shallow, quick breaths that had previously been stuck in your throat. 

Bucky pressed his mouth to yours again; first he could barely kiss you; dazed by the sensation, and then his lips parted over yours, making you breathe only each other's air; your breath belonged to him, and his breath was yours and yours alone. 

Bucky's body tensed as well; he froze in place, letting out a raspy grunt. He closed his eyes, and you watched his face flush with relief. You placed your hands on his cheeks and stroked the rough, heated surface. Bucky looked at you sleepily.

“Hi,” you whispered, giving him a gentle smile. He returned the gesture, but much more lightly.

“Hi,” he answered in the same tone, leaning over to kiss your lips again. Then he went back to resting on his elbows, without taking his eyes off your face, and with a caution still unfamiliar to you, he brushed a few strands of hair away from your forehead.

“Wasn't it too vanilla for your taste?” you asked suddenly.

Bucky furrowed, smiling with hesitation. “What?” he snorted. 

“You know, vanilla in a way-”

“Yeah, I know what it means.” He slid out of you, making you flinch slightly, then collapsed into the spot beside you. A sudden, uncomfortable coldness washed over your body, so you reached for the edge of the satin bedspread and covered yourself with it. 

Bucky turned his head so he could look at you. He reached out and brushed his knuckles against your cheek. “I don't know what you like. I didn't want to be too rough with you, didn't want to hurt you,” he said. “But we'll work on that. Figure it out.”

“I'm open to everything.” You shrugged. Bucky laughed quietly.

Holding the bedspread over your breasts, you sat up. “I need a shower.” You sighed. Looking around the bed, you realized that you were unlikely to be able to wrap yourself in the bedspread and take it to the bathroom.

“Do you want me to close my eyes?” Bucky asked; he was not mean or even biting, there was a sincere wish in his voice to make every little step easier for you. Nevertheless, he smirked with soft amusement, putting you in a somewhat better mood as well.

“You don’t have to.” You let go of the fabric, but immediately crossed your arms over your chest, covering your breasts.

“Alright, I'm not looking.”

When you glanced at him, his eyes were indeed closed. You grinned to yourself, got up from the bed, and, having grabbed your bag, snuck into the bathroom.

It was something completely new – being touched by him in that way. Before, he had seemed to be cold, rough, maybe even indifferent to you, but for some time now you had the opportunity to get to know his softer, vulnerable side. You knew that he was caring, but you suspected until now that this had a kind of sterile, professional dimension. Now you saw it in a slightly different light. 

While Bucky was in the shower and you in bed, you decided to text Suzie. You exchanged a few messages, but in the end you didn't reveal to her exactly where you were and why. You got the impression that Bucky had made an effort to make it a secret, so you weren't going to reveal it. At the same time you were texting with Connie, or rather sent her an emoji of a ring, a chapel and a bride. In response, you received an eggplant with a question mark, and although you snorted with laughter, you decided to leave it on read. 

You lifted your eyes from the screen, hearing the click of the bathroom door – in nothing but his briefs, Bucky ran his fingers through his damp hair. You had seen more, much more, but you were still impressed by the sight.

He slipped under the covers and you put the phone down on the bedside table, then adjusted your pillow so you could lie down. As you did so, you were overwhelmed by a tiredness you hadn't felt before – all the emotions of the day had sucked all the energy out of you. On the other hand, you again were a little anxious about sleeping in one bed with Bucky.

“You okay?” he asked as if he was reading your mind.

“Yeah,” you lied smoothly. “Goodnight,” you added, plastering a slight smile on your face, and turned your back to him. 

“What are you doing?” The harmless amusement rang in his voice again.

“I don't want you to watch me sleep. It's… You know.”

He didn't say anything. What you received in response was the rustling of the bedding and the mattress sinking beneath you. Bucky lay down right behind you, pressing his body against your back, and carefully put his arm over your waist, leaving it near your stomach. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Great,” he replied, then let out a heavy breath, tickling your bare shoulder.

a/n: feel free to share your thoughts, they are more than welcomed 🥰

taglist: @goldensunflowe-r @nefri-black @vickie5446 @learisa @sjsmith56 @aya-fay @hhiggs @wishingwell-2 @buckysgirl01 @emily-roberts @prettylittlepluviophile @leaaa008 @itvy5601 @melsunshine @pattiemac1 @marvel-fandom23 @rabbitrabbit12321 @xsecretsirenx @heyyitsreign @xhollycowx @samfreakingwinchester @thrnlvr @samjuarezzz @loustan90 @kandis-mom @abaker74

[uyuartik]

bad idea, right? (obi wan kenobi x f!reader) part iii

tags: angst, fluff, arguments, period typical misogyny (of course not from obi wan), just overall wealthy pricks being little shits, the trope of THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, but not really, do you believe in second chances (i don't) (💀), little smut compared to the rest because originally there was no smut in this (but i HAD TO use that idea), REPOST because i fucked up in the first place

a/n: welcome back for the finale!

well, i can't think of anything to say except this has been a blast for me, and i'm so happy that there are those who enjoys this madness as much as i do. hope you like the ending too. thank you all!

likes and reblogs are very much appreciated, and i can’t wait to hear your opinions! i am also crossposting on ao3, feel free to interact there as well.

part one | part two | part three | ao3

enjoy!!!

word count: 8.3K

chapter three: fuck it it's fine!

You don’t board that ship. A slight sickness you excuse, then spend your days sulking at home, still covered by the expanse of your lies. It is not totally untrue, though. You did really wake up with a swollen throat, and that put the integrity of your health during the journey at risk, thus with great grief, canceled the plans. Nobody knew that you’d not even mention the symptom on any other day, just requesting some honey tea and hardly noticing it disappear in the morrow. And it exactly worked out as predicted, more so, without leaving its discomfort for remorse. But after that, the hours stretched out each day, like you were living in a different plane where you were not welcomed. Perhaps you actually weren’t, for if you followed your fate, you’d be eating different foods, and walking foreign corridors. In an attempt to run away from that feeling, you try to socialize just a little, attending even the most dull tea parties. Also, your preference of company has to be specialized now, and that proves difficult sometimes.

So, that’s exactly why you indeed sulk at home, even though all your efforts.

But not tonight. 

Then again, perhaps you should've.

His presence has nothing to do with it, to be perfectly clear. On the contrary, he makes it a little endurable. The forced small talk and empty eyes you once feared dearly are not the case, even after your last encounter. Of course, there's a little awkwardness, an uncertainty about where the line of intimacy now stands, shadows of anger and disappointment still darkening the atmosphere, but the overall sensation comes down to longing. You both lost a great friendship, cast it aside in a blink, but your souls don't accept this new arrangement that quickly, trying to fall into the familiar rhythm once more each time you feel your walls break. You don't allow it, neither does he. Yet, it is about the only thing that turns this night into a not complete waste of time. Even a pleasant one, you'd dare say. 

If it weren't for literally everything else except this.

The hushed little uninformed jokes start during the dinner. It is the lord of the house that says them, to his close circle, barely hanging onto etiquette he had glimpses of. As minutes tick and glasses of wine roll, that glimpse is gone, and even in your seat at the end of the table, you hear him clearly. The pressed lips and masked mimics pretending not to be aware of it soon become apparent on every face, excluding you and Lord Kenobi. You glower the first time another of the guests feels confident enough to make his dirty contribution to the subject. Typical, you try to stay calm, tapping your fingers on the table. The world is filled with the likes of him, and the last thing they deserve is your attention. The reflex doesn’t go unnoticed by him, and he sends a sympathetic smile, showing that you’re not alone and accepting this invitation was a most regretful choice. He uses a few retorts to close the deal, let the dinner continue in different matters- or in silence, that would be fantastic indeed, but his smart wit and slight intimidation work only for a couple of minutes. Now it’s your turn to reflect that sad smile, and you do.

The sadness doesn’t come from the circumstances around you all, though. Your heart feels heavy, for not trying better ways to handle that morning. That guilt will haunt you, drag you into the gloomy pit you’ve been in, and maybe, you should stay there for some time, a penance for your mistakes.  

After dinner, when the ladies and gentlemen huddle around different interests, you get a chance to cool off. The soft peals of laughter and giggles fill the room, a much more pleasant sound than the roar of men. You get to entertain others with your stories of other cities you’ve been to, and they tell their interesting incidents, and make fun of their husbands, people who deserve, as their commotion spills out of the walls. The topic of their conversation, marriage, diffuses out into your circle in such a way, that once again, you’re restraining yourself, trying to listen to the problems one of the ladies is complaining of, and not to hear the crude comments going on on the other side. You’re stopped from rushing out of your armchair simply out of respect you have for the woman speaking when you pick up your name passing in their remarks. Plus, Kenobi’s words, you don’t flatter me by offending the lady, reach every ear in the room, sharper than a knife. Your cheeks burn with anger, then with gratitude, and at last, out of embarrassment, because how are you going to explain he’s just doing an honorable thing, that it’s his character to defy ill minds when he sees one, and this has little to do with his “pursuit” of you? Your breaths are shallow and quick as you focus on the discourse, and dodge every attempt to pull the subject towards your relations.

Though, the snake doesn’t give up on eating, even his own tail, it seems.

In less than half an hour, a joke about abduction is whispered, and you surge from your armchair, the screeching sound echoing. You murmur what resembles to be an excuse (you’re still deciding whether they are worthy of one), and send one glaring gaze at the group, enough to make one flinch, and walk out.

Out of the entire house.

Lucky for you, this is a night in which you carpooled with another guest, meaning you only have your own feet to carry you away in this pouring rain.

But of course, that’s not enough to deter you.

You take big steps, enforced by your fury. Thus, the house leaves your sight in no time, but not their audacity, still ringing in your ears. Implications about your freedom. Complaints of wive-hood. Humor about how perfectly reasonable is to get rich, by kidnapping a young woman… (Honestly, after all that, you don’t have mercy for them of the panic they might experience when they realize their guest is not refreshing in another room, and have left the estate altogether. Alas, that guest is you.) You string curses at them, the only form of thinking you have in regard, and feel the bulk of emotions resonate with every stomp, even spilling out of your tear ducts. Your dampening body, and the length of the road don’t make it any easier, feeding your frustration. Your only anchor is your self worth, the reason you began this path in the first place, and you desperately hope it will turn the tide in a while.

Though now, the picture you paint with those foul words and wet clothes isn’t exactly the brightest.

It is still among these moods, that Obi Wan catches up to you. You’re not exactly surprised to see him, his carriage closing the twenty minute distance you put between yourself and that damned house with a speed that you think can’t be that good for the horses in the long run. They stop abruptly at your side, and you have all those insults readied if it turns out to be that fucked up man or polite declines if it is indeed Obi Wan. 

But, you can’t speak them. The world feels like it freezes, the raindrops slowing down, and carrying away your burdens as they fall to the soil. The small door opens, and Obi Wan rushes out of it, with an expression that is so honest and raw. His fright vanishes at the sight of you, that scared gaze dissolving, eyebrows relaxing… You can actually see his lips move, Thank God. He is totally undisturbed by the downpour, already making his strands stick to his forehead. His hands find yours, and pull you close, almost like an embrace. You look into his eyes, how focused they are on you, as if they could burn you from the inside with their intensity. You have an undeniable urge to kiss him right now, and that has nothing to do with lust, but your wish to undo the last couple of weeks, uphold that strong connection once the two you had. Of course, you don’t, you can’t, thus, you let him lead you inside, and continue towards whatever destination.

Funny, how you feel much calmer doing the thing you thought you wouldn’t. Moreso, you have no woes about it either.

The silence is deafening, but nobody dares to open their mouth, the greatness of the storm of emotions you both are having too heavy on your tongues. He puts his less soggy jacket around your shoulders, you welcome it with a nod. That’s the moment you realize the redness on his knuckles. It’s not hard to guess the scene, and that has your head turned to the floor, processing the entire night. It is also at this moment that you become aware of your fresh tears, still sliding over your cheeks. Even if he notices them, he doesn’t do a thing about it, an indifference you’re grateful for. He just looks out of the window, and contemplates, same as you.

===

The tub filled with hot water doesn’t make you any wetter, but it helps with the temperature. You’re sorry that you exhausted the owners of the inn you had to stay in, (for it was getting impossible to travel in that rain) with this request, but a voice tells you that Obi Wan wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re unbelievably silent as he sorts it all out, staying in your bubble, unintentionally playing the part of the damsel in distress. You listen to his list of requests, for the horses, for three rooms (the best reserved for the lady, he insists), a tub to be prepared for you, and some tea-

“No need.” Your voice is weak, but it is clear. He would’ve protested this answer, but it is the first time you’ve talked after leaving the house, how ironic, and the realization sets deep in both of you. After that, you feel the words pile up on your tongue, but in a blink, you find yourself in a room. Alone.

“So sorry, I thought they gave me this room.” He stands at the door, holding it half open, face turned in the opposite direction.

“Obi Wan.” His gaze hesitantly finds your way again. God, he’s about to kill you with that blues… “Can we talk for a second?”

You name yourself a hypocrite for asking that, in this state, but you can’t breathe with all that untold things if you spend another second without explaining yourself to him, and apologize for all the trouble you’ve caused. And, isn’t this already proof of the trust you have for him, how vulnerable you can be in his presence?

And, there’s nothing he’s not seen before, after all.

He gingerly closes the door, locking it in a swift motion, and makes his way to you. You pull yourself together, and reach for his hand for him to help you out.

“No, stay. Your fingers are still cold.”

You can’t hide the small smile forming on your face as you settle back, careful to keep most of your body underwater. He, ever noble, keeps his eyes straight on your face, which somehow doesn’t help. There’s something about his rolled-up sleeves, the matching three-piece suit down to two for the damp jacket sits behind the chair in your back against the fireplace. His hair is drying up in all defiant shapes, and you have to stop imagining that morning he woke up next to you.

“I just wanted to say thank you. For everything. I- I never intended to cause this big of a mess, and make someone clean up after me. Certainly, not you, of all people. You shouldn’t have tired yourself this much, and I’m sorry for it.”

“You can’t expect me to do nothing.” The sentence begs for a dear to be added in the end, and he has to fight his throat to silence himself. Instead, there’s a kind tug at the corners of his lips.

“You’re right.” You nod. “But the truth is, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I needed to get out, I just couldn’t sit there pretend I didn’t hear all those nasty comments.”

His fist clenches at the reminder, and you once again spot the bruises settling in on his knuckles, filling with the desire to mention them, but you inevitably decide not to. “That asshole-“

”He was obnoxious since the first hour, and loud, but that doesn't scare me, for thus he has proven himself to be just a foul mouthed man. But, that title started not to cover the extent of it- it was too much and I couldn’t take it anymore. You may say it was obvious from the start, but I tried my best to not evolve this into a thing I would regret afterward. And I succeeded.”

“So you don't even regret ever setting foot in that house?”

A tinge of disgust seizes your face, but only for a moment. Even with all those words echoing in your ear, you don't have hatred in your heart, or any remorse. You're not so quite sure about its reason, nor do you wish to be, avoiding all analysis. Like you don't know the basics already. But the sudden change in your expression tells everything. “I don’t think I can ever regret it. At least, not in its entirety.” You say, hugging your knees and lowering your head. Hot steam no longer hits your skin, you realize in your attempts of distraction.

There's a second of silence in the room, despite the thunderstorm raging outside. You are as cold as in the beginning because of it, and you almost contemplate how good of an idea this conversation was, especially under these circumstances.

“I’d say the same.” Obi Wan speaks, and that's when goosebumps rise on your skin. Your eyes meet his, then flutter away quickly, overwhelmed. Does he mean-

Why is him meaning that any different than yours, huh? Why is it any worse when he says it?

“You should get out of there.” He reaches for a towel, and you shyly stand up, turning your back and pressing your arms around yourself. Nothing he hasn't seen before, right? As the coarse fabric is draped around your shoulders, you can’t help but feel afire, the imprint of his hand around your shoulders for a second lingering way more than it should, creating a tingling sensation.

“Thank you.”

“Well, I must return to my room now.” He folds his hands together, like trying to preserve where they’ve touched, and his eyes still stay respectfully up, causing your heart to lose its rhythm. There has never been a scenario that involved nakedness without… sexual intentions, and clearly, it’s not even crossing your minds right now. Your awareness of it takes up all the space in your mind, tosses every other idea out, and leaves you at the mercy of your soul.

“Obi Wan.” Fuck, the way you call his name, it is bound to weaken him every time. “Can you-” Oh, haven't you demanded enough from him? “I- I would like it if you stayed.”

His mouth hangs open for a second, with a subtle sharp inhale. His fingers tighten around each other, then relax all together, hanging free by his side. “Of course.” For all the words that come to his lips, it’s a most simple answer.

Not that you have any complaints.

You’re filled with another kind of thrill, being this open with your wishes, but having no clue whether they’ll take the night, having no clue where you want the night to go, or how to act in this very moment, half covered.  You just know that you prefer him, being in the same chamber as you. You’d prefer to listen to his idle talk or slow breaths, than the silence of the room. You’d prefer him to snore in your bed than to picture him in his own, lying awake. (Because let’s face it, it’d take a while for him to surrender to sleep, if left to his own devices.)

He takes a step towards the armchair, unbuttoning his vest and you come back to your senses, stepping out of the tub in the opposite direction, towards the nightgown the innkeeper gracefully lent to you. It’s slightly large for your body, definitely not tailored for someone close to your size, but if Obi Wan ever heard you commenting on the fact, he’d wholeheartedly claim you still looked like an angel. Since you don’t, he doesn’t too, but it’s obvious in the way he takes in your form, a battle of excess fabric against your movements. He has to bury a groan when your sleeve falls down your shoulder, a simple accident. He knows that shouldn’t have been seen by him, or you didn’t do it on purpose, that tonight is not meant for those activities, and it shouldn’t get him so bothered up, but it fucking does. Does it also make him want to slap himself? Yes.

Walking near the fireplace, you wring the excess water from your hair and run your fingers through the strands before rubbing that towel aggressively, for the fact that it is already soggy enough, and is not gonna do much. You despise sleeping with wet hair, it is an invitation for you to get sick, not to mention that you’ll be sharing the bed, leaving frustrating streaks of wetness on the sheets for them.

“Hey, hey, let me help you.” Is he a little bit scared? The answer is another yes. But he’s not gonna stand there and watch you fight with your hair. He takes the fabric, locating the most usable spots, and slowly massages your strands with them. Objectively, it’s not a lot different in terms of overall results, but it does more than that anyway. Despite the forbidden intimacy, despite the question of “How is he so good at it?”, you’re lulled by the constant movements, the tension in your muscles easing off. He keeps you by the fire longer than you would’ve stayed, and that achievement belongs solely to him. Frankly, he too is not sure how long the two of you could stand like that, or put an end to it. All that matters is that your hair is pleasantly damp, less bothersome, and he did that.

To be honest, with each minute he is in your presence; the task of holding onto his manners, respecting his broken heart, and following your lead is getting harder to manage.

“Thank you.” You murmur, eyelids barely held open, and he feels like a juggler, suddenly losing his sense of balance, and dropping one of his props.

“You’re welcome.” Perhaps he was the one to thank, for the pleasure. That’s the second prop, falling down.

Still, it’s obvious how that sentence misses a darling thrown out after it.

You climb the bed, and he follows suit. You both favor the edges of the mattress, and there’s a ridiculous distance between both of your bodies, but you’re both too timid to use it, even at the risk of tumbling down.

Only after the urge to find a better position kicks in that you move, and end up just a little closer, face turned to his side.

He’s already turned to you, eyes closed but definitely not trying to sleep, or relax if nothing. He opens them of course, after you rustled the sheets that hard.

“What if I get sick tomorrow?” Admittedly, that’s a silly question, but the scenario occupies your mind. All the elemental factors are present, and you only have a formal dress on your back. Also, the fact that it would be all your fault, yet you are the one to complain? You hate yourself for saying it out loud.

“Then we would stay ‘til you got better.” His point-of-fact words, softened with his bedtime voice, must be annoying. Must be. It is not. It is the raw truth, straight from his core. You won’t disrespect it, (again). “I would take care of you.”

(Doesn’t he, always?)

 A shiver runs down your spine.

(He’d name this place heaven, if it allowed you two to stay together a little longer.)

“Obi Wan.” Whispering, trying your best to break that ugly silence, not to crush under the weight of his words, but more importantly to let him know your truths, the alignment of your soul. “I- I never told you how much I appreciated you. Now just today, but especially today.”

He’s trying so hard not to sound rude, or leave you unanswered, but none of them are good enough. Thankfully, you are not expecting one. Your fingers ghost over his knuckles, afraid to hurt him. he’s not even sure you’re doing that, ‘til you hunch over, and press a small kiss over them.

That’s all the acknowledgment he needs, ever. It wasn’t becoming of a gentleman, obviously, but the situation didn’t require gentleman-cy, too. He has no recollection of how his fist ended up in that man’s eye, except for the exact second it happened, feeling his shirt slide from his other hand as the impact sizzled through his bones, and sent the man to the floor. He found himself in the middle of saying God knows what- he still doesn’t have a single clue, and thinks about the possibility of how they’ll resonate, ‘til it reaches his ears once again.

Though, he has no fear regarding that, or the altercation before it. Nor regret.

“I am honored that our names are spoken together, a testament of our likeness.”

The third prop.

It falls, most obviously, but he doesn’t show it. Not under these circumstances. No matter how you try to avoid the subject of love, or a future, he’s burning for it, burning for you. In that moment, it is settled that it’ll always be that way, forever. You’re absolutely crushing his heart, and maybe even crush yours in the process (for which reasons, he’s never sure), regardless of your intentions pointing otherwise, because he knows you’re pushing through your struggles to speak up, select the appropriate expressions, to honor your past. He’s touched by your effort, as well as your words, oh, your words… This is the only compliment he’ll ever accept, and it’s not even meant to be a compliment. Your voice is already etched into his brain, and there will not go a single day he’s not reminiscing about it.

Thus, with such strong emotions, his every muscle twitched with the desire to pull you closer, wrap his arm around your waist, card his fingers through your cool hair as your lips meet. He wants to kiss you slowly, savor your taste and caress your tongue with his, for the sole purpose of being close to you. You, throwing one leg over him… You, falling asleep in his arms as he gets to bathe in your enchanting scent… The feeling of your warm breath against his neck as you take refuge in there… He’s surprised he doesn’t have to chain himself not to act on any of these images.

(Oh, it very much feels like he has done that anyway)

Yet, it is probably the worst night to do so. It has all been too much, and all this on top of that is a recipe for disaster. A disaster he’s been struck with nonetheless, though, perhaps he can spare you from.

When it comes to you, he has always put his heart before his mind, (but never disregarding the latter part. It is the essential element to keep both of you safe, to never compromise your social statuses, to create the optimum atmosphere for your relationship to flourish (by your own unusual standards)). For the first time, he’s not following that code. Even he can’t imagine the consequences if he doesn’t.

You’re glad that nothing has changed. No response from him, no action. His relaxed expression tells you enough; the calmness of his eyes, his slow breaths and the slight curve of his lips… To be honest, you’re relieved to see your words reach their destination but also set with the urge to prove them. To press down your mouth on his, from which you hope for an answer; to hold his hand without causing any discomfort, or simply hug him for a second, eliminating all space between your bodies like your souls.

Alas, the role of the hypocrite is a part you no longer wish to play, and you’re perfectly willing to hurt yourself by not succumbing to your wishes, and refrain him from further confusion.

“Good night, Obi Wan.” You say, fingers grazing over his for the last time, and curl yourself into a ball.

“Good night, my dearest.”

 ===

The morning is unlike the previous example.

You wake up to him getting up, so there’s no way for you to know if your bodies drifted closer during the night, but considering the position of your arm, extended way beyond the middle, it is quite possible to assume some physical contact was present.

Considering you two are not facing each other, thus acknowledgment of the situation is not a matter, your embarrassment is half of what it should be.

Though, your cheeks burn brighter each second you can’t peel your eyes off of him, filling up the rest of that cup. Watching him walk around, the movement of each chiseled muscle on his back as he puts his shirt and trousers on quickly highlights another impropriety. He is perfection, even in that drowsy state of the human condition, there’s harmony to his every motion, the slow steps he takes, the way the fabric glides against his skin, the subtle fine arrangements of his fingers to make sure it looks decent, even how he breathes causes him to blend into the room, but also bedazzle it in his grace, make him stand out like a crown jewel, a masterpiece of arts that name the place.

You can only stop your ogling once he leans in and stirs the flames, which were already going strong since they were last fed before you went to sleep- wait, that doesn’t seem possible, did he actually sever his sleep to tend to it?

Is there any other explanation you need?

Your heart may flutter out of your chest after this realization, so you skirt out of the blankets. Of course, the sound draws his attention, and you’re caught, forced to react.

Yet, the unstoppable smile forming on his lips inspires a similar response on yours so easily, so naturally that you don’t feel obligated at all. On the quite contrary, that simple mimic banishes any pretense, showering you with reassurance and bravery, the motivation to act on your own true terms, not society’s or the ones you pressured onto yourself.

“Good morning.” The simultaneous greeting pulls a giggle from both of you, and it is all so small, yet so much. You sway away from his direction, casually reaching for your clothes, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremor of your legs when you shed the nightwear and put the chemise on. Because you know, he’s watching you. Divine justice, perhaps.

“Be careful, Obi Wan, I might start to think you enjoy watching me get dressed too much.” The snarky comment, fighting its way out of your mouth further softens the atmosphere, and it is like the first days of spring after a harsh winter, soothing your souls with relief.

“Guilty as charged.”

You shake your head, consumed by his usual forward banter. A scene taken straight out of your past. You shimmy into your dress instead of coming up with a cleverer response.

“You don’t sound sick.” He says, indicating that he’s been paying attention. 

Biting your lip, you turn away. “Actually…”

“Is there something wrong?” He ends up right beside you in a blink, as if the world changed by your unfinished sentence. 

Your heart picks up a different rhythm, hands raised in position to tie your ribbon but frozen. “It’s nothing, my throat just feels-”

“Do you want me to call a doctor?”

That was the exact reason why you started with it’s nothing. Alas… “No, it’s probably just my overthinking and coming up with strange sensations.” And if not, it depends on how well you spend tonight, so there’s not much room for intervention. Definitely not in medical terms.

“Pity.” His comment makes you scoff. After that, you can’t reward him with your concerns, can you? It is funny, ugh.

“Let me help.” 

Your heart can’t get any rest as the tension simply changes garbs, his fingers trailing over yours and leading a 180° turn, leaving a blazing line along your skin, to tie the ends of your ribbon together. Your arms tentatively fall to your sides, not sure what to do with their freedom. His breaths lick your neck while he attentively, slowly smooths his creation, and you’d probably freak out if you weren’t so focused on the sheer range of his skills.

(Also the mystery of how he comes to acquire it, but it’s only the deep, dark parts of your mind speaking. Moreover, you do not pride yourself in a position to be jealous. You absolutely are, on that tiny level, and no, you’ll never admit it.)

Though, you’re not gonna comment on that, not when your heart threatens to fly out of its cage. The sacredness of the action brings back the echoes of your concerns, not a single one strong enough to overtake you, but the cacophony of them loud enough to occupy the entirety of your capacity.

All that talk of past times… Coupled with a little hesitancy, and how the tables turn…

“T- thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Like he just didn’t flip the dynamic, he carries on with his outfit, tying his cravat. His beautiful hands work expertly, effortlessly, and the result is perfect, even without a mirror, eyes on you the entire time.

“Is it looking fine?”

“Yes.” You meekly answer. It is decent, like he always is. Somehow witnessing that feels as sensual as the previous scene, pulling you further down the whirlpool.

Embarrassed enough already, you busy yourself with your hair, accepting the mess that it is, and decide on a simple bun, as much as possible. The practiced moves bring you some sense of calmness and control, even if the result isn’t perfect. The silence helps too, along with his occupancy of tidying up the room.

“Do you want to have some breakfast?” He asks. God, how does he still sound that cheery?

“No, thank you.” You don’t want to keep your father worrying any longer, and it’s not like you’re going to faint. The memory of your last food in the most unpleasant company is still strong enough to expel any thought of hunger.

That answer may be the clearest thought you’ve ever had this morning, yet it is the one that whispers doubt into his heart. You are silent, turned away from him, and far too engrossed in whatever unnecessary thing you’re doing. Because now, he fears that if the two of you leave this room, this building, all your lives in it will be a part of the history, never to be repeated or worse, mentioned again, lost in the torn pages. The joke about residing here for however long- seems awfully bitter, perfectly demonstrating he’d rather hold on to the possibility than put an end to this.

How could that be love?

Perhaps you were right, accusing him of madness.

That’s the only reason he walks out of the room to prepare the carriages, instead of cocooning the both of you in.

===

“Father!” You wrap your arms around him, who’s standing by the main entrance to your estate, waiting anxiously. He does the same, unaffected by the eyes that watch, the staff, and a mere acquaintance, Lord Kenobi.

Now Obi Wan knows who you got your bravery from.

He stands quietly, hands folded in front of him, not sure what to do but damn sure not to leave. He had plenty of time to think about his madness on the road, and decided it was not anything pathological- it was pure love and desperation for you. Isn’t that the nature of most of your meet-ups? Consoling each other in the positively dreadful situations, and utilizing everything to spend a second more together?

He hears you reassuring him of your well-being, and summarize the thing in pretty understated phrases. Even that makes him stutter over his words in a fit of rage. Obi Wan agrees. You distract him by speaking of the help you’ve gotten from a valiant friend, and that’s how he enters the conversation.

“Good morning, Sir.”

How he keeps it all cool, sharing and shaping his anger, silencing any doubt that may arise in him is a surprise, though he’s called a great negotiator for a reason, right? His work in various cases in court has earned him the title. He’s not overtly a fan of flaunting it. Though, it helps him a great deal in this instance.

At least, enough to have a pleasant exchange in these unpleasant circumstances, and secure permission to talk to you again.

Alone.

It is weird enough as it is already, you and him spending the night at some inn, him casually chatting with your father like his clothes haven’t benefitted from the merits of ironing, not to mention his hair being on the wild side after a slight treatment of rain, and now he is requesting your attention? Not only yours, but your father’s too in extent?

His plans have never been so crystal clear.

“No.” You declare your objection so clearly, in one word as the door closes behind him, giving you the privacy of the room. “No, no, no, no.”

“I haven’t even opened my mouth!” He objects, though it is more of a principal thing, than an actual defense. He knows you’ve worked it all out already. God, could he expect anything less from you? Your watery eyes and trembling hands break his heart into a million pieces, reactions so strong even before he has a chance to utter their cause. He caresses his beard, reevaluating if he should continue-

He can’t live with the consequences if he dares not. He can’t live with what-ifs, or not knowing the reason why you are so repulsed by the idea or would you still feel the same, if he told you about his love for you. Of course, that would require some magic, considering the magnitude and intricacy of it. How is he supposed to put the purest feelings he’s ever had to mere words, the origin of the butterflies caged up in his chest, the wires of his brain getting tangled up whenever you’re not around, and the constant intoxication from the strongest liquor he’s ever consumed? He’d rather die than sober up, and a part of him already recognizes that it’s not a possibility. It is his poison and antidote. There’s not a moment that passes without either of them.

And surely, he has no complaints about it. Never will. It is a brave choice, but what’s braver is this moment.

“No.” You repeat, hands clasped together to stop them from shaking. Your voice is low albeit steady, as much as it can be.

Because you do not lift your eyes to meet him. “You can’t propose to me, because I can’t refuse it. But I will. Then the whole country will wonder what is so wrong with you, and me, and they will talk about it all the time, for years to come. The whispers will be the first thing that you hear in every room you enter, and you’ll see the mischievous glint in the eyes of every person you meet, them scrutinizing whether those rumors are true. Our reputations will be tarnished forever, and we will hate each other for it.” And you can’t stand that.

You don’t sound like this is the first time you’re putting these words together. In all your distressed state, you sound awfully logical in your own way, so focused on one improbable, insane possibility (damn those reputations, he can never hate you), but devising every little detail.

“Why?” He basically hollers, running a hand through his hair. Why does that potential is the one you envision? “Why can’t you marry me?”

One can only dream that someone outside isn’t listening.

“Because- I don’t know!” You take a desperate step closer, showing him your honesty. You truly can’t quite name your aversions, and isn’t that already enough of a reason to stay away, spare the person you’re facing?  “I don’t know how to be a wife! And I am scared. All my life I alienated myself from the idea of a marriage, I methodically dismissed every chance claiming it wasn’t the time, all the way ‘til I would say it was too late. I was content with that idea. Because I love- loved my life the way it is; I get more than I need from my father, and that is to remain unchanged when my brother takes over, and I am free as a bird, unbound by society’s expectations, traveling wherever, wherever and trying new things. I was, I am so happy about it that anything that may alter it I shun from immediately. And now I find myself in a place I never imagined, and I am scared. I don’t know what happens now. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what that future looks like for us.”

He moves towards you, his head tilted sideways in understanding, arms reaching for yours. Finally, finally hearing your justifications, the basis of your attitude, fills him with pride and compassion, and most importantly, gives him an opportunity to help you solve those problems, together. But, you hush him, squeezing his wrists in gentle guidance, with tears streaking across your cheeks. “I just know that I love you. I love you so much that my heart will always feel like a weight in my chest when I’m not with you, like a ship sinking, but never reaching the bottom. And I will continue to love you even if you stop loving me back, but I would rather lose you on my terms than by the burdens a marriage brings.”  

“Why do you so believe that a mere contract would change my feelings? Do you think my affections for you are that fragile?”

You frantically shake your head, causing the drops to fall faster. “No, I’m not saying that-“

“Then what?” He snaps, though not because he’s angry. He wants to learn every single reason that’s keeping you away.

“You don’t know what that will do to us.”

“No, I don’t! And I don’t care! It will never change my feelings.” This, he can shout freely. This is the simplest truth for all his remaining days on this earth.

You don’t know that, you want to object. “Obi Wan…” Is the response that comes out of your mouth. “I am not a good bride.”

“No.”There’s acceptance in his tone, a punch to your guts. “You’re the love of life, my companion, my everything.” When he pulls you even closer, and cups your cheeks, you let him. “Haven’t we been through all the struggles a couple could share already? Haven’t I seen all of you, and let you see all of me? Haven’t you claimed my entire soul, and occupied my every single thought? You made me break my rules, and painted a picture I never thought was suited for me- and I came to like that picture very much. In fact, it’s all I ever want my future to look like, with you in it. You, exactly in the way you already are, with all your unsusceptibility to the norms and striking habits. I know that can be scary. I am afraid too. But, anything worth doing starts like this, I know it. And we’ll be the biggest idiots in the world if we let our fear rule us.”

You can’t help but laugh a little, the joyful sound making his breath hitch. It is reflected on his face too, and it is something you’ll hold on to, alongside the tears that begin to form on his eyes. Fortunately, they sit there, despite him kneeling in front of you, his fingers never leaving the bend of your arm, only to follow the route they create, and hold onto both of your hands. “Please, marry me.”

You’re convinced, but your tongue is still tied, so you nod. Your entire upper body shakes with the gesture in seconds, making you look like an overexcited child, on the verge of losing their balance with the restlessness of their legs. You barely feel him kissing your knuckles before he stands up and embraces you, stabilizing both of you in both physical and emotional terms. Let’s be real, if he kissed you instead as he desperately wished to, you’d fall on the floor (and continue there- ‘til somebody discovered the two of you in very indecent terms). His chuckles quickly become your favorite song, you feel blessed as they delight your ears, and make your chest vibrate like his. He revels in the newfound proximity, despite the fact that you’ve been much, much closer in the past. This is new. This is raw love, uncombined with other emotions, strengthened by the absolute truth that you two are meant for each other, and with the promise of you’ll do something about it. He holds you ‘til your sense of balance is restored, for he now has urgent matters he has to attend to. He’ll get to hold you forever soon, and that revelation doesn’t change the herculean feat of letting you go now. He can’t help but wipe the streaks of wetness on your face, though it forms again. He solely doesn’t repeat himself because of the widest grin on your lips. You press yourself to his palm, eyelids closing for a moment, then place a small peck on it.

 “I- I’m now gonna go and talk to your father, get the papers right- and find a-” oh, that’s not “a”, he is going to require many others even if he keeps everything minimal, “I’ll be back in three, fuck, four hours, okay?”

“What? No!” You exclaim, almost giving him a heart attack.

“What’s wrong?” His fingers tighten, a slight tremble taking over them. You have to smile to get him to relax once again, and raise your eyebrows wittily, as if he is a fool for not imagining it already, reminding him of your nature.

“I’m only doing this once. I want everything to be right.”

He squints his eyes, grasping your chin. There’s a few seconds of silence, the time it takes for his nerves to settle. When it does, you’re struck by the intensity of his blue irises, the condensed calm before the storm. “So you want to stay as my fiance ‘til the next season starts, in eight months, succumbing to waiting as we get no freedom to ourselves, always in the center stage, enjoying the last of our bachelor states, the lonely nights and beds bigger than you can ever occupy.”

His other hand, wandering across your waist tells you exactly what he implies. While you actually weren’t planning on such a thing, it causes a surge of rush to overtake you, burning you from the inside. Pursing your lips as you free your face from his grip, with a contradicting shaky breath, you say. “I was always fond of winter weddings…”

To this, he laughs, echoing in the room, and you join him.

One can only hope whoever outside listens to this too, this moment of pure joy preserved in one more mind.

 === 

 “I couldn’t be happier to be married to you.” Obi Wan whispers, but the sentence is loud and clear to you, etched into where he takes nest in the crook of your neck, hot breaths burning your skin.

“We’re still not- ngh“ Yes, this is supposed to be the rehearsal, the night before the main event. You two should be at the reception downstairs, among your many relatives and friends and other members of the society, all gathered for tomorrow morning, when these words of yours will be invalid.

Of course, you are further making a hypocrite of yourself by the way you hold onto him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms locked around his shoulders as he burrows his cock into you. It was impossible to wait any further, as you were separated by the whole ordeal of preparations and the watchful eyes. The moment you found a clearing, you two slipped away, cue to now, where your back on the wall as he supports you against it. You didn’t even get one meter away from the door, you could basically reach the knob with a simple extension of your elbow, but in the end, who cares? Who cares when he fills you so deliciously, scratching the itch that has been building for some time, peppering you with all the love in his heart?

Still, your sentence is cut abruptly as he drives his hips faster, rougher- very much an act of pedantry, advising not to get lost in the details. It works, the correction dies on your tongue, though a quite loud moan takes its place. His hand flies to cover your mouth, and your eyes pop open, meeting his. The pressure of his palm against your face almost forces another sound out of you. Fuck, you adore those blue storms, even when they are focused elsewhere, turned to the door as if it can see past behind it, scanning for intruders. You do actually whimper when the danger dissolves, the vibrations running among his bones, and he keeps up his pace, hitting that sweet spot over and over again.

However, it is getting harder in terms of balance as he now has one hand to stabilize you, and despite your best efforts, it is quite hard not to slide off of the smooth fabric of his clothes. Remorsefully, you push on his shoulders, and he understands, pulling his cock out of you and burying his mouth on your skin. He stifles a sob in there, the frustration getting the best of him.

“Oh, you definitely had too much wine.” Look at who’s talking, you with those wobbly legs and bitten lips…

“No, I just had too little of you.”

Your heart flaps its wings out of your chest, as it does after his every cheesy compliment. You still cannot figure out how he makes you blush harder with those words, even as he ravages you in the meantime.

You reach for a kiss, it is always a good idea. He hums contently at the touch, grateful at the most basic form of contact. Obi Wan rocks against you unintentionally, and that’s how the unsatiated desire wages war, with desperate groans and roaming hands.

Then, his fingers tighten around your waist, and you find yourself supported against the vanity with your open palms, depositing most of your weight there (thank God, because you couldn’t trust your feet much longer). He pulls your hips back to his. Your back arches in a way that is most complementary to his chest, and fuck, it is a vision.

It literally is.

Fluttering your eyes open for only a second (that was your intention at least), you’re struck down with the image of the two of you in the mirror, faces contorted in the prettiest way that is possible in this dirty position, heavy lids and open mouths, fingertips whitened by the strong grasp you have on each other, the matching colors of your outfits…

Yes, even with that detail, you’re still on his side, agreeing you’d be idiots if you weren’t doing this.

Deciding to take the sight from its direct source, you turn your head to the side a little, looking at the adonis of a man you’ll soon call your husband, with his neatly trimmed beard and prominent cheekbones and long eyelashes you are slightly jealous of and so much more…

He meets your gaze, breathless with similar thoughts, that little tug on the corner of his mouth telling you all you need to know, but then he nudges your face to its previous state by a small clasp of your chin, and you’re watching him through the reflection, leaning forward when he starts to fumble with your skirt once again.

The moan that leaves you is totally incapable of being unobscured as he enters you anew. The change in the angle along with the visual stimulation has you teetering on the edge quite easily, like him, but he denies it, maintaining slow movements and choking out any noise that dares to leave him.

Of course, all is impeded when the door is knocked-

“Occupied!”

“Occupied!”

Your voices are synchronized, high and tight. The clock stops for a moment for your bodies, as if the stationary status makes it any less scandalous, and both of you fixated on the doorknob.

It never turns. Never.

Still, the dilated pupils remain a little longer, joined over the mirror, with big puffs of breath and shaking hands.

“Do you think they-“ There’s not an exact word that you can find to explain what has just occurred, but the sentiment is clear.

“Probably.” And the answer too is just as clear.

Well, the only thing lost is the trivial achievement of never being discovered before the wedding.

A wedding which is hours away.

So, you push back, wiggling your hips. His unrestricted sound is all you need to regain your spirits back, and you do it once more. Just like that, the wheels are turning. 

“You realize there’s a bed behind us, right?” He asks as he slowly thrusts into you.

“Yes, but I like the view better here.” 

[jlfletcher]

All I Really Want Is You

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: bullet wounds, mentions of potential death (no one dies, just a small injury during a mission). This is told in 3rd person limited POV (of Miguel, mostly?). One-sided kind of. Reader can speak Spanish (is that considered a warning?).

Summary: This is how it all began for Miguel. From mere coincidence to something more. (Fluff/Romance)

Excerpt: "He realizes something and it’s inarguable in his mind... Out of all the Spiders, you’re the anomaly."

A/N: This narrative is actually repurposed from my friend's spidersona story. It didn't have any romance in it originally but my version does and the more I wrote, the more it diverged from their initial story. They said they liked this version and gave me the go ahead to post it because they'll probably never share their's anyway.

Special thank you to my friend who edited this thing. I'm grateful that they were able to help me turn my messy notes and ramblings in a cohesive story.

I get really inspired by music. So, if I do continue to publish installments of this story, they'll most likely be written with songs included.

Also, I'm sorry if there are any mistakes. I've never had to format such a long post like this on here before.

Word Count: 13.9k (This is a slow burn)

Breakdown

I'm overworking 'til the sundown

Don't see the light inside my head now

There’s a faint buzzing sound that fills Miguel’s workspace. His eyes are a bit bloodshot and itchy from his lack of blinking. He’s grown irritated by now after hours of surveillance and Lyla badgering him to just take a break already. He keeps swatting her away with languid flicks of his wrist while sighing and rubbing his temple. There’s an ache in his head that’s dull yet ever-present but he feels like rest will not come to him anytime soon. He also remembered that he wanted to run diagnostics on a few of his lab’s systems that would ultimately take a while. The testing is usually run automatically but he’s disabled the scheduled maintenance cycle in order to have tasks to do when he's restless like now. Unfortunately for Miguel’s overactive mind, things have mellowed out in the multiverse for the time being. He's been trying to fill his time as he waits for something, anything to happen. It's caused him to grow a bit on edge as of late. Yes, there are still plenty of anomalies to be dealt with but he’s found the late hours to have grown more quiet. It seems that the uncharacteristic silence has planted an eerie feeling in him that he just can’t shake. What if the moment he steps away, something arises? Lyla calls him paranoid but truthfully, he can’t take the risk of complacency.

Eventually, he plops into his chair and prepares to stare at the monitors for another who knows how many hours. He glances over the society’s various CCTV displays in a sluggish attempt at monitoring the building. Yet, something catches his attention. His eyes zero in on a lone figure in the engineering lab. He blinks a bit slowly and scoots closer to take a better look while disregarding the buttons on the control panel in front of him that actually allows him to zoom in on the feed. The thought had completely escaped his foggy brain thanks to his chronic sleep deprivation. Languidly, his eyes flicker to the time and back up. 4:13 am.

I need to see you in my window

There’s not a doubt in Miguel’s mind about what or more accurately who it may be. It’s your form hunched over the workbench. Your signature pair of shoes gives you away entirely. Frankly, it’s not a surprise at this point. This may be the fourth or fifth time he's noticed your presence at such an unorthodox hour. You always tend to stay late at HQ because of your own odd sleeping schedule. He’s overheard you mention to Jess that your universe has a slight daytime shift compared to the others but he didn’t consider it to be by this much. This was nonetheless a preferred choice of company, albeit in an entirely different area of the building from him, because you're quiet and focus on your work. He's not entirely sure if the two of you have interacted for more than a single minute. Perhaps, that's why he prefers you over others. He's never actually spoken to you outside of very few mission assignments and reports. You've caught his eye before. At first, he noticed you were a bit too quiet. It initially caused suspicion to sew itself within his brain. However, after a brief investigation into you performed by Lyla, he concluded that it's simply the way you behave. Now, when you catch his eye he assumes it's due to how you carry yourself relative to others, professional and efficient. Despite the distance between you two, both figurative and literal in this moment, he finds himself watching you through one of the many floating windows before him. His fingers finally slither among the control panel to switch to a different camera in the lab. After flicking through a couple of feeds, the screen changes to an angle that shows your face. Perhaps he's a bit too tired in this instance because his hazy brain barely registers the way his breath hitches in his throat momentarily.

He's seen your bare face only once before and it summoned the same reaction from him. He's taken aback by how you look. It's a bit of a surprise in all honesty. You're so, for lack of a better term, different. And that's not claimed in some common colloquial way. You are literally different. Here at the society, a handful of faces are circulated between the Spiders. However, yours is unique and undoubtedly you. He's only ever come across one of you, the one that's sitting and tinkering in one of his labs. The last and only time he saw your bare face was a fleeting glance before you quickly shoved your mask back on. He assumes you're a bit shy because of it. However, now he can take his time to really analyze your features. He sees how your brows pinch in concentration and how your eyes look a bit red. Ah, it appears you haven't been blinking properly like him either. He sees how your tongue gently swipes out from your mouth before you nip at your bottom lip. Your hands work on repairing a circuit board with your eyes focused on the corrosion you wipe off. He watches you for a while as you work, finding intrigue in the way you do such mundane tasks as repairing a PCB and reassembling a gadget. Eventually, you sit up and stretch a bit, before rubbing your face in what he collects as either exhaustion or boredom. He understands the feeling, truly. Yet his eyes widen a bit as your eyes look at the camera and he finds himself perking up when he sees you smile. He then zooms out to see that you’re conversing with Lyla. Despite the quick misunderstanding, he finds himself enjoying the scene before him. You speak to her so calmly and casually. Do you often speak with her? Many thoughts start to pop up in his mind about you and your overall enigmatic behavior. Your smile triggers hyperactivity to blossom in his mind, his thoughts reeling at the way you look. Your lips pinch together softly as one side of your mouth curls a bit more than the other. Your brows raise as you speak with Lyla, your contentment is evident. He's caught up in the details of your face and it's nearly instinctual the way the corners of his lips twitch in a subconscious attempt to mirror yours.

And I whisper

All I really want is you

What would you do?

He has formed this habit of watching you in the late nights and early mornings. At first, it was mere coincidence when his eyes lingered on you, maybe even out of some sense of caution, but now he finds himself seeking you out after a month of noticing your constant presence. Lyla teased him about being a creep but he usually just replies with a grunt or the occasional snarky comment. Every night you’re working on something and his curiosity is piqued. However, it appears you work efficiently given how it seems to be a new project every few nights or so. His eyes flutter a bit as he sees Lyla appear next to you. Judging by the way you react to her arrival, it’s just for a chat. He notices how your hands rest over one another in front of you as you nod at what Lyla says, laughing and blinking softly at her. You’re polite when listening, putting down whatever you’re working on to give her your attention. The only assumption he's made from it being that you're simply kind. His eyes are attracted to the way your thumbs twiddle around one another absentmindedly. Do you often fidget like that? He tries to think back on the previous times he witnessed your hands when they were not busy, which is not a common occurrence. And as he watches you, he strokes the panel button under his own thumb subconsciously as if it were the back of your hand. He’s only managed to conclude one thing about them and it’s not about how you fidget.

He mutters to himself deeply in observation, “Pequeñas.”

He looks at your hands, pixelated by the monitor, and then down at his own much bigger ones. He ponders momentarily about just how small they truly are. He's certain that if he were to measure them, the entire length would barely reach 7 inches while his are well past 9, probably even past 10 in actuality. If you placed your palm against his, his hand would completely dwarf yours. If you placed your palm against his... what would it fit like? What would it feel like? What would you do if he held your hand? Wait… why is he thinking about that?

“But,” he mumbles softly as he watches you walk off with Lyla in tow, “I think…”

Laying in the rain with you

Middle of June

It’s been two months since he fully took notice of you that night with his full attention; the night he seen you truly as yourself for the first time. From what Lyla has mentioned, you’ve been here almost every night since you joined the society. It doesn’t bother him that he hadn’t noticed you for so long. To him, it made sense. He often found himself drowned in work. Things were hectic for a while, a long while, but luckily during these past few months, things have been relatively easy. Emergency missions in the middle of the night have been few and far between and usually required only one person to complete them which is why Miguel has been manning the fort all by his lonesome for some time now. However, the only other spider permitted to be at HQ during the overnight hours is you thanks to your completely reversed day-night schedule. The two of you have been on a handful of late night missions together throughout this time but he has yet to speak to you about anything not regarding work. It’s a bit strange if he’s being truthful. You may be the only spider that has never spoken to him casually, ever. Sure, he’s suspected you are antisocial but he hadn’t anticipated it to be by this much. You don’t stand out, you stay focused on your work, and you never talk to anyone. Well, that last one isn’t too unbelievable given the fact that you’re only ever here when everyone else isn’t. Miguel can’t help but wonder if you have ever spoken to anyone in the Society without the intention of completing your professional duties? The closest to such an instance was the one time he heard you speak to Jess which was also the first time he had ever seen you. Jess was going to introduce you to him but he was busy having an argument with Hobie. It never grew to be physical but his shouting certainly must have put you off considering he never saw you around again after that. It makes sense, truthfully, since that was your first impression of him. You must think he's always shouting, irritated, and highly intolerant of disobeying his instruction. That is what he was yelling about at the time after all. Well, that is until he noticed you lingering around the building at night. Honestly, you weren’t even a thought in his mind until Lyla sent him a debriefing of you just before Jess officially assigned you to the night shift. He was going to protest, citing that you have no meritorious experience to do so or something like that but he found out that you don’t actually bother him like everyone else. However, he’s grown very aware of your presence as of late thanks to his more unoccupied overnight schedule.

He even has time to just sit and think about anything other than the multiverse now. Usually, this spare time is occupied by observing you. He likes to sit back and watch all the tasks you do with no one around. He finds it relaxing in a way, which is something he’s grateful for. He’s discovered many things about you through this newfound hobby. You tilt your head with a small pout when you’re confused. You often have music stuck in your head which is made evident by the way you nod your head rhythmically. You rub your face with both hands when you’re tired and only one hand when you’re bored. You like to take power naps under the workbench specifically in the left corner of the lab, closest to the door. You usually wear civilian clothing around HQ at night but always wear the same shoes. You don’t like coffee. You drink tea but it has to be hot with steam billowing from the cup. You drink water more often than tea though, but only at room temperature. You crack your knuckles in 30-minute intervals when you type or tinker for long periods of time. You yawn frequently when the air-conditioner is pointed at you… The list could go on. Honestly, he’s a bit taken aback by how much knowledge he’s retained of your behavior and mannerisms. Why is that exactly? He can’t just claim outright boredom. Watching you is something he avidly chooses to do because he likes it. Bored certainly isn't the word he'd use to describe how observing you makes him feel.

“Why am I doing this?”, he mutters deeply as his eyes watch you type away on a computer. Maybe it’s like a child with an ant farm. It’s simply interesting. No, that doesn’t quite sound right. Even ‘interesting’ doesn’t truly capture how he feels watching you every night.

Soon a bright search window pops up in front of him, making him flinch aggressively. “Lyla!”, he shouts in annoyance as he rubs his stinging eyes; already knowing the culprit.

She pops up next to him with a shrug, “What? You asked a question and I’m answering it.”

He squints softly, his eyes focusing on the window presented to him. There are multiple articles listing words that make him furrow his brows. Intrigue, infatuation, sonder, escapism, comfort-watching. To Lyla’s surprise, he mulls them over but she chalks it up to his sleep deprivation. Some words stick out to him, finding himself unfamiliar with them.

“Comfort-watching.”, he states slowly as he selects the article. It explains what it is and what it stems from, denoting its connection to escapism. “The habitual diversion of the mind to purely imaginative activity or entertainment as an escape from reality or routine.”, he reads aloud, words muffled by his hand stroking his chin. Well, that didn’t make sense, watching you is his routine at this point.

He wouldn’t describe what you do as entertainment in theory and it’s certainly not imaginative. It’s just him watching how you do normal things. He softly chews his lip as he glosses over the other articles.

Lyla mimics his actions and strokes her chin, opening another article in front of her form. “Oh? This’ll be interesting.”, she thinks before speaking to Miguel, who’s now distracted by both the articles and his occasional glances at you. “Why do you like watching y/s/n?” [your spider name]

He replies with a sigh as he waves his hands around, positioning the articles around him, “That's what I’m trying to figure out, Lyla.”

“Just think for a moment. Off the top of your head, what’s one thing you like about doing this?”, she gestures to the monitor containing you. The two of them glance at you through one of the screens standing from your seat and stretching your whole body in an attempt to reduce your exhaustion.

Miguel’s inquisitive eyes soften a bit as he responds earnestly, “It’s familiar.” Lyla’s face flashes a bit in curiosity as she observes his expression. Before she can speak again, he continues, “This is calm and… warm.”

“Warm?”, Lyla asks curiously, her eyes fluttering over the chart in the article she opened. She's notated a couple of checkmarks now, in places she hadn't expected.

His eyes just can’t leave you as he thinks about what he’s said. It’s hard to put exactly into words, “I… appreciate her presence. She’s always there and it makes me feel comfortable.” There’s a strange feeling that stirs inside him upon hearing the words he formulates in response. You, a complete stranger, have somehow become a totem of routine in his eyes. Because after watching you nearly every night, you are always there working. Always. Despite the strange and unpredictable multiverse the two of you reside in, you sit in one of his labs, typing away on a computer. In a sense you’ve become the embodiment of normal.

Lyla repeats quietly but not lacking the casual tone she usually holds, “Her… Do you ever want to talk to y/s/n?”

He hums in thought before replying with an unsure shrug, “Honestly… I never even considered that. I don’t think I need to.”

Lyla glances back at the article and then back to Miguel, “But do you want to?”

His movements stall as her question hangs in the air. He takes a moment to apprehend what she’s asking. His eyes trail slowly from the articles floating around him to you on the CCTV display. You're crawling under that specific workbench in the left corner of the lab for what he knows is a power nap; he finds himself almost smiling at that. Does he want to talk to you? He ponders a situation in which he finds himself conversing with you casually. What would you talk about? He knows you like tea. Would you talk about your favorite kind? What is your favorite kind? How would you pronounce it? How do you pronounce certain words like caramel or aluminum? Maybe like aluminium? Maybe you say it differently than he does. He can imagine a light-hearted debate over phonetics, the two of you drowsy from the late night hours. Maybe you’ll tease him about the way he says it. How would you say… his name? You’ve spoken his name before on missions with a professional tone, always addressing him by his surname. It irks him a bit but he's never gotten around to informing you to just call him Miguel… How would you sound calling out to him in a tone that's amicable and familiar?

He’s broken out of his thoughts by Lyla waving her pixelated arms in front of him and a shout of his name, “Miguel!” He jolts at the sound of an alarm beeping around him. Bold words pop out in front of him, “ANOMALY DETECTED”. He hears his family name called out and straightens at the sound. That’s not Lyla's voice. He turns around to see you in your suit, tucking the hem of your mask into your collar as you trek to his platform. His hand waved behind him, minimizing the displays floating around him to hide the clues to his distraction with a single motion.

He hears you speak in a sober tone as you stand before him, “Lyla informed me that we’re both needed for this one. There’s an anomaly running around a metropolitan area on Earth-26. It travels quickly so we'll have to chase after it. Also, there doesn’t appear to be anyone to help.” He nods quickly, navigating through the multiversal map on his watch to open a portal. He nearly flinches as you gently grasp his forearm, looking up at him slowly.

“O'Hara,” you said calmly, which made him look at you curiously, “full stealth on this one. I’m uncertain how this universe would respond to… our kind.”

His lips nearly press into his natural pout under his mask as you address him by his family name but quickly absorbs what you're truly saying to him. He’s had a couple run-ins with a universe like this before and understands your concern entirely. He slowly pulls your hand from his forearm. The size difference doesn’t skip past him and makes something buzz in the back of his brain. Yet it’s subconscious, the way his fingers linger around yours before he releases them and states firmly, “Stay close to me.” You nod in understanding which he reciprocates before opening a portal. You flip open your watch and quickly calibrate your interface and send sync data to his watch to stay connected during the mission. It’s strange how ready you appear to be but it’s greatly appreciated. He hadn’t realized that he was staring before you turned towards him. You tilt your head softly and unbeknownst to you, he knows without a doubt that it’s out of curiosity. He gives you a nod, hoping it didn’t look as strange as he felt doing it. You step through the portal first and he’s quick to follow after as Lyla observes it all with an inquisitive squint.

All I really want is you

This was an uncommon feeling. You two chased after the anomaly, zipping through the sleeping city's skies quickly. Luckily, you both haven’t been spotted by anyone as you swing through the late-night drizzle. He started feeling a bit… he supposes ‘at ease’ is the best way to put it. He’s not foolish enough to grow complacent mid-mission but being on mission with you, working so seamlessly with him, made this feel easy. You’re professional, giving clear cues and staying on the same page. It’s as if you can hear what he’s thinking. Sure lego Spider-man is a good teammate but you’re a good partner.

The anomaly made its way to a rooftop with you right on its tail. You landed quickly with a soft roll before keeping low to the ground while Miguel landed behind you with a soft grunt. You crouched a bit as you tiptoed around gently, trying not to alarm the anomaly located somewhere nearby. He waits on standby, keeping a lookout for anyone who might see you two while you try to catch the small creature. You freeze as you see the silhouette of it, patting the ground with stubby limbs, seemingly ready to take flight again. That is until you squat down and pat the ground too. It looks at you and tilts its head, another action that you mimic before removing your mask. It slowly walks to its right and you gently shuffle to your left. You release a chuckle as you can see something that looks like a tail wagging. The noise meets Miguel’s ears and he turns to find you squatting and maskless. His eyes widen at the sight, fighting the hitch in his breath as he sees your h/c hair, it looks much softer in person. His eyes narrow is realization as he quickly replaces his intrigue with his usual pragmatism.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he speaks monotone, “What are you doing?”

You release a slow and soft, “Shhhh.” You then gently raise your hand, motioning him to approach you. His fingers twitch instinctively as he looks at your flopping hand and surprises himself by reaching out for it. However, his mellow emotions are doused in confusion as you tug him down quickly. He nearly falls on top of you, clearly not anticipating such sudden strength from you. Luckily, he manages to brace himself, kneeling behind you, and leaning a bit over your shoulder. He’s about to ask what the hell you’re doing when you point to the far corner of the rooftop. His eyes widen as he watches the dark creature slowly slink toward the two of you.

You breathe out quietly to Miguel, “Deactivate your mask.” He turns to you in shock despite you not looking at him. He’s about to protest before you whisper, “It needs to see your face.”

He acquiesces your command and slowly retracts his mask. The air nips at his warm face as he spies the creature tilting its head. You tilt your head too while whispering to him, “Mimic what it does.”

Miguel begins to protest but you quickly cut off his words, “Why-?”

“Just do it.” He nearly rolls his eyes at your sudden command but finds himself following suit as he tilts his head too. He watches curiously as the creature pats the ground with its left paw and you mirror it with your right hand. He grows a bit amused watching the two of you continue this little dance until it slowly crawls closer to you both. Miguel can hear your breath hitch as the creature steps into the light shining from over the door to the rooftop you all are on. It’s dark and covered with scales, with large blue eyes and bat-like wings. Your hand is still placed on the ground as the creature cautiously closes the distance between you. You cautiously turn your hand palm up, Miguel is confused by this but continues to watch nonetheless. The creature's eyes look up at you warily with tightly constricted pupils. You then turn your head, facing away from it and toward Miguel quickly. He barely manages to lean back enough to avoid you smacking your head into his shoulder.

He looks at you quizzically as you whisper to him, “Keep your eyes on me.” His brows furrow which indicates his clear confusion at your command. You respond cautiously yet softly, “Don’t look it in the eyes. It’s still scared.” Miguel slowly nods in understanding as his eyes stay on yours. 

There’s something that fizzles in his ears as he stares at you. Your eyes are oddly… calming. He’s never thought of looking at them before. At least not in an intentional way like this, unlike the usual polite eye contact you’re obligated to give someone you work with. It's so strange seeing you in person up close like this. He also has to fight the heat he feels making its way onto his cheeks at your close proximity. Your eyes sparkle a bit from the dim moonlight and there's drops of rain littered around your hair. You look so soft and inviting. There's not a sliver of malice anywhere across your features. He's sure this small anomaly is smart enough to come to you.

Soon he feels his lungs quiver in his chest as he watches your eyes crinkle as you smile. You’re chuckling. Why are you chuckling? His ears are roaring by the time you turn back toward the creature. His gaze lingers on the side of your face before looking down at the little one who’s currently licking and nuzzling into your hand, giving it playful nips. He smiles at that, grateful that this mission will end easier than expected.

The creature jumps on you and licks your face with a happy warble. Miguel tenses, worried that it may be attacking you until you release a giggle as you coo warmly, slowly standing with the creature wrapped in your arms. The sound tingles in Miguel's ears and he can’t help but watch you almost mesmerized as you carry the creature carefully before he stands back up next to you.

You comfort the creature with soft words as your nimble fingers quickly fashion a tracker to the little beast then click your watch. You speak calmly as you stare down at the baby creature with a smile, “Lyla, may you please check for any residual anomalies?” Lyla appears behind the creature and gives you a little salute before her visage flits around and scans the area. Miguel approaches to inspect the animal but leans back when it attempts to sniff at him which makes you chuckle at his stiffness. Then, you gently scratch between the animal’s horns as you walk closer to him to let it smell him properly. He stands awkwardly, watching its nostrils flare with each sniff of his arm.

You look around at the skyline behind him with a sigh, “What a view. Do you ever-”. Your voice fades off quickly as you squint, looking at something in the distance. Miguel notices as your hand stops moving and you cradle the creature protectively. Before he can even look at you, you shout while shoving him to the ground roughly, “Sniper!”. You yelp as something pierces your forearm violently, making your knees wobble. The creature jumps out of your hold, having sensed your body going limp before you slump into Miguel’s arms. The creature nuzzles into your dangling hand with a sad whine.

Miguel immediately enters high alert. He stays low as shots ring out above you, dragging you behind a structure to obstruct you all from whatever the hell is attacking. You're slumped against him as he shakes you softly with a tense voice, patting your face anxiously, “Y/s/n? Y/s/n wake up!” He sees the creature standing on its hind legs pawing at your thigh, looking up at him with scared eyes. Miguel shouts out into the air, “Lyla!” Immediately, a portal opens in front of you three.

Lyla speaks in a rushed tone, looking down at you worriedly, “I didn’t detect any more anomalies. Hurry.” Miguel scoops up both you and the anomaly, holding you tight as he jumps through the portal quickly.

What would you do?

Sleeping outside, the moon

Tripping with you

Miguel’s quick as he carries you to the med bay, the anomaly’s little legs trying to keep up with his long, wide strides. He places you on a bed and pulls up a med pod. He runs a full scan of your body and finds a bit of relief when it is concluded that you got dosed with a tranquilizer but he’s still tense. Usually a tranq doesn’t work that instantaneously; nor does it cause a strong shift in your blood pressure like this… It’s almost as if it’s thinned your blood. He sanitizes and gloves up quickly before grabbing some supplies to remove the projectile lodged in your arm. Fortunately, it doesn't take too long to remove all the pieces of the dart that broke apart. There's a bad feeling in his stomach as he does. He's never seen a tranq dart do such a thing. Why is it so fragile? Miguel has Lyla analyze the fragments while he cleans the wound.

He steals a glance at the little creature sitting in the doorway, its eyes watching you intently. He speaks evenly as he floods the wound with saline, gently patting it dry, “Don’t worry, she’s okay. She’s just sleeping.” He finishes wrapping your arm gingerly with a bandage and pulls the bed sheet over you, raising each of your arms to rest over the sheet. He stares at your hand in his for a moment. It’s warm. Your hands are warm and tiny compared to his. So, that’s how they feel… He blinks himself out of his thoughts and gently sets your hand down by your side to let you rest.

“You can come over. I’m done but she won’t be awake for a while.” Miguel says before looking over at the little beast. He’s almost surprised when it appears to understand what he’s said. After all, you did mention during the mission that it seemed highly intelligent relative to other wild animals. It stands, slowly trudging over before hopping onto the bed beside your leg. It looks at you and then turns to crawl on you cautiously as if it’s afraid of hurting you. After a few moments of hesitation, it pats the bed, circling a few times before settling down between your feet. Finally, it rests its chin on your leg, looking at you with large eyes while its tail curls around itself, and releases a soft bleat.

The display of how gentle it acts with you nearly makes him scoff in disbelief. It’s hard to believe that this is the same angry little beast that tried to claw at him earlier in the night. He's almost offended, truthfully. Why was it so mean to him? It seems to act like a cat, aggressive one moment then clingy the next. Miguel's eyes drift back up to look at you as he works around the room. He thinks for a moment to himself, "I guess between the two of us, I'd go to her too." He shakes the thoughts from his head. Miguel plops back onto the stool beside your bed with a sigh, having just finished cleaning up the soiled supplies. He yawns and scratches his jaw tiredly before he crosses his arms over his chest. The adrenaline that was once in his body is now long gone and his prior exhaustion floods him tenfold. However, he’s able to mutter with droopy eyes that watch your peaceful sleeping face, “What were you going to ask me?” He soon couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, his body feeling heavy and slowly slumping over as he drifted off to sleep. 

Head down

Miguel groans as he feels something slimy on his forehead. He squints harshly at the light that penetrates his eyelids but before he can get up to stretch he freezes at what he hears.

"Hey, hey. Don't do that, little one. He needs to rest."

He's about to just sit up to explain that it's too late but your voice breaks through with a gentle coo. "Oh. Look what you did, honey. You messed it up…"

Before his mind can propel itself into countless thoughts of hearing you say the pet name in such an endearing way, he feels something gently card through his hair. There's something that erupts down his spine at the sensation and that faint fizzling in his ears returns. Especially when he can feel your fingers graze against his helix as you sweep some strands of his hair behind it. He feels his body melt at your ministrations.

Now, he chooses not to move or open his eyes. He pretends to be asleep on what he can blindly tell is the edge of the bed you’re resting in. He enjoys this, the sound of your voice as you comfort and hush the little anomaly the two of you caught. He hears sad warbling and feels the bed move a bit. He manages to cautiously crack an eye open to peek at you cradling the creature close as it sniffs and licks your bandage gently.

You speak softly to it, "Hey, shh-shh. It's okay, I'm okay. See?" You poke the bandage, not where the wound is but the edge of it, to prove that it's fine. You point at Miguel which causes him to shut his eyes quickly before you speak again, "He protected me and helped me get better. So, it's okay." He feels the bed shift as you quietly chuckle, "Ah, ah. Don’t do that, love. I don't want to wake him up, he was really tired." He can sense you stopping the creature from approaching him further as you stand.

There's a soft shuffle that can be heard around him before he feels something drape over his shoulders. You speak so delicately near his ear as you cover him, “Thank you for taking care of me. Sweet dreams.”

He hears the rustling of fabric and the soft plodding of your feet along the floor accompanied by your voice, "Okay, baby. Let's go." Miguel's eyes peek open to see you walking out of the infirmary with the little creature trotting next to you.

Once you’re gone he turns his head, pulling the fabric off his back. It's your cardigan. The one that you were wearing earlier before the mission. His eyes still feel heavy as he bunches up the fabric under him. His nose is flooded with a scent he's unused to. It smells warm and comfortable and soon he drifts off again with his arms wrapped securely around your cardigan below his head.

That’s what you are, he thinks. Warm and comfortable.

I don't know when to come up for air now

It's been a couple of days since your e-26 mission together and you haven't spoken since. Like usual, you spend the night in the lab and Miguel busies himself with some backlogged reports. However, his eyes still glance over to the monitor displaying you occasionally. He's noticed that you haven't worked as much as before. Sure, you’ve tinkered with a few things but you mostly just write in a notebook and slump over the workbench now. He pauses to inspect your face then switches to a camera angle that shows what you're writing. Oh. You're not writing, you're sketching something. He zooms in to see a picture of the anomaly you two sent back after Miguel woke up that morning. Just as he thought, you were depressed because your little friend had to go back home. That’s a lie, he hadn’t actually thought of that at all. Truthfully, he was starting to grow concerned that something was wrong with you… He watches as you add detail to the eyes, the tip of your pencil faintly tracing along the paper to simulate each streak across its irises. It's this that reminds him of when he stared into your eyes. They're much richer than expected, drowned in a color that is so… you. It's you because it's comforting and relaxing and deep. Comfortable and warm. He remembers the words with a soft hum.

He catches something bright appearing next to you. It's Lyla. He's found that you two converse almost every night. What do you two talk about? How many things have you discussed? There’s something unknown that bubbles in the pit of his stomach as these thoughts fill his head. Eventually, his curiosity gets the best of him and he switches on the audio feed. The thought of this being a violation of your privacy, completely slipping past him. He gently sits down as he listens to the two of you talk.

"Raon? What does it mean?", Lyla questions curiously.

You rest your chin on your hand as you lean against the table, looking up at Lyla with a warm smile as you reply, "It means joyful. He looks just like… ah, it’s nothing." You trailed softly but soon chuckled with a wave of your hand.

The scene before him makes Miguel smile softly to himself. It’s such a mundane conversation yet he finds enjoyment from it. Especially from the soft chuckle that comes from you. 

"Hey, did you ever get around to-" Lyla begins but is cut off by your quick response.

"Nope… sorry.", You apologize with a bow of your head, realizing you interrupted her, "I should probably soon, huh?"

"Uh, yeah. The window of validity is closing, bud.", Lyla conjures up a window beside her before shutting it slowly as she raises a brow at you.

You nod and sigh, standing from your seat before turning to leave, "You're right. Thanks for reminding me, Lyla."

She hums to you before disappearing off the screen. She soon pops up next to Miguel who’s watching the feed of you walking through a corridor. She leans over his shoulder and speaks near his ear, "Stalker much?"

Miguel jolts at that and quickly exits off the camera display. He grunts and pulls some reports in front of him in a feeble attempt to cover up what he was doing, "I'm not a stalker."

She smirks and sings with an almost smug tone, "Ah, c'mon. It's just a joke, Miguel. Don't pout."

He states evenly as his eyes glance over the files presented before him, “Not pouting.”

“You never answered my question, y’know?”

“What question?”

“Do you want to talk to y/s/n?” She emphasizes her words with raised brows as she slowly orbits around his head to face him.

He blinks in thought, recalling the recent mission. You’re unfinished words wading upon the surface of his mind and truthfully they have been in his thoughts ever since you first uttered them into the night air. It wasn’t in your usually professional tone. It sounded more casual and unfortunately, you were cut short before finishing your sentence. “Do you ever… Do I ever what?”, he muses as his fingers rub at the side of his chin. He nods slowly before mumbling, “Yes… I think I do.”

Lyla bends down to smirk smugly at him with her arms akimbo, “Good.”

He squints at her and voices his confusion, “What do you mean? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“O’Hara?”, he stiffened as his eyes went wide at the sound of your voice. He composes himself quickly with a low grunt before turning to you.

Unfortunately, you misunderstand this, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“You’re not interrupting me. I just remembered something. Did something happen?”

You absorb his fast-paced sentences, “No, I just wanted to talk to you.”

He’s shocked by this but his face doesn’t show it. If only you knew of the discussion you just interrupted by coming here.

“I wanted to formally thank you for taking care of me.”, you spoke calmly while looking up at him on his platform. He noticed your hand resting over your bandaged arm, confusion taking over his features. You noticed this and looked down at your arm too, nodding before your gaze returned to him. You subconsciously rub the bandage as you speak, “Ah, this. I don’t… heal as quickly as the rest of you.”

He mulls over your words, the rest of you. You speak in a way that alienates yourself from the Spiders. It’s a phrase he can understand due to him constantly being put in his own category relative to the other spider-people. Other… He supposes he speaks about himself the same as you. So that’s that sense of familiarity explained, albeit partially. He asks with his naturally stoic expression, “Why is that?” He watches with furrowed brows as you think of how to respond.

You softly shake your head with a shrug, “I just don’t.”

Before either of you can speak again, Lyla questions while pointing at you next to Miguel. There’s a small smirk on her face, “Hey, y/s/n? What’s that?” Miguel looks at her curiously before looking down at the box in your hands.

“Oh, this is just… This is for you, O’Hara.”, you take a step forward towards his platform. Miguel’s brows shoot up not only at what you say but at his now descending platform. He looks over to Lyla who smirks at him, clearly the cause. He clears his throat as his workspace reaches your level, “Is it something to sign off on?” He thinks that maybe you’re ready to beta-test new equipment that needs approval first.

You shake your head and hand the box to him with a small smile, “No. This is a thank you.”

He furrows his brows again as he slowly opens the box with his words trailing off, “A thank you?...” It’s… they’re empanadas. You just gave him a box of empanadas as a thank you? 

“I heard Jess mention you liked empanadas. Sorry, they’re not the ones from the cafeteria though.”

He stares at them for a few more seconds. They’re warm. Are they fresh? How? It’s almost 3 am. Did you pick them up from your universe? “You didn’t have to give me this. I didn’t really-”

“You saved my life.” His eyes widen a bit as they meet yours. Ah. So you found out…

Your hands wring together nervously as you speak, “Lyla showed me the analysis of the fragments you pulled from my arm. Etorphine is a strong agent as is but it was formulated into a high-dose soluble projectile. If you hadn’t helped me so quickly, it would have dissolved into my blood and…”

“Thank you.”, Miguel all but whispers with his head down.

“You don’t have to thank me for thanking yo-”

“You took that shot for me.”, he quickly cuts you off. His eyes slowly trailing up to meet yours with firm sincerity. “Why did you take that shot?”

You rub your nape as you avoid his gaze and reply in an almost soft voice, “Ah. I didn’t really think about it… my body just moved on its own.”

There’s a bit of an awkward silence that spreads between you two as you both avoid each other’s eyes. Miguel stares back down at the food before speaking, “You really didn’t have to give me these.”

You speak with gentle hand gestures, a trait he didn’t know you had until now, “No, no. Please take them. I made them to thank you. It’s how I show proper gratitude. Honestly, I don’t think it’s enough.”

He looks at you in thought before looking back down at them with raised brows and a gentle smirk, “You made them?”

You tense, eyes darting to Lyla but she only offers you a quiet snicker. You sigh before nodding slowly, “Yes, I did. I’m sorry if you think they taste bad.”

He’s amused at your word choice. You didn’t say if they taste bad, you said if he thinks they taste bad. So you cook. And it sounds like you cook well given how confidently you speak about what you make.

Before he speaks, Lyla asks you something and motions you toward the control panel, “Y/n/n, come take a look at this.” [your nickname]

You bow your head briefly at Miguel with a modest smile before making your way to the screen Lyla opens for you. That’s another habit of yours he wasn’t fully aware of. He stands back and watches as you point at the screen and discuss it with Lyla. Your arms cross as you stand before the monitors, your face morphed from your inquisitiveness as you inspect the blueprint Lyla shows you. This makes him calm again. Watching you always made him calm and relaxed. However, it feels a bit stronger when you’re standing just a meter or so away from him. With you here now, so close to him, he actually feels warm. There’s a heat that surrounds him that he just can’t really explain. He continues his musings before taking a bite of the empanada absentmindedly but his eyes shoot down at the food as he tastes it. These aren’t like the ones from the cafeteria, they’re far better. The cafeteria carries standard beef empanadas. Beef and seasoning, it’s hard to mess it up. But these? Is this stew? This is honestly the best thing he's eaten in a long time. His foot stutters as he prevents himself from stepping closer to you and swallows the delicious bite before mumbling, “Are these-”

“Salteñas, sí.” His eyes travel up to see you looking back at him with a warm smile and nod. The way you say it is so natural. It rolls off your tongue so smoothly. Do you speak Spanish?

“Wow, it eats!”, Lyla cheers sarcastically.

“Lyla!”, he groans in annoyance.

“What do you-”, you unfurl your arms and look at him with what he recognizes as concern, “Sir, are you not eating properly?” You turn to face him completely and approach him slowly when all he returns is silence.

Lyla floats over to you, her voice laced with a haughty tone as she tattles, “No. No, he is not.” He grunts and tries to snatch her holographic form. His hand just misses her as she teleports to your other side with a giggle.

“O’Hara,” you call to him in a tone that’s so soft while still holding firmness. That’s new. It’s not as casual as he imagined and you’re still addressing him by his surname but he’s still pleased with how it sounds coming from you in that tone. “How often do you eat?”

He tenses a bit and looks away from your eyes before he gets lost in more of his thoughts. “I eat.” His brows furrowed as he mentally berates himself for his obvious statement. Of course, he eats. Estúpido. His embarrassment quickly triggered his next words despite how unexpected they are, even to him, “What does it matter to you?”

He feels an odd sense of uneasiness as he notices your lack of reaction. He’s quick to attempt to amend his words, “It’s appreciated but it’s none of your concern when I do and don’t eat.” Then there is more silence. It weighs heavily in the air awkwardly. He realizes his words may seem a bit harsh given how tense his voice is. He’s unsure what to say now and for once the silence from you isn’t so comfortable.

“O’Hara.”, you say more sternly as you cross your arms. He can’t help the way he feels like a child being scolded by their teacher. What truly catches him off guard is how firm your tone is despite how gentle you look at him, “Stop deflecting.”

It all makes him feel a bit small despite him being the one looking down at you due to your apparent size difference. He’s never been fond of his height. It’s annoying and cumbersome but the way your body positions itself to stare at him makes him think that it’s not that bad. Your head has to tilt back for your eyes to meet his. Those rich eyes of yours… The e/c encompasses your pupils in such an inviting way [eye color]. And each time you blink he catches a glimpse of how your lashes flutter against your skin. His eyes slowly travel along your features. Your forehead creases softly as your brows raise. The action makes your eyes appear larger as you look up at him. Then he sees your lips moving slowly. They’re not shiny nor are they chapped. But they do look smooth as he sees the tip of your tongue softly curl behind your teeth as you speak. Your words slowly grow less foggy before he flinches at the feeling of your hand gently holding his forearm. There’s a slight ringing in his ears as your voice finally reaches him.

“Mr. O’Hara, are you okay? You’re flushed.”

“What?”, he breathes out in a rushed tone before his eyes focus out to see the entirety of your worried expression. He gently tugs at the collar of his suit uncomfortably. He actually feels the heat now, it’s more intense than before.

“You’re burning up. It’s warm in here too…”. You quickly grab the box of food from his hand and place it on a nearby tabletop before pulling him toward the entrance of his work area. “Here, come with me.”

You take my hand like there's a way out (way out)

And we're escaping through the window

Miguel isn’t sure how but he now finds himself in a rather unfamiliar situation. You’re dragging him around by the wrist. However, it’s apparent that he follows seamlessly behind you. It feels natural for him to just maintain your lead, especially when there’s very little energy within him to resist. He watches how you walk in front of him. You walk in a way that makes you look smaller than you actually are. It’s as if you’re trying to hide. Why is that? Your shoulders are slouched a bit forward as you guide him through the corridors. His eyes drift to the back of your head, watching the way your hair gently bounces with each one of your steps. You halt for a moment which causes him to nearly stumble into you. Your grip on his wrist falters briefly before sliding down to take him by the hand. The action completely slips past you as you decide where to walk next, but it surely does not get past him. He has to fight the urge to squeeze his hand around yours but utterly fails. He’s not too upset about this. Truthfully, most of his awareness was occupied by trying not to let his claws protrude from his fingertips. You turn back to look at him but he’s quick to avoid your eyes, oscillating his head mindlessly.

You must have taken this as a sign of his unwell state because soon you're tugging him through the cafeteria with a firm whisper, “Over there. You need fresh air.”

His red face and his lack of words must make him appear as though he won’t be able to last the trek to the infirmary. You gently squeeze his hand which makes his eyes snap back to you quickly. Making your way to the large terrace, you push the glass door open. The air sweeps past you both as you guide him to sit on one of the patio chairs scattered among the outdoor area. His eyes are dazed as he looks up at you standing in front of him but they haven’t left you for even a moment since you squeezed his hand. But now your hand is no longer in his. He’s surprised to find himself a bit annoyed at that. You’re moving too fast, he thinks. All your actions are slipping away from him thanks to his hazy mind and he doesn’t appreciate it. You pull a handkerchief out of your back pocket and pat his sweaty forehead. His eyes watch you as you do. Your lips press into a line as you gently bite your bottom lip. Your eyes are full of concern as they roam over the sight of his flushed face. You remove your hand from his space as you step back a bit, wanting to let him feel the light breeze.

He spies how your hands start to reach out but retract back to your side, settling on your hips instead. You speak evenly as you look at him, “Are you okay? Does that feel better?” It’s gradual as he breaks out of his cloudy stupor, the wind finally cooling him down. He nods slowly before something slithers out of his brain and past his lips.

And I whisper

“What?”, you tilt your head curiously.

“Miguel….”, he breathes out, “My name is Miguel.”

You blink at him and speak with a bit of concern, “I know tha-”

“I don’t like being called O’Hara or Sir or Mr. O’Hara. Call me Miguel.”

You nod softly as you take in his words before giving him a small smile, “Okay. From now on I’ll call you Miguel.”

He almost smiles at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue but catches himself before it’s too late. His brows furrowed in confusion as you gently extended your hand toward him. You smile softly as you gently grasp his hand and shake it with a kind tone, “My name is y/n. It’s only fair that you address me as such.”

His brain stalls for a few moments, absorbing your name. It’s so fitting in a previously unknown yet expectedly pleasant way. Of course, that’s your name. He looks up at you in thought as you gently pull your hand from his, “Y/n, huh? It’s… pretty.”

He tenses in realization for a moment before slowly speaking, ensuring that his own curiosity remains undetectable, “The other night on e-26, on the rooftop. What were you going to ask me?”

You’re taken aback and stand back up, your lip jutting out in a pout as you try to remember. Your eyes wander to the table beside the two of you in thought but Miguel’s eyes stay on you. He takes in the sight of your face morphed in contemplation. It’s the same look he’s seen countlessly through the late nights. Except this time, it’s not pixelated or blurry from his monitors. Now, he can see you up close. He can see clearly how your chin softly wrinkles as you purse your lips and the way your eyes crinkle at the outer corners. It’s almost comical how earnestly he takes in such ordinary features with the same scrupulousness as a lab experiment.

“Do you ever look out at the skyline… and feel at peace?” The words flow out of you softly as you move to sit on the patio table next to him. Your eyes glide up to look at the lights below that decorate the horizon.

Miguel finally tears his eyes from you to look at the skyline before you both. It’s hard to hear the vehicles from up here but he knows they’re there. He can see the lights flicker and wane in the distance as his body relaxes into the chair. He realizes how familiar he is with the scene and breathes out lowly, “Yes. I do.”

He can see you smile in his peripherals before your voice fills the space between you, “I’ve always found comfort in the horizon and the view of the land below. The sunrise and sunset. I think Raon would have been mesmerized by this view of the city lights.”

He turns to look at you curiously, “Raon?” Truthfully, he was a bit curious about the word you mentioned to Lyla earlier.

You nod with a hum, crossing your legs and propping your chin on your elbows as you get comfortable. “The baby creature from our mission. Raon.”

Miguel notices how the word our rattles around his brain but pushes that feeling aside. He attempts to overpower it with a wry remark, “Did you name the anomaly?”

You release a breathy chuckle and nod, “Kind of. There’s a story from my universe that had a baby dragon named Raon Miru in it. Looked exactly like him too, blue eyes and all.”

He finds relief now not just in observing you but in your close presence and words. He’s intrigued by what you say. He can’t quite place the origin of such a unique name. He knows Japanese but he’s unsure if that is its correct origin. He takes a moment to look at you in thought, certain that he wants to hear more, “That name, what does it mean?”

“It’s a bit on the nose, truthfully. It means ‘joyful dragon’.”

“Raon Miru.”, he repeats to himself as he turns back to look at the skyline with you. There’s a comfortable silence that swells between you both. It takes a few more moments before your voice slithers into the empty space.

“Do you truly not eat well?”

He turns to look at you again but immediately regrets it. Well, not really. Your eyes are full of concern as they meet his. He sighs and shakes his head, “No. I don’t.”

“Why?” You ask so simply as your eyes never leave him.

He bites the inside of his cheeks and contemplates whether he should brush this off and lie or just tell you the truth. He chooses the latter, citing that he genuinely enjoys your consideration. “I’m busy. I lose track of time and just forget.”

Lyla finally decides to pop up next to you, “Hey, y/s/n. You actually remember to eat stuff. Mind keeping Miguel in check for me?”

Miguel stiffens quickly shaking his head to protest but before he can, you respond. “Sure, I don’t see why not.”

“Cool.”, Lyla nods and disappears having completed her job as instigator.

His eyes travel to yours in question only for you to smile gently at him with a tilt of your head. “I need to make sure you’re properly taken care of.”

Need, you say. Not want. The way you say it so matter-of-factly makes his lungs quiver, just like that night. His mouth shuts as he slowly leans back in his chair. The way you look at him lets him know that there’s no room for debate. You nod with a smile as you watch him acquiesce your response. “Good. So, did you like the salteñas?”

He nods and speaks with a low hum, “Yes, they were good.”

You beam at that and lean toward him unconsciously, “Really? I was worried there for a second. By the way you heated up, I thought you had a bad reaction.” You straighten up as your features quickly morph in realization of something before speaking, “That reminds me. Lyla?”

“Yo.”, she appears in front of you like a pop-up ad.

“What’s the temperature in Miguel’s work area?”

She conjures up a thermostat and squints at it, “Yeesh, 85°F and climbing. At the time of reporting, it is approximately 20 degrees higher than average. Excessive heat appears to be emitting from a ground-level display console.”

“Oh, may you please-”

“Filtering and cooling as we speak, captain.”, her little hand bumping her forehead to salute you in assurance. “I’ve shut off the machine since it’s under minimal usage priority. Consider this a work order.”

You chuckle at her antics, “Thank you, dear. I’ll be sure to repair it asap. It also sounds like your active monitoring is on the fritz, I’ll check that too.” You then turn to Miguel, leaning in inquisitively to see if he’s cooled down enough.

He questions absentmindedly with an almost gravelly mumble, “Hablas español?” [Do you speak Spanish?]

You're taken aback but smile softly, “Sí, pero no lo hablo con fluidez.” [Yes, but I’m not fluent in it.]

He finds the corners of his mouth gently lifting at your words, “Me suenas fluido. Tu acento es natural.” [You sound fluent to me. Your accent is natural.]

Your smile seems to grow ever so gently as you nod, “Thank you. I grew up in a diverse place. Lots of people spoke languages other than English.”

Miguel found himself completely relaxed as he spoke with you about anything and everything. Like that, the conversation flowed between you for a long while.

All I really want is you

What would you do?

Your brows shoot up in shock before a small smile blooms on your face. “Good. Let’s meet out on the terrace at 3 am. You better not leave me hanging.”

He smirks at your warning in amusement, you said it in such a way that carries no real malice. He nods in understanding as you two walk side by side languidly, back to his work area. The conversation hasn’t stopped. Miguel thinks this is the longest he’s ever talked to someone, speaking more words in these last couple of hours with you than he has to anyone in months. It’s odd to him how easy it is to talk with you. It makes him feel like he’s conversing with an old friend.

He’s lost in content conversation with you as you two enter back into his lab and continues even after you begin to work. He leans against the main control panel on his platform as he watches you repair the display console that practically turned his work area into an oven. Miguel’s arms are crossed over his chest, somehow unsure of what to do with his hands. He speaks with a more calm tone, “So you’re the one who does repairs around here? You’d think I, of all people, would know that.”

“I actually did think you already knew that but I suppose me coming in here and working on your tech while you’re out during the day is a bit of a clue as to why you didn’t.” You calmly respond to him. Your voice is just a bit louder than normal in order to ensure he can hear you properly. After all, half of your body is inside a relatively large electronics console.

“So what’s the issue here then?”

"Just a basic issue. Overclocked GPUs and faulty heatsinks don't really mix well.", you sigh with a shrug after gently crawling out of the unit to drop some screws into a small tray beside you. You present a damaged PCB to him and point at a burnt section of it with the tip of your screwdriver, “See, a few of them have blown fuses.”

He’s tuned into what you say and nods in acknowledgment. He knows what you’re talking about and enjoys it because it’s not rushed and not frantic like during the day. It’s calm and comfortable.

"Although I told Pete to run manual diagnostics on this which he said he did. Liar." 

Miguel is amused by your annoyed grumble as you work. He’s a bit curious as to why you refer to Peter by nickname when you’ve only started calling him by his given name a couple hours ago but he figures it’s fine since Peter is the one who initially recruited you from what he can recall. 

Miguel leans a bit over to peek at the mess that is the internal hardware before you crawl back inside. "I'm going to guess that he didn't even look at this at all."

"Yeah, pretty safe to assume that. I should have known better than to ask him. He's been preoccupied lately.", you groan from inside the panel. You look a bit funny like this, with half your body inside the console.

“Why did you ask Peter to look at it then?”, Miguel asks a bit curiously.

“Um, my arm was still messed up, Sir. I couldn’t really pronate it without feeling uncomfortable.”

He hears how nonchalantly you say it and senses that you don’t want to bring up the injury again. He nods curtly to himself and continues while changing the subject, “Don't call me Sir. It makes me feel old.”

You smile softly to yourself as you respond, “Sorry, it’s a hard habit to shake. I mean, you are the boss. But you shouldn’t worry, you’re not old by a long shot. In fact, I’m your elder…”

Your last few words are muffled but he manages to pick them up. His brows raise in intrigue as he asks, “Is that so?”

The way you tense at what he says doesn’t slip past him but you soon answer in a calm voice, “My universe’s present year is several decades earlier than here. So despite being biologically younger than you, I am chronologically n/y years older than you.” [number of years]

Miguel turns to work on some reports as he says, “Well, you still look spry enough to handle the duties of a Spider.”

You nearly snort at his comment. You must have not expected it, judging by your reaction. You continue to work, your eyes focused on the components you inspect as you jest in a sardonic tone, “Thanks, jefe. I’m glad to know you think my body is still young enough to be thrown around on missions.”

He has to bite his lip to contain the chuckle that he feels vibrate in his chest. He didn’t expect you to respond so sarcastically but he’s glad that you did. If anything, it makes him want to continue talking with you, “So why haven’t I been formally notified of your work here?”

“Well, if something breaks or needs general maintenance, Lyla is informed and she then passes that information to me. She typically deals with software issues and I’m the hardware person. We don’t usually bother you with these things because you’re always so busy as it is.”, you offer with a shrug as you crawl out and sit on your heels, inspecting yet another PCB.

“It wouldn’t be a bother. I need to know about these things.”

You look up at him and chuckle quietly with a soft shake of your head, “There are reports on file of every single repair I’ve done but… the last thing you need to worry about is a coffee maker gone haywire or someone’s empty web cartridges.”

“Aren’t you busy too? You take missions yet you still pull the Society’s odd jobs. Why?”

“Not really. I’m active mostly at night or in the early morning hours. Even when there is an active mission, I’m D-team at best.”

“D-team? Why do you think that?”, Miguel is genuinely confused by what you say. After all, the two of you worked so well together during the missions you have been on with one another.

“I’m just not that capable when compared to the Spiders.”

There’s that phrasing of yours again. It paints a clear separation between you and the society. Why are you so unwilling to include yourself with them? What exactly makes you speak this way? Miguel then thinks back to your first mission together, when it was just the two of you. Although it felt foreign at first, you two completed it quickly and efficiently. He speaks in a tone that leaves no room for rebuttal, “You are very capable.”

“Yeah, you think so?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

You sigh casually as you stand up, carrying a small tote against your hip of damaged hardware to be further inspected, “Well, I could just be pleasant to be around.”

He releases a breathy laugh at your arch remark with a shake of his head. If only you knew how important your presence has become to him over all these late nights.

You perked up at the sound as you placed the tote on a nearby desk, turning to him as you asked, “Did I just make you laugh?” 

He was about to groan in annoyance on instinct but caught the look in your eyes before he did. Your face didn’t show a single sign of ill intent. Rather, it carried what he identifies as wonder. His lips purse a bit as he looks away from you, trying to avoid your gaze to spare himself from how overactive he’s found his mind becomes when gazing upon your bare face.

“Oh, now you’re pouting.”

“Not pouting.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not.” 

Miguel’s brain stalls as his ears pick up a previously unknown yet gratifying sound. Gentle giggling slips from you and it makes that buzzing sensation in his ears return. But he's not upset because he knows you're not laughing at him. It’s that kind of laughter that isn’t rude nor teasing. It’s kind and full of joy. He can’t help the upturn of the corners of his mouth, finding your delight somewhat infectious.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just too cute.”, you wave your hand softly as your other hand attempts to muffle your chortling before grabbing the tote of hardware to repair again. You turn to leave to your usual lab to work but your joyful sounds have yet to cease.

Miguel’s frozen by your comment. Cute? In reference to him? That’s not… that’s implausible and honestly, unprecedented. The more he speaks with you, the more he learns just how strange you are. You’re different in not only appearance but behavior as well. He's sure now that you are unique to the Society in such an eccentric way. He realizes something and it’s arguable in his mind. It makes sense why you exclude yourself from them all. Out of all the Spiders, you’re the anomaly.

Laying in the rain with you

Middle of June

“Miguel O’Hara! Get your butt out here now!”

He groans and rolls his eyes with a smirk as he looks at the time. 3 am, on the dot. It’s time.

The two have grown very well acquainted with each other over the past 8 months. There was a stint of anomalies surfacing during the early overnight hours. For a while, it seemed you and Miguel were dispatched nearly every night but now the instances have slowed to every week or so. You’ve learned a lot about each other and have acclimated well to each other’s presence. His hands swipe away the monitors floating around him as he calls over his shoulder, “Yeah, yeah. Just a second, needy.”

“Needy?! Puh-lease, you would waste away without me.”, you chuckle as your body swings around the entrance to his work area. You cross your arms and lean against the doorway, “Ven a comer.” [Come eat.]

“Sí, Mami.”, he mumbles amusedly, stroking his chin as he stares at the monitors in front of him. [Yes, Mom.]

You chuckle and walk over to him, “Don’t make me drag you out of here.”

He closes the floating screens around him with a flick of his wrist before turning to you with a smirk. His hands rest on his hips as his platform descends to meet you. The soft fizzling in his ears returns as you look up at him with a small, playful smile. The sensation is no longer foreign to him. It’s welcomed now. Warm and comfortable. “Yeah, uh-huh. And how do you suppose you’d do that?”

Your grin is almost mischievous as he finally stands in front of you, “I’d figure it out. I’m very resourceful, you know?”

He nods and begins to walk with you to complete your late-night ritual. “Oh, are you now?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” You repeat the words he told you from your first night together. At this point, it’s more of an inside joke; a reference that often appears as you two converse.

“I thought you said it was because you were pleasant to be around.”, he hums amusedly.

“Well? Am I?”, you look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes gleam with warmth and he’s not sure if you truly know just how beguiling it is.

He mutters as he avoids your gaze, knowing damn well he wants to say yes, “Don’t fish for compliments.”

“But you would compliment me.”, you state in a way that’s laced with playfulness. You bend a bit at the waist to catch a glimpse of his face with your hands resting neatly upon your lower back.

He meets your teasing gaze for a moment before rolling his eyes, “What’s for dinner?”

He sees your lips curl up in his peripherals before you state nonchalantly, “It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise? What do you mean? What for?”

“What? Don’t you trust me?”, you chuckle in amusement after he rambles a bit. You managed to identify that habit of his despite his general seriousness after the many nights you've spent working together.

“I trust you as far as I can throw you.”, he replies collectedly, or so he hopes.

“Liar.”, you hum with an amused smile on your lips, “Nonetheless, I suppose it’s good that you’re an incredibly strong man that can throw me very, very far.”

You chuckle again as he groans beside you. You’re far too sharp for your own good, having seen right through his strategic word choice. You two enter the terrace and something feels different. The air is a bit warmer tonight. Miguel supposes it’s just that kind of summer night. One where the heat from the day lingers into the late night and rekindles the following morning. His eyes shut for a moment as he absorbs the scent floating around. It’s familiar, it’s… enticing. He blinks softly before turning to you, eyebrows lifting in surprise as he sees that setup you’ve made. Upon the ground is a large blanket with a couple of small pillows. There are a few containers of what he knows is your cooking placed in the center. It’s not extravagant but something does stir in his stomach as he sees you turn to him. You almost look coy as you gesture behind you but your eyes never lack that warmth he knows as yours. “Yeah, it’s a bit silly but… happy 50th successful mission, partner.”

He stiffens at your calm yet happy proclamation. The word partner rattles around his brain for a few moments before the gears in his brain turn again. 50 missions? Have you two truly been on 50 missions already? Oh, who is he kidding? Of course, he knows that already. The two of you have actually been on 58 missions to be exact but they can’t always be successes.

You walk over to pull him gently by the wrist to the blanket, “Come on already. Food’s getting cold.”

He rolls his eyes with a smirk as he indulges your command with reluctance, but only externally.

You let go of his hand and sit at one end of the blanket, “Mira, I made some of your favorites.” You remove the lids of the containers presenting a small variety of his preferred dishes. There’s a smile on your lips as you pull out the final container, presenting it to him with a kind tone of voice, “I even made Stobhach for you. And I’ll let you know I’ve perfected my recipe.”

He can’t help the small curl of his lips as he sits opposite of you. You seem so excited to show him all that you prepared for tonight. It all almost makes him blush. He’s learned fairly early on in your acquaintanceship-turned-friendship that you show affection through care. Especially, by giving someone a home cooked meal. He stares down at the food and hums, “Thank you.”

You return with a hum of your own. Besides the banter and wry humor, words aren’t really necessary between the two of you. You’ve learned to read each other well. Body language, quirks, and even the noises that rumble from each of your chests. It’s almost animalistic in its simplicity. Miguel has come to realize how truly perceptive you can be, similar to himself. You two actually share a lot of similarities like your inquisitive nature and reclusive behavior. And he’s come to the conclusion that that is why you two can exist so harmoniously together. It’s not hard to be around you. To him, your presence is easy.

All I really want is you

What would you do?

You two have been talking for a while, the food long gone and your bellies satiated. There’s a bubble around you two as you converse like you’re in your own little world. 

“Come on. Lay with me.”, you look up at him with warmth in your eyes as you pat the space next to you. He truly can’t find it within himself to deny such a gentle command. He moves to lie next to you and stares up at the few stars that manage to make it through the city’s light pollution. It’s times like these when he ponders upon his actions and realizes how easily he finds himself following your instruction. He’s not upset about it. He just finds it odd although certainly not unwelcome. Truthfully, he’s grateful that he can take your lead and not have to be in charge, even if only for a moment. But these moments fill his chest with something warm. Warm and comfortable are his two choice words to describe you in any situation. Whether it be as you two work in silence in one of the labs or when you patch each other up after rough missions.

Sleeping outside, the moon

Tripping with you

He hears a sweet sigh from your lips as you relax on the blanket next to him. You whisper into the night air with the same gentleness one speaks a secret, “This reminds me of one night when I was a teen. In my universe…”

Miguel’s ears perked a bit as you began. It was very rare for you to speak of yourself, your experiences, or your universe. Every time you did, he was sure to pay attention and commit each word to memory because if you ever spoke of it like this, earnestly and unprompted, it meant you were revealing a part of who you are. That you were trusting him with a part of your very essence. To keep it safe.

“California isn’t gone. There’s a coastal city there called San Francisco that my friends and I traveled to. We spent hours there. We watched the sunset on the bay and the evening fog that rolled in. And eventually, we laid back on the sand and looked up at the stars. Just like this.”

He didn't say anything or make a noise. He just stared up at the stars with you, listening intently.

“I felt so calm that night. I knew in that moment that nothing else mattered. And for the first time, I felt at peace. My whole life I didn’t do much. I stayed at home filling my time with random knowledge and tricks. I avoided people and kept to myself as best as I could because I had learned very young that people were not to be trusted.”

Miguel feels his chest tighten at your words but keeps silent. There’s a darkness that barely laces your voice but it is there. He picks up the sound of hurt in your tone and it grips him tightly. There’s a tumultuous feeling in his stomach. He’s eager to preserve the pieces of yourself that you delicately hand him but it doesn’t change the feeling of helplessness that floods him. Your honesty is encased in sadness, a build-up of fears and insecurity that he’s far too late to have prevented. So he listens because maybe, just maybe, something you reveal to him in these genuine passages of your lore can help him protect the parts of you he keeps.

“I learned that family was everything because family would never hurt you. It’s funny now… Now, I think I’m nothing but a memory yet to be forgotten by them.”

He turns to look at you curiously but the concern is unmistakable in his eyes. Of all the countless nights you’ve spent together, you’re finally revealing why you are the way you are. Why he feels like he knows you without words. Because loss and loneliness radiates off you like bittersweet perfume yet you contain it with walls built of sufferance and capability. He’s always held a certain affinity to you that he could never quite describe until now. Before his thoughts submerge his consciousness, he notices how your eyes are screwed shut and the way your fist is squeezed tightly around the strings of your hoodie. Your clenched fingers resting above your heart almost as if you're quelling pain into passivity.

You sigh quietly as if to prepare yourself for what to say. “Things happen. At one point you think you know where you are. Then you blink and wake up somewhere else entirely.”

There’s a brief pause before your next words. Your eyes slowly flutter open to look up at the stars with glossy eyes and a gentle yet certain voice, “I’m here now and I’m actually very grateful for all that has happened. I’ve learned things I never thought were possible, about reality and the world. About people and about myself.”

He’s a bit surprised as you speak to him with sincerity, “I know I’m strange, Miguel. I know I don't make sense and that I don’t really fit. But you make me feel understood. And you make me feel like I’m not really alone… Thank you.”

You turn to find him staring at you in surprise. Your smile is small but your usual warmth has returned, and truthfully, he thinks that it never left. “Sorry. That was a bit heavy, huh? Just forget I said anything.” You offer with a chuckle before laying back.

All I really want is you

Your eyes are closed as you bask in the moonlight and his eyes travel over you. He takes in the soft curl of your lips and the faint flush on your cheeks from the cool air and candid words. The temperature isn’t too bad but thanks to the extreme altitude of the building, it’s crisp yet foggy. It’s an odd feeling, the air is damp from the clouds rolling through the skyscraper but Miguel feels warm. So soothingly warm. Especially, with you laying so close to him. So earnest and so true. He finds it odd how comforting this feeling is despite it being foreign to him, or rather dormant. He’s astonished by your trust in him. It fills him with something that he wasn’t entirely sure he was missing. Suddenly it's apparent what exactly this feeling is. The same feeling that he's felt for months. And it finally sparks in his mind as you look at him with tired eyes and a warm smile.

I love you. 

All I really want is you

What would you do?

He can nearly taste the words on his tongue but he remains silent as your eyes stare into his. Suddenly he feels very awake as his own thoughts dawn on him. Managing to tear his gaze away from your familiar e/c eyes, he finally speaks as he closes his eyes with a coy smirk.

“Never.”

It’s you. Now, it’s something that’s as certain as fact in his mind. He feels the heat of your hand resting on the blanket between the two of you, right next to his. Right where you belong, he thinks. Right next to him.

All I really want is you

Is you, is you, is you

Appearing near you two and out of sight is Lyla. She watches you two and makes a final checkmark on the chart she pulled from an article months ago, when Miguel was initially questioning his interest in you. She smiles to herself as she looks over the chart then back at you two as you exist in your own little world. The words softly illuminated in the window beside her, Infatuation vs. Love, with all her markings under the latter.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who took the time to read this! Also, big thanks to everyone who voted on my poll regarding this fic. I am open to your opinions and questions! Please feel free to ask me anything!

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

tips on learning how do fiber arts with apraxia / fine motor deficits? want to crochet or knit but every time try ends in injury because dexterity bad and because impulsive motor. any tools that can buy for this? have looked for adaptive classes but can’t find

sudden remember this ask… meant to answer

am actually maybe. worst person ask this because. not really know. some personal pointers, not sure how helpful they are:

knit for me easier because know how do it & learned motor pattern. if erase motor pattern memory & tell me relearn again now that motor & ability learn new stuff even worse, not sure what would say.

there two types of hold yarn/needles for knit. am knit “english style” (throwing), which basically, use right hand to wrap yarn over right hand needle & keep tension. another called “continental style”, which you use left hand hold yarn hold tension, usually like hold some finger on left hand high with yarn n manipulate right needle to almost “hook” that yarn.

use english style because learned this way never learned continental, but do find it easier for me. find continental, for someone like me with very bad motor, have less control n grip on left hand needle since some of your fingers used hold yarn, n have lots going on, need insert right needle into loop while making sure left hand yarn tension keep good, then “hook” yarn (find that take more dexterity just simply don’t have), n again while left hand keep tension, pull yarn through hoop make stitch. like entire time you cannot drop tension on left hand or else mess up. find continental left hand hold yarn similar to crochet hold yarn, n because bad motor, have like only one way that can actually hold yarn in left hand n let it stay n not loosey goosey, but that really hurt hand after a while & semi permanently messed up middle finger. people say continental knitting faster more efficient, but rather take so called slower way than try do “fast” way that cannot do at all. but have seen ring type adaptive tools you hook yarn on n it help tension?

compare to english, feel like it. you can break each step into it own thing. insert needle into loop, but this time with both hands full finger grip both needles. then, wrap yarn over needle with right hand. now that used to it, can just use some fingers, but if beginning, perfectly okay like, support right needle against body to prevent it fall off, then use entire right hand wrap. and then, can do both hand pull loop through. you not have to so worry abt tension through out all this because after finish all of this, can just pull on yarn n adjust tension.

one really funny chant (well for us would be chant in head) for english is “stab it. strangle it. scoop out its guts. throw it off a cliff.” & it work for some, it kind of violent, but maybe it help.

not very helpful advice is just. take it slow. it will be frustrating. that okay. we struggle with motor & we work with what we got & we not gonna be like most knitters with okay motor n that okay.

advice for knitting beginners often always knit with bigger/chunkier yarn and bigger needles, because knit up faster. true, but more reasons for us with bad motor:

found that, holding small needles hurt hand make hand stiff easier, n bigger needles, because thicker, have easier time hold.

keep tension not too tight or else will be hard go through loop. think looser tension may be easier at first, just as long as not too loose where yarn fall off?

explore between bamboo needles vs metal needles (smoother which help yarn glide but also may be easier fall off). explore between pointy tip needles & more dull tip needles (pointy may help with insert through loop. but if you use hand to push on tip to help go through loop, it may hurt).

use lighter color yarn (darker esp black yarn hard see stitches)

use plied yarn with more tighter twist, instead of yarn that just one loosely spun single. first type easier see easier go through loop, second type it easier poke through yarn itself & split yarn. so first type better for beginners

.

crochet harder for me because new motor pattern now that ability learn stuff really declined… n same issue with continental knit with left hand hold yarn. it also lots right wrist movement. but unless do specialty crochet, there only one working loop (instead of like knit there many on needle). so it easier put down n pick up project.

have seen adaptive tools where make handle part thicker! which make easier. have also seen people just DIY that n use chunk of foam

.

spinning yarn, most financial accessible thing for beginners is drop spindle, so talk about that.

there different weights of drop spindle, some heavy some lighter, n different weight spindle said to make spin different thickness of yarn easier (but have spun lace weight yarn to worsted & bulky yarn on same spindle, so definitely not must). remember more spun up yarn you wrap on spindle, heavier it get, so if weight impact motor ability, that something think about.

there also type called supported spindle! where instead of lift spindle in air, it spin resting on thingie. never used myself but something worth look into!

(top whirl drop spindle where round disk thingie on top) advice is get one with notch on disk. find that without notch, yarn may slide all over place & especially with low motor, hard to hook yarn in way that not let it slide all over place.

n when start. take it slow. break it into multiple steps. don’t try do too much at once. when get used to, maybe able spin it and draft (like pull roving into thinner strand for yarn) while it spinning. but at beginning. spin, over spin it so have more twist on yarn than want. park it (like put it between two legs, etc rest it somewhere), then draft it/pull roving. then spin again. then park it. etc. and then wrap it around spindle.

don’t try spin too thin at first. it okay if it thick n thin and you not do it on purpose. try learn with (non superwash) wool because wool have microscopic scale-y teeth thingie on fiber that help it stick together n not too slippery, so even if you accident break roving, can just smoosh them together n it be alright. there some breed of wool that said to be more friendly for beginners than others (apparently merino not one).

.

probably over all tip for any craft is. find method that allow you split each step into its own thing, where can pause between each thing, n not have to do multiple things at once.

n take it slow n let self be frustrated. ok to fail n start again later. learned to knit 3 separate times until finally stuck. motor skill simply didn’t work for crochet so failed at least 8-10 separate times (like not restart one project 8-10 times in one sitting but like 8-10 times each with weeks or months or year in between).

feel like said bunch of nothing & very obvious tips but 😅hope at least some of it helpful?

if have specific craft in mind or specific project in mind, again not sure how helpful can be but happy give own thoughts to you

[genderfluid-insomniac]

Hey! I hope you’re having a fantastic day, and is drinking plenty of water! If it’s not to much to ask, I was wondering if I could request a hurt/comfort for Macaque X fem!reader ? I personally think Macaque would be incredibly insecure about his appearance when in a relationship. He has lost an eye, he is scarred, he has six ears, AND he’s also a “ugly” monkey humanoid (which he strongly thinks human!reader would find unattractive compared to a normal human). He already goes as far to hide his true appearance from everyone. I need the reader to convince him that he’s pretty and doesn’t need to hide it! Thank you so much if you choose to take this one on!

Much love! -anon

The beautiful faults you hide from me ///Sick!Insecure!Six-Eared Macaque x reader

“Mac?” You waited a few seconds before calling out again and heading toward the upper half of his apartment (or more like a furnished and repaired abandoned warehouse). The past couple of days you hadn’t heard from your boyfriend which concerned you given that it was winter and Macaque didn’t do so well in the cold. Ever since you’d known him, he always ran cold temperature-wise, which didn’t bode well because he stayed inside as much as possible during winter so he wouldn’t get sick.

From where his bedroom was you heard a small sneeze and figured that's where he was residing, upon entering his room you could see that it was more messy than usual. The most shocking thing was that you could see all the features your lover usually hid with magic but that only meant something wasn’t right. It wasn’t that he never showed you what he actually looked like, that’s not what it was, he was actually just insecure about his scars despite you telling you countless times that you love him no matter what.

That didn’t matter though right now, you were more concerned about him and how sick he looked. “Macaque? Are you okay?” When you got no answer you rushed over and felt his forehead….It was so hot. You rushed to the kitchen and grabbed some cold water and a damp washcloth, quickly turning on the thermostat and getting back to your feverish lover. Macaque stirred as you entered the room and groaned, joints popping and voice creaking when he tried to voice his worries.

But you shushed him after you put the damp cloth on his forehead and attempted to coax him to drink. His red pointed mask that painted his face was dull and the usual vibrant color of his ears was pale, despite all that he still looked beautiful as always and even more so as the scars that covered his body showed how strong he’d been. The parts of his fur that were white, which when you asked him was due to being under Lady Bone Demons’ control or his original white fur before he died, faded into his normal black color and you couldn’t help but stare at the rare sight before you.

“I know-” Macaqued coughed and grasped his throat, wincing at the dryness and greedily taking the water you offered. Drips of water dripped past his mouth and got caught on the tangled facial fur as his adam's apple bobbed up and down, panting heavily to catch his breath and handing the cup back to you. “I know I look ugly but you don’t have to stare.” His voice hissed harshly at you and the glare he shot at you would have been more effective if you didn’t know him better. “Moonlight, you and I both know no one looks their best when they’re sick. But what’s causing me to stare is the possibility that you no longer have enough magic to even maintain your glamours much less your healing factor and I’m worried for you.”

The glance the shadow demon tossed to the side told you all you needed to know before you went through a chest beneath the bed and found the medications you needed. Taking the herbs and mixing them with modern chemicals, grinding them into a powder, and mixing them into potent tea (it didn’t taste the best but it got the job done). “Macaque? I hope you know that I truly love you no matter what you look like and those scars are proof of how strong you are. Not to mention you’re beyond beautiful ears and every small reaction they give, especially when something blushes against them.” To give an example you trailed your hand down the lowest pair of ears and softly chuckled when they twitched and fluttered at the attention.

You saw how your lover went to hide his flustered expression and intertwined his moving hand with yours, bringing them up to your cheek and kissing the back of it. “Moonlight? Can you look at me? I know you’re sick but this is very important before I give you your medicine cause you’ll get very sleepy.” He looked at you and your heart nearly fell at the tears pooling on his lids, the lip being held between his teeth and occasional trembles due to being cold. “Never ever will I judge you for how you look. You’re so gorgeous I fall in love again every time I look at you and the best part is you’re mine. All mine and no one else's.” You pressed a kiss to his nose and rubbed his cheek, wiping away the tears he finally allowed to fall.

The steaming tea was discarded on a nearby table as you moved on the bed and positioned yourself so Macaque laid on your lap facing your stomach and wrapping his arms around you. “I love you, Name.” He whispered and moved carefully so you could help him drink the tea, cooing at him to slow down and take his time. You stifled a laugh when he finished and stuck his tongue out in disgust. “I need to work on the taste portion of my medicinal practices when I get better.” Smiling at his attitude which already seemed to be better and tracing the scar going over his right eye, planning to tell him later that the scars and most of the features he hides are actually what fluster you more than his teases.

[frogwithgun]

You know what screw this

Y'all are getting a modern no curses au with Satosugu bc the idea just won't leave my head

Enjoyyyyyy

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

There's a small corner store tucked away in a fairly busy part of the city. One that not many people frequent. But one that pays exceptionally well. This is the store Geto works at. Where he has worked for the past three years.

He doesn't mind it. He rather likes working there. Sometimes. Lately he's stopped liking it so much. The new manager is an asshole and thinks Geto looks unprofessional. Says all his piercings and tattoos drive away costumers.

If anything, they do the opposite. So many giggling school girls come in because they think he has a sort of bad boy charm to him. Of course he never tells the girls he isn't. And he never tells the girls hes not into girls either.

He would rather keep that to himself. Seeing how his last relationship left him as a single father. That prick left his daughters with him. But on the bright side, they are now his pride and joys.

Since then he's been on his own with his twin girls. Nanako and Mimiko. He loves them dearly. Like they were his own. They are why he forces himself to keep working at this dammed corner store.

Geto checks the clock again. This stupid job makes him go insane. But there's nothing he can do about it. He needs this job. So he forces another smile onto his face. If you can make it through this last customer, you can go home to the girls. He tells himself.

The next customer walks up to the counter as he's putting money into the register. So he starts up his usual little speech that he's memorized from the years of working there.

"Hello. Did you find everything you-" And he stops in his tracks. He actually stops. Because standing in front of him is the prettiest boy he thinks he's ever seen. Actually, the prettiest man he thinks he's ever seen.

He looks expensive. Dressed head to toe in some brands Geto has never even heard of. But he's sure they must have cost more than his apartment alone. I mean, how do you even say that brand? He has no idea!

The man has a slight shine to his lips. Pretty and pink. His hair is such an unusual color. A bright white that almost shines. And his eyes are covered by sunglasses, which do little to hide the amusement that dances in them.

Geto then thinks he must look awfully plain compared to him. Dressed in his work uniform and looking rather dull. His hair pulled into a lazy ponytail with all those piercings and tattoos on display.

Geto clears his throat and looks away. "Everything you were looking for?" He says in a calm voice. One that doesn't reflect how his heart pounds in his chest. Geto wonders why he looks so familiar. Has he met him before? Probably not.

The man chuckles and crosses his arms. "Almost. There's one thing I just couldn't find." Geto nods. "I'm sorry to hear that." Pull yourself together Suguru! This is embarrassing. Even for you.

God how long has it been since he last went on a date? Far to long. "Maybe you could help me find it?" Geto looks up at the man again. And then immediately regrets his decision. Has his face always felt this hot? Has it always been this red?

Geto nods. "Of course. What are you looking for?" The man smiles. A smile that Geto swears he's seen somewhere before. "Well, I was just looking for your number." And that, that makes Geto let out a noise somewhere between a squeal and a choke.

The man laughs and again Geto swears he's heard it before. "I'm sorry. I don't give out my number while I'm working." An automatic response that Geto has said a million times over. And a response he now wishes he didn't automatically give.

He would have given the man his number in a heartbeat. If his manager wasn't watching him like a hawk from the break room. God that man freaked him out sometimes.

The white haired man nods and puts a hand over his heart. "Ouch. I'm hurt. Suguru?" He says reading Getos name tag. Geto heart races even more. "Geto Suguru. A lovely name." Geto smiles and then immediately looks away. "Thank you." He mutters.

The man chuckles and nods. "No no, thank you. You don't see such a handsome man every day." He winks and Geto smiles. A smile that makes the other man stop. "Oh woah woah woah!" He takes his sunglasses off and reveals a pair of beautiful blue eyes.

They look almost like a clear sunny day. And Geto swears he could get lost in them. "You gotta warn a man before smiling like that." Geto laughs and begins to ring up his items. "Sorry. I didn't know smiling would startle you." He grins.

"Startle? No that was lethal." Geto smiles again. The man pays for his items and Geto bags them up. "Have a good night sir." He nods. "I definitely will now." He winks again and then leaves.

It is only after the man has payed for his things that Geto realizes who he is. When he is home. In his apartment. Sitting on the couch. With the girls. Then does he remember where he's seen that smile before. Where he's heard that laugh before.

"Oh my fucking God." He mutters and buries his head into his hands. The girls look at him in confusion. Geto looks at the girls and groans. "Gojo fucking Satoru asked for my number." Nanakos jaw drops. And Mimiko laughs.

Then Nanako shots up from her spot on the couch. "As in CEO of Six Eyes Inc. Gojo Satoru!?" Geto nods and Mimiko squeals. "Oh my God! Dad he likes you!" Geto, however, cannot share in their excitement.

And they notice. Of course they do. "Dad? What's wrong?" Geto lays face first onto the couch and loudly groans. Immediately the girls know what this means. "Dad. You cannot be serious."

Geto nods. "I told him I couldn't give out my number." Mimiko gently rubs his back while Nanako just sighs. "It's ok dad. Maybe he'll come back." Nanako on the other hand just goes on about how that was a stupid decision.

That night Geto spends far to much time watching romcoms with the girls. And eating ice cream. As per the girls request. And maybe to drown out the stupid decisions he made.

-----------

"Sir!" Cries a startled Ijichi. "You're back!" Gojo looks at him and nods. "Reports?" Ijichi nods and with a shaking voice tells him the results of this years fiscal quarter while Gojo sits at his desk.

Yet Gojo cannot pay attention. He finds himself thinking back to that encouter he had. In that small corner store. He'd passed by it a million times. Seeing that clerk there every time. Today he had finally talked to him. And he can't stop thinking about it.

Or those purple eyes. He takes his sunglasses off and rests his chin on the palm of his hand. A far off look in those blue eyes of his. "I'm attractive right?" Ijichi looks up from the reports and at Gojo. "I mean, I know I am."

Gojo stands up and walks over to the window. "People practically line up for even a moment of my time." Ijichi cannot tell where this conversation is going. "And they would trip all over themselves to give me their numbers, right?" Ijichi nods. Still unable to tell where this is going.

Gojo turns to look at him and Ijichi jumps again. His usual smile looks so forced. And that carefree look in his eyes is gone. "So why is it that I was rejected? Have I lost my touch? Am I not to the public's standards? What is it that is so unappealing about me?"

Ah, there is it. Ijichi thinks over his words very carefully. Gojo has been know to have sort of a temper. "Not at all s-sir! They must be a fool!" Gojo nods and sits at his desk again. "You're right. They must be." Gojo smiles again. "Ah Ijichi, what would I do without you!" That carefree look is back and Ijichi let's out a breath of relief.

But it isn't enough for Gojo. "Maybe I'll just buy the corner store. What was the name again? Doesn't matter. Ijichi? Make a deal with the owner. ASAP, yeah?" Ijichi nods. Gojo has also been rather impulsive. Nothing new of course.

And as for the girls, they have devised a plan to get Gojo and Geto together. It'll just take some time. And a whole lot of patience.

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

Tada! What do we think? Don't be afraid to let me know! I love all the notes and reblogs but I'd also like to hear your thoughts specifically.

I might also have a part two cooking up in here. But that depends on if this does well. If it does then part two will come out as fast as I can make it.

Love you guys! 💚💚

[strixcattus]

(Explore) What’s your favorite chapter?

(Explore) If you have a least favorite Chapter, then how would you go about changing it?

Tough questions!

For the first one, I think I might have to give three different answers for three different metrics—

Narratively, I think the best has to be Happily Ever After. It's very well done and it sums up what I'd been thinking about the values of various endings very neatly. And the chapter's Narrator gets to have a moment of growth before the end? Incredible.

In terms of satisfaction or fun... they dull over time, but Hunted!Eye of the Needle will always have a place in my heart for how fun it was to play the first time around. Something about sticking to your principles and overcoming what used to be an insurmountable opponent. Loved it.

And in terms of the interactions... it's a toss-up between Nightmare and Razor, but I think Razor might win out, both for the conversations you can have with the Princess and for all the small interactions you can get in Chapter III. I once spent a decent amount of time going through every possible choice with a fine-toothed comb just to see all the interactions—and I'd be willing to go back and do it again since I'm not sure I was looking at every combination of Voices.

Going by a combined metric, I don't even know. Every chapter Most chapters have one thing they do very well, and comparing Hunted!EotN to HEA is like comparing apples to oranges—they're doing different things, and they're doing them well. (On the other hand, oranges are better, so...) This is a question for a second Comprehensive Princess Rankings.

For the second—I do. It's Prisoner.

It's hard to say why I ranked her chapter so much lower than Damsel's pre-Pristine Cut—checking back on my old Comprehensive Princess Ranking post says I liked Damsel better because of the Princess herself and how subtly narrative-savvy she is, which checks out.

(You may also note that this ranking as least favourite is a significant drop from her previous place. This is largely, but not exclusively, due to chapters such as Wraith and Tower gaining esteem between then and the Pristine Cut release.)

But now? It just... feels like there are only two things to do in her chapter. Take her head out of the cabin, or let her die. (Or chain ourselves up, which is to be fair quite cool.) Sure, there are now two different ways to let her die, but.. there were always two different ways to let her die, and it doesn't make that much difference to me that one of them now leads to a different Chapter.

I was hoping before the Pristine Cut released that her new chapter would give us something else to happen, but there isn't a single change within the chapter itself. Even Princess and the Dragon has a cool lead-in and some fun messing with the normal narrative structure of the game, despite not giving us any actual new options. But the Cage is just... identical to Drowned Grey until you actually get there. There's no visible logic as to why one is one and not the other. (There is in reverse, but that doesn't help.)

Prisoner just always felt to me like there wasn't much to do, but that there could have been some potential added, and the hope placed it somewhat higher on the rankings. And then there wasn't, and it... fell.

(The Cage itself is a chapter I haven't explored enough to have anything resembling an opinion on. But I will say it's on thin ice as it stands.)

[gelus-ugs]

Domestic Headcannons

———————————————————————

Gyomei Himejima, Chizome Akaguro (Hero Killer: Stain) x gender neutral reader

I’m sorry if Stain is ooc, I haven’t watched MHA in a while

Requested :]

———————————————————————

Gyomei Himejima

Tbh, I see Gyomei as someone who’d want to live in a small house with lots of nature surrounding the area

Yk, a peaceful and quiet environment

A small pond is a must.

He has a garden near said pond that he likes taking care of and meditating by

He encourages you to meditate with him at least twice a week in the morning

Bonus points if you do it with him everyday, he absolutely loves it

Mornings are very relaxed and peaceful

He waits for you to wake up to start his day, so he can start it with you!

He definitely cleans and you cook :)

I don’t really see him as someone who actively wants kids, but if you want kids, he wouldn’t mind one or two

He’s scared of being around kids because of his huge size compared to them, but he’s the absolute sweetest and gentlest thing when it comes to caring for children - especially his own

He’s the most supportive parent omg. Like he’d support his kid(s) no matter what

Queer? Cool! What can he do to support his kid(s)? Don’t want to be apart of the Demon Slayer Corps? That’s fine! In fact, it just ensures their safety. Want to learn something new? He’s all for it! How can he help?

He’s also the best coparent

Any time you need a break, he’s quick to take the kids off of your plate as long as you need

In fact, he kinda loves it bc it means he gets to spend time with his littleuns 🥰

Chizome Akaguro (Hero Killer: Stain)

Ngl, despite his huge personality and passion, I feel like Stain would prefer to live in a rather smaller house

I feel like he’s more of a quiet kind of passionate

As in - he doesn’t try to force his beliefs and whatnot onto others, but he makes a point and makes sure that others hear him

I feel like Stain’s - oddly - a really good cook

And he actually loves cooking

Mornings are never dull

You always wake up to a face full of kisses 🥰

Maybe even breakfast in bed 🤷🏾‍♂️

Stain definitely wants kids

I feel like he’s nervous to have kids though bc he doesn’t want to scare them with his looks :(

I feel like Stain isn’t one to force his beliefs on his kids

I feel like he explains his beliefs and views, but lets his kids form their own opinion - even if they contradict his own

He tries his best to be a supportive father :]

When he’s in the wrong and/or has to apologize, he’s definitely the type of person to cook you your favorite food and give it to you without saying a word🤦🏾

[wolveria]

On Frozen Wings - Ch 1

Pairing: Crosshair x Hunter

Rating: 18+ only, Explicit

After Hunter nearly lost everything, his family is slowly piecing itself back together. Omega is safe, Echo might stick around for a while, and Crosshair... Well. Crosshair never makes things easy, but sometimes, he does make them simple. Crosshair wants him. Unfortunately, Hunter has no idea what to do with this information.

AO3

Hunter wasn’t sure how it was quieter with more people on the ship, but somehow, it was.

The tension on the Remora was a far cry from what it’d been on their way to Barton IV. That flight had been filled with a crackling thickness that forced a subdued atmosphere and silent ride.

This was different. Something had changed on the planet, and it wasn’t just that Hunter and Crosshair were on speaking terms again, though that was a small miracle itself. And to think, it had only taken Hunter nearly being eaten by an ice wyrm to make that happen.

Considering how their fights usually went, this one went rather smoothly. No black eyes, no broken bones. No one had even thrown a punch. Hungry beasts were tame in comparison.

Maybe that explained the strange space between them now. Strange, because it was peaceful. Deceptively so. Hunter once again found himself focused on Crosshair wherever he was in the ship, tracking him by scent, sound, and that unique bioelectric signature that belonged only to him.

But he wasn’t going to follow Crosshair like a lost pup, or the shadow Crosshair accused him of being. He wasn’t.

He just… happened to find himself in the same part of the ship as Crosshair. That’s all. Hunter wasn’t thinking about the questions left unanswered. When had Crosshair’s chip actually been removed, why had he killed an Imperial officer, and what had really happened back on that ice planet.

Hunter had watched him place the helmets one by one, arranging them on the crate like a memorial. Something… significant had happened there, and the way Crosshair held one particular helmet wrapped in old bindings filled Hunter’s chest with both a dull ache and a sharp, cold sting.

Hunter refused to think about how he’d never seen Crosshair so tender and careful before. These were strangers to Hunter, but not to Crosshair. He’d lived a whole other life, away from them.

Away from Hunter.

No, he definitely wasn’t thinking about that. He was not thinking about it so hard that he failed to notice Crosshair right in front of him in the corridor, a brow raised at Hunter’s errant wandering.

Or, perhaps, not so errant.

“Following me again, Hunter?”

Hunter scowled, but it was out of embarrassment rather than annoyance as he glanced away from where Crosshair stood conveniently in his path.

“No.”

The brows rose even higher.

“Really.”

“Yeah. Really.”

The silence begged for something to fill it, and Hunter did with a grumbled, “Was just… walking the ship.”

“Uh-huh.”

Hunter’s gaze snapped to his, but Crosshair’s expression was one of vague amusement. There was no resentment or anger. Hunter could admit it was a nice change.

Hunter relaxed, giving a half shrug and a little smile to acknowledge his answer was, perhaps, ridiculous.

“Our ship’s not meant to hold so many people. Guess I wanted to stretch my legs while I had the chance.”

“Didn’t get enough of that with the wyrm trying to bite you on the ass?”

A chuckle startled out of him. He’d missed Crosshair’s sharp tongue and scathing wit, especially when it was used for amicable teasing rather than ripping him to shreds. Oh, how Crosshair excelled at targeting all of Hunter’s weak points.

“That? That was nothing compared to some of the creatures we’ve come across,” Hunter said. “Last one almost swallowed the Marauder whole.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes, his own posture relaxed as he leaned one shoulder against the corridor wall.

“How did you ever survive without me?”

Hunter’s humor faded. Not very well, he could admit to himself.

Crosshair’s amusement also vanished, studying Hunter’s face with closer scrutiny than he was used to. None of the others looked at him that way, or when they tried, like Wrecker had been the last few months, Hunter simply skirted around the observation and pretended everything was fine.

It hadn’t been, for a long time. Only within the past day, the past few hours, did Hunter realize his hope hadn’t been completely extinguished.

“Come on.”

Hunter blinked out of his daze, but Crosshair didn’t wait for him, slipping down the hallway until he disappeared from view. And like a second shadow, Hunter followed.

They ended up in the cargo hold, mostly empty due to Echo being between missions for Rex. There were a handful of crates around, and one was growing a collection of armor as Crosshair was in the middle of stripping off pieces.

Hunter stared, dumbfounded. Clearly, he’d missed a very crucial part of their conversation.

Crosshair looked over his shoulder and gave an amused huff at whatever face he was making. Hunter certainly couldn’t guess.

“How long’s it been since you’ve properly sparred with someone?”

Oh. Sparring.

“Well…”

He tried to think. They hadn’t had much downtime to begin with, but after Omega had been taken and Hunter had focused everything into finding her, he’d had too much time on his hands during their stints in hyperspace. Too much time to think about all the mistakes he’d made and the ways he’d failed. A distraction had been sorely needed, and sparring would have been perfect.

But since it had been only him and Wrecker, and they hadn’t been able to spar with Wrecker for years because of his enhanced strength, something they’d learned after he’d accidentally broken Tech’s collarbone…

So, not since Kamino. Not since… they’d left Crosshair.

“A long time.”

Crosshair hummed, the tone of it not indicating his thoughts one way or another.

“Here’s your chance,” Crosshair said. “Sounds better than pacing the ship, doesn’t it? Especially if we’re just going to keep running into each other.”

Hunter could hear the amused tint of the words, the way Crosshair’s mouth curved even if he couldn’t see it, and it was the kind of teasing that used to drive Hunter mad. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it until he no longer had it.

Crosshair bent down to slip off his boots, and he chose that moment to look back at Hunter and catch him staring. Now that he’d been staring at anything in particular, he was just—

“Are you going to strip, or do I need to do it for you?”

Hunter looked away, grinding his teeth together.

Little shit.

Sparring did sound like a good way to get rid of this odd tension he couldn’t identify. It wasn’t a bad sort of tension, not the kind he felt after seeing Crosshair again after so long. That shock had been a punch to the gut, especially after the bone-deep relief of having Omega again.

To have her back, and on the heels of that, Crosshair dropping back into their lives had been like a plunge out of hyperspace with a broken hyperdrive.

Reconciling with Crosshair had been what they needed, and everything should be fine now, right? So why did his gut tighten whenever they were in the same room?

Yeah, maybe this was what he needed. A distraction and a way to work off excess energy.

Hunter hadn’t taken off his chest plate since the ice planet, and he did so now, along with his one remaining pauldron. It was hard to imagine all that was left of his old armor was his cuirass, helmet, and greaves. Even his bandana hadn’t survived the blood and violence he and Wrecker had waged for any scrape of information they could find.

His mind had wandered again—he didn’t even notice that Crosshair had moved closer, only a few feet away and stripped down to his blacks. His arms were crossed, but there was a lightness to his face, bordering on mischief.

“How many layers are you wearing?”

Hunter glanced down at himself. He’d gotten past the green vest, and the tan undervest, which left the brown long-sleeved shirt and his bicep pads—

“It’s protection,” Hunter muttered.

“There’s something else that does a better job of that,” Crosshair said, his eyes bright with silent laughter. “You may have heard of it.”

“Katarn-class armor isn’t exactly for sale at the local market.”

“So, you decided to go without? That’s much better.”

Hunter purposefully glared as he stripped the rest of his outfit. It was a good thing they were going to spar soon, Hunter would happily throw the first punch. Though with the amused tilt to Crosshair’s mouth, he wondered if that was the point.

Hunter pulled off his gloves and gauntlets next, making a show of the exposed armor under the maroon bindings. Crosshair rolled his eyes.

“Well, thank the Maker, your arms have protection.”

Little shit, Hunter repeated as he fought down his own smile.

The running commentary didn’t stop when Hunter removed his gun belt, and Crosshair said, “Didn’t realize you like to live so dangerously, Hunter. That thigh-strap is awfully close to your—”

“Are you going to do this the whole time?”

Crosshair released a sharp breath that wasn’t quite laughter but was close enough to fill Hunter’s chest with warmth. He still scowled at the boots he pulled off his feet, though.

“Not if you’d hurry up,” Crosshair purred. “We’ll pick up the reg before you’re even halfway done.”

Hunter let out a soft growl and turned away. His hands kept fumbling with Crosshair staring at him like that, lips slanted in unending delight at Hunter’s discomfort, but his eyes too narrow and watchful, as if each revealed layer required new scrutiny. Hunter fidgeted like a bug under glass.

He hesitated before pulling off his pants. The armor plating was attached to them, so he couldn’t leave them on. Traditionally, they always sparred in their body gloves, it was fairer and prevented any serious injuries besides what they could cause with their own bodies.

He sighed. It wasn’t anything Crosshair hadn’t glimpsed in the communal shower or even in their old barracks. It was fine. It wasn’t strange.

Hunter kept telling himself that as he shucked off his pants and pulled off the last layer of his upper body. What he wore underneath was… a very truncated version of a black body suit. The upper portion only covered his chest and his shoulders, leaving his arms and hands bare.

The bottom half was even more lacking, only covering his groin and upper thighs. It kept him from overheating with all the additional layers, but that wasn’t much of a reassurance when he felt Crosshair’s sharp eyes taking him in from head to foot.

“What?” Hunter folded his arms across his chest—not because he was trying to shield himself from that piercing stare. Definitely not.

“Nothing,” Crosshair said in a way that meant he had many thoughts he could share, none of them he would.

“Right.” Hunter rolled his shoulder, trying to shake off the new tension that had crept up on him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been such a bundle of raw nerves, but it had probably involved Crosshair. It always did. “Any rules?”

“No killing each other.”

“Thought that went without saying.”

Crosshair’s small but toothy smile reminded him of a predator whose hunger had been piqued.

“Just want to be thorough. Other than that, no boundaries.”

Against anyone else that might be good news, Hunter was deadly in close quarters, but Crosshair fought dirty. Suddenly, his bare skin felt a lot more exposed.

“Sounds good to me,” Hunter said, and he hoped none of his trepidation showed. Hunter might be more prone to biting under stress due to his enhancements, but Crosshair was more than happy to dig his teeth into body parts that got too close to his mouth.

Yeah. Hunter was probably coming out of this bloody.

They moved apart nearly at the same moment, their postures slipping into old fighting stances, comfortable in their familiarity. Too many of their battles these days involved blasters or short, brutal fights that relied on aggression rather than finesse.

Hunter was eager for this, he realized, but at the same time… he held back, hesitant, as they circled each other. The last time he’d fought Crosshair, he’d been trying to kill Hunter, cut him open with his own vibroblade. It wasn’t something he could forget, even if he’d forgiven Crosshair.

And he had. His resentment and bitterness had been buried in the snow of Barton IV. But that didn’t mean he knew where they stood now. The hope felt fragile, and he was afraid to break it with a wrong move or misspoken word.

If Crosshair was feeling any hesitation, he neglected to show it. He rolled his eyes and drew Hunter’s attention to the wide space between them.

“I thought we were sparring, not dancing.”

“Come over here, then.”

Crosshair’s lips twitched upward.

“You first.”

It was an invitation if Hunter was ever going to get one. Crosshair was okay with this, really okay with this, even if it got violent. Which… Hunter wasn’t actually interested in. Not that he ever was, but when it was Crosshair trying to force him into submission, all fists and teeth and lanky limbs, it lit a blaze in Hunter that made him more animal than human—

Air exploded from his lungs as Crosshair’s shoulder hit him hard in the gut, dragging them both to the ground. Apparently, the sniper got tired of waiting.

Hunter was quick, flipping Crosshair over his head and scrambling for him, less than graceful on the metal slats instead of their usual padded mats. He might have been hesitant before, but he wasn’t now, driving Crosshair back to the floor with a combination of thrown weight and gravity.

It was a messy, tangled struggle after that. Nearly all their sparring matches devolved into a contest of who could pin the other fastest. Hunter usually won if he didn’t allow Crosshair to grab him from behind. His height and longer limbs gave him the advantage when Hunter couldn’t reach him, though a jab to the ribs and a hook around his ankle almost always got them back on even ground.

Hunter should have won this round too, but there was an intensity to Crosshair that caught him by surprise, and when the sniper pinned him flat on his back, he stayed there. Mostly because he didn’t want to move and lose sight of Crosshair’s peculiar expression.

It was focused, as it usually was, but layered with a dark intensity that made Hunter’s mouth run dry. Crosshair straddled his hips, his fingers curled around Hunter’s wrists, holding them above his head.

Something about this felt… familiar. Back in their cadet days, sparring matches tended to be most often between them, as Tech wasn’t interested and Wrecker was getting too big for them to do it safely.

Not that anything Crosshair and Hunter did could be labeled safe. Their matches would quickly escalate to black eyes, bruises, and bite marks. Until one day it had escalated to something else.

Nothing happened. Nothing ever happened. They had just been going through the unpredictable swings of hormones during adolescence, a fact they only knew because Tech gave them almost daily updates on his own bodily changes, and Wrecker would enthusiastically contribute with his own.

Nothing had happened, except two sweaty cadets accidentally brushing their aching erections against each other. And then doing it again. Neither of them speaking about these accidental touches, and if they both hurried off to the showers separately afterwards, that didn’t need to be mentioned, either.

So Crosshair leaning forward and rubbing his hard length against Hunter’s equally stiff erection was a shock to his gut, equally familiar and not. They were no longer naïve cadets, and this was no accident.

“Crosshair,” he choked out.

“Yes?”

Crosshair purred around the word, but his eyes were watchful, nearly to the point of wariness, waiting for Hunter to speak. But he had no idea what the hell he wanted to say, frozen like the proverbial nuna trapped under the nexu.

“I…” Hunter finally stumbled out. “What… are you doing?”

Crosshair’s eyes narrowed.

“I thought it was obvious.”

A comment like that might ordinarily earn Crosshair a glare and sharp retort, but Hunter struggled to find where all his air went.

“We…” He swallowed to get his dry throat some relief. “We can’t…”

Hunter’s appeal for Crosshair to see reason might have been more effective if he didn’t groan when the sniper rolled his hips and rubbed their clothed erections together.

“We can, Hunter.” His eyes blazed, staring straight through him and leaving all his old yearnings exposed. “We can.”

But will you? was the unspoken question Crosshair didn’t voice. Hunter didn’t have an answer to that, either. He was still reeling from the idea that Crosshair even wanted him in this way.

And then Crosshair leaned down, so close that Hunter thought he might kiss him, and he held his breath, frozen. Hunter could—and had—faced down battalions of battle droids without flinching, but the sight of Crosshair’s lips hovering over his might be enough to earn his surrender.

At the last moment, Crosshair changed course, his lips tracing over the dark lines of Hunter’s tattooed jaw until his breath warmed his ear.

“Say yes.”

Hunter closed his eyes. He wanted to, stars, he wanted to. Every inch of his body ached with the need to say yes, but he couldn’t. They’d just gotten Crosshair back. He couldn’t do anything to risk that, wouldn’t do anything that might eventually make him leave.

There had been reasons why Hunter hadn’t given in to temptation when they were cadets or troopers. He could have, oh he could have, so easily with Crosshair. Or possibly with regs who had reminded him of Crosshair, but he hadn’t.

The reasons were different now. He didn’t have to worry about pissing off some Kaminoans with their frigid ideas of “appropriate interpersonal conduct,” and he was no longer a sergeant. No longer a soldier. He wasn’t even their leader anymore, not really.

But he couldn’t… they couldn’t…

The noise that came out of him when Crosshair pressed his mouth to Hunter’s neck was embarrassing, startled and needy.

“Say yes,” Crosshair growled against his skin. Hunter’s ability to think, let alone speak, was shot to hell when he sucked on the spot just under his jawline.

Hunter kept his mouth firmly shut as he tried to find the words to explain why this was a kriffing bad idea, but then Crosshair released his wrists and instead dug his fingertips against Hunter’s chest. He used the leverage to grind down harder, and Hunter could practically see stars.

He knew it then. He wouldn’t say no. He couldn’t deny Crosshair anything, not really. And he wouldn’t deny him this, not when it took all of Hunter’s strength not to flip them over and rut against Crosshair like an animal in heat.

So he kept his hands firmly at his sides, and even that was dangerous with them so close to Crosshair’s long, coltish legs.

Hunter tilted his head further to the side, a show of surrender. It was the best he could offer when a part of him still insisted this was the wrong decision, that neither of them were thinking clearly and Crosshair would regret his actions later. Wasn’t that how they got here to begin with?

But that was only a small part of Hunter. The rest of him relished how Crosshair purred in victory and sucked one last spot on his neck before he sat up. His pupils were blown, and his lips were slightly swollen from the rough treatment to Hunter’s neck.

They looked damned delicious, but before Hunter could consider what would happen if he kissed him, Crosshair shifted upright on his knees. He separated his body glove and tugged the lower half down just enough to free his cock.

He was longer than Hunter but not as thick, and he was already leaking copious amounts of precum. Hunter’s mouth watered at the sight, the scent of Crosshair’s arousal even more potent now, and it was a miracle he could keep his hands to himself and simply watch.

Crosshair pulled down the waistband of Hunter’s suit and pulled out his length. He stared at it with a devouring expression that reminded Hunter of what sometimes happens when he gets too close to Crosshair’s teeth.

And then he’s not thinking anything at all as Crosshair wrapped his long fingers around their shafts and thrust forward. The noise that Hunter made sounded almost painful, a ragged groan and gasp, and he failed to keep his hands frozen at his sides, instead gripping onto Crosshair’s calves as if to steady himself. Or keep him firmly on the ground before he floated off into space.

Crosshair kept going, setting a pace that was neither gentle nor slow. Hunter would have thought he’d been more teasing, drag it out just to watch Hunter squirm, but something in his movements were almost desperate. Frantic.

It was all Hunter could do to brace himself, pleasure zipping up and down his spine at a speed that would leave him ruined. Crosshair’s warm hands, the calluses against his skin, the shock of friction between their lengths.

Yeah, he was ruined.

The buildup was quick after that. Too much time apart, years of unanswered yearning and buried desires, Hunter wasn’t going to last long. His bandana came loose, and Crosshair tugged it off, twisting his fingers in the freed locks of his hair, and pulled.

It was nearly enough to hurt, dancing the line between pleasure and pain until they melded, and Hunter arched his back. He gripped Crosshair’s legs and thrust up once, twice, and spilled over Crosshair’s skilled fingers. Fingers that shook when holding a weapon but were steady now as he carried Hunter through his trembling orgasm.

Something gave way inside him, a dam burst after a lifetime of holding back. The grief of losing Crosshair, the piercing ache of rejection and betrayal, the agony of trying to keep Crosshair at a safe distance upon his return, none of it remained intact. The relief shuddered through him, a soft hitch like a sob in his throat.

Hunter didn’t feel the tears until they trickled into his hairline. He wasn’t… crying… or maybe he was? He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, possibly when he was a cadet. But something within him had cracked, and the released pressure made him feel boneless, warm, and wonderfully brittle.

It was good. Hunter knew that much. The tension was gone, his senses thrummed in a way that was almost overstimulation, and Crosshair—

—was looking at him with a wide-eyed expression of horror.

Hunter blinked stupidly. Not understanding when Crosshair pulled away, hastily rearranging his body glove to cover himself—and things certainly weren’t clearer when the sniper grabbed his gear and practically fled the room.

Hunter stared at the doorway, half-expecting Crosshair to come back. And wasn’t that a painfully familiar feeling?

He dropped his head, the back of it thudding against the floor, and reluctantly, he put away his softening cock. Hunter grimaced at the stickiness that coated the upper half of his suit, and then he stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the ship, waiting for Crosshair’s soft footfalls to return.

They didn’t. Hunter’s heart sank in his chest.

What had he done?

Next Chapter

[saffron0v0]

thoughts on tachihara

The bbg of all time ‼️

In all seriousness though, if we're talking about my in depth thoughts of him, then here we go:

My thoughts on his background:

His life was hell from day one.

He was five when Shūnzen left for war. Five. His family was comparing a five year old to a whole grown ass man.

Just imagine how incapable they are of raising children. No wonder Michizō turned to a life of crime. The only thing they properly taught him was who Shūnzen was, and how much better he was than Michizō. The only reason he probably remembers how Shūnzen looks to this day is because of the sheer amount of pictures his family has on the wall. If I were in his position, I'd become sick to my stomach everytime I see a hint of any resemblance. Anything to remind me of his face that haunts me. The silhouette of his will always loom over me, to remind me of how much of a failure I am.

The fact that Tachihara probably didn't have his ability manifested back then must've made their judgements on him worse; they believed Shūnzen was a golden child, what is an 'ability-less' snot faced five year old against him? I don't think he ever got the chance to tell his parents about his ability, they don't seem like they'd give him the time of day to listen. Even if he did get the chance to tell them, you actually believe they'd praise him for it? They'd go straight to comparing how dull his ability is compared to Shūnzen, or some baseless comparison like that.

He somehow found out about what happened, and how Yōsano was seemingly 'responsible' for his brother's untimely death. She was the 'reason' he's suffering like this. He was probably either too young to understand the concept of suicide, or no one told him the truth, and with the fact that Yōsano blew up the ship, it's solid enough proof for anybody.

He lived in that deprecating excuse of a home for years, and years; forced to become a second version of his brother. He'd dye his hair out of spite, and would go in the exact opposite direction, because he wants to be his own person. He always planned to run away at one point, but then he overheard his parents planning to send him to a boarding school or something— Nope. Fuck this, he's done. He's leaving. He packed a few belongings, stole a wad of cash from his dad's wallet, and ran out the door to meet up with some gangster friends he might have. He lived in constant instability, probably exploited by his gangmates for highstake heists, and giving him this false sense of freedom he craved. That is, until the hunting dogs showed up.

This is where it gets the most fucked imo.

His time with the hunting dogs:

The hunting dogs were no rescue. They weren't there to give him a home. They were there to stop a small time gang from robbing a bank, eliminate them, and then leave. It's a cake walk for them. They just happened to come across an ability user with too much wasted potential. What makes it sadder is that he was aware of it. He was fourteen, and to him, this was his golden chance to proof that he could be so much better than anything his parents imagined, all while being his own person. Them considering him nothing more than a comrade was something he was fine with. They probably told him of the surgeries beforehand, through a little deliberation, and no other options, he agreed to be a lab rat. It's saddening how much he went through for him to just end up being a military soldier like his brother.

He probably developed his reason to live because of some offhand comment made by either Fukuchi or Teruko. I'm unsure of when Jōnō, and Tecchō joined, but I could just imagine Tecchō feeling like his sense of justice is being tested when he allowed a young boy barely in his teens to join their ranks. Tecchō isn't much older than 20, but at least he was old enough to think for himself, Michizō's self preservation is quite questionable on the other hand. Jōnō would–in his own way–reassured(?) Tecchō's guilty conscience, and convinced Tecchō that Michizō had complete control over his decision, and that they didn't force him into anything; they merely gave him options. Tecchō isn't convinced, but he let go of the topic for a while.

Teruko might not be outright about it, but she's come to care for the hunting dogs, having a soft-ish spot for their youngest. She obviously adores Fukuchi, but that doesn't make her care less for Michizō. At first, I think she was indifferent, maybe even mocking, and when they trained together, she never held back; she had to wip this twig into shape. Her overall feelings for him were purely work related for a good while, but she eventually started to care for him. Hc: Whenever they had their monthly surgeries, she'd volunteer to share a room with him, (he doesn't know she's doing this, he just thinks they don't have enough rooms) and would keep him distracted from the post surgery fatigue, and pain by ranting about everything, and anything that comes to mind. After having him train under her for a year or three; she fully recognized his talents, and officially views him as capable enough to be a hunting dogs; she'll never tell him that though. (Their sibling relationship is my biggest comfort tbh.)

I don't think he had any particular hard feelings against the commander, but he could be unsettling under that goofy demeanor; Michizō always watched his step around this man. He'd never imagine himself, never in a million, years going against him, not in the same way he would years later.

Michizō was seventeen, with three years of experience as a soldier under his belt, having already been trained, and turned into an ideal superhuman soldier through medical malpractice, when it was finally time for him to be assigned on his biggest mission yet: infiltrate the Port Mafia ranks.

The Port Mafia mission

My heart self destructs at this one. The thought of him going in with a hardened-by-years-of-training heart, and leaving every month or two feeling softer, and his resolve weakening.

He's building meaningful relationships with so many people; the same people that happen to go against everything he stands for as a hunting dog. Hell, he started calling one of them big sis subconsciously. He has a complicated sort of rivalry with the Mafia's top assassin, but he couldn't say he genuinely hates him. (HE THINKS GIN IS A BOY TO THIS DAY IT'S TOO FUNNY NOT TO INCLUDE) The strongest Mafia executive smiles at him, and treats him with undue respect, which genuinely terrified Michizō at times; just imagining that smile turned into a betrayed scowl haunts him at night.

His periodical surgeries served as a wake up call, he never thought he'd feel so grateful for them before. He leaves remembering he has a mission to complete, ignoring the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind.

That's what kept him together for the two years he's been undercover.

Hirotsu knows there's something behind Michizō, but he has full faith in one thing, and that is when the time comes, Michizō would side with the Mafia, because that's where he truly belongs. He never expresses it, but his worry for the consequences that would face Michizō once he's exposed grows by the day.

More on Michizō:

We've seen Michizō's Mafia 'sona he puts up for the mission, and despite everything, it feels so genuine. He's that good of an actor. However, sometimes, I feel like that facade slips from time to time, and he's either genuinely happy, sad, worried, and angry. It scares him how he's starting to become genuine, and how true his Mafia 'sona is becoming. He's kind after everything, and he'll always care. He might be a 'traitor', but he'll do his darnest for people he cares for. The look on his face when Hirotsu, and Gin were in the hospital just reflected how guilty he was for hurting them. It was what sparked his confliction.

He may be a hunting dog in name, but he's a Mafioso in truth, and will forever have a place in his heart, and memories for both.

He's my blorbo, and I love him. 💕🌹

[adobe-outdesign]

Can you do a moehog review? I feel loke they are one of those forgotten pets that don't get a lot of attention

Moehogs are one of those pets that pretty much just fall into the "regular animal" category, along with pets like the Lupe and the Mynci. In this case, they're more-or-less warthogs, with the only real differences being a mohawk-style mane and a few stripes. Their name would imply that the mohawk is supposed to be their main feature, but it's so small and non-descript that it really doesn't make them stand out at all. I would've loved to see the Moehog actually rocking a super tall mohawk, really leaning into that punk look to help it stand out a bit more.

One thing that I really do like about Moehogs though is their expression. I don't know why, but they always just seemed so chill and happy compared to other Neopets. They would 100% ask you how your day went and genuinely want to know the details.

Color-wise, the default Moehog has an orange mane, which looks a bit out-of-place (though less so on the yellow one). I feel like the mane either needed to be black to match the hooves and stripes, or have all three be a darker version of the base color.

The Moehog has basically remained completely unchanged via conversion except for a few shading tweaks and the odd decision to move the back foreleg up.

Favorite Colours:

Halloween: I'm not usually that big on the Halloween pets that look like they're just wearing costumes, but the UC/styled Halloween Moehog is absolutely fantastic. Not only is the Dr. Sloth concept great, but the post and expression are all fantastic, as is the dull green, black ,and red palette.

The converted version is... okay, I guess, but you should be able to see the inside of the cloak from this angle, especially because the loss of it results in the color palette losing the much-needed red. Also, the far right eye is really jacked up for some reason.

Darigan: The converted Darigan Moehog is honestly really boring and it wouldn't even be on this list if not for the fact that the UC/styled version absolutely slaps. The body shape has been adjusted to make it look far more bulky and threatening, and there are some really nice tweaks there as well, such as making the mane run all the way down the body to the tail, adding stripes to the legs to match the ones on the back, and changing the ear shape. I'm not usually big on the more muted-looking Darigan pets, but it works well for the Moehog given the warthog inspiration.

Island: The island Moehog really goes the extra mile all around. The white, tan, and green palette looks very nice and is complimented by a op of red with the flowers. I love how the usual stripes are seamlessly integrated directly into the tan markings, and how the grass skirt and bracelets match the green mane—not to mention things like the shell necklace and earrings, which didn't need to be included but are much appreciated. By far the best detail are the tusks, which have a super subtle carved look to them.

BONUS: The chocolate Moehog has banana tusks and this delights me. That is all.

[annikin-annotates]

hi,

if you write head canon would you be willing to write an aemond x female reader with never diagnosed or treated ADHD? feel free to ignore if that's weird.

thank you.

Hiya!

It’s not weird at all! I’m actually a Psych student with undiagnosed ADHD, who is also writing her thesis on ADHD in the medieval ages so this is very much up my alley!

It’s actually a rather interesting topic! People with ADHD were more often than not sent out as crusaders, explorers and hunters due to their restlessness but also because they were so alert all the time. Making hunting and traveling long distances easier! So in order to keep small folk with ADHD occupied, they would be given jobs outside like working the field or things that involved a lot of hyper focus such as blacksmithing.

I hope you enjoy what I wrote, I also hope it brings some catharsis; But without further ado! Reblogs appreciated

Pairing: Aemond X ADHD!Reader

Word Count: 926

Warnings: Mild panic attack, Sensory overload.

You had always known that you were different.

It started when you had trouble focusing in your studies - preferring to live in the confines of the world in your head.

your siblings had called you boring and scatterbrained. The constant restlessness ate away at you.

but it wasn’t your fault - truly, you couldn’t help it. your mind raced all the time, like there were a million voices overlapping each other. All fighting to be heard at the same time.

When you reached the age to be introduced to court you were sent to King’s Landing.

And that’s when you met him Aemond Targaryen - The second son to the most powerful house in all seven kingdoms.

And he liked you.

you began courting with the Prince rather quickly after that, you were elated that you got to spend more time with him. but there was that voice whispering in the back of your head at all times.

He will leave you when he figures out who you really are - It whispered cruelly.

The first time he noticed it was while on a stroll in the gardens - you picked the cuticles of your nails. It was so subtle he almost didn’t notice it; it reminded him of his mother.

But once he did - he started seeing more things you did.

You were unusually quiet compared to the other young women at court, leaning more towards your own company save himself and a few other maidens at court.

A lot of the times when he would seek you out you would be in the library staring out the window with a far off look in your eyes.

You forgot things - a lot. Not that Aemond minded, he was by your side most of the time between his princely duties.

There was a banquet one evening - you had expressed to your friend at court how you did not enjoy those types of gatherings.

“I think I shall just stay in for the night, you know I prefer my own company”

Your friend would not take no for an answer, insisting that you simply must attend, that there would be revelry, drinking, dancing and food. So you caved to your friends whims.

You felt ill the second you stepped through the threshold, though you tried to shake it off - a goblet of wine may help dull the roiling in your stomach.

It did not.

you had originally planned to make your way to Aemond right away, you felt safe with him at the very least.

Your friends had other plans, instead pulling you to the dance floor. Just looking at the swirling dresses and smiling lords and ladies made you feel sick - but you pressed on.

You tried to dance and be happy with your friends, and you were for a while. But things quickly became too much.

The hall became stiflingly hot, your clothes felt like they weighed more than they did before. Your skin felt like it was trying to crawl away from you - the sticky feeling of sweat clinging you you.

The overwhelming sounds in the room became too much, you could hear lords chewing their food and ladies cackling too loudly.

Your friends tried to pull you back to the dance floor, but you shook their hands off you - it was all too much, just like you had said.

Heat rose to your face, your ears burning in both anger that your friends did not listen to you. And that familiar feeling of embarrassment that you couldn’t control how you felt. It was as if your brain was racing and your heart was trying to crawl from your chest.

“Leave me be! I told you that I did not want to come here and you made me!”

You searched for the exit, pushing open the doors to the hall quicker than the guards could. darting down the hall and to the library where you finally felt safe.

It was quiet - the tension slowly releasing from your body as you sat in one of the plush high backed chairs, tucking your knees to your chin. A few tears and a strangled cry escaped from your lips, all of the emotions finally coming out.

“I thought I might find you here - what is the matter my sweet girl?”

Aemond had seen the whole thing from where he sat at the table on the dias. He watched as you quickly became unsure of your surroundings, seeing the panic set in broke his heart. but by the time he got to you, you had already made your escape - so he went straight to the place he knew you would be.

Quickly wiping the tears from your eyes and uncurling your legs so you could stand, he shook his head as if to say ‘please, just sit. You are okay.’

He knew that when you were like this - being touched was the last thing you wanted.

So he simply sat across from you, his hand upturned and outstretched for you to hold it if you so wished.

Soon you had calmed enough to get up and kneel in front of him, laying your head in his lap.

His hand softly stroked your hair in a soothing manner.

“I do not understand what is wrong with me, Aemond.”

He let out a soft sigh.

“There is nothing wrong with you my love, people don’t understand you. but they don’t have to - because I do. And as long as you are with me; you are safe.”

Taglist: @adelusionalwriter @arcielee @hopelesswritergall @princesssszzzz @whoahoney