#maybe his face is just too grainy and that makes me uncomfortable

[anewp0tat0]

maybe it's because of the worse image quality, or maybe it's cause Ciel is drawn to be much more ÙwÚ baby nowadays in comparison. but I swear, other than older, he used to look scarier

[katsu28]

🍭 oooo something angsty with bradley 'rooster' bradshaw and “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

thank you for requesting anna!! <3 this is my first angst with rooster so i hope it's good :)

bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader, some swearing, angst, 1.7k (she's a long one ik hehe)

You never really wanted Bradley to know how much you missed him when he was gone. Your worries tended to consume you and a lot of the time it showed, even though you tried your best to remain neutral on your sporadic video calls with him. The last thing you wanted was for him to worry about you when he was out there in the skies. He needed complete and total focus, and you knew that, but sometimes you couldn’t help it. 

He looked beyond tired when he appeared on your laptop screen today—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders sagging under an intense invisible weight that you’d never truly understand, the whole nine yards. But he still brightened when he saw you, somehow still managing to look like a dream despite his clear exhaustion and the grainy video quality.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” He said, adjusting his screen until his head was fully in view. “Hi honey, how are you?” 

“I feel like I should be the one asking you that,” You chuckled. “How are you? Are you getting enough sleep? Eating okay?” 

“Yes ma’am.” You suspected he was lying just to please you, but you’d let it slide this time. You were going to see him in a few weeks, you could rag on him then. With love, of course. “I saw the picture you emailed last week, by the way. I hope you bought that dress, ‘cause as good as it looked on you, it’s gonna look so much better on the bedroom floor when I get home.” 

“Bradley!” You hissed, cheeks growing hot. 

“What?” He asked incredulously, shit-eating grin very present on his face. “I can’t admire my gorgeous girlfriend anymore?” 

“Not like that when there’s other people around!” 

“Oh, come on, they don’t care. Coyote, you mind if I love on my girl a little bit right now?” 

“I’m not even in the room.” came Coyote’s voice, probably paired with an amused smirk. “Hey, Y/N.” 

“Hi, Javy.” You sighed, sinking a little lower in your chair in embarrassment. Bradley was entirely comfortable around his fellow naval aviators, as he should be, but that didn’t mean you wanted any of them to hear your conversation with your boyfriend. “Maybe we could continue this conversation another time and talk about something else while I have you here?” 

“Don’t be shy, baby. It’s just Coyote here, if it makes you feel any better.” It didn’t. “He’s waiting to talk to his mom.” Cute, but still uncomfortable. 

“I don’t think—” 

“It’s not like I showed him the picture. We’re just talking!” He chuckled, grinning cheekily. 

“I feel like you’re not really listening to me right now, Bradley.” You blurted, feeling a pang of guilt shoot through you right after. He was out there only god knows where and here you were making a fuss because your feelings were a little hurt. But that was rule number one of having a partner overseas: make sure they know how you feel. Be firm but gentle. 

He sobered up instantly, sitting forward in his seat with an intent look aimed at you. “Okay. Sorry.” He looked offscreen, muttered something you couldn’t make out, and when you heard the shutting of a door, you knew he’d just shooed Coyote out of the room so the two of you could talk in private. “You’ve got me now, I’m listening. What’s wrong?” 

“I just…I miss you.” 

“I miss you too, sweetheart. So much.” Bradley said solemnly. He tilted his head. “That’s not it though, is it?” 

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.” You shook your head, smiling at him. Or trying to, really. Bradley could always see right through you. 

“No you’re not. C’mon, sweet girl, tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I’m worried.” You admitted. 

“About?” 

“You.” 

His expression turned reassuring, tone soft and as soothing as it could be through the static warping it. “Hey, you don’t have to be, y’know. I’m in good hands over here, okay? I’m gonna be totally fine.” 

I’m gonna be totally fine. That should’ve been enough to reassure you, but after the last time he’d said something along the same lines ended with him in the hospital for a few weeks, it didn’t. 

“I just want you to be careful, that's all.” 

“I’m always careful.” He nodded. “Just pretend I’m right there with you, it’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah well, you’re not here, Bradley. Easier said than done.” Your words were entirely a heat of the moment thing, but the clench of his jaw at the statement was enough for you to know that you’d just stepped in it. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? You think I wanna be away from you all the time? That it’s easy for me? This is my job, Y/N, I can’t just say no when they tell me I have to leave.” He said, voice strained and low. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” 

“Yeah. Right. You didn’t mean it at all, sure. Of course you didn’t. You just don’t trust me, do you?” 

“No, I—” 

“No, you don’t trust me?”

“Will you let me finish, Bradley?” You huffed, letting out a sharp breath. 

“You think I’m reckless.”

This was why you didn’t even want to bring your worries up in the first place. Bradley had a tendency to lash out when he was upset or felt cornered, jumping to conclusions because he didn’t know what else to do. It was something he assured you he was actively working on, but when things got a little tense, he seemed to revert right back to his ways.

“Sometimes, yeah!” Shit. You hadn’t meant for that to come out either. Out the window went rule number two: don’t spend the limited screen time you have arguing with your partner. A muscle in Bradley’s jaw ticked. “Damnit, I didn’t mean to—” 

“I think we should talk about this another time. Neither of us are in the headspace to have this conversation right now.” He said, weirdly calm. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything to try and fix the shitshow you’d just stirred up, alarm bells sounded faintly from the background of Bradley’s side of the call. His back went ramrod straight, your blood ran cold. Something was wrong. 

“Bradley, what’s going on? What’s happening over there?” 

He looked around, craning his neck to listen if he could hear anything else that would clue him in. “I don’t know. We should’ve been in the clear by now, I don’t know what—” 

Bradley disappeared from your screen before he could finish his worryingly panicked sentence, leaving you staring at your own reflection where he just was a split second ago. 

A message flashed across the previously blank screen. 

Your call has been disconnected. 

“No, no, no, no, fuck,” You breathed, dragging your finger back and forth on the trackpad frantically. Nothing. You tried calling him back. Still nothing. Then it began to set in. 

What if something really did happen and this was the one time he didn’t come home?  That might’ve been your last call with Bradley and you wasted it on some stupid argument that seemed so insignificant now despite it happening mere seconds ago. You didn’t even get to tell him you loved him.

You might never get to tell him you loved him ever again. 

-------

There was nothing but radio silence on Bradley’s end for the remainder of the mission, and it was agony for you. You weren’t sure if he was okay, you weren’t even sure if he was alive, but you knew you had to go on as usual. Because if you stopped even for a second to think about what did or didn’t happen the last time you saw him, you weren’t sure if you’d make it to find out. 

You were up out of bed the second you heard the front door slam shut in the distance the day Bradley was scheduled to come home, hurrying down the hall. Bradley was standing stock still in the foyer, eyes flitting around at his surroundings until they landed on you. 

His duffel dropped to the floor with a dull thump, shoulders drooping, and when he met your gaze, his eyes were rimmed red. He looked a mess, as you were sure you did too, but the only thing that ran through your mind was that he was here. 

You rushed forward, all but throwing yourself into his arms with a cry. “I’m sorry, Bradley. I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean what I said, I never meant to—” 

“Hey, shhh, it's okay baby,” Bradley soothed, lips pressed against your temple as his arms tightened around you. “I know. I know you didn't mean it, I didn’t mean it either. It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened and the last thing I said to you was…” You couldn't even finish your sentence before a choked sob ripped through your chest, your hands fisting themselves into his jacket in a poor attempt to ground yourself. “I didn’t even know if you were—you were okay, or if—” You inhaled a shuddering breath, fighting another sob. 

“I’m fine, I promise. Our comms got knocked out, but we were fine,” He assured you, stroking a hand up and down the curve of your spine. He cradled the back of your head gently but firmly, his other hand the weight that you desperately needed to reassure you that he was here. “I hated that I couldn't call you back, but I’m okay, honey. I'm okay, I’m right here.” 

Bradley leaned his forehead against yours, taking your hands as soon as you stopped clinging to him and pressing them against his face so you could feel the warmth of his skin, the stubble on his cheeks, his calloused palms on the back of your hands. 

“I love you, Bradley.” 

“I love you with everything I’ve got, sweet girl.” He said, kissing the inside of your wrist tenderly. You smiled through your tears. “Are we okay?” He murmured, eyes searching yours for any semblance of an answer. You kissed him hard instead of responding, hoping that he would see that you didn’t care about whatever the hell you were arguing about anymore. It didn’t even matter, all that mattered was that he came home to you. 

He looked dazed when you pulled away, blinking at you dumbly for a split second before grinning at you. “Well, now that that’s out of the way, let’s go see that dress, hm? See if it looks even better in person.” 

You couldn’t even find it in yourself to be exasperated at his cheekiness.

[stevebabey]

RUBY!!! Hii!! Congratulations on the follower milestone!! I am going to say this again AND AGAIN AND AGAIN but you're one of the most amazing and talented people I have ever come across on this hellsite and I think you deserve this AND SO MUCH MORE!!

Now I have heard great things about Family Video and a certain himbo employee so can I pretty please request no. 9 from list 3 ❤️‍🔥

Sending you so so so much love!!!!

- @etherealforever234 <33

HI!!!! firstly, u like seriously flatter me 🥹🥹 i am feelin GOOEY u actually make writing things like this so easy!!! cos i want 2 write for u and its all luv!!! i'm sorry it's mayhaps a little later than you expected but alas, i think u will still enjoy MWAH LOVE U @etherealforever234 1.4k nd whoops r kinda gives loser vibes in this (loser gf anyone? luveline has like coined that phrase hehe)

You’re expecting him to be gone by eight. Nine at the latest.

The clock on the wall ticks closer to to 10pm and you unwillingly keep tabs on it, driven by your restless anxiety. You should be watching the show on the grainy television screen ahead of you, really. Especially after you jokingly bickered with Steve over the film choice for so long and he finally gave in and fed your pick into the VCR.

But you’re not focused on that either. If your eyes aren’t darting to check the clock, all your focus is zeroed in on the feeling of Steve’s thigh pressed against your own.

It might as well be searing a scorch mark into your skin; you’re sure the feeling might be imprinted in your memory forever. His warmth seeps into you. Somehow, it feels like he’s both defrosting hidden worries within you and setting you aflame. Hopes rise and yet, with them come a dozen other new worries.

Despite his closeness, still, you really were expecting him to be gone by eight. Why is he still here? It’s a little uncomfortable to admit it to yourself but you know the confusion stems from the fact people don’t tend to stick around with you.

Steve seems to be an exception.

You check the clock again and try not to think too hard about how nice his closeness is. How you’re already missing it when he hasn’t even left yet. The hand on the clock shudders with every second it ticks around the clock-face. Steve sees your motion, his eyes silently checking in on you, and a frown crinkles his brow at your distracted state.

“Everything alright?” He asks, voice a bit raspy from under use.

You startle just a bit, head whipping towards him beside him. He’s watching you close, amber eyes sincere and expression open. Surprise sprouts within your chest; he must have noticed your fidgeting attention.

“What? Yeah, yes, everything’s fine.” You assure him with a nod, maybe a bit too eager. “Everything alright with you?” You ask nervously, just to check.

Steve laughs a bit at that. He presses his knee against yours purposefully, a gentle knock. Pairs it with a sweet smile.

“Yep,” He smiles, pink lips not at all distracting you in the least. Your gaze darts to the moles on his neck and back to his face as he continues. “You just keep checking the clock. Want to make sure I‘m not... y'know, overstaying my welcome.”

His words dip at the end, clipped by a tone of worry as he turns back to face the screen ahead a bit, pretending to re-tune in. Steve’s been working on toning it down, trying not to be too intense too quickly. Both in the interest of protecting his heart and trying not to scare you off.

But shit, you’re lovely. Steve’s not entirely sure he’s got a choice in this; his heart feels like it might crawl its way out of his chest just to be nearer to you. It’s particularly insatiable when you’re this close. Thigh to thigh. He can smell your perfume and he’s fairly certain it’s put him in some lovesick state of delirium.

Still, he can read people. Your insistence on checking the clock implies you want him to leave and yet, he can hear the tiny hitch of your breath when he leans closer. Confusion muddles together in his brain.

From the way surprise flickers across your features, you don’t actually want him to go. Some part of him sighs in relief before you even open your mouth to reassure him.

“What? No! No, no way.” The words come out a bit squeakier than you want. You curse yourself for somehow letting him believe you want him gone when it’s quite the opposite you want.

Steve nods, his face earnest enough to tell you he believes you. He shifts on the couch, turning back to face you and inadvertently leans in closer. Swirls of his cologne rush your senses. You hate how your brain tries to commit it to memory in an instant. Fuck, he’s pretty.

“So,” Steve starts, licking his lips in a nervous motion. He gestures with his hand, “The clock?”

Shit. You’ve accidentally cornered yourself. You can either let Steve stew, not quite believing that he isn’t just imposing on you and your time, or tell the truth. It somehow feels even more pathetic now than ever.

“I just,” You start, tearing your eyes off his face. Your throat grows a bit thicker and your fingers find a thread on your pants to toy with. “I’m... surprised you’re still here. That you want to be here. And, y’know, spend time with me. Still.”

It doesn’t feel any greater to say aloud. Eyes fixed in your lap, teeth worrying your bottom lip, you miss the way Steve’s eyes widen. Some wave of hurt curdles up inside him, sour and sore, because fuck, you’re waiting for him to leave? Not because you want him to but you’re expecting it?

Screw trying to tone himself down. Steve knows his heart is on his sleeve and he’ll be damned if the one time he tries to shelter it, it backfires. The words come out easy, without a lick of a lie in them.

“I want to spend all my time with you.” He says sincerely, another press of his leg against yours to drive the message home. He means it completely.

That has your head tugging up. Steve’s heart gives a painful little twist at the utter surprise on your face.

“You do?” You ask.

He pushes on, ignoring the urge to ask who made you feel like such a burden and whether he could throttle them. “I like you. I mean, yeah, of course, I wanna spend time with you.” 

He says it so flippantly, casualness dousing every word, like it was a thought he’d thought a thousand times. Heat flames in your chest, brilliantly warm, and curls up to your face. You let out a breath, a little shuddering quiet laugh of disbelief.

“Oh.” You say. The smile curling at the edges of your mouth is impossible to fight. It’s a full blown grin by the time you meet his eyes again and shuffling closer feels like an instinct you can’t ignore.

“Me too.” You admit, nerves still piling in your chest but damn, if the elation of hearing those words doesn’t beat them by a mile. “I mean, I like you too. As well.”

Steve rumbles out another chuckle but you can see how delight dances across his face. His shoulders sit a little lower, grin a little more confident all of a sudden. His knee nudges yours again, for what must be the umpteenth time this night. Forget scorching, he’s burning into your side — the touch unbearable in the best way now you know he wants you. Wants you like you want him.

“Sounds like we’re in the same boat, you and I.” He says simply, wiggling his arm out from where it’s sandwiched between the two of you. He pulls it up to his face with a clenched fist, covering a yawn, and it takes about another second for it to click — when he stretches the arm up, above your heads, and lets it settle down around your shoulder.

God, that’s a move. You’re nearly ashamed of how well it works on you, considering your stomach twists up gleefully. He’s flirting with you.

“Sounds like it.” You breathe out, voice escaping you a bit at how much closer the two of you are now his arm is around you. Steve’s breath fans across your face, his eyes locked onto your face. They roam your face, drinking in the details, paying particular attention to your mouth.

You lick your lips without meaning to and decide you can’t wait til another evening together, hours away, to know what his lips feel like. Steve will not be the only brave one tonight.

Leaning in, you give a moment's pause, to let him give you a sign to back off. To see if the universe will pull the rug out from underneath you, for this to be some cruel joke.

Steve nods, the tiniest motion. This close, you can see the smallest quiver of his lips. You do your best to kiss it away, trying your hardest to contain your smile with your lips against his. From the way Steve smiles into the kiss, you’re sure he doesn’t mind.

[pigeonwhumps]

Found footage

MD-264N masterlist

@febuwhump alt 8: found footage

Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @den-of-evil

Blue reluctantly shows Morgan footage of themself from the hacked Ministry hard drive.

1.4k

CWs: minor whump, parental death, kidnapping, grief, mentioned ableism, mentioned abuse

"Thanks for this," mutters Rhian. Blue shrugs uncomfortably.

"I promised I'd try. And it is their past, after all. If they want to see it then I guess it can't hurt. I'll call you if we need anything."

Rhian looks reluctant to leave but does so after a reassuring smile at Morgan, shutting the door to the workroom quietly behind her. Blue turns to Morgan, who's standing behind one of the computer chairs, hands behind their back.

"Sit down. Are you sure you want to watch this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. There's information documented in writing too, if you want to read it later, but for now we'll stick with this video. It's the first of the lot, taken from security footage from a house in Bangor. If it gets too much, press the space-bar here, or tell me. Are you ready to start?" Morgan looks terrified, but nods determinedly. Blue sits down beside them and pulls the mouse towards him, watching them warily out of the corner of his eye. "Okay. Here we go."

The video's in grainy black and white, showing a hallway of a modest house similar to the rebels' own. Shoes and toys are scattered around, and there's a few colouring books and some scattered pencils with large grips on a shelf. This is clearly a family home.

A child giggles in the background, and a woman responds in what Blue thinks is Welsh. Someone's added English subtitles to the security footage, and he follows along.

"Ah, come on, put that down, little one. No, hey– hey!" A young child comes charging into view, tackled by a laughing young woman, who grabs the notebook out of their hands.

Beside Blue, Morgan reaches out towards the screen before dropping their hand and whispering brokenly, "Mam."

The little child on-screen is very likely Morgan, then, especially given that this recording is in their file. According to the documentation they're eight, but they look younger.

"Lovely drawings, baby, but did you have to colour in the letters as well? What's my professor going to say?"

"He'll say that it's so colourful he just has to give you extra marks!"

"Well, it is very nice and colourful. Maybe we can put it on the wall after my professor's had a look."

Morgan beams.

There's a jangle of keys and both look up as a man booms, "I'm home!"

"Tad!" yells Morgan, running off-screen (next to Blue, present Morgan mouths the word along with their younger counterpart). The man lets out an "oof".

"Hey there little monster. How was your day?"

"I did all my exercises. And mam says we can put my colouring on the wall!"

The two of them have walked into the camera frame now, the young, bearded man's arm around Morgan. He kisses Morgan's mum quickly.

"How was work?" Morgan's mum asks. Their dad makes a face.

"Boring. Packing parcels never gets interesting. You two seem to have had a better day."

"Lili forgot to tell you her biggest achievement today." Their mum hands her notebook to their dad, who takes it with his free hand and examines it.

"You been colouring in your mam's coursework again?" Morgan nods. "Little monster. I– wait. That's your handwriting. You wrote your name?"

"Yep!" replies Morgan proudly, and their dad beams, ruffling their hair.

"Well done! This calls for celebratory pancakes. You want to go and choose the mould? I need to talk to your mam."

Morgan nods and runs off, and Blue can hear clattering, presumably from the kitchen. Morgan's dad's smile falls slightly.

"What's wrong? Did you speak to your colleague?"

He runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I didn't say it was because of Lili, obviously, but I asked what I could about hiding her powers and keeping her out of the government's hands. His advice was to homeschool for as long as possible and speak to a rebel-aligned specialist about controlling her powers. Which we're already doing."

Morgan's mum sighs. "Great. I don't want to go into hiding but if it's the only way to keep Lili safe…"

Their dad places his hands on her shoulders. "Hey. We've got time until the standardised exams. She doesn't need to go near any officials for a few years yet. Also, I got the radio parts."

"Excellent."

"Let's see what mould Lili's chosen. 50p says it's the owl one."

"Only 50p?"

"Well, we do have a new Sword in the Stone one."

Blue almost doesn't want to watch any more. Tears are streaming down Morgan's cheeks already, and Blue can guess what comes later in the video. Morgan's parents were worried about the government taking them away for special education, similar to what he had, and that did happen, he supposes.

He doesn't want to watch this happen. The kidnapping. The electric shocks. He's had enough of his own, he doesn't want to see it happen to another child who's not a so-called 'normal' person who the government will leave to live their life. With Morgan's disability and powers, and their parents' resistance, it's no wonder that the government wanted them out of society.

That doesn't mean that Blue wants to watch.

But… he needs to. The rebels need any information they can glean from Morgan's records, and that includes these videos. Also, Morgan's watching, and he made a promise. He steels himself and turns his attention back to the screen.

"True." They start walking off-screen. "Hey, little one, what did you choose? Ah, I owe your tad 50p."

Just then, there's a series of heavy raps on the door.

"Ministry of Defence! Open up!"

"Lili, you need to run, just like we practiced."

"But I don't want to leave you!"

"You have to, baby. We'll come for you, I promise. I love you so, so much." There's a sound Blue recognises from his early childhood as a sloppy wet kiss on a forehead. "Now go!"

"They didn't– come," whispers Morgan, hunching into themself, as the younger version of themself dashes across the screen, pancake mould in hand. "They didn't, I– it–" They cut themself off with a sob.

Blue reaches across and pauses the video. "You don't have to watch this. I can stop it if you like?" Morgan shakes their head. "Okay."

Morgan's parents enter the hallway, and their mum unlocks a safe behind a children's painting. She tosses a gun and ammunition to their dad, loading another for herself and clicking off the safety.

"If we don't get out of this…"

"We will," he interrupts. "We have to. For Lili."

"Still. I love you."

The door bursts open and Morgan's parents start firing at the agents in the doorway. A couple of agents fall, there's a burst of gunfire, and then–

"Mam!" screams present-day Morgan, rocking back in their seat, hands flying up to cover their mouth. Blue rests a hand on their shoulder to hopefully ground them and they grab it, squeezing tight. The grip turns into a vice when their dad crumples to the ground too, their voice by this point barely a pained whisper, tears streaming down their cheeks, pooling on their lap.

"Tad…"

Despite the pain, Blue doesn't try to get Morgan to let go as they continue to watch. It's more of a frightened kid than a dangerous weapon next to him now, and he can't bring himself to force them into the position of having no comfort whatsoever.

Several agents dressed in full combat gear enter the hallway, fanning out and disappearing in various directions at their leader's orders. There's no subtitles for them – they're all speaking English.

The hallway empties except for the leader, who rifles through the pockets of Morgan's parents, pulling out electronic parts from their dad's. The floor and walls are spattered with blood, and there's probably more bodies out of shot.

Suddenly, the sharp, terrified scream of a child rings out, and a few seconds later an agent comes into view carrying a squirming Morgan in their arms.

They fall still and silent and their eyes widen at the bodies and the blood. "Mam? Tad? Let me go, let me go, mam, mam, tad!"

The agent cuffs Morgan around the head and they fall limp, dazed. "Your parents are dead. Shut the fuck up or I'll give you something worth screaming about."

The agents leave the house and there's a few seconds of a silent, bloody hallway before the video ends.

Blue looks down at Morgan, unsure what to say. They're curled up, sobs racking their body, eyes screwed shut, hands clamped over their ears, still clutching him tightly with one of them, and he has no idea what to do.

[fandom-hoarder]

demon blood mpreg!sam

[posting this snippet because it’s going to be awhile before it’s finished and i’m impatient; CW for contemplation of abortion, abortion protestors, demon blood sam, mild gore, samruby; this is wincest as a whole]

_

“That’s it, baby,” Ruby croons as he drinks from a cut on her breast, her hand cradling his head to her, and he nearly chokes.

‘Baby’ she calls him. The way Dean had. The way Jess had.

‘Baby’ she says, as he suckles blood from her breast, and Sam feels a lurch in his gut as things shift into stark reality.

_

He can’t see it on his tummy yet, but he swears he can feel it inside him. He wishes he could make himself abort it. It’s not too late. He wonders if that would be the right choice; if he’s being selfish keeping it; keeping the last bit of Dean growing inside of him. It’ll be a child of incest. A child of hunters – one of whom is in Hell, and the other on the road there. What kind of life is he bringing it into?

He imagines Dean yelling at him for even thinking of aborting this pregnancy. He imagines Dean yelling at him for being sentimental to the point of absurdity – ‘You really need a kid to remember me by? What about the mission?’ 

He imagines the things Dean would say about the demon blood…

Sam licks his bloody lips, acidic with bile; tucks back his hair and wonders what to do.

_

His demon blood strike lasts all of nine days, with Ruby plying him at every opportunity about how he’ll never save Dean at this rate, and wouldn’t he feel better if he just had a little; hasn’t he been throwing up more since he stopped? Doesn’t he want to be strong enough to protect himself and the baby? To kill Lilith? To save Dean from Hell? Is he just expecting her to do all the work? Is he giving up now?

_

“You will burn in Hell, baby killer!” The protestors outside the clinic shout at him as he wades through them, alone. 

Their shouts copy the signs they’re brandishing, and despite his height he has to put his arms up to keep them from hitting his head, heaving a sigh of relief when he finally gets inside and gets the doors safely closed. He has an appointment, because it was the only way to make himself accountable, and sits down to wait after he’s checked in.

“They’re right, you know,” Ruby whispers in his ear, suddenly leaning down in front of him, uncomfortably close. He flinches back from the unexpected perfume of sulfur.

“What’re you talking about?” He’s going for disinterested annoyance, rubbing at his ear, but it’s more like flustered insecurity. He thinks he sounds like a child; and as she smiles patiently down at him and tucks his hair behind his ears to cup his face, he feels like one, too.

“About abortion,” Ruby answers, thumb rubbing his cheek. “You will burn in hell. I mean, that’s why I went. I was performing them, after all.” 

She pats his cheek then shrugs, grabs a magazine from the wall rack, and flounces into the seat next to him, leaning her shoulder against his arm. Sam sits, frozen, heart racing. He knows she can hear how his breathing turns to quick, low gasps – not quite hyperventilating – but she’s perfectly nonchalant as she reads her outdated Cosmo, jostling him lightly with every turn of a page.

‘Demons lie,’ he hears Dean say in his head, repeating like a mantra with the loud pulse in his temples.

He leaves the clinic with an ultrasound and prenatal vitamins. It doesn’t look like anything yet except maybe a very tiny bean, but Sam can’t stop thinking of it as ‘our baby’ as he stares tearily down at the grainy image. Ruby drives him back to the motel, arm across the back of his seat, and Sam doesn’t even think to protest.

_

She starts rubbing his baby bump after he drinks from her – like she put it in there – and he wants to cry when it soothes his mild nausea.

He misses Dean, so much it physically hurts, but Ruby doesn’t like to let him feel Dean’s absence long. She keeps him on the path to Lilith and his brother by stepping into Dean’s place whenever Sam needs guidance or caretaking. She smells increasingly of leather and cigarettes; the leather is too new, but the cigarettes are Dean’s. He could almost forget she was a demon, until he tastes the familiar bite of sulfur in her blood.

But then she cradles him inside; as brutal as he needs in his bursts of grief-fueled hunger, she can take it, just like Dean could.

She can take more.

But when her hands spread over his belly and she smiles down at it, says ‘baby’ – the taste of her blood sharp on his tongue – Sam thinks he might swoon with how suddenly he needs her off of him.

_

The sooner he masters his powers, the sooner he’ll have Dean back. It becomes a mantra he hears with every measured breath, bouncing between his temples with the inescapable rush of his pulse as he reaches for a demon’s corrupted soul and pulls. But every time he thinks he’s getting close – that he’ll save someone this time – he loses his grasp. He’s just not powerful enough, no matter how much Ruby convinces him to drink; no matter how much he practices.

Tears mix with the blood streaming down his mouth and neck as Ruby coaxes him to drink from another failed rescue, shushing him and petting his hair and telling him it’s going to be okay – he’s going to get this.

And when he’s drained the first demon of blood, and she summons a second, he finally does get it – in a manner of speaking. Sam pulls, and the demon vomits black smoke onto the demon trap, along with its host’s visceral organs, until the body stops moving.

_

Dean shows up five days into Sam’s second demon blood strike, as he’s trying unsuccessfully to get Ruby to leave his motel room. The sweats have already set in, faster than the last time, but he forgets about the creeping cravings when he sees his brother’s face outside his door. And when Dean’s sudden appearance makes Ruby leave without incident, it’s like it could wash the slate clean.

Sam doesn’t even think about his condition when he wraps himself around Dean, until Dean goes very still in his arms. When Dean inhales, Sam wonders if he can smell the sulfur of demon blood in his sweat, the way Sam can smell the remnants of the grave on Dean. But then Dean asks Bobby to leave, and doesn’t waste a second after the door closes to lift up Sam’s shirt and see the bump that’s finally visible.

When Dean’s hand slides over the taut skin, warm and possessive, Sam wants to cry in relief.

Instead, his tears fall when Dean asks, “Oh, Sammy, what did you do?”

_

It’s not that Dean doesn’t believe it’s his, or that he found Sam shacked up with some ‘nameless bimbo. I know how it is, Sammy–’ It’s not even that Sam decided to keep the pregnancy…

But Sam doesn’t know how to prove that he hasn’t made a deal to get Dean out. Especially when he’s pregnant and clearly still hunting, and hasn’t contacted Bobby since he buried Dean instead of burning him. And there's no way he’s telling Dean about Ruby and the demon blood.

Their argument is put on hold, though, when Sam can no longer control how much he’s shaking and sweating, breathing suddenly harsh as his stomach cramps with nausea and cravings.

It’s like Sam can see some kind of veil fall from Dean’s gaze as he reaches to touch Sam’s clammy face, and the Big Brother Dean that Sam has missed so pathetically finally makes his appearance. Dean pulls him over to the bed, and Sam’s skin prickles in guilty pleasure; having Dean dote on him without knowing why Sam is so sick.

[shawnxstyles]

every inch of you

DATE: JUNE 24, 2021

summary: while shawn is struggling to write a new song for his album, you’re hesitant to move to the next stage of your relationship.

requested: yes!

prompt 8 & 18: “I like what I see.” / “You like... my fingers?”

words: 2.6k

warning: fluff, SMUT (f-receiving), a little dirty talk, and more fluff!

note: inspired by Lights On- shawn mendes. this is also the song shawn writes in the story! fast revising.

illuminate!shawn x plus size!reader <3

*imagine 2018 shawn writing illuminate*

—

OCTOBER 2018

This album was going to be the death of him and you at this point. You weren’t writing, brainstorming, or doing any of the work. However, watching your boyfriend struggle to find the right words was stressing you out nearly just as much.

“Shawn, take a break. You’re going to make yourself go crazy. You’re making me go crazy!” You shout with a laugh, rubbing the top of his frizzy head. He leans back on the black, leather couch, turning to face you with a weary face.

You can hear the crashing waves of Malibu waters outside of the glass windows. You two were alone on this private beach, reserved for only Shawn and whoever else he wanted. As of right now, it was just the two of you in this peaceful environment.

“Come on,” He stands up randomly, tugging your arm while walking toward the sliding glass door. You let him drag you outside to the cool waters and through the grainy sand. You’re both barefoot as he begins to pick up his pace until you’re jogging. He halts at a large rock that collects the crashes of the water and leans against it. His blue basketball shorts get soggy on the ends from the up splashes. You were wearing one of his button ups and your shorts, but standing behind the rock so you didn’t wet.

You never really wore bathing suits, you didn’t feel like you needed to. Shawn and you have been together for about a year now, so he understood when you told him you were uncomfortable wearing one to Malibu. He always tells you how beautiful you are, despite your height, weight, waist or hip size. These were all the things he knew you were insecure about, and usually your loved ones would tell you to not be insecure and that they love you no matter what. Not Shawn. He always said it in a way that made you really feel loved.

He would simply let you be insecure. He knows that insecurity is a part of life and he doesn’t think you should be, but he’s not just going to tell you to stop. It’s hard to control your mind sometimes and he knows that. He’s always been different to you than anyone else has, and maybe that’s what made you love him so much.

With this, he’s never rushed you into anything either. You’ve never been with him intimately (nothing much more than a heated make out session) because of your self-doubt. You’re not a virgin, you’ve had your fair share of experiences, but he was just too perfect for you. Your experiences were never good and you were honestly afraid of being vulnerable again.

“Come to the water. It feels great,” The air was slightly breezy and the sky was filled with misty clouds. You imagined the water was near freezing because of it, but still tip-toed your way into it. The current splashes up to your shins, and Shawn was right, it did feel great. The water was twinkling in the hidden sunshine and the thin foam cascaded when it got too close to you.

Shawn gently slips his hand between yours and laces them together. His rough fingertips scratched against your knuckles, but it was calm and soothing like the waves before you. You leaned against the rock with him, the small waves shooting up to your shorts every once in a while. He faces you, with a dreamy look dancing in his eye.

“Kiss?” He asks, lips puckered loosely and patiently. You gave a head nod before reaching his lips, giving him a long peck. You attempted to pull away, but he had other plans apparently.

His hands rested on your cheeks and slowly trailed down until they were at your shoulders. He rubs them calmly, pacifying any stress you might have with the pads of his thumb. Your hands trail through his curls, braiding around your fingertips beautifully.

“God,” He pulls his mouth away to speak for a moment. “you’ll be the death of me.”

You quickly snatch his lips again, never getting enough of his words or his taste. You both are captured in a deep trance for one another’s lips and beauty. One of your hands moves from his hair to the nape of his neck, rubbing softly. Without any words, Shawn pulls you toward the small house with a hand wrapped in yours. The water stains freezingly on the bottom half of your legs, making you chilly.

When you enter the house again, he plops himself down heavily on the leather couch, dragging you down with him. You didn’t like to sit on his lap in a make out session, you assumed it made you both uncomfortable. However, your assumptions were wrong because he positioned you snuggly on his muscular thighs.

You felt the heat crawling under your skin and on the back of your neck. Shawn just continued to kiss you lovingly, like nothing was wrong. You silently appreciated this act as your hands began to tug his curls. He groans lowly against you with a beating chest and fast breath. You were absolutely loving this; you felt comfortable and secure, and being in a different environment made you feel even safer. Almost like nobody knew where you were, or maybe even who you were.

The sensual feeling was observationally mutual. His hands were roaming you, caressing you caringly and you were beginning to feel that throbbing between your thighs. Usually when this happens, you just ignore it and take care of it yourself. But maybe you were ready to take that step with him today. You back away from the kiss and Shawn’s eyes open concerningly.

“Should I stop?” He suggests, lowering his hands from your neck to your waist. His head was slightly tilted and he had a little tint of pink in his cheeks. Possibly from the water mixed with the crisp breeze, or the heat between you two.

“No, please don’t. I actually want you to keep going,” You were trying to hint that you wanted to go further with this, even if it was just a little bit for today. You had thought about this far too much, for who knows how long, and now you felt confident enough to do it. You were overly grateful that Shawn never tried to convince or force you to do something you didn’t want to. He was just so kind and sweet. And cute and adorable. And sexy and hot…

“Are you sure? This doesn’t have to go any further than this if you’re uncomfortable—”

“Shawn, I’ve thought about this enough. I’m ready,” You eye him with reassurance, appreciative of his full consent toward you. Your smile was filled with mild anxiety and excitement and he reciprocated with a goofy grin. Though, there was a small glint in your eye that was hinting he should take it slow. Something was telling him.

“How about we just take it slow today? One thing at a time? There is no rush, baby.”

“Okay, I think that’s better anyway,” You were so glad he said something because you both know you wouldn’t have. Which scares Shawn sometimes because he doesn’t really know what you’re thinking or feeling. He wasn’t going to worry about that right now because he’s positive that you’re sure.

“Let’s focus on you right now, pretty girl.”

He wasn’t worried about his erection suffocating in his pants right now, or his strong desire to fuck you for hours until he couldn’t anymore. He was only focused on you, and your peak of pleasure was his only goal right now. Songwriting could most definitely wait.

Shawn lifted you up and rested your head on the armrest of the couch. He crawled over you and kissed your luscious lips once again. Your taste was possibly the sweetest thing he’s ever had; you were like sugar candy in human form, and he was able to eat you raw.

If you let him, of course.

Which you did because you don’t think you’ve ever been so horny in your entire life.

The way he unbuttoned his own shirt off of you was probably one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life. He plucked off each one, staring at you with a smirk, knowing you were dying because of his teasing. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of his hands. The bird across his skin was fueling you up even more because tattoos were definitely a turn on for you. When he finally discarded the shirt, you mentally argued with yourself if you should cover up.

“Don’t even think about it. You’re beautiful. Absolutely stunning,” Some words made his Canadian accent more prominent and that was also pretty hot to you. Your skin boiled in response to his compliments. He knew what you were thinking just because he knows you. That’s why this feels so right to you; because he knows you.

Shawn begins trailing kisses from your cheeks down to your chest, making your breathing become more unsteady. He licks along your collarbone, slightly nibbling at the skin. You breathe out a heavy sigh, as his soft mouth traces your skin. When he finally gets to your breast, you gasp with a pant. You would feel his smirk against you as his hand works the other one. His tongue swirls around and over the nipple, and you’re so sensitive, you could feel every nerve on his tongue. His callus fingers rub roughly against the opposite one, balling the bud until it’s peaked.

“Oh my god,” Your chest was collapsing and rising unsteadily as your hands gripped his hair tightly. You felt him moan against you, which sent a vibration through you. You rolled your hips against nothing, begging for any sort of friction. “please.”

You didn’t even know what you were asking for, but apparently he did. He continued to trail down your abdomen, kissing every bit his lips passed over. He shot you one last look of consent, and you reassured him once again.

“I could just kiss you all day.”

You were about to start verbally begging again if he didn’t do something soon. Shawn yanks down your shorts, leaving you in just a simple pair of underwear. Your core was aching for some relief, the undergarment being a stressful barrier.

“I like what I see,” His smirk is so wide, you almost felt embarrassed. He tried not to waste time, clearly noticing you were anxious for some pleasure. After all, that was his new goal.

His rough index finger runs down your smooth skin, outlining every curve until it reaches the band. You could feel the coldness from his rings, giving you chills. He flicks it against you, causing you to jump a bit. His hands and fingers were arousing you a little too much.

“I’m gonna take these off now, okay?” He speaks softly with his fingers dancing over your waist. You nodded rapidly, waiting for him to just do something to you. Anything at this point. He peels away the undergarment with awe in his eyes. You were biting your lip, trying to keep the useless whimpers at a minimum. Once the underwear is off, you’re completely bare— and you’re completely comfortable with it.

“All wet for me, huh? I did this to you?” Shawn teases through the same, evil smirk, while caressing your inner thighs with his thumbs. You mindlessly open your legs wider, spreading yourself open. His tongue rolls over his bottom lip as his fingers move up to where you need him most. He traces your silky lips with his fingertips, and the first touch felt like a shock of electricity. You gasped when two of his fingers went in between your folds, massaging delicately. Your moans were muffled by your own mouth as your teeth harshly bit down on your tongue.

“More, please,” You begged shamelessly at this point, wanting him to finger you with everything in him.

“More of what? Words, princess,” You thought if he didn’t touch you more soon, his words would get you off first. He taps your clit a few times and you moan a little too loudly. Luckily, you two were alone.

“Fingers! Ah, please, I love your fingers,” You admitted through gritted teeth. Shawn was a little shocked actually. He didn’t know you liked his fingers like that, and it honestly made this all the more hot. Your pleading was a turn on for him, the indirect pleasure going straight down to his strained cock.

“You like… my fingers?” He said less confidently than before, but still seductively. You nodded rapidly, making him groan with your impatience. His fingers went from tapping your clit to sliding between your slick folds. Your breathing was heavy, but your inhales were short in anticipation. Suddenly, he curled two digits right inside of you and you gasped for at least the third time today.

His middle and ring finger were doing wonders on you. He curled them smoothly as he sunk them deeper inside of you. Shawn’s rings made you shiver from the contrast of their coolness and the humidity you’ve created. Your hand was roughly scratching the top of the couch and your head was slammed against the armrest in bliss.

“M-more please,” You begged him in your sweaty state. Your hair was sticking to your forehead now, and the hairs on your skin were rising the closer you got to finishing.

“Since you asked so nicely, princess,” He looked at you devilishly through his eyelashes and inserted his index finger. You haven’t had this much sexual adrenaline in a long time, and you missed it. You’re glad it’s with someone like Shawn, and not like your exes.

“Oh- fuck,” You whined, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. Your pussy was clenching around his digits as your arousal leaked from you. There was a knot forming in your stomach that was ready to unravel any moment now. Your puffy lips were pulsing intensely, while his thumb reached to rub your clit. The pleasure was so overwhelming and you were sensitive now. Before you could even moan it out, he said it for you.

“C‘mon, cum for me, Y/N,” He whispered dirty and sweetly close to your face as his movements increased in speed. Your hand gripped his arm, right over his butterfly tattoo, and that alone sent you over the edge. The coil in your abdomen exploded as you finished all over his hand. He licks his fingers off, full of your cum and arousal.

You are definitely the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

“Shawn,” You start breathlessly. He was really leaving you speechless. Your knees were bent on either side of him as he rubbed you slowly, helping you calm down. “that was amazing.”

“I’m glad. You deserve nothing less,” He leans down to kiss you lovingly, nudging your perspiring nose in the process. He gets up from the couch to get a washcloth for you and you sit up tiredly on the sofa.

“How about a bath, babe?” He shouts as he walks back into the small living room, you nodding sleepily. He cleans you off simply and lazily throws the rag on the coffee table in front of him. He takes a long double-take at his notebook, resting empty and fresh. A pen is squished between the blank pages, full of black ink and inspiration. A small lightbulb, that was once dull, grows brightly in his head.

“I think I have an idea for a song.”

—

Thank you for your patience, and thank you for the request!

[bokutosworld]

over again | iwaizumi hajime

pairing: iwaizumi x gn!reader word count, genre: 1.8k words, angst + fluff in the beginning. warnings: mentions of death, car accident.  summary: he blames himself for the past but you help him take the first step to moving on. a/n: @ricerice​ i promised i’d tag you in an iwa angst so hope you enjoy this hahah

—

“Iwaizumi!” 

Who’s there?

“Hajime!” 

Huh?

“Babe!” 

Iwaizumi’s blinded by the harsh sunlight when he opens his eyes. Where am I? He hears people laughing in the distance, children running about, and waves breaking at the shore. With an outstretched hand, he feels the texture of hot, grainy sand beneath his touch. The next thing he finds is the warmth of another person’s hands. 

“Hajime, get up! This is no time for sleeping under the shade.”

He comes to his senses and his vision clears to make out a familiar face. You were hovering over his body, blocking the sun from his eyes and he could see how you were smiling so happily at him. 

He gets up from his lying position and cups your cheeks, thumbs grazing your face so tenderly as if he’s afraid to break you. He tugs you for an embrace, his hold tightening for every second that passes. 

Worried, you wrap your arms around his torso. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?” 

And that’s when you feel it. Tears streaming down his face and leaving a trail on your neck. Your heart quickens and you pull back to see him silently sobbing. 

“Why are you crying?” 

He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. Because even he doesn’t know the reason why he suddenly broke down. It came out of nowhere, his chest constricting at the sight of you and the overwhelming feeling of longing and desperation. 

You’re wiping his tears and he catches your palm, bringing it to his lips. Finally, he smiles, “Nothing’s wrong. Shall we go take a swim?” 

— 

Is this dèjá vu? 

Iwaizumi could swear that he’s been in this exact spot in the exact same time with you. Like he was experiencing it all over again. If he dug around in his mind, he could pull out a similar memory where you were enjoying the feel of the water in your feet and calling out for him to join. 

Maybe it was just a coincidence. 

He decides to stop overthinking and relaxes his tense body. Approaching you with a smile, he surprises you when he places an arm under your knees and your waist and lifts you with ease. 

“Hajime,” you exclaim, hitting his biceps. 

He spins the both of you, the water splashing around before letting you fall in the water. You’re completely soaked, hair sticking to the sides of your face when you come up to breathe and Iwaizumi’s bending over his knees as he laughs.

The thing about Iwaizumi is that he has a beautiful laugh, his eyes often turning into crescents and the sound is music to your ears. It’s rare for him to openly show emotions unlike others you know who wear their hearts on their sleeves. You’d have to be someone he was comfortable with, someone he trusts before getting the privilege of seeing the rarest sides of him.

And to Iwaizumi, you have always been that person. 

You grab his hand and pull him so he could join you in the cool seawater. It takes a moment before he comes up for air and when he does, he’s grinning with a mischievous look in his eyes. You feel his arm around your waist, pulling you closer until your lips are only a hair’s breadth away. 

“Are you happy right now?” He asks. 

Humming, you grab at his shoulders and press your forehead to his. “I am.” 

“Good,” he says before leaning for a kiss. It’s gentle, it’s passionate, and it captures a million loving thoughts and emotions that neither of you could ever translate in words. You feel him smile into the kiss before breaking apart. 

“You taste salty,” you tease to hide how he has just literally taken your breath away. 

He chuckles and in your closeness, you feel his heart racing. “That’s your fault. You nearly drowned me in the water.” 

Rolling your eyes, you hit at his bare chest and make a move towards dry land.

“I’m hungry! Let’s go get something.” 

As he watches you go back to your lounge chair and grab a towel to dry off, the scene before him blurs. He shakes his head, blinks once and twice before you were fading right in front of him. He calls your name and catches you look back at him before all he could see was black. 

— 

When he comes to his senses, he finds himself laying with his head on your lap. Your fingers are softly brushing through his hair, the gesture ushering him in a state of euphoria and he thinks could go back to sleep. 

But then he remembers what happened and he’s up. 

“You’re awake.” He senses something was different with how the corners of your lips turned upwards solemnly. Your eyes glossed with something he couldn’t describe. 

“How long was I out?”

“Well, you missed lunch. And we’re the only ones left here,” you inform him. Your gaze looking past the vast ocean. 

Iwaizumi turns to where you were looking and he’s mesmerized. By now, the sun has set and the sky was turning from clear blue to warm orange hues. He looks at you and his heart jumps, admiring the glow of your sun-kissed skin. 

“Have you realized it yet?” You break the silence. 

What are you talking about? 

You glance at Iwaizumi with a sad smile. When he doesn’t answer, you take it as your cue to continue speaking. “Do you remember when we took our first trip to the beach right after we graduated from high school?”

He listens. 

“It was our first out-of-town date as a couple and I was so nervous to be alone with you,” you chuckle at the distant memory. “But you made it easy. You were such a gentleman, you never made me uncomfortable, and every moment with you felt natural.

“That day, I had the most fun that I’ve had in my years of existence,” you turn to him, eyes boring deep in his and you smile. “That was my favorite memory of us.” 

As if a lightbulb flashed in his head, Iwaizumi finally makes sense of what’s happened. Why the earlier events seemed so familiar to him. 

Because, indeed, they have already happened. 

He feels something in the pit of his stomach and he averts his gaze, looking at anywhere but you. He observes how the clouds look superficial, how the waters before him look almost imaginary, how you look alive. 

His voice is trembling when he asks, “This is all a dream, isn’t it?” 

“That’s right.” 

And for the second time, he cries. Oh god. Of course, this can’t be real. Of course, this was all a figment of his imagination. He’s been praying for this opportunity to spend time with you again. 

 “It’s good to see you, Hajime.” 

Because you weren’t in his life anymore. 

He crumbles in front of you, shoulders shaking violently as he weeps for you. He’s saying something but it’s incomprehensible. He reaches for your hand and you take it, feeling the strong grip on your palm.

“Why?” I have longed for you for days, months. “Why show yourself only now?” 

“You’re still suffering. And I don’t like to see you hurting.”  

“I’m sorry, so, so sorry,” he mutters repeatedly. 

You cradle his shaking body. “Shh, Hajime. Stop blaming yourself. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.” 

He remembers the day it happened so vividly in his mind. It was unpredictable and it happened in a blink of an eye—he could still hear the tires screeching, could still feel the impact of the collision, could still picture himself with you inside that car when it went flying across the street. 

Despite the immediate assistance from an ambulance, the doctors at the hospital declared you as dead on arrival. And when he woke up three days after the incident, he couldn’t believe the news he was hearing. He wanted everything so badly to be a bad dream, wanted to be able to hold you and hear your voice one more time. 

Losing you felt like he lost a part of himself too. 

“I miss you,” he croaked. “I miss you everyday it hurts.” 

“I know.” You hold him close for a while. “I’m only given one chance to visit someone in their dreams so I want to make this worthwhile. Iwaizumi, I want you to move on. For my sake and yours.” 

It takes him a while to calm down, only reveling in the moment when he could finally touch you, talk to you, and hear you even if it was only in his dreams. 

“I can’t,” he stutters. “I can’t move on. There are pieces of you in everywhere I go, everywhere I look. On my table, there’s still the coffee cup you always used when you come to my apartment. Your toothbrush is still sitting beside mine in the bathroom.

And your parents, god knows I’m thankful for them. But every time, they call to check up on me, I’m reminded of you and how I let you die.” 

“It’s not your fault. Stop thinking of that.” Your heart shatters whenever he says that. “No one expected that to happen. And I’m also frustrated and heartbroken that I can’t be with you anymore.”

There’s a long minute where neither of you say anything. The two of you just holding on to one another and savoring the moment. 

“I have always dreamt of growing old with you,” you whisper dreamily. “We’d own a house and live there with our children. I was thinking one boy and one girl. I’m sad that I can’t make that happen with you anymore. But you have a whole life ahead of you. I’m still rooting for you to achieve your dreams, you know?” 

Finally, he laughs as he’s slowly coming to terms with his reality. 

“Forever and ever. That’s how long I said I loved you and that has not changed. Even when I’m already gone, I will always be,” you rest your hand on his chest near where his heart lies. “Here.”  

He grabs your wrist and intertwines his fingers with yours before kissing them. He doesn’t want to let go of you again. He’s already lost you once and he’s not about to lose you again, wishing that he could stay in this dream forever. 

As he’s about to tell you something, he’s brought out of his unconsciousness and his eyes fall to the empty space in his bed. The sheets feel damp and it’s only when he touches his face that he realizes he’s been crying in his sleep. It’s cold when he reaches out to your side of the bed, thinking back to the nights you slept beside him and he felt content. 

He remembers what you said. 

Forever and ever. That’s how long I said I loved you. 

He wills himself to be comforted by those words, repeating them in his mind like a chant until he finds peace and falls back to sleep. He hopes that tomorrow will be better. 

[crystalessenceswrites]

Hi Again! I was wondering if you wrote for the clones? (I'm thirsting for Wolffe!!) If not, that's ok! And if so, I thought maybe something fluffy and a bit hot with Wolffe? I'm a huge sucker for the trope- Reader tries to hide that she hasn't been feeling well and turns out she's pregnant? With twins! She's scared because even though they're committed, it wasn't planned? And then fluff and some love making?? <3333

Hi lovely, welcome back! I am open to writing for the clones, I just haven’t done so yet! I too thirst for Commander Wolffe so you’re in luck! This trope is def very cute, the end turned out more fluffy than spicy, I hope that's alright.

Commander Wolffe x fem!reader Rating: E (18+) Warnings: explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v sex, unplanned pregnancy, swearing (first time writing for Wolffe, may be slightly ooc)

[PART TWO]

There was never enough time. You really should not have been surprised by the revelation, you were at war, but it still sat heavy on your chest. Always needed elsewhere as soon as you completed a mission. Never time to rest, even in transit. Someone always needed your attention for reports, strategic planning or council meetings as the GAR cruiser hurtled through hyperspace. It never left you enough time for him. Thankfully, the stubborn nature of your clone commander allowed him to make time, even if just a spare moment, for the two of you.

“Oh fuck,” you throw your head back against the door as he reaches that spot deep inside you. Pushing you ever closer to the edge. “Wolffe, please-” you’re whining as he grinds up into you, throbbing inside you. He’s always had the uncanny ability to read your body, he knows better than you when you’re close to bliss and he enjoys drawing it out. To think Commander Wolffe was a fucking tease.

“Please what, cyare?” His smug grin slides across your chest following the trail of marks he’s littered across your skin where no one will see. “What does ner jetii need?”

“Please, ‘m so close,” you tighten your legs around his waist, trying to draw him in closer, anything to reach your release, “please, Wolffe!”

He groans into your neck as you tug at the curls fallen loose at the nape of his neck, “well when you ask so nicely, cyare.”

His sudden thrust up pushes the air from your lungs. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as he pounds into you, all teasing forgotten. He’s relentless as you tighten around him, the coil in your belly threatening to snap.

“That’s it,” he grunts, “come on my cock ner jetii.”

His words and his gloved thumb brushing over your bundle of nerves has you falling apart around him. White hot pleasure rolls over you, leaving you a limp, moaning mess in Wolffe’s arms.

“That’s it, mesh’la. Squeezing me so kriffing tight,” he groans, hips stuttering, his own release fast approaching. “Fuck.” Wolffe manages a few more thrusts before he buries himself in you, spilling himself inside you. Whispered praises fall from his lips as he comes down from his own high. His lips ghost over yours in a chaste kiss as he withdraws, tucking himself away before he lets you down.

Your legs cry out in relief when they meet solid ground, not longer clinging to Wolffe for support.

“Good, cyare?” his hand sweeps over your brow, so tender for a man with such a fierce reputation, even amongst his brothers.

“Mhmm,” leaning into his touch, he chuckles at your blissed out expression.

“Someone’s bound to come looking for you soon, General. Let’s get you cleaned up.” You don’t protest as he helps you redress, though you do moan about how unfair it was he just had to remove his codpiece and you had to strip completely out of your robes for these little storage closet rendezvous’.

“I don’t think jedi robes were designed to allow for easy access, cyare.”

You pout, “you’re probably right.” There was that whole bit about no attachments you were blatantly ignoring after all.

Before the commander can come back with another sharp retort your commlink blinks to life. “Yes?”

“General, General Plo is looking for you on the bridge.”

You sigh, “thank you, Sinker. I’ll be right there.”

Never enough time.

.

The next couple of months continue much the same. You and Wolffe sneaking away between missions when you can, trying to find solace in each other despite all the horrors you both see on the battlefield. In a war that seems to stretch on forever he is your rock. As he watches his brothers fall, one after the other, you are his comfort. It breaks your heart to be apart from him but there is little you can do to control it. When the council requests you to join Obi-wan and Anakin for a series of missions you cannot object. Instead, you drag your tired self out to the far reaches of the outer rim to help them as best you can.

“You look exhausted, my dear.” Such tact this one possessed.

You roll your eyes, “you don’t look much better, Kenobi.” Though you doubt he has been waking in the middle of the night to empty the contents of his stomach like you have for the past week.

“This war does seem to be pushing us all to our limits.”

“I’ll race you!” Ahsoka sprints by, apparently headed for some target or another with her master hot on her heels.

“Snips!”

Cody chuckles under his bucket, shaking his head as the two disappear into the distance.

Obi-Wan scrubs a hand over his face, “it’s pushed most of us to our limits.”

“What I wouldn’t give to have the energy of a padawan again,” you groan.

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Obi-wan nods, “we should all try to get some rest while we can. We need to break camp near dawn.”

You agree and bid your fellow jedi an early goodnight. With the headache you could feel coming on, sleep sounded like a good idea. As you go to stand the world spins around you, any sense of balance you had gone. You reach for the crate you had been sitting on to try and stay upright but you miss by a mile. Knees giving out you collapse to the floor, the world around you still spinning. You can barely hear Cody shouting over the ringing in your ears.

“Call for a medic! The General’s collapsed!”

.

By the time you regain consciousness you’re no longer planet side. Obi-wan had been quick to have you medevacked to the closest med-station for testing. The unholy white lights of the station burn your eyes when you finally come to. Your sudden groaning draws Kix back to your bedside.

“General. Good to see you’re back with us.”

“Kix?” You try to focus on the 501st medic instead of the bright lights, “what happened?”

“You collapsed back at the forward camp. We weren’t able to determine what was wrong with the limited medical supplies we had on hand, so General Kenobi called an air lift for you.”

Another groan bubbles up, Obi-wan had been forced to waster precious resources on you. “Were you able to find out what’s wrong?”

The clone’s face falls, “yes.”

You’ve never heard the medic sound so meek before. “Kix?”

“I’m not sure what’s the best way to explain this, General… but you’re pregnant.”

Oh.

Oh.

“H-how far along?”

“Looks like just over two months,” Kix shifts from foot to foot, pointedly not looking you in the eye. You can’t blame him for being uncomfortable, this isn’t quite the medicine he’d been expecting to practice. He was a combat medic not an obgyn. “We were able to get an ultrasound, would you like to see?”

Nodding, you sit up, your head now spinning for completely different reasons. Kix brings you a datapad displaying the grainy black and white image.

“Kix… am I seeing this right?”

“Yes, general.”

“There’s two…”

“Yes general. You’re having twins.”

Oh fuck.

.

Kix is a godsend, having worked with Anakin and Rex long enough to know reporting everything may not always be a good idea. The official report on your sudden collapse reads that you suffered from a foreign infection your body had not been prepared to fight, coupled with the battle fatigue, your body had shut down in order to force you to rest. Obi-wan and the council believe it, ordering you back to Coruscant to recover and rest. You knew you would have to tell them; it would not be long until you were showing, but you would much rather deal with the council in person than from your medbay bed.

Before your escort arrives, Kix slips you a disk with a copy of the ultrasound pictures, “in case there’s someone you want to show them to.”

“Thank you, Kix,” he blushes when you give him a quick peck on the cheek, “you’ve done more for me than you’ll ever know.”

You do your best to rest on your trip back to Coruscant but its incredibly difficult when your mind is going a parsec a minute. Besides the council there’s one other person you have to break the news to. While you two had talked about what life would be like for the two of you after the war, this was not something you had discussed. You were not sure if Wolffe wanted kids ever, let alone now. Having twins while the whole galaxy was at war was not ideal. Not when the two of you were expected to put your lives on the line for the Republic.

Panic washes over you when you arrive at the capital to find the wolfpack waiting for you on the tarmac. They’d just arrived back for some long overdue shore leave and Plo had informed them of your sudden illness. Normally you would be touched by how much they cared for you, but now all you can think about is how you are not ready to face Wolffe. Not yet.

You can feel his gaze heavy on your back as you field Sinker and Boost’s barrage of questions.

“I’ll be alright, I just need to take my medicine and get some rest. It shouldn’t be long before I’m right as rain again.” You hate lying to them, but you did not want them worrying unnecessarily either.

It seems to appease them; the pack wishes you well and invites you out to 79’s with them as soon as you’re recovered. Wolffe hangs back, watching his brothers go.

“I’ll walk you back, general.”

“No.” It comes out much harsher than you’d like. The surprise that washes over his face feels like a stab to your gut. “There’s no need, Commander. I’ll be alright.”

His voice drops, brow furrowed together, “cyare?”

“Not now, Wolffe,” you frown, “I just need to go lay down. We’ll talk later.”

But you don’t. You cannot find it in yourself to answer any of his calls or messages over the next few days. Instead, you wrap yourself up in as many blankets as possible and hole up in your quarters while you try to figure out what to do. You watch Coruscant go by from your window. It’s only when Sinker and Boost call that you’re freed from running around in circle inside your head.

“Boost? Sinker? What’s going on?”

“Oh thank goodness you’re alive, General!”

“Boost what are you going on about?”

“The Commanders been going crazy! He hasn’t heard from you in over a week and we don’t think he knows how to handle it!”

Although you and Wolffe did your best to keep your relationship hidden, in such tight quarters it was hard to keep it from Wolffe’s brothers. You’d never outright admitted it to them, but you figured they understood what was going on. You were glad for it now.

“I’ve seen him pace before, but never like this,” Sinker adds.

Oh Maker. “Where is he?”

“The barracks, General.”

“I… I’ll speak with him, alright? Hopefully that will calm him down.”

“Thank you, General! We were running out of ways to distract him!” That was the kind way of saying ways to annoy him to keep Wolffe’s mind off you.

“Thank you, Boost, Sinker.”

“Good luck, General!”

You were going to need it. This was not a conversation to have over the com so you make your way down to the barracks, doing your best to avoid attention when you can. It was not like you weren’t allowed there, but the last thing you needed was more questions.

Boost and Sinker were not lying about the pacing. Punching in the access code to his quarters reveals a tightly wound Wolffe, pacing back and forth across the length if the tight space. His armor has been haphazardly discarded around the room. You’re surprised he hasn’t worn a path into the floor yet.

“General?” Surprise and then relief fall over his face when he catches you standing in the doorway.

“Wolffe, I-”

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be resting.”

You’re thrown off by the sudden cold tone in his voice. “I-I came to explain, Wolffe… to apologize.”

“Apologize?”

“I’ve been avoiding you Wolffe,” your voice cracks despite your best efforts to remain calm, “and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, I just needed to find a way to tell you and I couldn’t.”

His frown deepens, “tell me what?”

“That I’m pregnant.”

“What?” He looks at you live you’ve grown another head.

“I’m pregnant, Wolffe.”

It takes him a moment to wrap his mind around your words, but you can see the instant he does, his mouth dropping into an ‘o’ as his jaw falls slack.

“You’re pregnant? With my… with my baby?”

“Babies,” you correct.

His brain seems to sputter out again, “babies?”

You nod, “twins.”

Before you can blink, he’s got you wrapped up in his arms, spinning you around the room. “Twins. You’re having twins.”

It takes everything you have not to start bawling. Kriffing hormones. You’ve never seen Wolffe this happy. This was beyond any reaction you could have imagined. The awe on his face when he sets you down makes your heart melt.

“This is why you were sent back? Your sudden illness?”

“Well yes… but Kix’s report was that I had an infection. I wanted to talk to your first before anyone else. I just didn’t know how.”

His warm hand oh-so-gently cups the side of your face. You lean into the touch. After even just a few weeks apart you’re starving for him.

“Why were you worried, cyare?”

“We’d never talked about kids. And we’re in the middle of a war. Not to mention we’re not even supposed to be together on the first place… I didn’t know how you’d react…”

His face softens, his amber eye drifting down to your nonexistent bump. “I’ll admit, I’m surprised. It may not be how either of us hoped, but it is a pleasant surprise.”

“Really?”

“Really, cyare.” You cannot help but smile as he pulls you in for a kiss. His lips slanting against your own as he holds you close. “I know there may be somethings we need to work out, but we’ll take it one step at a time,” he murmurs against your lips, hands tracing patterns across your back. “We’ll figure it out together.”

[qianinterprises]

Among the Horses {Part One}

Pairing: farm boy!Jaehyun x female!Reader

Other Characters: OC's, Haechan (sorta, kinda, not really), Renjun (sorta, kinda, not really)

Genre: fluff, angst, country au, farmboys and lady's au, falling in love, slow burn, friends to lovers

Warnings: verbally abusive aunt, yelling, degrading (not the fun kind)

Word Count: 3.8k

Overall Synopsis: Being sent to live with your aunt isn't exactly something wonderful, especially because she's verbally abusive and downright determined to turn you into a "proper lady" who a wealthy man will want to marry. However, perhaps living there won't be so bad. After all, you've got a handsome farm boy teaching you to ride horses.

Part One Synopsis: Arriving at your aunts is very challenging and trying. After being put through the ringer with your attire, you finally get a chance to explore the green world, and spend more time with the farm boy who'd picked you up from the airport.

Author's Notes: So I started this a while ago and didn't really do anything with it, but I love it and I really wanna write more so yeah... Also, I've posted this on a03 as well.

Tagging: @treasuretaeil @hachanbaecon @hwangful

A white, dirty pick-up truck pulled off the main road and onto a long, winding dirt road, leading them closer to a grand house that you had only been to a few times in your life. The place you’d be living for the next year or two.

The truck bumped along the loose gravel, crashing over potholes, sending you bouncing on the very worn cloth of the cab, your eyes glancing worriedly to the male beside you, one of his hands planted firmly on the hard steering wheel, the other loosely placed on the stick shifter in the center of the bench.

“Are you sure the tires won’t… fall off?” your voice was thick and laiden with worry.

He glanced over at you, warm brown eyes gazing intently into yours, the opticals flecked with curiosity and amusement. Embarrassment crept under your skin.

“You haven’t been out here in awhile? Have you miss?” he asked, tone filled with friendly amusement.

You awkwardly scratched at your nose, a bit of a nervous habit she’d picked up over the years.

“No. My parents never had the money to travel.”

Your voice was small, etched in nervousness and anxiety.

He cast you a gentle smile as he pulled the truck around a sharp curve in the road, and there it was.

The house was huge, at least three stories high and stretched across the land it was perched upon. The foundation red brick that looked freshly cleaned (it probably had been), a contrast to the pearly white of the rest of the structure. The curves and contours of the slightly oddly shaped house made it more enchanting and nerve-wracking, especially as you grew closer, tires hitting the smooth cement before your driver moved the shifter and parked the truck.

“Head on in, miss, I’ll get your bags.”

His accent was a combination of Asian mixed with southern, an odd mix that somehow seemed so delicately smooth and perfect, especially the way he drawled over the “r’s”

“Miss?”

You’d been stuck in your thoughts, eyes wide as you surveyed the prospects of your new home.

“Right, yes, thank you,” you said softly, moving to get out, the door creaking as it was opened.

Your black, falling apart sneakers hit the tan pavement of the driveway, the hooks of your overalls rattling loosely against your torso as they accommodated your movements; the loose denim legs falling just above your knees as you pushed the dingy door closed.

The male you’d ridden with, Jaehyun, he said his name was, pulled the latch of the truck bed and reached up to grab your mismatched luggage, his sturdy frame pressing into the hot metal of the truck.

“Do you need some help?”

Your voice was small, mixed with worry and hesitation.

You’d do just about anything to prolong the inevitable.

“That’s quite alright, miss,” he began. “You should head on inside. The heat is a harsh place for a lady,” he answered.

You looked down, playing with your fingers, but you didn’t reply. Instead, slowly moving toward the brick steps that would lead to the entrance of the beautiful home.

~

Anina Lee was a strict lady. She liked things just a certain way and she got them how she wanted. She didn’t tolerate bad behavior or disobedience. And she had a strong dislike for people that got in her way. Thus, she had never been married.

She lived alone, if you count having two live-in maids, a chef, and a stable hand that slept in the barn as living alone.

Alina was your aunt. Your mother’s elder sister who had alienated your mother when she’d married a man of lower class. That same man later had a wife who blessed him with three kids to care for, spending his days fixing the cars of those more fortunate than him, hoping to make a buck for his family.

That’s why you were here. A young girl, coming of age to be married off and starting a family of your very own. Your family couldn’t support you any longer, and as you prepared to move away in hopes of finding some sort of job or a life, your aunt had hastlessly offered to take you in. Your mother had all too happily obliged, hoping her only and eldest daughter would learn a thing or two from the elder woman, maybe turn you into the lady your mother and father had tried for years to make you.

The stainless white door slowly opened and an older woman stood in the frame. She was clearly in her 50s, stress lines drawn thickly in her forehead, wrinkles in the corners of her dull gray eyes, deep lines around her nose and mouth, her neck sagging just a little beneath her sharp jaw. She was a small lady. On first glance one may have a hard time understanding what makes her so fierce. She was small in stature, small in size and in frame, but she had the tongue of a snake, the heart of a lioness, and the skill of a chimp.

“(Y/N)! You’re finally here!”

You stood a good few inches taller than the woman, but that made you more nervous if anything. You made her way up the steps and, as you reached the woman in the door, you were promptly pulled into a proper hug that severely lacked warmth.

“I can’t believe you got on a plane and sat amongst all those people in that ghastly attire. You must change at once!”

The woman’s voice was so shrill it could pierce glass, but you held back the flinch.

“Martha!” the same voice called into the house as she pulled you in, shutting the door and encompassing them in the cool air conditioning.

A larger lady appeared, dressed in stained blue jeans and an ugly yellow shirt.

“Please show my niece to her room and help her change into something more… feminine and lady-like,” her aunt’s voice commanded.

“When you’re finished dear, have Martha show you to my study.”

There was no endearing term in the word “dear.” Simply an icy addition to a perfectly manicured sentence.

You watched your aunts receding form, pencil skirt tight on her legs, black heels sharply hitting the hardwood intimidatingly.

“Come with me, dear. Let’s get you changed,” the larger lady spoke softly.

She was older, maybe 60 or so, her skin dark tan, although you couldn’t tell if it was the sun or her natural skin pigmentation. Her voice was grainy, but soft and endearing. Motherly she’d dare say. And you thought that this woman may actually make living here bearable.

You followed the lady up the grand staircase, up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway until you reached the end. The lady pushed open the thick white door and stepped inside, you following her closely.

Inside, the room was surprisingly rustic. A simple, full-sized bed with an obviously homemade comforter thrown across it. A light gray plush rug beside the bed. The hardwood floors were surprisingly and delightfully bare. One large section of the wall was home to a large bay window that stretched from the ceiling to the plush gray cushion of the bench. There were a few flower paintings and other pointless nicknacks scattered on obsolete surfaces around the room, but you paid no mind to them as your attention was drawn to the lady opening the large mahogany grand dresser and plucking out two cloths.

She unfolded both neatly, placing them on the bed and you sighed. The skirt was long and pleated, patterns of red and white stretched in an annoying kaleidoscope arrangement across the nearly pointless garment and the white shirt appeared to be partly transparent.

“Go ahead and get changed dear, I’ll help you when you finish,” she said kindly and turned her back.

You waited for her to leave the room but it was apparent she had no intention to. Awkwardly, you began unhooking the straps of your overalls, letting the fabric clang to the floor. Your skin heated up, feeling all too exposed before sliding into the skirt, the itchy elastic clinging to your hips uncomfortably. You pulled your stained blue t-shirt off, swapping it for the crisp white one that you feared you’d stain in the next few moments.

The lady turned around, her wide hips bumping into the dresser slightly. The dresser was sturdy enough not to jostle, but it was obvious the corner was sharp and painful. You almost felt bad at the way the lady’s face winced, but it was quickly pushed away as calloused hands began gripping the delicate skin of your arms, squeezing along the skin up your arms.

She tsked and turned around, rummaging through the dresser once again, only to turn around with a black, light cardigan.

You gawked. Why on earth would you wear that atrocious thing in this weather? It was the middle of August! Not December!

“I know. But if your aunt were to see your arms, she’d have a fit. She probably still will,” she said.

You sighed. Your aunt hadn’t changed one bit. Your skin was fragile. The tops of your forearms lightly tanned, a pigment passed on from your father. The rest of your arms and body entirely was light. Lady’s should be gorgeously sunkissed to be beautiful and to be taken seriously.

With a huff, you put on the long black sleeves, the intricately designed cotton draping over your shoulders perfectly. But that didn’t mean it was any more comfortable. You could already feel the added heat seeping onto your skin. You’d be sweaty and uncomfortable soon.

“Now let’s do something about your feet.”

You looked down; your worn socks had holes all through them, mud permanently stained to the sweaty fabric.

Bustling from the room, you were left stunned in the wake of the surprisingly fast woman, watching her round the corner and disappear down the hall to fetch something to apparently “fix your feet.”

You thought you’d do something to speed along the process. The more time spent getting you dressed in these ridiculous clothes, the less time you had to explore the outside world. You made your way to the bay window, taking a seat on the plush cushion that accommodated you nicely. You pressed your back against the edge of the wall and turned your gaze to the picturesque green world filled with surprisingly lush looking grass, dips and hills along the valley, and the tops of trees further off in the distance. All this land was yours for the roaming. You couldn’t wait to get out those doors and go exploring.

The sound of water sloshing in a pot brought your attention back from the window, glancing curiously as the large lady placed the pot down in front of the window.

“Put your feet in.”

You didn’t argue. You were hesitant, but thought better than to argue and have your aunt boil you alive in this pot.

As soon as your dingy, dirty, mud pasted feet hit the water, you hissed. The temperature felt that it could boil the skin right off.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s hot, but your aunt is expecting you down soon and I have to do this as quickly as possible,” the lady said.

Grabbing your left foot, she picked the appendage up from the water along with a suds coated dish sponge and began mercilessly scrubbing away at the tender flesh. You whined and howled, tears pricking to your eyes as your skin was scrubbed and abused by the harsh bristles of the brush. You attempted to yank your foot away, but the tight grip on your ankle prevented much movement. You were stuck suffering as the skin became reddened from the irritation.

~

As soon as the painful experience came to a close, your now pink feet were dried with a towel before being slid into a pair of eccentrically beaded, golden strapped sandals that accentuated the rest of the over-the-top outfit nicely.

“You seem presentable enough now, although I’m sure the mistress of the house would have a few unkind things to say about your wild mane.”

You tried not to take offense. You liked your hair. It was an untamed mop that curved wildly carefree, blowing in the breeze that picked up the thick tufts.

“Thank you for your help ma’am.”

She bowed at the waist, a kind smile on her lips.

“No need for the ma’am dear. Call me Martha, or Mrs. Rivera if you must.”

And with no more haste, Martha Rivera led you back down the grand staircase to the bottom floor, the tight flats biting at your heels and ankles with every step you took, fighting off the winces that followed. You rounded a few sharp corners, venturing into a large sitting room with an extravagant flat screen high on the wall and couches that looked brand new. Through a dining room, table decorated with a sequined bronze cloth and the finest China you’d ever seen, although that wasn’t really a stretch. Finally, they made it to a large oak door, cracked just enough that you could see your aunt’s silhouette sitting behind an elegant red desk, glasses perched on her nose, pen in hand, eyes married to the computer screen. Mrs. Rivera left you by the door, and you almost spun on your heel and walked away. But of course, that would be too easy.

“Come in child. Stop standing in the doorway.”

Your blood froze in your veins. You pushed the door open and stolled in, tripping over the lion skin rug, stumbling a bit before catching your balance. Harsh wisps of breath rushed past your aunt's lips and the chair creaked as the weight lifted from it.

You straightened your back, staring fearfully into the cold gray eyes that trailed over your face and down your clothes.

The woman began moving slowly around you, manicured nails and boney fingers tracing over the outline of your clothes and jaw, running through your wild mane and down your hands, inspecting the bitten off nails. As she walked, she muttered things like “hair won’t do” and “horrible posture” before she stood back in front of you.

“You simply won’t do,” she said sternly.

The words hit hard. You may have been expecting something like this, but it didn’t make the words hurt any less.

“You look like you’ve been sleeping with the horses. Your nails are pitiful. Your skin is far too light.”

She gripped your jaw, tilting your head up harshly to expose your still slightly chubby neck.

“Can you ride a horse?”

The question was sudden and it caught you off guard, but you answered as quickly as your brain would allow.

“N-no. I’ve never ridden before.”

The woman sighed loudly, hot puffs of air pouring out of her flared nostrils.

“That’ll have to change. Starting tomorrow, you will be taking riding lessons from the stable boy. Every lady should have the basic skills of riding,” her tone was cold and brisk as she looked away and perched back at her desk.

“You’re dismissed. Dinner is at 6. Don’t be late. You may roam the grounds.”

With a wave of her hand, she dismissed her niece and immediately went back to work, not bating another eyelash as you fled hastlessly from the room, your eyes welling with tears as stress and fear washed over you, although more relieved that it was over and you could finally do something for yourself. You’d start by ditching these God forsaken shoes.

You made your way around the back door of the house, more by pure necessity than memory, simply logically thinking the best way around in the expansive flooring. When you made it, a smile broke across your face as you unfastened the painful shoes, kicking them off in a sloppy jumble by the door before opening the heavy door, the heat of the afternoon hitting your face, not that you minded.

As you stepped out, bare feeting meeting hot cement, you stripped the cardigan from your shoulders, draping it over a random, sun baked chair. You tore off through the grass, laughing giddily, breeze blowing wisps of your hair, skirt fluttering delicately over your skin. It would be difficult to do anything in the blasted thing, but you wouldn’t give yourself enough time to strip down into something better, opting to enjoy the last of the day while you could. And you’d start in the bright red barn your eyes immediately fell on.

~

Making your way through the soft grass that squished under the weight of your feet, you strolled into the half open barn, the soft snorts of animals bringing a smile to your lips. Just because you couldn’t ride, doesn’t mean you didn’t love the animals. You loved horses especially. They were such beautiful and majestic creatures. You’d always wanted a horse, but your family had never been able to afford one. You’d always wanted to ride, and now you could, although you didn’t understand why it was so important to your aunt.

The cool concrete felt rough beneath your feet, stray straws of hay littering the floor. It could have been a picture straight out of one of the Country Living magazines you’d kept hidden away at your parents home.

The first horse you came upon was a tall brown animal, head hung over the stall door, ears perked to attention, eyes trained on the new invader inside the barnhouse. He snorted at you and his hoof hit the barn door lightly in an attempt at getting closer. You stepped closer, slowly offering your hand out, letting the animal sniff searchingly.

“He’s looking for some sugar cubes.”

The voice came out of nowhere, interrupting your serenity, a yelp leaving your lips as your whole body jolted in the sudden fright.

You turned your head to the barn door where your driver was standing, taunt arms crossed over a broad chest, veiled from prying eyes by a lightweight flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His long legs were clad in dusty denim, mud and hay from his knees to the tops of the worn work boots.

“I’m sorry. I just like horses-”

“And you thought you’d come visit them?” he finished your sentence.

You immediately began shuffling your feet, eyes turning back to study the fading paint on the stall to keep from facing him.

Heavy footsteps hit the floor as the male moved closer until he was close enough to touch. His large, rough hand gripped your wrist lightly, bringing it up toward him. You let out a little yelp, riddled with confusion and curiosity until three small blocks were placed in your palm.

“Hold your palm out to him and don’t jerk away,” he spoke calmly, slowly urging you.

You nodded, having some sort of unkempt trust in his words as you turned back to the animal and extended your arm, palm flat, cubed sugar offered to the horse, who greedily munched them right out of your hands.

“His name’s Haechan. He’s a bit of a character.”

You nodded, drawing your now horse-slobbered hand away, opting to stroke the animal's fur from his nose to between his eyes.

“That’s an interesting name,” you said.

He hummed behind you and you heard his boots hitting the concrete as he moved away.

“Do you like animals?” he asked.

You spun around, eyes wide and shining.

“Yes! I love them! Sometimes I prefer animals over humans!”

His smile was gentle as he surveyed your physique, a dusty pink tinting his cheeks, although you thought nothing of it.

“Come on, I want to show you something,”he said, walking past you to the opposite exit of the barn.

You followed close behind, curious as to where he was taking her. Your feet fell back onto the grass, the long blades sliding between your toes as you followed in his wake. As they walked, a white picket fence came into view, not far from the barn, but oddly well hidden beneath the crest of a hill rolling through the land. Once you reached the fence, his hands curled around the boards, hoisting himself up, foot balanced on the bottom board as he climbed up, throwing a leg over one side, then the other, and jumping down. You stared at him in awestruck confusion.

“Climb over, I’ll catch you on this side.”

You didn’t know why you blindly trusted him. You didn’t know him from a random stranger in the town, but you complied, placing your foot onto the same board he had, pulling yourself up and swinging a leg over, then another. The skirt snagged in the boards a few times, one of your feet nearly slipping off the boards as you attempted to keep it pushed down. This proved to be more of a challenge as you balanced on your heels, hands clutching the top piece of wood as you contemplated how to get down now. That is, until his arms outstretched, slightly bent at the elbow, fingers parted, palms facing one another, and you knew what he wanted you to do. Taking a deep breath, you pushed off with your left foot, hands releasing your grip on the fence, letting yourself drop, eyes squeezing in slight fear that you’d soon flop hard against the green earth. But when strong hands caught your waist, arms drawing you in, broad chest breaking your fall, you braced herself against him, feet carefully being lowered until they pressed back into the earth.

“See, that wasn’t so bad.”

His teasing tone had you pulling away, glaring playfully at him before turning and pretending to walk away, leaving him in your path.

At least, until you heard a rustling in the long grass inside the fence.

You squeaked as it grew closer taking a step back as your harsh gaze followed the rustling of the grass, positive a snake would wrap itself around your leg as it dug its venomous fangs into your soft flesh.

Needless to say, you were in for quite a shock when the small head of a brown and white calf popped up from the grass.

And you were sinking to your knees.

The calf moved toward your lowered body, sniffing at your arms until you reached out to run a hand down it’s small head and back, cooing quietly, eyes brimming with unfiltered delight as you wrapped your arms around the baby, stroking the fur of its back lovingly.

“This is Renjun. He’s my little cousin's calf.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Your cooes of joy were enough to show every emotion you were currently feeling.

Horrible aunt or not. You could certainly find worse places to be trapped. At least here you had rolling hills of green, beautiful animals to fawn over, and Jaehyun, handsome stableboy who you couldn’t wait to get to know.

[keilemlucent]

lavender latte: ix

(M (for now!)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

chapter 1   ||   chapter 2  ||   chapter 3   ||  chapter 4   ||   chapter 5   ||  chapter 6   ||  chapter 7  ||  chapter 8  ||  chapter 9  ||  chapter 10  || 

masterlist

word count: ~5.1k 

beta’ed: @hawnks & @keiqos 

the dichotomy of fear and safety 

warnings: vivid descriptions of panic/anxiety attacks, bodily injury, blood, ptsd descriptions, dissociation/depersonalization, overstimulation, trauma (please let me know if this should be warned any more thoroughly!)

alright fellas. second half of the mega chapter. PLEASE i read the warnings. please. there’s big moments in this chapter, but there’s lots of descriptions of what is warned. 

that being said, read and enjoy 💗

||||||||||||||||||

You didn’t know what to do. 

Horror had risen in your throat, intangible poison seeping into the tendons that pulled from your shoulder blades to your fingertips. You were frozen on the couch, Keigo’s babbling mixing with the static of the call. 

It was fuzzy background noise to your fear, the same way the press conference had been. 

Your nails bit into the meat of your palms, pricks of pain like flint and steel burrowing into your hardened jaw. You had your gaze trained on the ground, but the shuddering of your body was unmistakably unavoidable. 

Why are you shaking so much?

You felt like you were trembling hard enough to fall apart. 

(Were you cracking open from the inside?)

A knock sounded from your balcony door, an insistent thing that felt dulled and yet too loud. The sound tasted like a bitter herbal medicine you didn’t want to swallow.

All the same, you painfully moved to unbolt the door, the nagging push of the rubber tops of your crutches being a constant reminder of your own state and how you got there. It made your head swim even more. 

The moment you unlocked the sliding door, Keigo was into your apartment and onto you. 

 Keigo had been able to tell you weren’t doing well the moment he landed on your balcony, blinds and curtains open to give the perfect vantage point to see you falling apart.

His heart stuttered as he entered the door, taking you in as quickly as he could. 

You were in house clothes, the same ones he’d seen you in a few days ago. Mussed up hair and sunken-looking eyes that were uncomfortably vacant in the glow of the bright LEDS of the TV. You balanced on a single crutch and the back of the couch. Clutched in your free arm, tight to your chest, was the doughy-eyed plushie he’d given you at the hospital.

You looked purely wrung out.

Keigo bit his lip for a moment, not entirely sure on how to proceed. 

He’d been trained for it, once, how to coax someone into and out of states of distress. The thought of his own skills and their purposes were uncomfortable against the way he actually felt. The cognitive dissonance was loud, thundering, in his skull as he watched you sniffle. 

He acted on feeling. 

Keigo’s chest ached as he placed his hands on your shoulder, rubbing his thumbs into your knots of tension, “Can I hold you? Please?”

You dropped the plushie, shoving off the couch and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. If Keigo hadn’t been paying attention, you would’ve fallen, considering the way your lone crutch clattered to the ground.

 Your eyes burned as you shoved your face into the fluff around Keigo’s collar, bathing in his familiar, spiced scent and praying that it would calm you. You clutched at the back of his jacket and squeezed with everything you had.

You wanted to speak, say something, maybe explain the fact that you were quickly coming to sob against Keigo and for whatever reason.

But you couldn’t.

Any words and proper speech dissolving when you saw his perfectly healed face and were held up by his perfect healed arms. He was smiling, even if it was stitched with a bit too much concern to be comfortable.

His health should’ve made you feel better, but it didn’t.

The molten realization that seeing a pristine version of Keigo didn’t do anything to assuage how horrible you felt was worse than panic-inducing.

“Oh, dove, it’s okay, everything’s okay,” Keigo assured you, a gloved hand smoothing down the back of your spine. 

You tried to rationalize as you quaked. 

He’s fine.

You knew that already.

Everything’s fine. 

But, it didn’t seem to matter too much in the moment. 

You clung to him, bearing a bit of weight (foolishly) on your injured leg. If anything, the pain was grounding as you barely kept yourself together. 

Keigo hushed you, tearing off his gloves and tossing them aside to touch you with his bare hands, “Dove, everything’s fine, no need to cry.”

He smoothed a hand over the back of your head, cupping your neck and stroking a thumb over your spine. The action should’ve been comforting, Keigo being there should’ve been comforting, but it just wasn’t.

It made you feel so much worse. 

Your quirk spat, his touch burning far back in your throat.

“I-I know,” You leaned into him. “It’s just scary.”

“What is?” Keigo asked, his voice soft like barbed burrs against the shell of your ear. “Talk to me, (Y/N).”

“What do you think?!” You broke down, voice coming out far louder than you intended. “You got hurt!”

It was all you could manage to say. 

 Keigo paused, not saying anything for a minute.

...

He’d never seen you like this.

Keigo had seen you hollowed by your quirk and injured, yet you hardly cried then. He’d seen you immersed in no-good feelings, clutching a bottle of cheap wine, yet all you had been was maybe a bit vacant-sounding.

Yet, now?

You had him in a vice grip, shaking with the force you were squeezing him with.

He had to try his best to help, right? Show you that he was completely well.

Nothing to fear. 

“Dove, I know it’s scary, but it’s okay, I’m okay,” Keigo tried to comfort you with a squeeze and a kiss to your temple. “Everything’s okay.”

It didn’t seem to get through to you at all.

You continued to shake and sob as Keigo helped you to the nearby couch, your crutches in tow with a few of his feathers. 

 You desperately wanted to explain yourself better. Articulate in a way that made some sort of cohesive, easy to understand sense.

But, the reality was that it wasn’t that easy.

You couldn’t get a single thought straight. Everything was going to fast, yet trickling around your psyche like a thick glue. Your confusion was made worse by your panic. 

...

Keigo sat you down, a frown creasing his pretty features. 

You hated that you were the root of it. 

You stayed tense, shoulders hunched and hands folded in your lap as tears dripped down your cheeks.

And truthfully— honestly?

You felt fucking stupid. 

Maybe it was that the rancid, steadily-strengthening storm in your skull had been choking you for over twelve hours. 

Maybe.  

“Dove, I’m fine, see?” Keigo’s voice grated on your ears. 

Shouldn’t it have been reassuring? Shouldn’t it have made you feel better and not worse?

The reminder made your fists tighter. An odd anger boiling at the front of your skull that had your sobs slowing.

You shook your head, grabbing your crutches, and pushing yourself up.

Keigo caught your wrist, squeezing and pulling lightly, “Dove, please, I’ll get you whatever you need. Just sit for a second with me, okay?”

“I will.” You couldn’t make yourself look at him, jaw clenched. “I just need to grab some water.”

“I can— “

“Please. Just let me do it myself.”

You crutched away in as put-together of a manner as you could.

(It wasn’t much.)

Getting to the kitchen, your eyes were blurred with new tears of pure frustration. Your heart hammered in your chest to the point of nausea. Your quirk fired on and off and you desperately tried to calm yourself, especially in front of Keigo.

He’s fine.

He’s fucking fine, you’re fine.

You felt ridiculous.

You swallowed, grabbing a glass from your cupboard and sliding it towards the sink.

You balanced in front of the tap, resting your weight on the front of the counter. You put your booted foot down, not even wincing at the sharp pain. You were beyond caring. 

You turned on the faucet, forcing yourself to take more even breaths as you grabbed the glass.

 Keigo, meanwhile, had simply unmuted the TV, not even thinking much about it. You usually liked something ambient in the background if it was quiet enough. White noise. But, Keigo didn’t really check the volume, or what was playing. He wasn’t thinking about those details, far more focused on trying to listen to you in the kitchen.

(A mistake.)

The program you’d had on roared from the living room. 

 You didn’t really hear it until you felt it.

Rumbling of the bass of the speakers.

Cars revving.

Someone screaming, high and grainy— 

 The sudden sounds ripped through the air.

Ripped right through you.

You jumped, heart stuttering in your chest as your quirk burst to life.

The shock of it all had you nearly losing your balance.

You would’ve, if you hadn’t slammed your hand in the basin of your metal sink for stability— 

The glass in your hand, in your fist, shattered upon impact.

...

You didn’t scream, didn’t make a sound as you slowly looked down. 

Just slowly let your eyes, narrowed and focused, center on the sudden mess of bloody glass in your sink— 

And the scarlet shards that were stuck in your hand.

 Keigo waited, feathers keenly reading your breathing from the other room.

It scratched at his damn brain when the sound of broken glass against metal echoed through your apartment.

Your breath quickened shortly after. 

At first, Keigo was a bit annoyed. 

Just a tiny, tiny bit. 

You obviously weren’t doing well, and your stubbornness about getting fucking water just seemed senseless. Especially since you were already injured.

If you’d just let him take care of you— 

Keigo sighed, rising from the couch and making his way to the kitchen, “Hey, dove? Don’t bother trying to sweep, my feathers can— “

His voice died in his throat as he rounded the corner into your kitchen, fear growing in his chest.

 You were bent over the sink, oddly supported on one crutch with way too much fucking weight on your injured leg. 

But, that wasn’t the worst, not close.

You held your hand just over the basin of the sink.

Jagged shards of glass stuck from your palm, little rivulets and streams of blood dripping into the sink below. 

Your eyes were uncomfortably vacant, brows creased and mouth just the slightest bit opened, lips cracked.

“Oh, fuck, dove, shit,” Keigo should’ve known better to panic, but the immediate swell of that protective nature (that he needed to think harder about) had him shooting across your kitchen, a few of his larger feathers flying to support your injured leg. You would’ve fallen if Keigo hadn’t wrapped an arm around you for balance. 

Keigo couldn’t tell if it was the burning concern he had over seeing you hurt (again), or the tiny pricklings of ire he had that this was entirely avoidable if you had just listened— 

He grabbed your wrist, turning it by his firm grip to take in how bad the injury was.

(Secretly, he’d done a bit more reading about injury assessment, since what happened with your leg.)

“Well, I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” Keigo sighed, letting his annoyance bleed into his tone. As concerned as he was, this was just a mess and he was somewhat aware of the fact he was also running a bit late— “Where’s your first aid kit?”

You were silent, head tilted down, eyes wide and on the running blood.

“Dove, first aid kit?”

“...There’s glass in my hand.”

Keigo’s swore he felt his lungs turn to ice, every selfish thought promptly draining. 

If he thought hearing you sob was bad, however the fuck you were talking then was a thousand times worse.

Hollow didn’t even begin to describe it.

“There’s glass in my hand.”

Shouting echoed from the TV.

“There’s glass in my hand.” 

...

There was glass in your hand. 

Shards, just like on the teashop’s floor. 

Your quirk spun, trilling to life, far harder and harsher than it had in the past twelve hours of panic. It descended indiscriminately on your perceptions and senses like a swarm of carrion-eating corvids, the shrill, staticy shouting of the TV, their caws and crowings. 

You found that blood smelt similarly, a coppery, heady scent that made the backs of your eyelids singe.

It made your head spin. 

Then again, anything and everything was hard to sense. Hard to think. Keigo might’ve been talking, you couldn’t tell or care. There was just— 

“glass in my hand.”

The pain of your present, weeping wounds should’ve felt sobering, like the echoings of your surgery when you put pressure on your healing leg. 

But it wasn’t.

The sting trailed up your arm, eating at your nerves and bone marrow like biting ants and hungry mosquitos.

You wished you could’ve reacted but all you could think of was that was—

“glass in my hand.”

...

...

The teashop. 

Everything was okay there. 

Keigo would come in for his drink, you’d make it, you’d flirt, and everything was okay. He’d give you his pretty laugh, you’d watch the blush grow on his cheeks. 

...

The tea shop wasn’t an open-wired husk, covered in SHATTERED GLASS glass and ruined. There was no shadowy villain that sprayed GLASS glass into your leg. There was no injury, there was no agony in Keigo’s voice when he first saw you on the cement. 

He never left you in the back room, quaking and cut.

Your quirk never spun so hard in the place that was once a safe haven for you.

...

Keigo had never been bloodied in battle. Well, maybe, but you never saw it. You didn’t keep yourself awake with nightmares, caring when you shouldn’t have. You didn’t ever accidentally brand the image of him with a crooked arm and bloody cheeks into the front of your mind. 

All that there was— 

“glass in hand.”

Simple as that. 

...

Your chest was burning, like phosphorus and liquified iron were being poured down your throat to settle and flattening you to the floor. 

Everything was okay.

You spun

 “(Y/N).”

 Keigo.

 ...

 God, he was fucking dumb. 

“There’s glass in my hand.”

It all clicked, and Keigo felt a roll of anxiety wash through him. 

Tears rolled down your cheeks, your mouth open as you took harsher and harsher breaths.

Fuck.

Keigo would kick himself for not recognizing the scope of it, you, faster.

He sent a feather to silence the TV, another to grab a nearby dish towel, gently wrapping it around your wrist from the bottom. With the most tender touch he could, he covered your hand and forearm.

“There’s glass in my hand.”

You choked on your own breath, free arm wrapping around your stomach.

Keigo knew touching you could make this all worse, so he tested the waters with a gentle palm on your shoulder.

You didn’t flinch or tense, but you didn’t lean into it.

Good enough.

Keigo shucked off his heavy coat, quick as he could, sending his feathers to scatter away and across the tile below. He rested in on your shoulders, watching your reactions with the utmost intensity and a set jaw.

“T-there’s glass in my hand.”

With all the tears clouding your eyes, it was no wonder you couldn’t even see the wound covered. Not that you were properly in your skull, Keigo could tell that now. 

He doubted there was much lucid about you.

Keigo should’ve known better. Really. You were his angel— his fucking dove. That protective instinct was so dispersed in his hero work, that them coming alive seeing you injured and panicking was jarring to the point of nausea. 

Why had he ignored how you sounded so off on the phone? The weird behavior?

You were just a few weeks out from being in a significant villain attack— Did Keigo really think hugs and kisses were going to mend the wounds he couldn’t see? The ones he couldn’t perceive?

He just had to do better, now.

 Something bore down on your shoulders. Weight.

Would you fall?

You remembered how your knees hit the hard floor of the teashop how SHATTERED GLASS glass had dug into your kneecaps. Maybe, they didn’t feel like the same fiery insects burrowing in the nerve-endings of your hands— no, those had felt like thin, metal toothpicks, shooting through the bone like it was a threadbare sheet and not solid.

Something soft pressed against your cheeks.

It sent blessed, blessed heat through your body. The smell— like honey and sweet cream filled your mouth like a gulp of holy water. It warmed the back of your tongue, familiar and sweet.

Keigo.

You remembered him that terrible day too. How good, and solid he was. How his heartbeat was the tempered drum you needed to even attempt to grasp the frayed threads of objective reality through the chaos, shouts, and SHATTERED GLASS— 

“There’s glass in my hand.”

“I know.”

His voice. 

Similar sensations, the same warmth, like a heavy, quilted blanket wrapped around you. Maybe a hearth, rolling in the late night as a late autumn night rolled by— 

You were being pulled down, physically. 

It scared you.

“No!”

It came out as shriek like SHATTERED GLASS angry nails against your ears, spitting bile up from the soles of your feet.

The heat washed over you again, “It’s just me, angel. I’ve got you.”

You trusted it, implicitly. 

You sank, expecting the same pins to shred your knees again like they had back then. 

Expect, it didn’t. 

Rather, slowly, you end up on the ground, on your bottom.

 Keigo guided you to the floor with the help of some feathers and words of encouragement, not even attempting to get you back to the couch.

He sat you between his own outstretched legs, coaxing you to lean back into his chest. Keigo kept a careful watch on your hand, bracing you at the forearm as to not aggravate the wounds more than necessary. 

It took a moment, but you fell against him. Your breathing was still harsh and ragged, but at least you weren’t trying to keep standing.

Tentatively, Keigo wrapped his arms around your waist. You didn’t react negatively, so he took it another step further, resting his forehead against the back of your neck.

“(Y/N), breath with me,” he asked, keeping his voice soft. “Just listen to my voice okay?”

He counted his breaths, keeping them slow and methodical. Considering how his own heart was exploding like a miswired bomb, he needed it as well. 

Even if it took a while for it to catch in your skull, Keigo kept at it. 

...

Keigo was good. 

The images of him bloody and smiling were still bright.

But, he was good.

He was attached to the heat and sweetness around you. It was distracting. 

Nice.

“Just like that, nice and steady, you’re doing so well, dove.”

He was good.

Slowly, the pains and barbs around your body dulled, at least by a few fractions.

The lump of panic lodged in your throat eroded and left your belly oddly-weighted and uncomfortable. Though, it was marginally better than whatever you were feeling before.

Slowly becoming aware of your body (and the one so close),  you shifted to rest your cheek against Keigo’s temple as your quirk quieted a few decibels. 

You sagged back into him, tears at a steady drip, but nothing like they were.

“Keigo?” You asked hoarsely. 

He shifted, your teeth shattering as the movements of his muscles felt like so much so close to your own.

He flickered his kind, golden gaze to you, “Yes?”

“There’s glass in my hand.”

The words nearly fired you up again, a sob burying itself like a shortsword in your breast, your head tilting to look-

Keigo squeezed around your waist, a wide feather coming up to shield your face from what you both knew you’d see, “There is, dove. Do you have a first aid kit? Let me patch it up for you.”

Did you really want to see your bloodied hand? The mental image of it still felt so fresh. 

It all felt like too much— 

“Dove? Stay with me, (Y/N),” Keigo carefully laid his hand around your jaw. “First-aid kit?”

“Oh,” You blinked, focusing back on him again. “Under the bathroom sink.”

...

 Keigo was careful not to let you slip away again.

He kept talking, keeping his voice low and soft as he set you onto the couch to clean your hand. The feather shield turned to cover your eyes as needed.

Your hand might’ve looked worse simply due to the white dishrag bleeding red.

He was quick to patch it, bandaging it and wrapping as needed. He’d made sure to tuck your favored plushie, the one he’d gifted you, into your free arm as he did.

He sat between your spread legs, on his knees, as morning light shifted in from the open balcony window. It might’ve seemed intimate to an onlooker— maybe it was.

That was a later thought. 

Finally, hand wrapped confidently and securely in medical tape, Keigo sat back, the feather shielding your eyes floating back to his reassembled wings.

You still didn’t look well, maybe worse than used-up and hollowed as before.

Slowly, your injured hand twitched, grabbing Keigo’s wrist and pulling him to the couch.

You tugged him into your lap, burying your face in the front of the shirt of his hero costume.

Keigo settled on top of your thighs, wrapping his wings around the two of you as he buried his nose in your hair.

“We’re okay.”

It was so soft, Keigo hardly heard it.

“We are, dove.” He kept his voice equally quiet, reverent in the gold of the morning. He pulled back to settle and meet your gaze. “You’re safe. I’m safe. We’re safe.”

You squeezed around his hips, pulling him closer in the crimson canopy, “You sure?”

“Positive.” 

There was a moment of stillness, then shrillness. 

The ringtone of Keigo’s phone screamed from the pocket of his jacket that you still had around your shoulders. 

You jolted, pushing yourself deeper into Keigo and wincing, the sound undoubtedly shredding your oversensitive mind and body.

He quickly grabbed it from the pocket, ending the call.

“Do you have to leave?” You asked, weak against him sternum.

Keigo shot off a text, silencing the phone sans emergency alerts and tossed it near his shoes at the door. 

“No, I’m not. I’m taking the day off,” Keigo spoke words he truly thought he never would. 

“Are you sure?” He knew you knew he was busy.

“Yeah,” Keigo replied quietly, tugging you as close as he could. “I would never leave you like this, (Y/N). Never.”

“You’ve got important shit to do,” you fought, weakly, still melting against him. 

“I do,” Keigo emphasized, cupping your face in his hands. “You know what that is?”

You didn’t answer, eyes flickering away, something fragile bore in your eyes. 

“Keeping you safe.” Keigo stroked over your cheeks, letting his softest, most careful smile grow. “I’m new to it, but one thing I’m sure of is that I’m supposed to be here when you need me. And I want to be.” 

“You do keep me safe—” 

“Then, I haven’t done a great job of helping you feel that way,” He kissed your forehead, quickly hushing you. 

You were trembling beneath him, unsure of what to say. 

Quiet as he could, Keigo spoke once more, the words sounding almost like breath, “I’m sorry I pushed you away. Let me be here, now.”

Truthfully, endlessly, you wanted nothing more. You’d get a therapist, or something, to help with the more pressing, far back concern of obvious trauma.

But now, in the early morning of your golden-lit apartment?

You just wanted Keigo to stay.

You just wanted to fall into him, both you being okay, the only red stains being that of Keigo’s crimson feathers that you adored so much.

He felt solid, as he always had.

You leaned into him. 

“Can we nap?” You interrupted your own hush, voice nearly breaking with tired tears. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“I don’t imagine you did,” Keigo winced internally, remembering you must’ve felt horrible since the night prior. “Come on, dove.”

Keigo helped you to your room, gently assisting you in moving aside your plushies. You sipped some stale water from your bedside, a few of his feathers refilling it for you as you were undoubtedly dehydrated. 

You sat back on the duvet, Keigo quickly gathering you into his arms, head against his chest. His feathers dispersed around the room, only the small roots remained to be pressed into the sheets. 

 It was the calm after the storm, mangled pieces surfaced and bobbing on the water of both your minds. But, they could be sorted and dealt with properly later. For now, you settled, blessedly, in the comfort of each other. The shattering thunder was an echo, quieted by the others presence and slow breaths.

 The steady thrum of his heart in your ear was the final bit of calm you needed. The blackout curtains of your room kept it dark, light with the tiniest fairy lights across the seam of your walls and ceiling barely giving enough light to cast shadows. Your quirk was properly dormant, though you still felt frazzled.

You were exhausted, but not done yet. 

“Keigo?” You asked softly. 

He immediately squeezed your intertwined hands, the one laid over his navel, “Yes?”

“I’m sorry I got like that, about seeing you hurt,” It was such a soft admission, unnecessary, but you didn’t let Keigo’s inhale stop you. “I know, I don’t need to apologize, but I’m still going to.”

You sat up a bit, body aching as you faced Keigo.

His lips were parted, half-ready to speak, to comfort you, but you needed to be there for both of you— if only for a moment.

“I also know it’s part of the reality of your job. It’s just hard, seeing someone you love hurt, whether it's necessary or otherwise.”

You both noticed your word choice.

Your lip wobbled as you stroked his cheek, rubbing your thumb over the curves of his face. He looked younger like this, more like his age, eyes widening and soft and truly vulnerable, as terrifying as the prospect was. 

 “You don’t need to be sorry. I understand,” Keigo assured you, voice shaking as he tugged you down and closer. “It is hard. I didn’t realize how hard until now.” 

His breath caught in his chest, followed by sniffling as he buried his face in your hair. 

You entangled your legs with him, the weight of your boot a solemn reminder.

“It was more than that too.”

You both knew what you were referring to. 

Keigo squeezed you, so hard it almost hurt. You swore you could feel a few stray tears of his wet your scalp, “And that’s okay.”

Your eyes stung, “It was all so scary— “

You muffled yourself against Keigo’s neck as you clung to each other. 

“I know, but it’s okay now. You’re safe, safest you could ever be,” Keigo assured you, the wobble in his voice almost disguised. He rubbed at the tension in your lower back, “It’s okay to be scared, however that is and whenever that is, but do you feel me next to you?”

“Y-yeah.” A soft admission.

“Then you’re safe.”

You believed him, implicitly. 

 You simply held each other for a while. 

 “Are you just better at coping with all of this?” You asked, the joke feeling light after so much heaviness. 

“I’d say repressing, but ‘coping’ works too.”

You snorted, gently. 

Keigo stroked up your back, touch like a washing, warm undertow that you were happy to be caught up in.

“I’m sorry for not understanding sooner,” Keigo squeezed, mind drifting unconsciously back to his own past, of that he’d rather forget and most of the time did. “I know it’s hard to communicate, and I can’t imagine what it's like with your quirk. I’m supposed to be smart about this shit, but it looks like I have some work to do, huh?”

“You couldn’t have known. Just adjusting, you know? Communicating and learning,” You replied, squeezing him. “You care so much, Keigo. I can tell.”

Keigo went silent and tense.

“How?”

It was a question posed to both you and himself.

 You thought for a moment, through the thousands of moments you’d collected over the months, so many concentrated in the last few weeks.

“It’s how you feel, you know?”

He remained silent, though he knew what you meant. 

You felt your tongue rest in your mouth, activating your spent quirk for just a moment and savoring Keigo’s sweetness.

“You taste like honey. Like, warmth on a cold day. Every time you touch me, I feel like I could be anchored in the worst storm, and you wouldn’t shiver, let alone falter.”

Keigo remained silent, squeezing you and burying his face in your hair.

“Whenever you look at me,” you spoke so softly, the words might’ve broken in the air itself, “your eyes soften from solid gold to warm honey. Every time. From that first time, you walked in the shop.”

He remained silent, though his trembling spoke volumes and tomes. 

“I can tell you care, Keigo. In so many ways. I can’t ever forget.”

 Keigo had never felt so deeply, he was sure of it.

He’d never felt the blessed heat you’d given him, so many times, with your words, and sweetness, and kind smiles before. 

He’d never been cherished like a person before.

He was sure that he’d never cared so endlessly and with all of himself before for another being.

The premise terrified him for a moment.

But, all it took was a quick glance down at the tangling of your bodies in the low glow of the room for any fear to melt away. 

You were right there with him, the same way he was there for you. 

 Keigo finally spoke, pulling your face up to his.

Your eyes met, every part of the two of you turning to mush in the hold of the other. 

You both felt okay.

And, really, truly, looking into the molten core of him, you felt safe. 

So did he. 

Keigo stroked his thumbs over your cheeks, brows creasing like he was holding back fat tears, “I love you so much, you know? I don’t think I couldn’t.”

Something, like a steady, new flame— 

Something, like all the heat you and Keigo shared (and would come to share) lit through you both— 

Like the gentle sun being born once again between the two of you, framed in red feathers and softness. 

You replied truthfully, with all of you, burying yourself in him as he tucked into you. 

“I love you too, Keigo.” 

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💗ko-fi 💗

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[buckyskorpion]

Do Something Bad, Too - Part 5

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader

Summary: It’s like every single Alpha on the planet won’t rest until they’ve confessed their eternal wish for you to mother their children, and it’s getting old. Luckily, that’s a problem Bucky might be able to fix.

Warnings: language, a/b/o dynamics, mentions of violence

A/N: sooooo..... lets not mention the last time i updated this fic was four years, and get excited that im finally updating!! woo!! i really hope this was worth the wait, im very anxious about letting you guys down. let me know what you honestly think! love u all, thank u for sticking with me

series masterlist | main masterlist | my ko-fi

You stay in Nat’s apartment in the Tower for the rest of your heat, which lasts an entire week. Nat comes and goes throughout that time to make sure you’re drinking enough water, to make you dinner or run you a bath, or sometimes just to keep you company when you’re capable of that. She doesn’t stay long, though, aware her presence just makes the unbearableness of going through heat even worse. She also doesn’t mention Bucky’s clothes or anything about that first day, which you’re immeasurably grateful for. You don’t think you could talk about it without crying.

To say you’re humiliated is an understatement. Mixed with that is all this guilt and shame and self-hatred for inflicting that situation on you and Bucky. Mostly for Bucky. He had made it so very clear he was only comfortable helping you with the scent thing, and even with that there were boundaries. You had blown through them all by showing up to his apartment, triggering both your instincts to do things you couldn’t control, and now he probably resented you enough to never want to see you again.

You don’t blame him. It doesn’t stop it from hurting so much, though.

You’ve well and truly fucked yourself now. Not only is it omega instincts driving you towards Bucky now, but also your own stupid, naive heart. You miss his giant hands and broad shoulders that block out the world for a second, narrowing your scope to just the two of you. You miss the way you can breathe around him, how the world doesn’t feel so scary and foreign to you when he’s by your side. It’s crazy because you weren’t even close, you weren’t even really friends, but now you never will be because you’re so goddamn stupid it’s actually astounding.

Nat’s plan had not worked. And this time, you couldn’t even blame her for this colossal backfire. This is all your handiwork.

You’re back in your office, returning to work once your fever died down and you could stand to be in the vicinity of other alphas without passing out. Maybe you’re tapping rather aggressively on your keyboard, and maybe all the techies on the floor can hear you sigh and groan in frustration every two seconds and are sending you strange looks through the glass. Whatever, you’re their boss, they can’t say anything. Besides, your boss has requested some rather strange security upgrades and you’re not sure if it’s within your job description to email Tony Stark and say what the fuck?

It turns out you don’t have to, because Tony Stark comes to you. It’s not often he takes part in the day to day workings of Stark Industries - that’s your job, after all. But he comes striding into your office eating an apple and wearing sunglasses during the middle of the day, and points a ringed finger at you.

“You’re back,” he says, and you find yourself glancing down at your baby-blue pantsuit just to make sure you are, in fact, back. Stark takes a very pointed breath through his nose and adds, “You smell terrible. This is great!”

“Great?” You can’t help but sound bitter. Your smell is hardly great to you. Even after sweating out your entire body-weight and taking more showers than is considered healthy, you still smell like Bucky. You can’t escape him - not your thoughts, not your heart, and certainly not the way your skin seems to emanate him like he’s crawled underneath and set up shop. It’s embarrassing and humiliating, because it’s not real, and just serves to remind you of the terrible mistake you’ve made. You hope beyond hope Stark doesn’t recognise the other alpha scent clinging to your pores.

“Yes, great. I need your help,” he says, sitting down in a chair opposite your desk. You glance at the specs you have open on your computer, the strange security upgrades he wants you to make to the Tower, and then back to Stark’s million-dollar smile. It’s unsettling. You feel a headache forming before he even opens his mouth.

“If this has anything to do with these emails-“

“Those can wait,” Stark says, waving a dismissive hand at your computer. He lobs his applecore into the bin beside your desk as if to punctuate his point, then says, “This is a request on behalf of the Avengers.”

“Um,” you say, rather eloquently. Avengers? What on earth could they want with you, unless- you groan, rolling your eyes to the ceiling. “Natasha.”

“She highly recommended your expertise,” Stark says, and that headache brewing in your temples blooms into a full-blown migraine. He stands, smooths out his slacks, and says without room for question, “Follow me.”

This is how you end up back in the residential floors of the Tower, much to your chagrin, which Stark seems to pick up on. The closer you get to Bucky’s floor the more fidgety you become, heart racing and skin turning clammy until you watch the numbers fly by and you leave him somewhere in the clouds above Manhattan. The elevator doors ding open to a floor that seems to go on forever, full of gym equipment and fancy simulation tech you figure the Avengers must use to train. You find Natasha’s red head on the sparring mats, tackling someone to the ground with her thighs, and glare daggers as you follow Stark into the room.

“She’s alive!” Natasha calls across the room, ignoring your death glare for a knowing smirk. Her voice echoes through the warehouse-style gym floor, drawing the attention of the others in the room. The Avengers, and all of a sudden you feel like an eighteen year old kid watching aliens attack New York on a grainy satellite TV in the desert again. This is like meeting celebrities on another level. Steve Rogers finishes wrapping his hands as he walks over to you and Stark, Sam Wilson beside him, and Natasha gives Clint Barton a hand to help him up from the mats.

“What have you roped me into now, Nat?” you ask, not bothering to hide your frustration. You’ve just about had it with her meddling, but you should’ve known it was a pipe dream to think she would stop.

“We know you’re very busy, we won’t take up much of your time,” Steve Rogers says, extending a hand and introducing himself like he needs to. Captain America needs no introduction.

“I know who you all are,” you say, giving them a nod. “And you’re right, I am busy. So why am I here?”

“You and Nat must get along like a house on fire,” Clint says, earning him an elbow in the gut from Nat herself. You grin, all sharp in the way Nat tells you looks scary in a hot way, and watch as he subtly shifts behind Nat as if to hide behind her smaller frame. It’s only then that you register the scents mingling between them, and realise that Clint Barton is Nat’s omega. She grins at you, beatific and serene, as if she can read your thoughts and knows exactly what you’ve just figured out.

“Let’s not hold (Y/n) up any longer,” Nat says, grinning in a way that always spells trouble for you. “She’s a woman in high demand.”

Stark leads them to what seems to be a large empty space in the training facility, but it’s soon filled with hologram projections from a tiny Starkpad he pulls from his pocket. You fall into step beside Nat, using your height advantage to glare down at her and convey the level to which you want to strangle her right now. She just loops her arm with yours and kisses you on the cheek, frustrating your attempts at intimidation before you can even begin. Bloody Russian spies, you grumble to yourself as you come a halt in front of the holograms.

You’re looking at building specs, that much is obvious. Why, though, is entirely lost on you. The structure is a tall hexagonal building reminding you of a panopticon, with security floors in the centre and what seem to be prison cells surrounding them. Details jump out from Stark’s hologram - security cameras, miniature guards patrolling the floors, thermally sealed doors and electromagnetic force-fields on the cells. It’s a prison, you surmise, and you’re starting to get a bad feeling as to why you’re here.

You turn to Nat and say, “I’m not going back in the field.”

She pats your arm with only a tiny bit of condescension and says, “I’m not asking you to.”

“You’re my Head of Security,” Stark says, then gestures to the hologram building, “If you can design impenetrable security systems, surely you can undo them.”

“You want me to help you break into this place?” you ask. The team all nod, and you look back at the intimidating, virtual-blue building in front of you. “It’s a fortress.”

“Yeah, they really upped the anti on security since I was in there,” Sam Wilson says, earning him a reproachful look from Steve. It does nothing to soothe the anxiety starting to thread through your chest. Failing the Avengers doesn’t seem like an option, but from where you’re standing, neither is breaking into this facility.

“I’ll need to know what it is first,” you say, “Then I can try and help you. Emphasis on try. I’m not a miracle worker.”

“It’s called the Raft,” Steve says, his face growing stony and set as he talks. “It’s a prison designed for enhanced persons by Secretary Ross. After Germany, I broke Sam, Scott, and Clint out. But Wanda-“

“We need to get her out of there,” Clint says. You pretend not to notice as beside you Nat discreetly takes his hand, rubbing her thumb across his bruised knuckles.

“Leave the search and rescue to us,” Stark says, and you watch him shift uncomfortably under some inscrutable looks Steve and Sam are giving him, “We just need your help on how to get into the joint.”

“Simple,” you breathe, but only Nat laughs. This seems like an impossible task, but from the look of  everyone around you, failure isn’t an option. You’re going to have to make the impossible possible. It’s a good thing you’ve had some experience with that - in the military, trapped into sand-filled corners with no foreseeable way out, it really did seem like you were working miracles to stay alive out there. You swallow past a dry mouth and blink through desert-gunked eyes, say, “I’ll need that Starkpad, and some time.”

“You have forty-eight hours,” Stark says. The hologram disappears in a blink as he throws the Starkpad, no bigger than your palm, which you only just manage to catch. Stark clicks his fingers, as if an idea as just occurred to him, and says, “Oh, I almost forget to tell you! The Raft is underwater. Completely submerged, middle of the ocean, super top-secret. Fun, right?”

Your heart drops to your stomach. Fun is not the word you you would use. Only forty-eight hours to break into the most secure facility in the country, if not the world? This day couldn’t possibly blindside you anymore.

As if the universe is conspiring against you, FRIDAY’s voice chimes in from overhead speakers to say, “Mr Stark, Sergeant Barnes is on his way to the gym floor.”

You feel your whole body lock up, heart seizing in your chest - Bucky? Here? You weren’t prepared to see him yet, or speak to him. What would you say? How could you apologise for one of the worst crimes you may have ever committed, and you’ve killed people? Natasha unloops her arm from yours, tries to soothe you with a hand on your back but it does nothing for the anxiety shooting sparks throughout your blood stream.

“How many times have I got to tell that illiterate Soviet popsicle, he’s not on the fucking team,” Stark grumbles, storming towards the elevators with a scowl. Steve clenches his fists, glaring after Stark but Sam holds him back. He mutters something only Steve can hear which makes him close his eyes and exhale sharp through his nose - frustrated, but calming by the nanosecond.

It’s a shame nobody thought to do the same for you.

“What did you just call him?” you say, ignoring Natasha’s warning murmur of your name as you follow after Stark. Maybe you still have some residually elevated hormones from your heat, or you really are just a lovesick idiot who can’t control her temper, but whatever it is has you absolutely incensed. Stark stops dead, clearly caught off guard by the venom in your voice, and spins on his heel to stare at you incredulously.

“Excuse me?” he says, blinking owlishly at you as you lean up into his space. You’re aware you’re overstepping the boss/employee line, but you can’t help yourself. The rage is brewing, and with each laboured breath Bucky’s scent grows stronger and stronger until it’s all you can smell. It settles over your skin like armour, and the urge to protect that hold on you, to protect him, is beyond your control - it’s primal.

“Don’t talk about him like that, ever,” you snarl, watching with satisfaction as Stark’s eyes turn round and wide.

He glances behind you towards his friends and says, “Are we sure she isn’t an alpha? Sheesh.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns, but it’s too late. You use the palm of your hand to slam into Stark’s solar plexus. You kick out his kneecap and he drops on one knee, wheezing and gasping for air. It all happens so fast you can’t even think about the repercussions of assaulting your boss, let alone what’s driven you to do it in the first place.

“I don’t need to be an alpha to kick your ass,” you hiss, glaring down at Stark who looks up at you like you have, in fact, lost your mind.

At that moment, the elevator dings and reveals Bucky practically seething behind the elevator doors. He storms in, larger than life - in the week or so it’s been since you’ve seen him, you’ve somehow forgotten how physically intimidating he actually is. You immediately step back from Stark’s kneeling figure, feeling the strange need to hide your hands behind your back like a kid caught with the cookie jar. Bucky glances wildly between you, Stark on the ground, and the ring of Avengers in different states of attempting to intervene. He heaves ragged breaths and is emitting a scent that threatens to take you to your knees, too. Authoritative, powerful, protective.

That submissive, animalistic side of you makes you really hate being an omega sometimes.

“Why is she here?” Bucky asks someone behind you, probably Natasha. He swings his, frankly, frightening gaze to Stark and demands with just as much venom as you had, “What did you do to her.”

“Jesus Christ, nothing!” Stark wheezes, clutching at the spot on his chest you’ve definitely bruised. He points an accusing finger at you and cries, “She hit me!”

“I’m so sorry,” you say, feeling your hands start to shake where you clutch them behind your back. You look to Bucky like maybe he can explain, which makes you sick to your stomach because he’s not yours to look towards. Now, more than ever, that is abundantly clear. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do!” Natasha pipes up behind you, helpful as ever. Bucky glares at her for you this time, releasing you of his burning-hot stare. His gaze has the power to paralyse you, and you need to get away from him, this, all of it - right now. You don’t get a chance to, however, before Natasha once again sticks her foot in it and says, “She was defending your honour, James.”

“Yeah, and I’ve no idea why. One quick google search should tell you he doesn’t need any-“

It takes you a second to realise the snarling, growling sound echoing through the gym is coming from you. Your face burns as you roll your lips together, cutting the sound off completely. For your entire life you’ve been headstrong and confident, but this whole experience with Bucky from the very first day you met him has shaken your entire self-perception. Everything you’ve known has been turned upside down - it was easy when all alphas were assholes, and you were one omega they couldn’t fuck with. Now, you stare down at your shoes and refuse to look in Bucky’s direction because he’s affected you so much you can’t even control yourself anymore. The worst part is that it’s entirely your own doing, because Bucky made it very clear you aren’t the one he wants, so everything you’re doing right now is just incredibly humiliating.

“(Y/n)?” Bucky’s voice makes you shudder. Looking at him would surely make you burst into flames, from embarrassment of the last time you saw him which you can’t even think about, or from the shame of pathetically defending a man who doesn’t want anything to do with you. He doesn’t even want you here, storming up to ask why you’re in his home in the first place.

“I’m gonna go,” you say, giving Bucky a wide berth as you head for the elevators. You can’t get there fast enough, practically sprinting to press the close-door button as fast as you can.

“Wait-“

And then, the absolute worst thing happens. You almost crush the Starkpad still in your hand from clenching your fist so hard - you have to, in order to keep your hands by your sides and not in Bucky’s personal space. Because just as the doors are about to slide closed, he slips in between them and FRIDAY seals you both in. The elevator fills with Bucky Bucky Bucky, just like your heat-addled brain has been chanting at you since you stumbled into his apartment a week ago.

Bucky stares at you wide-eyed, and you stare back just the same. This could possibly be your worst nightmare come to life, especially when the elevator screeches to a halt and FRIDAY’s dulcet tones hammer your fate home.

“I appear to be having some technical difficulties,” FRIDAY says, sounding confused if an AI can sound like anything. “I’m so sorry, I’m trying to fix this. It seems someone is manually overriding my control of the elevator.”

“Nat,” you groan, in unison with Bucky. So that’s it. You’re stuck in an elevator with Bucky and are being forced to face the music, by the powers that be. The powers being Natasha, a no good meddler who is going to be in a world of pain when you get out of here. Alpha be damned.

[oftenderweapons]

Can you write a drabble about jealous taehyung with lace? Ty 🥺

So... I had to brainstorm with my dear mate abt this one since we never really saw Taehyung as someone who could be openly jealous or would even consider the feeling, since we see him as a confident person, and even more than that, we think that he and Lace are very open about trust and loyalty. We think that both of them would be happy with introducing a third party in the bedroom — not on a regular basis though. Lace is a sucker for Taehyung — and Taehyung alone; he knows it, and he also knows that he has a beautiful girlfriend who is bound to attract people’s attention and make them believe that they can flirt with her. Still, Lace gives the cold shoulder to anyone but her man.

HOWEVER

We found out a potential loophole.

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x reader (nicknamed Lace)

Wordcount: 1.5k (sorry, I got carried away)

Genre: angst/smut/fluff

Rating: 18+

TRIGGER WARNINGS: uhm, there are dirty thoughts in the middle (mild) and smut at the end (mention of oral male receiving, female receiving, rough penetration, biting). Possessive!Tae. Takes place a few weeks after Love Talk and mentions a few events in Illicit Affairs (which should — hopefully — come out soon).

As you walked down the long corridor of the small gallery, Taehyung tried not to notice — or better, not to care about — the young artist waiting by the door, walking several steps behind you.

Taehyung’s hand twitched before he shoved it in his pocket. He wanted to touch you.

Having that... that vulture staring at you... It made his stomach sour.

Maybe it was because this was your first date after having you all to himself, after knowing how you taste and how you moan, how your breasts flush when you’re about to cum, how good it feels to grip your hips while you ride him, to feel his fingers sink in the flesh of your ass.

He took his hands out of his pockets and joined them behind his back, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders in an attempt to calm down.

You stopped in front of a picture, observing it for a moment. It was a hyper-realistic painting of a watermelon sculpted into a cube, placed there in the middle of the white canvas. It was truly the game of a virtuoso.

“Impressive.” You said, before turning toward the man about a metre or two away. “How long did it take?” You asked nicely, still impressed by the amount of details: the seeds, the small veins, the grainy texture of the watermelon.

“About three months.” He replied. “I had started it as a still life, but I changed my mind and redid it with a more... Surrealistic approach.” He explained.

Taehyung raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his annoyance at bait, licking his lip before biting it. “Good job.” He said, trying to be grateful even though he wanted to rip the man’s eyes away from his skull.

The only thing holding him back was that he didn’t know how you would react to that. And if you would ever love his fingers as much after seeing him perform such a crude act.

You smiled at the artist and took a few steps to the next painting, this time a basket of cherries — only barely visible from behind a lace curtain. It was alarmingly realistic, truly breathtaking in the amount of precision poured into every small thread making the see-through effect. “Wow.” You commented under your breath.

Taehyung thought about how different his style was from these pictures. Sure, they were very good and they showed great talent, but that didn’t mean that he would want one in his own house.

“I was in Greece when I made that one.” The artist explained. “Beautiful country. Have you ever been there?” He asked.

You turned, making your light summer gown twirl in the motion, exposing more of your calves and the soft skin of the inner side of the knee as the slit parted, the plump, soft flesh of your thigh still protected by the row of small buttons that ran from your belly button to your knees.

Taehyung thought you were too beautiful for this universe. Nevertheless, as he stared at you and the artist there, right in front of his face, he felt actually menaced, for the first time. Something ugly slithered around his chest, tightening and tightening as your calm, composed voice said: “No, I’ve never been to Greece. I’ve only ever visited Jeju once, and I’ve travelled to Japan a couple times but normally I don’t get the chance to travel much.” You explained, blushing.

He would take you all around the world, Taehyung thought. He would spend Christmas with you in the Alps and make love to you in Amsterdam for your birthday, and of course, he would take you to Greece, feed you grapes and cherries and damn watermelon too. He would have you in white, light clothes and take pictures of you standing by the sea, your bright, flowy skirts contrasting with the deep blue of the sea — like the one he saw in Malta. He would rent a small house away from anyone and watch you sunbathe naked, with no one interrupting him as he drew you again, and again and again, until his hand could draw you with his eyes closed. He would leave the windows always open, the long white curtains flowing in the breeze as he would wake up from his afternoon nap and wrap his naked body around yours, kissing you and rubbing against you until you were nothing but two bodies melting into each other, like an embrace could naturally slide into passionate lovemaking. He couldn’t even think about nights. Nights were something he was too weak to think about.

Lost in his musings, he didn’t even realise your visit had come to an end, the gallery empty just like it had been when you had arrived, booked for a private visit for Taehyung and you alone, for safety and viewing pleasure.

“Thank you for visiting,” the artist said, bowing to Taehyung.

“Thank you for guiding us,” Taehyung replied. “I’ll let you know if I find any of the pictures fit.”

“Of course.” The artist said, kindly.

Taehyung nodded and was ready to leave the moment he heard the artist speak again. “Excuse me, miss, I’d like to ask... I’ve been working on portraits for my new collection, and I would be extremely pleased if you would pose for me.” He said. “I don’t usually... I usually book professional models but I thought someone with your looks could be really interesting to portray.” He explained. “I can leave you... Uhm.” He rummaged in his pocket and offered you a small piece of paper. His business card. Stealing a pen from the entry table, he wrote something on it. “I’d be honoured.” He commented, offering you the card.

You raised your eyebrows and smiled. “Thank you. I can already tell you I don’t think I’ll accept.” You looked at the floor. “I don’t have much spare time and I’m a bit too uncomfortable when people stare at me.” You chuckled embarrassedly. “Plus, I don’t think my boyfriend would be very happy with it.” You said, giving him a hint.

Taehyung was furious, still he kept all his inner turmoil to himself. Until you reached the car. The moment you sat at his side on the passenger’s seat, he started the car and began driving silently.

“Are you upset?” You asked, looking at him, keeping all the enthusiasm about the exhibition to yourself. You were more than capable to divide the artist from the person behind it. He was talented, maybe a bit sleazy as a person — and a bit too flirty — but still, talented. Plus, Taehyung hadn’t made it clear that he was with you as your boyfriend.

Taehyung tutted. “No.” He replied.

“Did he make you uncomfortable?” You could feel his mood poison the air in the car like dark waves of black oil covering the surface of the sea. It reminded you of a scene from Howl’s Moving Castle, when the young, beautiful wizard gets depressed and all his house starts getting covered in green slime.

“I’m okay.”

Catching his free hand, you placed it on your thigh pulling it toward the inner side.

He couldn’t resist, his thumb immediately drawing slow, lazy circles on the smooth, tender skin.

You noticed him taking the route to his apartment. “Aren’t we going out for dinner?”

“Mh.” He noted, counting the minutes until he could claim you all to himself.

“Do I need to un-book?” You asked with a mischievous grin.

He looked at you, his mouth forming a slow, insecure smile before he nodded in reply.

The rest of the night is a fuzzy memory of his mouth hungry and his hands grabby on the lift on your way up to his apartment, the shape of him hard in your palm as you entered the door, your attempt at offering him a blowjob, already lowering yourself to one knee before he pulled you up.

“That’s generous of you but I need inside.” He growled as he walked the both of you to his bedroom.

You didn’t even remember anything of him undressing you, it was all a whirlwind of limbs until you found yourself with your legs spread open and his mouth on your clit, his fingers stretching you before he stood on his knees and grabbed a condom.

You remembered his groan as he slid inside, your walls welcoming him with their tight embrace. “Dammit Lace, love this pussy.” He spoke through gritted teeth, your hands landing on his butt and pulling him toward you, inside you, harder, faster. “That’s my pussy.” He said, ramming in. “All mine.” He said, slowing down only to get the right angle. “My girlfriend.” He said, biting your breast, and giving the most precise jabs to your g-spot, suckling your tit, tugging at it, stretching it with his mouth before letting it fall back heavy to your chest. “My nymph. All mine. Mine.” He said again, your body too tense for speaking. Your high reached you as his fingers started toying with your bundle of nerves, rubbing it furiously until both you and him were nothing but two desperate beasts fucking each other.

“I love you.” He said, as soon as he was back to planet Earth, his body heavy on top of yours, his cheek glued to your chest with a mix of drool and sweat. “Love you, my precious dove.” He said again, rubbing the outside of your leg. “My love.” He repeated as you patted his head and reassured him yourself.

“Only yours.”

[seekingseven]

Another drabble request: how does Four find out about Twilight's wolf form?

Linked Universe Prompt Requests #8!

Oh, that's a great question! Here's one possible way it could have gone down...

⚠️CW: Alcohol Mention! ⚠️

(You can also read the fic here on Ao3!)

~~~~~~

Four was not the kind of person who spent his evenings in a places like this, and he knew Twilight and Time weren't either.

Maybe that was why he was so uncomfortable.

Music pulsed through the floor, amplified by the tavern's high ceilings and the patrons' warbling voices. Drinks clinked, beer frothed, and lantern light clotted over polished countertops. Across the room, a red-lipped waitress tossed a red-faced patron a pinched smile, the kind that crinkled at the edges with professional, faux patience, and the man let out a wheedling chuckle. A group of boys howled at each other as glossy cards splashed across their table. Behind the bartop, a tenderfaced bartender dropped a stack of glass mugs, and a nearby group of tipsy women had begun to crackle out the Hylian national anthem.

Four pressed his hands over his eyes and tried to cough out the smell of vomit and rotting sweat. No use. Spirals pulsed at the edges of his vision--he was pressing too hard--and he let his hands slide into his lap. The muscles in his neck tensed as he slipped deeper into Twilight's pocket.

This was not what he had in mind when he had decided to follow Time and Twilight on their "quick, fifteen minute errand." He had been right in deducing it was more than that, of course; reports of local children going missing near a known monster hideout hadn't inspired confidence in Four that grocery shopping was all on the two's minds.

But, a tavern?

To each their own, he supposed, but he couldn't entirely stifle the little flame of disappointment in his chest.

Adrenaline gushed through his throat as the world swung around him; Twilight was moving again. Vibrations thudded through the cloth around him. The overhead lanterns flickered crazily, blocked by Twilight's shoulders one minute and blazing down his backside the next. Four shielded his eyes under his hands and stared at his knees. This whole shrinking thing had been a bad--terrible--idea. He could only hope that Time and Twilight had a lower alcohol tolerance than they appeared to.

The movements stop, and Four sighed as the acid in his throat slipped back down. A booming echoed from overhead, and Four couldn't help but wonder if this is what the Minish had to deal with whenever he came to visit.

"Is Mr.Garto here?"

Four's ears perked up; that was Twilight's voice, and that was the name of the man who had first begun reporting the disappearances. Interest piqued, he righted himself until he as peering just over the small slip of space between the pocket and Twilight's tunic. If he turned just enough, he could catch a glimpse of Time's legs and the mahogany bartop behind them.

"He's not here right now," a voice whispered. The muscles crisscrossing Four's chest cinched. That wasn't the sound of a bored bartender, or a dolled up waitress, that was...

"A child?" Time asked, voice thick with its typical lack of tack. "Where are your parents? A tavern is no place for a boy your age."

Silence--at least, between the three parties. The debauched din around them showed no interest in smothering itself for the sake of dramatic tension.

"My parents work here," the voice replied. It was soft, but there was a bristle underneath it; a boy, Four would bet, and a frightened one at that. "My dad's Mr.Garto. Amerigo Garto. He's out right now. If you have questions, then you can, uh, demect them to me."

"Cute," Twilight murmured, voice lowered so that he was its only listener. Four would have rolled his eyes if he didn't happen to also find the childish mispronunciation endearing.

"Very well then," Time cut in. Whatever spell the boy's subtle stutter had cast on Twilight was lost on him, judging from the clipped words and serious tone. "Please tell your father that we would like to speak to him about the abductions. If he has any information, he's welcome to contact us. Here's the postal address of the inn my teammates and I are staying in."

A shuffle of cloth, and the faint sound of a hand bumping a counter. Four pulled his arms over the pocket and strained his neck to the side. The cloth around him dipped under his weight, threatening to give, and Four flinched so hard that he slipped back inside.

"You're looking for them?" the voice came again. "The lost kids?"

Time chuckled. The paternal sound felt oddly out of place in the drunken supernova around them. "Of course we are. We have an idea of where they might be, so we wanted to get in contact with your father to see if he had any more information."

Twilight leaned forward, letting both his pocket and his pocket-sized stowaway swing along with him. "We'll find them for sure. Don't worry."

"You will? Do you think you can find them? My sister and my puppy, I mean."

"Your sister?" Time asked.

"Your puppy?" Twilight added.

The boy's voice seemed smaller, now, lighter, and it took little imagination to envision the pale faced, blue-eyed seven ear old that was undoubtedly cowering under the others' combined stares. "Yes. They were the first to go missing, sir. Sirs. I hope you can find them. Let...let me know if I can help."

Across the bar, someone threw a bottle of wine against the wall. Glass powdered around the purple stain in the wood. Twilight flinched. A gaggle of teenage laughed in their testosterone-saturated way, unabashedly amused at the adults making spectacles of themselves, and Four stifled the urge to slap all of them.

"We will," Time said. His voice was a breath's distance from inaudible. "Take care, little one. We'll speak to you soon."

A mumble of agreement, muffled, and Four clutched the fabric of Twilight's pocket as the world spun on his heel. Left, right, left; he was swaying with each pull and pinch of movement, and he caught only a heartbeat's glimpse at the boy before Twilight and Time exited the tavern.

He looked exactly as Four had imagined him to.

"That's so sad," Twilight murmured, letting the tavern door close softly behind him. "I hope we find them."

"We will. Hopefully Garto gets in contact with us soon. For now, we'll just need to brief the others and see if there are any other locals who might have more information."

"Yeah, yeah. That sound about right."

This time, the silence was real. Only the sounds of feet squelching against mud and dirt interrupted their thoughts.

Twilight stopped. Four gripped the back of his head and hissed as it bonked against the raised metal of Twilight's scabbard.

"Hold on," the rancher began, "I forgot something back there."

"Forgot? What?"

"...something. I'll be back. Don't wait for me."

"Sure. Try to not stay out to long, though."

Twilight assured he wouldn't, then turned heel. Feet against the floor, night air, cold, and then a flush of heat. The air is stuffy again, and the quiet is gone, and Four is peering precariously between gaps in the pocket stitching. He thumps against the back of Twilight's leg as the rancher makes another sharp turn. It's a wonder that the rancher hasn't grown suspicious of the wiggling in his pocket yet.

But perhaps he was too occupied to grow suspicious, because Twilight slowed to a stop and leaned forward on what Four assumes to be the bartop.

"Is the kid still here?"

A grainy voice responded with a huff and grunt. "No, he went outside. Just through the hallway. Something about wanting to play hopstoch."

"Ah, okay. Thank you."

Another snort. "If you find him, tell him to come back inside. It's too dark to be out alone."

Twilight made a sound that could have been construed to be somewhat affirmative, then hurried out the door. The evening breeze, greased with the steam and sweat spilling from the tavern's backdoor, greeted them again. A clink of metal and the cloth ruffling; Four furrowed his eyebrows. What was Twilight up to?

It was the last cohesive thought he would have for a good minute.

The cotton confines around him popped out of existence. Air rushed against his head and through his air as he fell, weightless, and he had barely processed the fact that Twilight had vanished before he thumped against a tree stump. Dazed but unharmed, he sat up, eyes widening.

In the place where Twilight had stood mere moments ago was a massive grey wolf.

A wolf...

Wolfie?

"Who's there?" someone whispered. A figure on the other side of the backyard inched forward, and Four's throat tightened when he recognized it as the boy from earlier. His eyes were red. Little hopstotch stones dangled between his fingers, shining and unused.

The wolf--Wolfie--barked. The boy flinched, squeezing his elbows to his sides. Wolfie barked again, insistent, and wagged his tail furiously. Blue eyes watched silently as Wolfie rolled on his side, then chased his tail, then made an impressive show of chasing a terrified chipmunk through the yard. Gradually, the boy's eyebrows slipped downwards. Wolfie let out another bark. A whisper of a smile pinched at the boy's mouth.

"Where did you come from, big guy?"

Wolfie barked again, advancing further and, when the boy didn't recoil, butted his head against scabbed knees. The boy laughed again. Wolfie's tail wagged harder.

"You're so big! Who's your owner? They must take really good care of you. And you look really strong, too. Look at these muscles!"

The boy carefully closed a hand around Wolfie's paw, then lifted it upwards. Strength roiled beneath an oily coat, and the boy let out a small gasp of awe.

"Wow! You look even tougher than my sister! Hey, wanna play hopscotch with me? I think you would be good at it."

If Wolfie licking the boy's face wasn't confirmation enough, him hopping towards the dilapidated hopscotch court was. The boy laughed with delight and rubbed Wolfie's snout, giggling harder as the wolf licked a wet strip across his cheek.

"Huh," Four murmured, picking stray wood chips out of his hair and grinning to himself. "Looks like we both have a little secret."

~~ Fine ~~ I hope you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading! [Previous Request] - [Next Request!]

[whirlybirbs]

ok i have been reading oya'karir and all i can think about is how condor must be ? famous? like within the rebel ranks? do people know who she is? has she ever met leia? this is so cooL?

✶  ———  WAR HEROES AND DRUNKS  ;   d.d.

summary: you join din on a bounty. turns out it’s an old friend. din learns more about your reputation during the war. an oya’karir drabble.

pairing: din djarin x sniper!reader, established here

tags: drabble of oya’karir, mutual pining, fluff, din being a good guy

a/n: gif courtesy of @coulter​ from this lovely gif set! it’s funny anon asked about this because i’d already been working on condor’s backstory a bit more. her and cassian...... (eye emoji) anyways please enjoy this good ol’ fluff between din and his lil’ sniper.

“Where are we headed?”

Your strides match Din’s. His voice is measured.

“Arbra.”

You’ve been to Arbra. Once. On leave.

Once the base at Golrath fell, Arbra became the new home of the Rebel Alliance. Intelligence tended to operate out of this planet during the war, hidden away in the Bon'nyuw-Luq sector. Haven base earned the apt nickname Hole in the Ground from the poor souls stationed there — and though the caverns in which the base had operated out of are now defunct, there’s still a steady presence of war-time veterans who’ve come to call this place home.

The locals, Hoojibs, joined the New Republic after the war — land treaties left them their native subterranean land in trade for a bustling economy top-side within the restriction. The New Republic ensured that city zoning would only occur within a 10,000 square mile radius of the defunct base.

Thus, Haven City was born.

“Arbra,” you repeat.

You can’t help but stiffen — and when the Mandalorian beside you ambles up to the cockpit, you pray that you don’t know the poor bastard whose chain code Din had gotten from Karga. You swing yourself around and up the ladder. 

But, things are never that easy, are they?

Your boots meet the cockpit floor as Din settles into the pilot’s chair — and sure enough, once he connects the bounty puck to the navicomputer, a familiar face blossoms to life in grainy, blue holo-light.

“...Son of a bitch.”

Prat Glaxson’s visage stares back at you.

Din, owlishly, turns his head round to eye your reaction. 

Immediately, his voice crackles alive.

“You know him.”

Not a question. Din knows you well enough to peg your expression as anxious.

Of course you know him — and it was only a matter of time before the Guild knew him, too. The lieutenant had always had a rough go of it with the gambling. The drinking had started, too, around the end of the war. But, Hoth had struck that feeling in every soldier who’d been there. Glaxson was, on all accounts, a good man. He’d made some bad choices. 

Bet against the wrong men.

“He was a Lieutenant,” you say carefully, “Served opposite my regiment.”

Your heart clenches for a moment. You find your fingers twiddling absent-mindedly at the thought of your regiment. Of your Captain. 

There’s not a day that goes by that you don’t miss Cassian Andor.

You suppose Glaxson most likely felt the same. He’d nearly lost his entire platoon back on Hoth. Can’t blame him, really, for the self-destructive patterns. You’d been the same way back on Yavin, before meeting Din Djarin. Loneliness and isolation were your drink of choice is all. 

Din is quiet for a moment. Then, his gloved hand reaches for the engine start and he flips it off. The whole of the Razor Crest goes eerily quiet. He stays still, listening. Then, Din speaks.

“We don’t have to go after him.”

“No.”

Your bark is sharp. Your hand settles on Din’s wrist.

“If we don’t,” you sigh, leaning back in your seat, “Someone else will. And maybe he won’t come so easy.”

Din’s helmet lingers on you; he’s silent. It’s weighted. Measured carefully as dark eyes scale your face behind his visor. There’s sadness there, tightening your brow. There’s always a sadness in your eyes, though a little less recently. But, Din knows you well enough to see that the idea of seeing old faces is enough to make you feel... off. 

But, he nods. He starts up the Razor Crest, and he punches in the coordinates for Arbra. 

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

Maker, Din never knew you as one to hide behind him. 

You were strong and steadfast with intelligence as sharp as the crack of a whip. When he’d first met you, you’d nearly killed him. You held that worn out and modded up DH-447 to the temple of his helmet as it hissed and popped with earnest; and then you’d done it two more times. 

Then, there was your reputation. 

They’d come to call you Condor for a reason and it was clear that the callsign carried more weight than he was previously aware. He knew that you’d been a prolific sniper during the height of the Galactic Civil War, that your kill count was well into the hundreds. You were a haunt to the Empire, but a hero to the Rebellion. 

Now, on Arbra, Din is beginning to understand.

The marketplace is busy despite the hour — as the two of you wind through the stalls, Din can catch you ducking your head every now and again. Eye the ground. Fingers wound tight around the strap of your DH-447. Your headscarf hides all but your eyes. 

Din is used to the attention that wearing his armor brings.

However, he’s rarely used to being looked over — and it’s clear that the people of this place have more interest vested in you than him, a rarity alone.

The puck on his hip pings.

You grit your jaw and pretend to be interested in the various salted nerf jerky on display before you as you speak.

“He’s bound to be in the cantina,” you mutter, nudging your head towards the large building down the street, set off to the side with a steady stream of patrons coming and going at the evening hour. The sun has started to set, and the lights in the homes along the city’s walk have begun to glow.

He offers a nod. He leads the way.

It’s half-way to the cantina when he hears it. It’s your callsign — whispered on the tongues of a human woman and Twi’lek male. He can see their heads turn, focused on you, and before he can step in...

“Is it you?”

Your head snaps to the voice. Your eyes are wide.

It’s like you’ve seen a ghost; and it’s like the couple has seen a hero. Immediately, Din is tense — it’s a habit, now. He tends to feed off your energy at times like this. You’re a devilish pair and you work well together. Din accounts his ability to read the tensing of your shoulders as a part of the moving equation. 

“Condor,” says the man, “You’re the Condor, aren’t you?”

Suddenly, there are more eyes. Passer-bys. The callsign is a rising whisper. Like the tide, you can feel the attention swelling.

You shift in your boots. You grip your blaster’s strap tight. Your other hand rises, fingertips swaying as you wave your hand and shake your head.

“I’m sorry, I don’t —”

“It is!” calls a man in a faded bomber jacket who ambles forward — his own medallions and ribbons stuck to his chest in pride, “I’d know that DH-447 anywhere, I reckon! I saw you back during the Battle of Hoth — didn’t miss a single shot! An angel!”

Suddenly, there’s a clamor and a cluster and you’re being shoved into the welcoming hand-shakes of veterans and on-lookers and fans, Din realizes. You have fans — people who are chomping at the bit to simply catch a glimpse of you; the faces around you are suddenly so warm, so welcoming and...

... Maker, there’s a man trying to coax you into taking a picture. 

That’s when the armored Mandalorian steps in. 

You’re uncomfortable.

“We’re here for Lieutenant Glaxson,” barks Din, looming so suddenly over the crowd that had gathered; you settle in his presence, exhaling visibly when the attention flicks from you to the puck glowing in the Mando’s hand, “We’re here so he’ll come easy. We don’t want trouble.”

“She’s a bounty hunter now?” comes a quiet voice.

Your jaw tenses.

Such is the truth — what was left of the Empire would always be on your tail; always willing to pour in what was left of Imperial gubernatorial earnings into a bounty. Revenge was a fickle thing. And still, many a man sought it. 

Being by Din’s side gave you an edge. Karga knew — and he’d been paid off by the Covert to keep you off the menu. He’d taken the payment from Din and not asked a single question. 

“Is he in the cantina?” you ask tepidly, eyes wandering the faces of the gathered souls. 

Some of them are familiar. Faces you’ve seen in passing. Some you’ve no doubt stood shoulder to shoulder with on this very street all those years ago on leave.

Your voice always leaves Din feeling a bit light-headed. There was something to it — your mother-tongue, Mando’a, paints every word all sorts of beautiful. He envies it. He wishes those words rolled just as easily off his tongue. 

“Always is, I’m afraid,” says the man in the jacket. His regalia tinkers as he leans on his good leg. His voice sounds sad, “He’s a good man...”

Din nods, beginning to move towards the building.

But, you linger. 

You extend your hand, touching his shoulder with a gloved hand. Your bare fingertips grip the familiar shoulder of his uniform’s coat.

“I know.”

You catch up to Din; the tinkering of his armor calms the sudden burst of anxiety that feels like it might eat through your lungs. They burn. You chew your lip.

“Vor’e,” you mutter, nudging his elbow with yours. Thanks.

Din’s head turns as he walks; you can imagine his brows lifting beneath the helm, his lips tilting as he speaks. His tone is enough of an indicator that he’s amused. A handsome look, no doubt, considering that it has you a bit enamored already. 

“For what?” 

“I thought they’d eat me alive.”

“You never told me you had adoring fans,” the Mandalorian says slowly, words clipped with an edge of good-humor, “I was under the impression it was the opposite.”

You scoff. “Shut up, di’kut.”

“Come on,” he says, the threat of laugh biting at his tone, “You’ve got autographs to sign.”

That earns him an elbow to the ribs. He expels air at the playful jab, chuckle coming out more like a hiss of static than anything. You’re quick to move ahead, leading the way into the cantina. 

As soon as you’re through the doors, your headscarf is pulled down. Again, Din ignores the affection that the sight of you brings — all wild hair and striking eyes. 

It doesn’t take you long to find Prat Glaxson.

He looks older than he is, only a decade or so Din’s senior. It’s clear the war has aged the man, and alcohol has done a fair share of damage as well. 

Poor bastard can barely see straight.

He’s in the back of the Cantina — slumped over a table with a datapad in front of him. He’d fallen asleep watching the races on Canto Bight. You amble over with a sudden motherly charm; your sigh makes Din perk up.

“C’mon, Glax,” you mutter, kicking his boot, “Wake up.”

He waves his hand. He drunkenly stumbles through a sentence. 

“Lea’ me ‘lone.”

“Glax,” comes your voice, a bit louder now as you lean over the table. Your palm is planted beside the empty pint by his head, the other hand patting the drunkard down for a blaster. You come up dry, “It’s me.”

“... Who?”

You say your name, then, and it’s like Glaxson has seen the light.

“... God’s above,” he musters as he raises his head and Din can see that the grown man’s eyes have gone all bleary. Glaxon’s voice wavers like he might weep when he looks up at you, “It’s you.”

He reaches for your hand. You meet him halfway. You squeeze.

“It’s me.”

“Su cuy'gar,” comes the rough and mispronounced sentence from Glaxson’s mouth, “You... You taught me that.”

“Su cuy’gar,” you breathe back, nodding; your words are like velvet. It’s clear that Glaxson is enamored with your sudden appearance, and Din watches with a sharpening sense of cautiousness. 

“You’ve grown more beautiful, my little bird,” the drunk nearly wails, “You ‘ave. I am happy t’ see you. Cassian would be glad t’ know yer alive.”

Cassian...? Din has never heard that name before.

It’s clear the utterance of it has you feigning indifference. 

“Glax,” you say slowly, “I’m here because you owe some bad people money. There’s a warrant out for you — me and my friend here are going to get you some help.”

Glax leans. His eyes fall upon Din. 

“Y’ found one a’ yer kin, then, my little bird?” he says, nodding, “M’ glad.”

There’s a pause. Then, Glaxson reaches for the last of his remaining drink, downs it, and ambles to his feet. 

“Suppose this ‘as been a long time comin’,” he says, “But m’ glad it’s you, kid.”

You exhale long and hard. Glaxson rises and you nod. There’s turmoil in your posture; and you carry it with you back through Haven City as Glaxson sways beside you. No need for stasis cuffs. Din simply watches — he can see the exhaustion of war in both of your faces as you pass idle chat. You ask about his kids, he asks about where you’ve been the last four years. 

“Lots of people want me dead, Glax. That hasn’t changed.”

The Lieutenant laughs at that. 

“Always were trouble, little bird.”

Din’s heart clenches when you smile, scoffing at the remark.

This isn’t right. None of this is — and suddenly, Din can feel his moral compass pulling wildly in his chest. He ignores the idea that it’s for you, just like everything is nowadays.

It’s when the three of you arrive at the Razor Crest that Din finally speaks up. 

“Wait.”

Your expression is laden with confusion, step lingering as you go to hike it up the ramp into the Razor Crest. Instead, you waver, hooked on Din’s call — and you can feel Glaxson’s eyes flick between the both of you. 

“What is it?”

Suddenly, Mando is squaring up with Glaxson. 

“Your bounty,” he says slowly, “Is 100,000 credits.”

Glaxson winces. He drops his head. He nods.

However, Din keeps speaking. “Lucky for you, Condor and I here happen to come into some credits recently —”

Your brows furrow immediately, confusion about to spit straight off your tongue — but Din is raising a finger in your face; and you spare him a flustered look.

“We’re clearing the debt,” the Mandalorian rumbles, “No more gambling. Or the next headhunter that comes for you may not be so kind. Got it?”

“Din —”

“Say your goodbyes, Condor.”

And up he goes, into the cockpit.

Your mouth is hung open, eyes wild. Beside you, Glaxson seems just as stupefied. But, so if the way with Din Djarin. You swear the man was going to be the death of you — if not from dragging you along on lethal bounties then from sheer surprise. 

“... Nice chap.”

“Peachy.”

And the two of you laugh.

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

The goodbye was aching and long; riddled with promises of visits and changed ways. With a long hug, you’d pulled from the Lieutenant and ascended up the ramp. Within minutes you were exiting Arbra’s atmosphere.

You lean against the back of Din’s piloting chair.

Your voice is light.

"That was nice of you, Din’ika.”

Din scoffs. His hands move to prime the hyperdrive, punch the coordinates in for Navarro, and set the autopiloting system. When he doesn’t reply, you take it upon yourself to push the chair and spin it ‘round your way.

Din complies, helmet tilting.

Your face is soft. Kind. Gentle. Beautiful. Your voice is tender.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Would have been wrong to take him in,” Din says, voice sounding far off to even his own ears as your fingers find the dip of his chest plate. Your hand rests there for a moment, gaze lingering on his helmet, “To those people, you’re a hero.”

“Glaxson is a drunk with a gambling problem,” you shush, “We knew that during the war, folks know that now — and I am not a hero.”

Din gives you a look. A micro-tilt of his visor. You roll your eyes. Your hand slips to your hip.

"Shut up.”

Another scoff. This time, Din stands. He towers over you, trapped between your arm and his pilot's chair. Gently, he lowers his head to plonk gently against your forehead. It’s slow and calculated. Not too hard. The tender gesture of affection makes you smile. Din keeps his helmet there for a moment. 

If you squint, you swear you can almost make out the curve of a smile beneath the tinted visor shield.

“Any idea where we can get a hundred thousand credits?”

And you laugh. 

[luminescencefics]

you feel like home - part five

“I’ve got to go,” Ryan says, grabbing her mobile in one hand and flicking off the lights until she’s standing in her entranceway, throwing a gentle look over her shoulder to make sure that Luna is still sleeping soundlessly on her couch.

“Have fun, Ry! Give me all the dirty deets tomorrow. I want a full synopsis on how Harry is in bed, and don’t leave out the size of his—”

The red button on the bottom of her screen has never looked more inviting. 

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***

In Which the World “Date” is Used Lightly

“This was a stupid idea—I’m not going.” 

Ryan is staring at her complexion in the vanity mirror as she swipes another layer of mascara over her dark lashes. Her mobile is balancing between a glass bottle of foundation and an eyeshadow palette, with Fiona’s wide-eyed expression staring back at her. When she gasps, Ryan’s dark eyes dart down to the grainy image of her best mate who looks as if she’s about to reach through the screen and shake Ryan repeatedly until she gets her head on straight.

“You’re absolutely barking,” Fiona scoffs. Ryan places the wand back into the mascara bottle, running a shaky hand through her freshly-dried hair as she tries to remember why she even said yes to Harry in the first place.

When she thinks back on it now, she’ll blame it all on a rare moment of bravery. Or quite possibly, amnesia. Because for some strange reason, her brain momentarily short-circuited, completely forgetting about every other time she’s been in Harry’s presence and how she rarely can get through a few sentences around him. Now that she’s agreed to spend an entire evening with him, on his own turf, under the watchful eyes of his observant toddler? 

Ryan can already feel the bile rising in her throat.

“Fiona, I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not even sure I was thinking!” She’s panicking now, pacing back and forth on the navy blue tiled floors of her bathroom to try and quell the thumping of her heart. “He definitely doesn’t think it’s a date. I’m just making a fuss, because he didn’t even use those words! He only invited me over because he feels bad that I had to watch his kid for a few hours. That’s it. Nothing else.” 

She isn’t even sure who she’s trying to convince at this point, but she is sure that her pacing is causing her breath to come out in uneven spurts, her chest rising and falling as she slowly pushes herself to the brink of a full-blown panic attack.

“Ry, will you please stop moving? You’re giving me a bloody migraine,” Fiona calls out. Ryan acquiesces, coming to a stop once again and leaning forward on the countertop of her vanity so that Fiona can see the redness tinge her cheeks and her mouth fall open as she tries to catch her breath.

“I can’t do this.” Her voice sounds shaky and fragile, the same way Jackson’s did whenever he mentioned his mother in the past tense a few hours earlier. 

Suddenly, Ryan wishes she was somebody like Fiona. Somebody who didn’t overthink every situation she fell into. Somebody who didn’t have a near panic attack at the trivial notion of making pizzas at her attractive next-door neighbor’s flat. Somebody who could just be normal, without the added pretense of anxiety and social awkwardness that sometimes felt all too crippling.

“Will you stop with that? You can do this. You will do this, even if I have to drive all the way to Hampstead during a lockdown and drag you five meters to his fucking door.” Ryan frowns at Fiona through the screen, wishing for the first time since moving out that she was in the room across the hall from her, close enough so that she can hear her friend’s words of encouragement in person instead of through the tinny speakers of her mobile.

“Okay,” Ryan says quietly, reaching for her mascara and beginning to unscrew the wand before she stops abruptly, an afterthought on the tip of her tongue. “He probably doesn’t even think it’s a date anyway.”

Fiona groans loudly, frustration etched on her freckled face. “He wouldn’t have invited you over if he didn’t want to spend time with you, Ry.”

“But Jackson will be there, too. And he even called it ‘a proper thank you,’ so there’s really no need for me to be freaking out, right? I’m not even sure why I’m putting makeup on in the first place,” Ryan huffs, dropping the mascara on the countertop before releasing her forehead into her hands, feeling overwhelmingly exhausted.

It’s quiet for a few moments, and Ryan lifts her head slowly, wondering if Fiona hung up. When she sees her friend leaning closer towards the screen, her big, blue eyes wide and full of patience (an emotion that rarely crossed Fiona Kitchen’s face), Ryan cocks her head to the side in surprise.

“Ry,” Fiona says through an exhale, “I know you’re nervous. I know you’re scared. And I know this makes you feel uncomfortable and awkward, but Ryan—” the added stress on her name causes her to stare back at her blue-eyed friend unblinkingly, wondering how Fiona could be so understanding, “You said you felt something, yeah? This afternoon?”

Ryan nods, remembering the way Harry looked with a blush covering the apples of his cheeks, the way his body shifted in his trainers when he fumbled over his words, the way his eyes looked at everything else besides the brown of her own or the glasses on her face. The way she somehow made him nervous for the first time, and the way her brain seemingly shuts off whenever she’s in his presence.

The way she blinked and he was practically inches away from her face, his green eyes swirling with fascination and desire and all the other feelings that caused Ryan’s stomach to flutter—and she wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but she’s sure it had to mean something.

“See!” Fiona squeals, as if it were supposed to bring clarification. When Ryan stays silent, Fiona groans again in frustration. “He wants you to come! He’s probably just as nervous as you are.”

Ryan considers this for a moment, wondering if Fiona was on to something. “Stop harping on the word date, Ry, it’ll only drive you mad. He wants you there. You want to be there. Finish getting ready and have fun for once in your life!”

The proverbial kick in the arse from Fiona is exactly what Ryan needed, and in an uncharacteristic wave of confidence, she unscrews the mascara wand and finishes applying it to her other eye, brushes up her eyebrows so that they look somewhat even, and adds a bit of tinted lip balm to her pouty lips. 

She settles on her trusted pair of light wash, straight-legged denim, a white thinly strapped vest paired with a chunky, cropped camel woolen cardigan overtop that hangs off one shoulder, and finishes off her comfortable look with an old pair of Reebok Club C trainers. 

“Can’t you wear the brown booties I bought you last Christmas instead?” Fiona whines from her position propped up on Ryan’s dresser.

Ryan laughs, turning from the mirror to her friend. “It’s pizzas in his flat, Fee.”

Fiona scoffs and Ryan nervously pulls at the edges of her cardigan, obsessing over her outfit for the hundredth time, debating if she should have curled her hair instead of left it to air-dry into unkempt waves, or if she should add more makeup to her face, or if she should just strip it all off and wear leggings and an oversized jumper instead. 

“Ry,” Fiona says through her mobile, and the urgency in her voice causes Ryan to spin on her heel, her back against the mirror and her eyes falling onto Fiona’s. “You look great.”

Those three words cause Ryan to finally breathe clearly for the first time since she started getting ready, and the relief that courses through her veins unfurl the tension-filled knots on her shoulders, releasing the rigidity of her neck. She feels pretty and she feels like she’s going to be okay, and when Ryan smiles brightly at Fiona, her friend imitates it, and suddenly she feels ready for her almost-maybe-sort-of date with Harry.

“I’ve got to go,” Ryan says, grabbing her mobile in one hand and flicking off the lights until she’s standing in her entranceway, throwing a gentle look over her shoulder to make sure that Luna is still sleeping soundlessly on her couch.

“Have fun, Ry! Give me all the dirty deets tomorrow. I want a full synopsis on how Harry is in bed, and don’t leave out the size of his—”

The red button on the bottom of her screen has never looked more inviting. 

Ryan leaves the hallway light on and slips her mobile into her back pocket, opening the heavy oak of her door and closing it softly without turning the lock. She’ll only be next door, anyway.

With the last stretches of her confidence still flushing through her system, Ryan takes the short trek to Harry’s front door and knocks three times for good measure, leaning a bit forward when she hears the faint sounds of a record spinning on the slipmat, the needle creating that scratchy sound that only comes from choosing a turntable over a regular speaker. She can hear the indistinct echoes of Jackson’s giggles, and before she can hear anything else, the front door whips open and Ryan springs backward, standing upright as to not give away the fact that she was spying on her neighbors.

But the smirk on Harry’s lips and the upward arch of his eyebrows proves that she was caught red-handed.

So much for confidence.

“Hi, Ryan,” Harry says in that soft, slow voice of his that causes Ryan’s stomach to bottom out. When she finally lifts her eyes to fall onto his frame, she’s suddenly at a loss for words when she takes in his appearance.

His hair that was a disheveled mess earlier in the day with strands pulled upwards in every direction was now tamed, the ringlets forming perfect coils with the ends still a bit damp, as if he had rushed to take a shower before Ryan appeared. His torso was covered with another threadbare graphic shirt, the white sleeves falling just around the midpoint of his protruding biceps, with a blue tea towel hanging around his shoulder that had tiny flour fingerprints on the edge. Along his waist and down his legs were a pair of comfortable, camel-colored dress pants that Ryan would never think to match with a shirt that mentioned something about eating honey. And when Ryan’s eyes fall towards Harry’s feet, she sucks in a small breath when she realizes that he wasn’t wearing anything below—just the sight of his toes and what seemed to be lettering tattooed on his ankles.

Ryan was suddenly glad she chose not to add another layer of blush, because the way she was just so obviously checking him out made the colors of her cheeks flush a notable, deep pink. 

“Hi, Harry,” she finally manages to say. And when her brown eyes finally creep up towards Harry’s face, she can see that his eyes are blown-out a bit, the greenness of the irises a bit harder to detect. His gaze seems to fall on the area of skin uncovered by the neckline of her cardigan, where a few layers of gold necklaces are stacked, practically tangling together. 

Before they can redirect their gazes and gather their breaths, a loud “Ryan!” shouts out from behind Harry’s frame, where a messy-haired and bright-eyed Jackson can be found. He’s wearing pajamas and wielding a child-sized plastic rolling pin covered with flour, and the sight instantly brings a smile to Ryan’s face.

“Hey, champ,” she calls out, feeling herself regaining her composure.

“You and daddy match,” he says simply, his chubby finger floating between Harry’s trousers and Ryan’s chunky cardigan, the matching shades of brown distinguishable to the four-year-old standing in the entranceway. 

Ryan offers a shy giggle and Harry looks at the articles of clothing, smiling when he notices that they are, in fact, matching in an off-handed sort of way. The trite realization brings a wide grin to his lips, and he begins to wonder what else he and Ryan have in common.

“Have you finished planning your toppings, Bubs?” Harry asks, opening the door wider so that Ryan can enter his flat, shutting it behind her once she’s infiltrated the entranceway. 

Jackson goes off on a tangent, listing all of the possible toppings he could add to his personalized pizza. Ryan listens as she steps out of her trainers and leaves them near the shoe rack, trying her hardest to be polite. And when the trio enters the kitchen, she stops and watches Harry and Jackson fall into place behind the granite island, Harry lifting Jackson effortlessly on the barstool so that he can kneel on the leather cushion while spreading out red sauce over his much smaller dough, with Harry beside him beginning to roll out his own. Ryan averts her eyes to the floor when she notices Harry’s muscles constricting under his shirt when he pushes the rolling pin away from his body, stretching his long arms out just so that he can pull them back in. 

When the spot near Harry remains vacant, he lifts his head up to see Ryan standing under the archway, wringing her hands in front of her body nervously. “C’mere, Ryan. We’ve got you a nice little setup.”

She notices the pre-floured area on the other side of Harry and slowly enters it, noticing how close she is to his body. The area isn’t as large as she once assumed, and when Harry continues to roll out his dough, she can feel his elbows brush against her arms and suddenly she feels a bit warm in his kitchen.

Ryan unbuttons the top button of the three on her cardigan so that the sleeves fall a bit lower on her shoulder, exposing her sweltering skin to the cooler air. The last thing she needs is to be a sweaty, awkward mess in front of Harry.

Harry notices her fidgeting in his periphery and stalls his movements when the olive skin of her shoulder closest to his body is uncovered. When she lifts her arms and begins formulating the dough, more inches of her skin begin to show from the looseness of the fabric, and when she reaches for her own rolling pin, he can make out the etchings of a small tattoo on the back of her shoulder blade. 

He stays silent, gulping deeply when he realizes that he’s been staring for far too long.

“Ryan, can you help me with the pepperoni please?” Jackson asks from the other side of the countertop, and she stops spreading the sauce on her own pizza so that she can pop over and assist him. Harry’s a bit jaded, considering he’s usually the one to help his son make his pizza, but when he catches Jackson pointing at specific spots on the dough and Ryan placing the slices there expertly, sneaking a smaller piece into his hand so that he can munch on it quietly, Harry can’t help but sense that red-hot feeling of longing rush through his skin. 

When Ryan goes back to her pizza, Harry finishes adding the mushrooms to his own before grabbing her attention. “Want a drink?”

“Please,” she responds, suddenly noticing how dry her throat had been.

“I’ve got wine, beer…” Harry sticks his head further into the fridge, “Juice?” 

He smiles when he coaxes a pretty giggle from her mouth. “Beer works,” she calls over.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. What’s a better combination than beer and pizza?”

Harry chuckles, grabbing two bottles of Carlsberg and opening them easily before handing one over to Ryan as she sprinkles cheese in a swirl over the red sauce of her pizza. He’s watching her as she brings the neck of the bottle to her lips and takes a generous sip, before reaching for the spinach and adding that to the dough.

“I lived off of this when I was at uni,” Ryan offers as she’s spreading her toppings generously, and Harry’s wondering if the distraction is allowing her to speak to him freely.

“Yeah?” he asks, coaxing.

She hums and takes another swig, and Harry finds that he can’t look anywhere else. “Every Thursday night during my final year. My best mate Fiona and I somehow got away with having no lectures on Friday, so every Thursday we’d order pizza and drink beer and watch The Only Way is Essex.”

“Sounds like my old flatmate, Niall,” Harry says between drinks. “Used to live above a kebab shack so we’d eat that almost every other night and whatever liquor was discounted at the shops.” Ryan sprinkles chopped up pieces of bell peppers over her unmade pizza. “Watched Great British Bake Off instead, obviously we were far more cultured.”

Ryan’s brown eyes lift to meet Harry’s, and she quirks her eyebrows in response to his obvious teasing. “Clearly you’re a far more sophisticated drunk than I gathered.”

“You gathered, huh? What were your predictions, then?” Ryan can’t tell if he’s flirting with her or not, because she’s never really found herself in this situation with Harry before. But when she takes in his direct eye contact and the half-smirk covering his face, and the way his attention only seems to fall on hers, she’s almost certain that he is. 

“Sloppy, for starters.”

“Hey!” Harry interjects, facing her completely so that his back is towards Jackson, which in any other circumstance, would probably be a very bad decision.

Ryan giggles before continuing. “I mean, you take up far too much space as it is, I can only imagine a drunk Harry Styles flopping all over the place.”

“Aren’t you the clumsy one in this friendship of ours, Ryan?” Harry says with a small chuckle, flitting his finger back and forth between the pair of them. It’s only when he catches Ryan’s smile faltering, her body turning back towards her pizza and her eyes focusing on adding more vegetables, when Harry realizes that he’s said the wrong thing.

Before he can right himself, Jackson’s captured her attention, and suddenly she’s left him again—floating to the other side of the countertop and away from his body, and he tries his hardest not to frown when he no longer feels the warmth against his left side.

“Daddy, can I show Ryan my room, please? I want to show her the fort we made last night!” Jackson asks, and Harry looks up blankly, somehow forgetting that his son was even in the same room as them.

When two pairs of eyes fall on his frame, he blinks quickly before responding. “Right, uh, go ahead, Bubs. I’ll just pop these in the oven.”

Ryan feels a bit bad leaving Harry alone with their mess, but suddenly Jackson’s asking her to lift him off the barstool and onto the floor, placing his smaller hand in hers once his bare feet have touched the hardwood, dragging her through the living space and down the hallway into his bedroom at the end. 

She takes in his room with childlike wonder, observing the deep blue walls and light wood flooring with a circular rug in the middle near all of Jackson’s toys. A twin-sized loft bed is nestled into the corner with a ladder leading up to the mattress. Underneath are two massive beanbag chairs surrounded by shorter bookshelves, and the hand-constructed fort put together by different items in the flat along with multi-colored quilts and stuffed animals.

When she cranes her neck up, Ryan can make out a cluster of stick-on neon yellow stars on his ceiling, and she smiles to herself, remembering how she had the same thing in her childhood bedroom.

Her neck swivels around the room as she takes in the little pieces of Jackson he’s left scattered around—Crayola-filled artwork hanging along the walls, small trainers and wellies falling out of the closet, a Paw Patrol juice cup on his nightstand. When Ryan takes a step towards it, she notices a picture frame behind the cup, an outline of three bodies upon first glance. It’s only once she’s stepped a bit closer when she realizes that it’s technically two and a half persons—a man, a woman, and a small baby.

With shaking hands Ryan clutches the wooden frame and immediately recognizes Harry as the body on the left. Albeit his hair was much longer and messier, there was no mistaking his boyish grin and sparkling eyes. This younger version of Harry still made her cheeks flush and her heart rate skyrocket, and for a brief moment she lets her mind wander at the prospect of potentially meeting this version of Harry when she was at a pub in uni, or out shopping around the city, or even running into him in the Underground. She wonders if she would fall for this version just as quickly as she did with the older version waiting right outside this very room, a version without a child and without responsibilities. 

Ryan’s gaze falls to the figure his arm is wrapped tightly around, and with one look at the shape of her eyes and the slope of her nose, she knows instantly that this is Jackson’s mother. She’s beautiful—the type of beautiful that you couldn’t help but feel envious of, because her button nose and almond-shaped eyes and pouty lips and perfectly structured jawline were put together in such a fashion that made it seem almost unfair that one person could possess that type of beauty. Her blonde hair fell in curly ringlets down her back, and her eyes were so blue that Ryan was almost certain she could see herself through the reflection. She had that type of smile where her mouth sort of fell open and you could practically hear the laugh fall from her parted lips. Jackson was swaddled inside a green homemade quilt in her arms, and Ryan could only make out thin wisps of chocolate-colored hair, and suddenly she felt as if she was looking at an image that wasn’t meant for her eyes to see. 

Before she could get caught, Jackson’s soft voice calls out to her from inside the fort, and Ryan’s forced to crouch down on her hands and knees and crawl her way through the opening.

“Do you like it?” Jackson asks once she’s seated across from him, her legs crossed underneath her torso so that the tips of her denim-clad knees brush against Jackson’s flannel ones. 

“I love it,” Ryan replies, smiling when he flicks on the spinning nightlight against the wall, illuminating the inside. It’s only with the new light that Ryan notices the personalized touches Jackson added to the inside of his fort—the Tonka trucks along the floor, two grey pillows that seem to fit in a king-sized bedroom set, an iPad in the corner with a Marvel film queued up on Netflix, and a glamorous assortment of stuffed animals surrounding the border of the tent. 

She’s quite impressed with his interior design skills, if she’s being honest.

“Me and daddy watched Spiderman here last night because we can’t go to the cinema no more. He asked me if I wanted to watch Harry Potter with him, but I told him no because we haven’t finished reading the book yet,” Jackson explains slowly. “I told him I’d only watch it with you anyways. I think he got a little sad about that.”

Ryan’s heart swells inside her chest. “Why will you only watch it with me, champ?”

“Because it’s our thing.” He says it so definitively that Ryan feels stupid for even questioning him in the first place, and the thought of him telling his father no, all because she spent an afternoon reading a few chapters with him, causes a warm feeling to rush through her insides. It’s a different type of warmth than the feeling she gets from Harry—instead of a sweltering wave of heat, it’s more subtle, more muted. It feels like wrapping yourself in a heavy blanket in the middle of winter when you’re laying on your mum’s couch, just before you’re about to fall asleep. It feels like comfort.

It feels like home.

Just as Jackson’s in the middle of telling her about the new Spiderman film, a fuller head of curls pops in through the front entrance. Ryan peeks over and sees that Harry’s smiling shyly, looking as if he’s afraid to interrupt their moment together.

“Pizza’s done,” he says quietly. Jackson practically jumps through the blanketed roof, pushing Harry’s shoulders so that he falls backward on his bum as he runs through the entrance with only the kitchen in his sight. 

Before Ryan follows him, she makes sure to turn off the nightlight and rearrange the pillows she and Jackson were sitting on. When she crawls out of the tent on all fours, she looks up from the carpet and sees Harry watching her from the doorframe, a comical look in his eyes.

“Don’t,” Ryan says from her position on the floor, shaking her head in silent laughter once she hears Harry’s loud chuckles from across the room. Before she can get up on her own, she sees large bare feet in her line of vision, with a strong tattooed arm waiting to be held on to.

Her right hand clutches the outside of his own while the left falls into his palm, and with practically no effort, Harry heaves her upright so that she’s standing a few inches away from him. She blinks in the low light of Jackson’s room and realizes that she can still make out the freckles in Harry’s eyes. They’re suddenly in the same position as earlier when they’re standing far too close to each other and breathing a bit too heavy and saying absolutely nothing. It’s only when Harry reaches his right hand out to move her cardigan back into place on her exposed shoulder when she realizes that she’s still holding on to his left hand for dear life.

She unlatches her tight grip and lets her hands fall back to her sides, wondering if she’ll always feel as if her heart was going to burst through her skin whenever she stood too close to Harry. He coughs unnecessarily into his fist, stepping back slowly and giving her a forced smile.

“Let’s go eat.” His voice comes out low and scratchy, and it sounds as if he’s forgotten how to speak. Harry desperately is craving for a beer or water or anything to reprieve the dryness coating his throat, because he somehow has forgotten how to breathe correctly around Ryan, especially when she’s looking at him with messy hair and blown out eyes and tinged cheeks.

When they arrive back into the kitchen, Jackson’s already seated at the kitchen nook, working his way swiftly through his first slice of pepperoni pizza. Ryan slinks in next to him, already reaching for the stack of napkins in the center of the table and wiping his sauce-covered chin as if the motions were practically ingrained in her system. Harry watches a bit slackjawed, before refocusing and grabbing the half-emptied beer bottles from the counter and falling into the seat across from them.

“Thank you,” Ryan mumbles once Harry hands her beer over, and when their fingers brush during the exchange, she tries her hardest not to quiver from the rush of electricity crackling under her skin. 

Harry nods and grabs a slice of his own, bringing it to his mouth and chewing. Ryan does the same, and when Jackson peers over at her pizza, squinting at each topping and trying to decide if he liked them or not, Ryan rips a small sliver and places it on his plate.

“What’s that?” Jackson asks through a mouthful of pepperoni pizza.

“Jackson, chew with your mouth closed,” Harry instructs from across the table.

“Sorry,” Jackson mumbles, trying his hardest to move his lips without opening his mouth, causing Ryan to giggle on the side of him.

“They’re bell peppers,” Ryan explains when Jackson holds a slice of green pepper in front of his eyes. He instantly squishes his face in disgust and places the vegetable back onto the slice, exchanging it for the pepperoni.

“Hey! Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Ryan exclaims from Jackson’s side.

He shakes his head so quickly that the curls on the top of his head begin to flutter. “I don’t like vegetables.”

Ryan rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah? Coming from the kid who eats dried fruits as a snack. I don’t believe you for a second.” Her light tone indicates that she was only teasing, and when she tickles Jackson’s side and he begins to laugh loudly, she giggles right along with him.

But Harry’s confused as he’s watching them interact, wondering how on earth Ryan knew that piece of information. “Dried fruits?”

Ryan nods when she realizes that Jackson’s chewing. “Yeah. He told me his mum used to feed him that for snack time.”

When she looks up and sees a look of puzzlement across Harry’s face, she’s suddenly wondering if she’s accidentally pried open Pandora’s box, unassumingly spilling out memories that he had forgotten long ago. Memories of a pretty woman with blonde hair and blue eyes who fed her son dried fruits and has slowly become the elephant in the room that neither Ryan nor Harry seem to want to address.

Ryan reaches for her beer, tipping the bottle back until its contents are sliding down her throat. When she notices Jackson’s cup of water is empty, she grabs it and sneaks past him out of the kitchen nook, recycling her bottle and filling up Jackson’s drink. Feeling Harry’s gaze on her lower back, she looks over her shoulder and asks, “Need another?” and it’s as if the uncomfortable interaction never even happened.

Once she’s back across the table from Harry, she looks down at her plate and realizes that Jackson’s stolen her piece with the vegetables, chewing slowly as if he were trying to decide right then and there if he enjoyed the taste.

Ryan feels her chest puff with pride and she’s not quite sure why the site of Harry’s toddler eating the vegetables off of her pizza makes her feel important in some odd, inconsequential way.

“I guess it’s okay,” Jackson offers, causing both Harry and Ryan to laugh loudly across from each other.

Not long after their plates are emptied and their beer bottles a bit lighter, Ryan can see Jackson stifle a yawn from her periphery. It’s cute, the way his eyes squint and his small fist tries its hardest to catch the breath leaving his mouth before anybody can notice. But Harry does, and he’s looking at Ryan with a knowing look on his face. “Think you tired him out.”

Expecting a fight from the sleepy toddler beside her, Ryan suddenly stiffens when she feels Jackson’s head rest against her arm, his tangled curls tickling below her chin. When she angles her head downward, she smiles when she sees him rubbing his eyes, expelling another deep yawn for good measure.

“It’s alright, we had quite the day,” Ryan agrees, ruffling Jackson’s hair softly. “Go ahead and take him to bed, I’ll put these plates away.”

Harry pauses halfway out of the kitchen nook, looking at the pretty girl with his sleeping son practically on her lap in wonderment. The domesticity of her proposal surges through his skin, causing his heart to pump faster inside his chest. He knows he’s being ridiculous—she’s probably just being nice, offering to put the plates in the dishwasher because she didn’t want to intrude on Jackson’s nighttime routine.

But still, his cheeks flush at the thought that maybe this could be a normal occurrence, and for a slight moment, he revels in it, thinking of all the what if’s and could be’s. 

When he offers her a slight nod, Ryan places Jackson on the floor, before stacking the glass plates and bringing them over to the countertop near the sink. She turns around and smiles at the sight of Jackson holding Harry’s hand and leading him out of the kitchen.

But before he can get too far, Harry mumbles something that ends with Ryan’s name, and suddenly he’s ambling over to where she’s standing, blinking the sleep out of his eyes before he mumbles, “G’night Ryan.”

Ryan crouches before him, reaching him just at eye level. “Night, champ. Have a good sleep.”

All of a sudden, two tiny arms are wrapped around her neck, practically causing Ryan to fumble backward at the collision of Jackson’s small body falling into hers. She can feel his tiny hands gripping her brown hair, and after regaining her composure, her arms wrap around him fully so that she’s giving him a proper hug.

“Thanks fo’ today. I had the bestest time ever.” His sleepy admission causes Ryan’s breath to still, and that warm feeling is back—but instead of a warm quilt during winter, it feels like a heated blanket in the middle of summer, and suddenly she’s wondering what this all means.

And when he backs away slowly with a tiny wave, Ryan can only offer a shy smile, feeling far more confused than ever before. She’s too nervous to even look up at Harry’s face, because she’s almost certain that he’s probably horrified at the sight unfolding in front of him. Especially when he was fidgeting over her dried fruit comment, and the fact that Jackson’s mother’s beauty was incomparable to her own, and the fact that Jackson’s probably grown a little bit attached to Ryan, and she’s not sure if she can break his heart when she ultimately has to tell him the hard truth.

Ryan stands up quickly and gets back to loading the dishwasher, trying her hardest to focus on the task at hand instead of the whirring sound of her brain trying to formulate meaning to the situation she suddenly finds herself trapped in.

It’s only once she pushes the start button and takes a deep breath when she hears the familiar foot pattern of Harry entering the kitchen. She turns around and begins to tell him that she should probably be heading out too, but before she can even think to speak, Harry’s looking at her with an indescribable emotion in his eyes, and suddenly she can’t bring herself to move.

“You didn’t have to clean up,” Harry says slowly, reaching for his unfinished beer that Ryan moved to the island countertop, before bringing it to his lips with ease.

“It’s no bother, really. You did most of the cooking when I was in Jackson’s tent.” It’s a lame excuse and thankfully Harry doesn’t push it. Instead, he reaches into the fridge and offers up another beer, and how can Ryan say now when his boyish grin is back and she’s still trying to figure out what that look in his eyes means?

And that’s how they find themselves in Harry’s living room—with Harry perched on one end of the couch, watching Ryan fondly as she peers at all of the records lining his walls, figuring out which one to choose per his request. 

“It’s not rocket science, Ryan,” Harry teases after a few minutes have gone by and his record player is still void of a vinyl. 

“No, not rocket science. But it is quite an important decision,” Ryan counters, moving on to the next bookshelf and stopping at the K-N alphabetized section.

“Just pick what you like!” Harry exclaims through a chuckle.

Ryan stands up straight and turns around so that she’s staring at him head-on. “Music is your thing, isn’t it?”

Harry nods once he realizes that she’s waiting for a response.

“Right. So you’re going to judge me either way based on my decision—”

“—Whoa, who said I was going to—”

Ryan’s hand silences him. “It’s an internal judgment. Not a bad thing! I’d feel the same way if you were picking out a book in my flat.” She turns back around and bends at the knees, skimming through the M shelf. 

“Fleetwood Mac is too easy. You obviously are into classic rock with the way you wear graphic t-shirts and have two Rolling Stones albums framed near your guitar. Also, don’t get me started on the George Michael lyrics tattooed on your ankles.” Ryan’s still scrounging through Harry’s record collection, therefore she can’t see the look of astonishment grace his features.

She stops right in the middle of her search and plucks a yellow album with a colored picture of mountains in the background. It’s simple enough and the cover of the album is what drew her in, and when she squints her eyes and makes out Joni Mitchell in loopy cursive, she shrugs, deeming it okay.

When Harry grabs it from her hands and looks at her with a shocked look on his face, she smiles back, feeling confident in her blind decision.

“Joni Mitchell? I’m quite impressed,” Harry says as he’s placing the vinyl on the record player, bringing the needle to the outer-most edge and heading back to his position on the couch once the cracking sounds of the first song begin to play.

“Don’t be,” Ryan responds, gripping her beer and beginning to follow him. “I only picked it because I liked the color.”

Harry’s head falls back in laughter, before asking, “I’m supposed to believe that you know nothing about music?”

“Exactly,” Ryan starts, walking past an end table filled with picture frames. “I’m just observant. You give off the classic rock vibe with one look at your workspace, and it doesn’t take an idiot to recognize Careless Whisper lyrics—quite the bold choice, might I add.” Before she can say anything else, she recognizes Jackson’s mum in another photograph, and suddenly she’s forgotten her point. 

Harry’s arms are wrapped around her shoulders again, but instead of holding baby Jackson, she’s holding a beer and surrounded by four other people. Harry’s hair isn’t as long as in the first photograph, but it still falls well past his ears, so Ryan can only assume that this is from a time before Jackson was even a consideration. One arm falls around her shoulders, and his other arm is around the waist of a taller bloke with dark hair and a thick scarf around his neck. It seems to be winter, with the way everybody is wearing woolen coats and knitted jumpers. When Ryan squints, she can make out Christmas lights in the background, and she feels the elephant in the room come back, but this time she’s sick of running from it.

“Is this Jackson’s mum?” She’s not quite sure why she even bothered asking, because the way Harry’s eyes stop twinkling and the way his grin falls to a frown, Ryan already knows the answer without him having to speak.

“Yeah, her name’s Rachel,” Harry starts, placing his beer on the glass coffee table. “She’s just, uh, sort of not around anymore.”

It’s only once Harry’s still quiet, still looking pensive, when Ryan realizes how stupid she truly was. “Oh shit. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” She’s fumbling again and shifting her feet and averting her eyes, and suddenly she wishes she were anywhere but here.

“Wait, what? Oh. Oh,” he laughs, sipping his beer. Ryan stares at him wide-eyed, wondering how on earth he could possibly find this funny. “Christ, she’s not dead, Ryan. She’s just, uh, not really around.”

Ryan nods stupidly before falling onto the other side of the couch, finishing her beer easily and placing the empty bottle on the table. 

“We grew up together,” Harry starts, and Ryan brings her eyes up to look at his face and finds that he’s alarmingly calm. “When I came back home after uni we just sort of started hanging out with our sixth form mates again. Rachel and I never really were anything, but it was during that time after uni when you feel really lost and have no idea what you want to do with your life, so we just found comfort in each other, I suppose.” He pauses and Ryan wants to tell him that he really doesn’t owe her an explanation, but before she can say anything he’s shifted his eyes from the floor to her face and she knows that for some reason he wants to tell her.

“I hate to call it an accident, because Jackson’s the best little guy I could have ever asked for. But all of a sudden Rachel was pregnant and I was panicking because a kid wasn’t ever in the cards for me. Not so soon. And not with somebody I—”

Ryan nods, assuring him that she knows exactly what he means even if Harry can’t bring himself to admit it.

“So we… tried, I guess. She couldn’t bring herself to, uh, terminate it—him,” he winces softly and Ryan suddenly wants to grab his hand and never let go. “After he was born, we really tried. Got a flat near Finsbury Park and really did the best we could. And I was in, I was fully committed, one hundred percent. But, uh, Rachel. Rachel wasn’t.”

Ryan feels incredibly sad for Harry all of a sudden. Not the Harry that’s sitting before her—successful, kind, handsome. But the Harry she never met, the Harry she imagined when she first saw the photograph with Rachel in Jackson’s room. The one with long hair and big eyes, the one who didn’t really deserve to deal with the burden of raising a child on his own. The one who did it anyway, selflessly.

“She wanted to go to law school. Had all these dreams about being a career woman and living in a posh flat in the middle of the city. A baby wasn’t in her plans, either, I suppose.” He pauses and offers Ryan an encouraging smile when he sees the look of anguish on her face. “It’s okay, really. Didn’t want to stick around where I wasn’t wanted, right? Didn’t want that for Jackson, either.”

“We’re okay, now. Still friends and such. She sees Jackson one long weekend out of every month, and I think he’s getting used to it. But with covid and everything, she just hasn’t really been around much. So it’s an adjustment.” Ryan can tell that Harry really isn’t okay with everything, because how could you still be friends with somebody you made a child with? That same somebody who decided it wasn’t meant for her? That same somebody who let the responsibility fall onto one parent?

But one look into his eyes, Ryan can see that even after all that heartache and stress and pain, that Harry somehow did it. He raised a great kid, he figured out a career path, he ended up doing it all on his own—and suddenly Ryan feels quite in awe of the man sitting across from her.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” The words fall from her lips without a second thought, and she can feel the brightness from Harry’s grin, her own eyes squinting when she takes in the image of a beaming Harry with fluffy curls and strong arms and a stupid look plastered on his face.

Harry suddenly wonders if he should scoot closer towards her on the couch. Because she’s looking at him with bright, brown eyes, pouty tinted lips and a look on her face that he just wants to unravel. But he’s timid, because he doesn’t want to overwhelm her with the story he just told her and the feelings that are brewing in his stomach.

So he changes the subject.

“Jackson really likes you.” His words cause the apples of Ryan’s cheeks to raise.

“Yeah, well, guess I can sort of relate to him in a way,” her words come out so softly that Harry had to lean forward to make sure he heard her correctly. Because suddenly Ryan’s giving him information while looking into his eyes—not focusing on spreading out her pizza toppings, not mulling over which record to pick. She’s looking directly at him.

And Harry’s almost certain this is better than sitting closer to her.

“How’s that?” he asks.

“Well, I was around the same age as him when my parents split up,” Ryan frowns when she realizes the direction their conversation is heading in. “I mean, not that you and Rachel were ever married or whatever. Or that you’re doing a bad job, I just, uh,” Harry encourages her to continue with a gentle nod, but suddenly Ryan is aware that her throat is closing up and her mind has gone blank. Her thoughts are just a swirling mess inside her brain, disappearing on the tip of her tongue the second she tries to formulate her response.

She can feel her social anxiety take hold, and she desperately needs a minute.

So she tells him. “Just, hold on. Give me a minute.”

Harry is nothing but patient, and when he can hear the breath lodged in her throat, her chest compressing as Ryan tries her hardest to push it out of her lungs, he reaches for the hand squeezing her thigh, rubbing soothing motions on the back of her hand with his thumb to calm her down. 

Ryan’s eyes immediately look into green, and she can feel her chest fall as the breath finally leaves her parted lips. With one look into Harry’s eyes, one graze of his hand on the back of her own, she can feel her breathing regulate, and suddenly she’s calm for the first time all night.

“Lost you again,” Harry whispers.

Ryan nods thrice, feeling her skin prickle with goosebumps even though her insides are sweltering. “Sometimes I can’t think when I’m around you,” she admits.

“Isn’t that supposed to be a good thing?” Harry asks gently.

“Not really,” Ryan gulps harshly, forcing her eyes to look into Harry’s. “Not for me.”

It’s quiet, safe for the opening guitar riff of Car On a Hill playing softly in the background. Harry feels his body shifting just the smallest bit towards Ryan’s, so subtle that she can barely recognize it as it’s happening. She’s trapped in his eyes, swirling greens and golden hues spotted with freckles telling her to lean in, to come closer, to push herself into his personal space the way he’s been dreaming about ever since she left with his tea mug the day before. 

And she wants to, so badly, that suddenly it’s all she can think about. The confidence Fiona instilled in her hours earlier is back, and when her eyes dart down to Harry’s cherry lips, taking in the chapped ridges and the way his tongue darts out to lick the dryness away, she’s almost certain he wants the same thing as her.

His hand is still on hers and that’s all of the affirmation she needs, so with one fell swoop she makes a move to close the gap between them. And just as Ryan is centimeters away from his lips and her eyelids are about to shut—

—Nothing.

At the last moment, Harry backed away the smallest of inches, but it was enough for Ryan to understand that he didn’t, in fact, want the same thing as her.

So with flushed cheeks and wide eyes, Ryan stands up abruptly, ripping her hand out from under his own warm palm, offering a lame, “I should go,” before grabbing her trainers from near the shoe rack and heading straight for his door without even stopping to put them on her feet.

Before Harry can hear his front door close, he kicks into high gear, running after Ryan before she can get away again. Because he’s an absolute fucking idiot for backing away, for his muscles turning rigid and his mind swirling with far too many thoughts. 

But once he’s reached the entranceway, he finds nobody there. Just the sight of his door half-closed and the hallway rug upturned at the corner. And when he peeks his head out into the hallway and hears the sound of heavy oak closing, he realizes that he’s missed his chance.

And there’s nobody to blame but himself. 

*** A/N: Hi guys, please don’t hate me. Here’s part five of you feel like home, aka the longest part I’ve posted so far. Originally I was going to have it be two parts, but because I didn’t want to create another title, it’s just one. I know this is probably not how we thought (or wanted) the “date” to go, but I promise there’s more to the story! Part six will be posted on Thursday December 3, so feel free to chat (or yell) at me in the meantime. This was a submission for the 1DFF Quarantine Challenge, which has other amazing writers participating as well, so feel free to check out the page! And to everybody celebrating tomorrow, have a safe and happy Thanksgiving. x

taglist: @stylishmuser @vikki1220 @greatestview @verorax @cronias13 @adoremp3 @ilovegolden @taintedwonder @stepping-into-the-light @onlyphysicallypresent @dontwanttobealone @justsaying20 @elemayox @awomanindeniall @ihearthemcallingforyou @halloweenniall @live-at-the-forum @kakayam @harryinsweatersandbandanas @hopelessly-harry @ficnarry @morethanamelodyy @niallgolden @harryswinterberries @caramello-styles @harrysstyle @greatestview @solllaris​ @niallgolden​

[olivinesea]

In the Golden Dark, pt. 2

Part 1

a/n: This was already pretty much done so here you go. These parts are all rather short but that can be nice right? ~1.6k

i can’t concentrate if i keep seeing your face showing up in tea leaves lit up on my tv i can’t stand up straight under your gravity so i lay awake with my eyes closed

“Did you know 12% of people dream in black and white?”

“Wha-what?” Hotch groggily looked at the time on his phone. He had answered it blindly, autopilot kicking in to attend to the buzzing beside him on the couch. He blinked again and brought the phone back to his ear to hear Spencer’s voice more clearly.

“Yeah! It used to be a lot more when television was only in black and white but now that’s shifted obviously. Elderly people are still a lot more likely to have dreams that are—“

“Spencer,” Hotch interrupted the way the words were beginning to tumble out. When he was met with an abrupt silence he realized he didn’t have a follow up, he just needed a moment to breathe. To take in the dark living room, the flickering light of the television, its muted colors and grainy film showing a syndicated rerun, the kind only played in the middle of the night or the middle of the day, times when no productive person was meant to be watching. Something soft in its age, he found it comforting to put it on when he couldn’t sleep, woken again by nightmares that some monster had found their way to Haley and Jack. That they were suffering and he didn’t even know.

On the other end of the line, Spencer held his breath. He had been nervous about making the call, he wasn’t sure if it was too intrusive, too far across the boundaries they normally worked within. It wasn’t that he was worried about waking Hotch, he knew the other man was already awake. Even before they had started talking more, casually sharing details about the time they spent away from the office, it was obvious that Hotch did not sleep like a normal person. It was something else that they shared.

Seemingly endless minutes passed without another word from either man and his fear that he’d made a mistake grew. He told himself that Hotch was not pleased with the interruption. That he was being too assuming—why would Hotch be interested in anything he had to say at three in the morning? He’d called spurred on by the acute need to share a thought and, though he wasn’t totally conscious of it, a wish to hear that comforting voice, maybe even a quiet chuckle. He had smiled imagining that gentle sound, only he hadn’t realized it, the corners of his mouth moving without informing the rest of his mind. He touched his lips now with cold fingertips, running them over the dry skin, oblivious to the way his jaw clenched.

The silence between them hung like a bridge. There was a moment where both of them looked out at their respective living rooms, mentally steeling themselves to take a step and hope the other would meet them. Hope that they wouldn’t find themselves suspended over the water, alone as ever.

“I’m sorry for calling so late,” Spencer sounded so remorseful Hotch felt guilty immediately. He hadn’t meant cause him any anxiety with his long silence, he was just trying his best to gather his thoughts. To make sense of what he meant to do.

“It’s ok, really, I—“ Hotch hesitated, unsure how much detail to go into, how much reassurance was the right amount. He felt unreasonably awkward suddenly and twitched his fingers in irritation, “I wasn’t really sleeping anyway.”

“Really?” Spencer scrunched his eyes up, disliking the eagerness bleeding from his voice. He couldn’t help it though, the prospect of having the other man’s attention, even if it was only his voice reflecting from a satellite, knowing that Hotch was listening made him feel more secure. He’d spent too many restless nights pacing his apartment, starting and abandoning tasks in attempts to distract himself from the way the night was pressing uncomfortably close, threatening to overtake his mind. To have a friend to talk to, to reflect back his own reality, was a gift he could barely believe he deserved.

Hotch grunted as he adjusted himself on the couch cushions, supporting the back of his head on the pillows, resting the phone between his shoulder and ear. With his free hand he pulled up the blanket that had tangled at his feet. “Wide awake,” he said dryly. “What were you saying about dreams?”

Spencer’s smile was so big Hotch could hear it through the phone as the man stumbled ahead with the details of some completely unnecessary study. Hotch wanted to ask what had led to him reading such a thing but he was enjoying the happy way Spencer was running through all the new material he’d learned. He adored listening to Spencer speak, how he sometimes stopped short when remembering a related detail and how there’d be a pause while he took a split second to make the choice whether to jump to the new train of thought. Hotch smiled to himself and was pleased enough to offer hums of interest at inflection points. He let his eyes wander back to the television, as the title credits of another episode of Bonanza played across the screen, the pale wheat and horses and cowboys, already a distant fantasy in the 1960s, ancient history by today’s standards. His eyes fell half closed as he continued to listen to Reid’s voice.

“And, they just published a new study about how sleep deprivation decreases the body’s pain tolerance.”

Hotch snorted softly at this. “They really had to get a bunch of scientists together to figure that out? Someone paid for that?”

“Well it is always important to gather data and scientific evidence for these types of things. Anecdotal testimony won’t lead to any developments in the care for conditions like chronic pain,” Reid paused when he heard more quiet laughter from Aaron. He grinned.

“Do you want to hear something really crazy? They’ve found a connection between a person’s favorite sleeping position and their personality. Can you imagine!”

“Hmmph,” Hotch sank deeper into the cushions, settling in for whatever came next.

*

The calls became as regular as the midnight pancakes. Spencer would call with some piece of trivia, every night a new topic. He had a seemingly endless well of knowledge to draw on. In truth he spent the day trying to think of new ideas to share, new information he thought Hotch would appreciate. For no reason other than his own private satisfaction, he grouped topics thematically. This week they were going to be talking about space.

Now Hotch was ready, drowsy but checking his phone every few minutes to see if he’d somehow missed it ringing. He was looking at it yet again when it buzzed. He stared at the screen for a moment before answering, letting the name that flashed send a small thrill up his spine. He was not sure how it’d happened but he had come to rely on these calls. They still hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t acknowledged what this extracurricular time spent together might mean. They were simply seeking comfort, not questioning how this might be perceived outside these invisible moments.

“Hey Spence,” he barely got the words out before Spencer launched into that night’s prepared curiosities.

“Did you know most of the visible stars are actually multiple star systems? The singular stars are so much harder to see that astronomers used to believe that it was fairly uncommon to find a singular star like our sun.They hypothesized this was a contributing factor to why we hadn’t found evidence of extraterrestrial life. It is much harder for a planet to have the stability necessary for a habitable atmosphere with the potential fluctuations of a binary star system. Without as many single stars it made sense that it was exceedingly unlikely for life to form outside of our solar system.”

“I think it’d be nice,” Hotch murmured, not really thinking about what he was saying.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, ah,” Hotch stammered, a little embarrassed to have the comment acknowledged. He felt his neck growing warm as he tried to make out a reply. “Well, having two suns. I think it could be nice."
 “Why?” Spencer was genuinely curious.

“Um, I guess, I imagine it would be warmer for one,” he paused before adding on, waiting to see what Spencer’s reaction might be. He could almost hear the wheels of his mind turning with all the reasons Hotch’s logic was faulty. He hurried on before he became too self-conscious to finish his thought. “And, I’ve just never really liked the night, all the darkness. Maybe with two suns we could have a little more light in the world.”

Instead of responding, Spencer remained quiet, surprised by this uncharacteristically whimsical thought. Hotch could feel his whole neck had turned red, along with the warming tips of his ears.

“I—I don’t really like the night either,” he tried to sympathize. “It can feel…overwhelming.”

They sat for a moment, not sure where to take this or how the facts had turned into feelings.

“I’m happy I have you to talk to though.”

It was simple, but it was true and sweet and Hotch smiled, closing his eyes to better absorb the words.

“I’m happy too, Spencer.”

Now they were both blushing, the depth of meaning behind these brief statements readily apparent. For a moment, feeling the heat dancing across his face, Hotch wondered if this wasn’t a mistake. Maybe he was allowing things to become something irresponsible, something he couldn’t so easily walk back. He pictured Spencer, sitting across from him, animated and full of life, pulling further away from the shadows that teased around the edges. It didn’t matter, he decided. It didn’t matter what this was, only that they had found a hand to hold through the night.

“So, what else have you got for me?”

~Part 3~