#or maybe i had been watching it while i was still recovering from an 8 hours episode.

[immult]

i really need to lock in for exu divergence i haven't gotten past the horse leg. you know what i might need to rewatch the beginning all over again.

[theetherealbloom]

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.8

Chapter Eight: He Got My Heartbeat Skipping Down 16th Avenue

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Making Out, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck, Heavy Overthinking, Boats, Cruise Dinner,

Word Count: 6.5k

A/N: Let’s all collectively pray that Pedro doesn’t EVER read any of my work god bless and thank you.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: I Think He Knows by Taylor Swift

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CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING  

Pedro is sitting across from you, his long legs stretched out under the small table, his ankle brushing against yours every so often. He’s comfortable here, like he belongs in your space. And maybe he does.  

He’s been hovering, checking on you, bringing you food, tucking you in with the kind of care that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest. And now, he’s looking at you with something warm in his gaze, something almost nervous.  

“I was thinking,” he starts, running a hand through his curls, “we should go out this weekend. Like… a proper date.”  

You blink at him. Once. Twice.  

“Like… a date date?” You blurt out, immediately wanting to crawl under the table.  

Pedro grins, dimples and all. “Yeah, a date date.”  

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. “I can’t believe this is happening.”  

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Believe it, sweetheart.”  

“This weekend, though?” you say, suddenly remembering. “That’s when I get my stitches out.”  

Pedro shrugs, easy and nonchalant. “Then we’ll do that together.”  

Your breath hitches slightly. Together.  

You bite your lip, glancing down at the table, at your hands, at anything but him because if you look at him too long, you might melt into a puddle.  

“Okay,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.  

His fingers brush yours, a soft touch, grounding you. “Okay.”  

A two days pass.  

Pedro never really leaves.  

He’s in your room every night, sleeping beside you, taking care of you like it’s second nature. He wakes up earlier than you, presses a soft kiss to your temple before leaving for set, and every time you open your eyes, there’s a fresh cup of coffee waiting on the nightstand with a little note written on the hotel’s stationary.  

Drink your coffee, take your meds, miss me a little.  

You always do.  

To pass the time while he’s gone, you draw. You sketch the view outside your window, the way the evening light filters through the curtains, the memory of his hands on your skin. Sometimes you hum to yourself, letting your voice fill the quiet. Sometimes you read, but you’re always careful when Pedro’s around because you still haven’t recovered from the time he caught you reading fanfiction and you had to pretend it was something entirely not about him.  

And every night, he returns, drops his things by the door, and makes himself at home in your space, even though he has a perfectly good—larger—room of his own.  

“You know, your bed is way bigger than mine,” you point out one night, arms crossed as you watch him steal your pillow like it’s his pillow.  

He smirks, slipping under the covers like he owns the place. “I like yours better.”  

You narrow your eyes. “Liar.”  

He grins, stretching his arms behind his head. “It’s not the bed, sweetheart. It’s the company.”  

You stare at him, heart flipping over itself.  

Yeah.  

You’re absolutely, utterly, completely screwed.

Pedro stretches out on your bed, like he belongs there, like he’s always belonged there. His arm is tucked behind his head, his shirt slightly rumpled from the long day, and his legs are sprawled out like he has no concept of personal space.

You huff, crossing your arms as you stand at the foot of the bed. “You know, I wasn’t actually inviting you to take over my bed.”

He smirks, patting the spot beside him. “And yet, here I am.”

You squint at him. “You have a room, Pedro.”

He tilts his head, eyes softening as he watches you. “Yeah, but I like this one better.”

Your stomach flutters at that, but you roll your eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his words affect you. Instead, you climb into bed, careful of your stitches, and settle into the pillows.

Pedro turns on his side, facing you, head propped on his hand. His gaze flickers over you, slow and thoughtful, like he’s cataloging every little detail. It makes your skin heat.

“You feeling okay?” he asks, his voice dipping into something softer.

You nod. “I’m fine, Pedro.”

His lips press into a line, like he doesn’t quite believe you. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”

You exhale, heart warming at the concern written all over his face. “Yes, mother hen.”

Pedro snorts. “Good. I was this close to spoon-feeding you soup earlier.”

Your mouth falls open. “What?”

He grins. “What? You were ignoring your food, I was getting worried.”

You groan, flopping onto your back. “Oh my god, this is so embarrassing.”

Pedro laughs, the deep, raspy sound wrapping around you like a blanket. “What’s embarrassing about me taking care of you?”

You peek at him from beneath your arm. “Everything.”

He hums, reaching out to toy with the hem of your sleeve. “Better get used to it, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches.

Because he says it like a promise.

Like he’s not planning on going anywhere.

The thought is dizzying, and you don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod.

Pedro watches you for a beat before exhaling, reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp. The room plunges into darkness, except for the sliver of city lights filtering through the curtains.

You’re left facing each other in the quiet, breaths mingling in the small space between you.

Then—

“Hey.”

His voice is low, sleep-rough.

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause.

Then, “This is nice.”

You swallow. “What is?”

“This.” His fingers brush yours in the dark. “Being here. With you.”

Your heart stutters.

You don’t know what to say to that, but you don’t have to, because Pedro just squeezes your hand before settling back against the pillow.

And slowly, slowly, you drift off, feeling safe.

Pedro wakes up early for set, always making sure you have everything you need before he leaves. Sometimes, that means tucking an extra pillow behind your back or leaving a bottle of water on your nightstand. Other times, it means making sure your phone is within reach or adjusting the curtains just enough so the morning sun doesn’t hit your eyes too harshly.  

But the constant, the one thing he never forgets, is pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before slipping out the door, murmuring a gruff, "I’ll be back soon, sweetheart."  

And throughout the day, his texts come like clockwork.  

Pedro: Did you eat?  

Pedro: Did you take your meds?  

Pedro: What are you doing right now?  

Pedro: Do you miss me? 😉  

You roll your eyes every time he sends that winky face, but you still answer.  

You: Maybe.  

And every evening, without fail, he comes back.  

Some nights, he brings dinner—tossing a greasy paper bag onto the bed, giving you an easy smile as he shrugs, “Figured you could use some real food instead of whatever sad snack you had today.”  

Other nights, he’s dead on his feet, barely making it out of his clothes before collapsing onto the bed beside you. His body is heavy with exhaustion, but he still turns to you, nuzzling his face into your shoulder, voice scratchy and thick with fatigue as he mumbles about his day.  

And then there are nights when you wake up for no reason at all—just a shift in the air, a change in the silence—only to find him already awake, propped up on one elbow, just looking at you.  

Like you hung the damn stars.  

You don’t ask him what he’s thinking.  

You don’t have to.  

It’s late, and Pedro is stretched out beside you on his stomach, chin resting on his folded arms, watching as your pencil glides over the page. His breathing is steady, slow—content. The air between you is quiet, but not the uncomfortable kind. It’s warm, familiar.  

And then, he notices.  

His brows furrow, lips quirking as he tilts his head. “Is that me?”  

You freeze, fingers tightening around your pencil.  

He smirks. “That’s me.”  

Shit.

“No, it’s not.” Your voice comes out too quick, too defensive. You clear your throat. Cool it. “It could be anyone.”  

Pedro pushes himself up onto one elbow, squinting at the page. “Sweetheart.” His voice is a slow drawl, playful but laced with certainty. “You literally sketched my face.”  

You purse your lips. “That’s just, like… a coincidence.”  

His smirk deepens. “A coincidence.”  

“Yes.”  

“Uh-huh.” He shifts closer, propping himself up just enough so he can rest his chin on your shoulder. His breath is warm against your skin. “Am I your muse?”  

You groan, shoving his face away, heat crawling up your neck. “Shut up. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”  

He chuckles, easily catching your wrist before you can retreat, fingers curling around yours. His thumb brushes over your pulse, slow and deliberate.  

His voice softens. “I like it.”  

You don’t look at him, but your lips curve just slightly, betraying you.  

And Pedro sees it.  

And Pedro feels it.  

And before you can even think of another excuse, another deflection—  

He presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand, lingering just long enough to make your pulse stutter.  

“Draw me again sometime,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. “I promise I’ll pose for you.”  

You roll your eyes, but you don’t say no.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — MORNING

Saturday morning arrives in a slow haze of golden light filtering through the curtains. You stretch beneath the covers, wincing slightly when you feel the dull ache from your stitches. Right. Today’s the day.  

You’re finally getting them removed.  

Pushing yourself upright, you glance over at Pedro, still sprawled across your bed like he belongs there. One arm is draped over his eyes, the other resting lazily across his chest, his breathing slow and even.  

You shake your head, smiling softly as you slip out of bed and head to the bathroom to freshen up. By the time you’re dressed and ready to leave, Pedro is awake—barely. He groans as he stretches, blinking blearily at you.  

“You’re up early,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep.  

You arch a brow. “We have somewhere to be, remember?”  

He hums, rubbing a hand down his face before propping himself up on one elbow. His curls are a mess, sticking up in different directions, and his shirt is wrinkled from sleep. It’s ridiculously endearing.  

“Right,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Your stitches.”  

You nod, pulling on your shoes. “You still coming with me?”  

Pedro swings his legs over the edge of the bed, cracking his neck. “Sweetheart, I offered to take you.” He stands, stretching, his shirt riding up just enough to expose a sliver of his stomach. “You think I’m backing out now?”  

You huff a small laugh. “Just checking.”  

He grins, stepping closer to ruffle your hair. You bat his hand away, but the warmth lingers.  

As you both step out of the room, you glance up at him. “So… where are we going later? You know, for our date?”  

Pedro smirks, slipping his hands into his pockets. “It’s a surprise.”  

You narrow your eyes. “Pedro.”  

He chuckles. “What? You don’t trust me?”  

You let out an exaggerated sigh. “That’s not the issue.”  

“Mm,” he hums, tilting his head. “Then what is?”  

You hesitate before muttering, “What if I want to dress accordingly?”  

Pedro stops walking, turning fully to face you, a slow smile spreading across his lips. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Sweetheart, you’d look good in anything.”  

Your face heats instantly, and Pedro knows it. He winks, then gestures toward the exit. “Now c’mon, let’s go get you fixed up so you can stop wincing every time I kiss you.”  

You roll your eyes, but your heart is racing.  

Today is going to be interesting.

ER — EARLY AFTERNOON  

You’re so glad you both decided to go to the ER in the morning—because by the time your name is finally called, it's nearly lunchtime.  

Pedro has been nothing but patient the entire time, keeping you distracted with quiet jokes and subtle touches, his knee knocking against yours, his fingers occasionally brushing your wrist. He’s dressed inconspicuously—cap pulled low over his curls, dark-framed glasses perched on his nose, and a coat zipped up against the chill outside. You’re bundled up too, matching his casual, low-key look, though you both know that if anyone really paid attention, Pedro Pascal in an ER wouldn’t stay unnoticed for long.  

A nurse leads you into a small examination room, offering you a kind smile as she checks your chart. “So, you’re here to get some stitches removed?”  

You nod, shifting on the paper-lined exam table. “Yeah. The doctor said they should be good to come out today.”  

She hums, scanning the notes. “Looks like everything healed up nicely.” She glances up, curiosity in her eyes. “How’d you end up needing stitches in the first place?”  

You hesitate for a split second, not really sure how to phrase it. Before you can come up with something, Pedro, who has been leaning against the counter with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, chimes in—voice warm, effortlessly charming.  

“She saved my life.”  

Your head snaps in his direction, brows shooting up.  

The nurse's eyes widen slightly. “Oh?”  

You groan. “Pedro.”  

He just shrugs, casual as ever, like he wasn’t just out here making you sound like some hero in a dramatic action film.  

“It’s not a big deal,” you mumble, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “Other people would’ve done the same.”  

Pedro tilts his head, leveling you with a look over the rim of his glasses. “Doesn’t make it any less impressive, cariño.”  

The nurse smiles, clearly entertained by the exchange. “Well, whatever happened, sounds like it was quite the ordeal.” She wheels over a small tray with supplies and snaps on a pair of gloves. “Let’s get these stitches out, then.”  

Pedro stays close, watching as the nurse works with practiced ease. The removal doesn’t hurt, just a slight tugging sensation as the stitches come free. Still, Pedro’s hand rests on your knee, thumb stroking over the fabric of your jeans—a silent reassurance.  

“All done,” the nurse announces after a few moments. “Everything looks great. Just be gentle with the area for the next few days, but you’re good to go.”  

You exhale, relieved. “Thank you.”  

The nurse smiles, then glances between you and Pedro before adding with a knowing glint, “And try to keep out of trouble.”  

Pedro laughs, slipping his hand into yours as he helps you down from the table. “No promises.”  

Your face burns as you leave the room, Pedro’s fingers still loosely laced with yours.  

Outside, he tugs his cap lower, the corner of his lips twitching. “So, officially stitch-free now. How do you feel?”  

You glance up at him. “Pretty good.”  

He grins. “Good enough for our date?”  

Your stomach flips. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Good enough for that.”  

You don’t realize you’re still holding Pedro’s hand until he gives it a small squeeze, tugging you ever so slightly closer as the two of you step outside the hospital doors. The cold air nips at your cheeks, but the warmth of his touch lingers, grounding you.  

“So,” you say, exhaling, “where are we going?”  

Pedro’s lips curl into a smirk, his breath visible in the crisp air. “You’ll see.”  

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”  

He just grins and tugs you along, leading you toward a waiting car.  

LITTLE VENICE — GOLDEN HOUR 

You don’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t this.  

The two of you stand by the water’s edge, the amber glow of the setting sun reflecting off the canal. The air smells of autumn—crisp leaves and the distant scent of warm pastries from a nearby café. Houseboats bob gently along the docks, their string lights flickering to life as the sky shifts from gold to dusky lavender.  

Your breath catches. “This is…” You trail off, taking it all in.  

Pedro watches you, his expression soft. “Pretty great, huh?”  

You turn to him, eyes wide. “How did you—?”  

He shrugs, looking unfairly pleased with himself. “Heard you mention you’ve never been.”  

Your chest tightens at that. You can barely remember when you’d said that, but clearly, he had remembered.  

Before you can even process how much that means, Pedro’s gently guiding you toward one of the docked boats—a narrow, beautifully restored canal boat, its deep blue paint glossy beneath the fading sunlight. A small sign by the entrance reads PRIVATE EVENING CRUISE — RESERVATIONS ONLY.

Your eyes snap to his. “Pedro.”  

His smirk widens. “Surprise.”  

A thrill rushes through you as a staff member greets you both, ushering you aboard. The interior is stunning—cozy and warm, with plush seating, soft lighting, and a table set for two near the window. A bottle of wine waits in an ice bucket, next to a selection of small plates: fresh bread, olives, cheese, and a few things you don’t immediately recognize.  

You glance up at Pedro, still slightly stunned. “You planned all this?”  

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little bashful. “Wanted to do something special.”  

Your heart melts.  

You don’t trust yourself to say anything, so instead, you take his hand and squeeze, letting your fingers linger. He squeezes back.  

As the boat begins to move, gentle ripples breaking the canal’s glassy surface, Pedro pulls out a chair for you. “Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice warm. “Let’s make a night of it.”  

The conversation flows as effortlessly as the water beneath you. Pedro pours you a glass of wine, the deep red liquid swirling in your glass as you sip and listen to him recount stories from set—his voice low, expressive, endlessly captivating.  

You find yourself laughing a lot, warmth bubbling in your chest.  

“You laugh when you’re nervous,” Pedro notes, watching you over the rim of his glass.  

You blink. “I do not.”  

His lips twitch. “You so do.”  

You huff, taking another sip. “Maybe you just make me nervous.”  

The words leave your mouth before you can think better of them, and your face burns as you realize what you just admitted.  

Pedro stills. Then he leans in, elbows resting on the table, gaze darkening just slightly. “Yeah?”  

You swallow hard. “I—”  

He tilts his head. “Is that a bad thing?”  

Your pulse skips. “No.”  

A slow smirk spreads across his face. He doesn’t push further, just settles back into his chair with a knowing look that should be illegal.  

The boat rocks gently, candlelight flickering between you.  

For a moment, neither of you speak—just watching, feeling, knowing.  

Then Pedro shifts, reaching for another piece of bread. “You gonna sketch this later?”  

You roll your eyes, grateful for the reprieve from the intensity of his gaze. “Oh, absolutely. I’m going to document the exact moment Pedro Pascal got all smug on our first date.”  

He barks out a laugh, then leans across the table, voice teasing. “First date, huh?”  

You freeze.  

He grins. “That mean I get a second one?”  

Your heart thunders.  

“I—” You clear your throat, gathering your composure. “I guess that depends.”  

“On?”  

You chew your lip, watching the way his gaze flickers down to your mouth.  

“On whether or not you’ll keep making that stupid face at me.”  

Pedro laughs, full-bodied and warm, before leaning back with an easy shrug. “Can’t promise anything, sweetheart.”

He pours the last of the wine into your glass, his fingers brushing yours as he sets the bottle down. It’s nothing, just a casual touch, but it still sends a shiver up your spine.  

He notices.  

His eyes flicker over your face, his smirk softening into something quieter, something warmer.  

“So,” he says, tilting his head, “you already know way too much about me. Feels a little unfair.”  

You raise a brow. “Do I?”  

“Oh, absolutely,” he says, grinning. “You’ve seen me exhausted. You’ve seen me half-asleep, drooling on your pillow.”  

You let out a tiny laugh. “You don’t drool.”  

“Cariño, I definitely do.”  

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Fine. What do you want to know?”  

Pedro’s lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually ask. Then he leans in, resting his chin on his palm, considering you.  

His voice dips, softer now. “What made you want to do what you do?”  

It’s such a simple question, but the way he asks it—the genuine curiosity in his voice—has you gripping your wine glass a little tighter.  

You shrug, exhaling. “I guess I always liked… creating things. Bringing ideas to life. It never felt like a choice, really. More like something I had to do.”  

Pedro hums, like he understands.  

“Plus,” you add, a little teasing, “it keeps me busy. Gives me something to do when I’m not babysitting actors.”  

Pedro laughs, head tipping back slightly. “Ouch.”  

You grin. “You set yourself up for that one.”  

He shakes his head, eyes bright as he watches you. “You’re dangerous.”  

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach flip.  

You swallow, setting your glass down. “What about you?”  

Pedro blinks.  

You tilt your head. “Why acting?”  

He exhales, running a hand through his curls. “I mean… I could give you some poetic answer about storytelling and human connection, but honestly?” He leans in slightly, eyes twinkling. “I just really loved movies as a kid.”  

Your heart melts.  

“That’s it?” you ask, smiling.  

Pedro shrugs, but there’s something earnest in his gaze. “I wanted to be part of them. That feeling you get when you watch something really good—when it stays with you? I wanted to do that for someone else.”  

You don’t realize you’re smiling until Pedro mirrors it, his own expression softening.  

There’s a lull, comfortable and easy, the boat rocking gently beneath you.  

You should be relaxed.  

But suddenly, your chest feels tight.  

Because you want this.  

Not just tonight. Not just stolen moments in hotel rooms or quiet laughter over takeout. You want—  

Him.  

All of him.  

And that realization terrifies you.  

Because you know what this means.  

If you and Pedro were to actually—god—date, you’d have to go through HR. There’d be paperwork, meetings to ensure everything was above board. And then there was PR.  

You knew how this worked. You’ve watched enough rom-com movies and read so many romance books. The moment someone snapped a picture of the two of you—walking too close, looking at each other too long—it’d be everywhere.  

And what if—oh god—what if it didn’t work out? What if everything unraveled and suddenly the easy, warm thing you had with Pedro turned into something awkward and painful and—  

“You okay?”  

His voice pulls you back.  

You blink, realizing you’d gone too quiet. Pedro is watching you, head slightly tilted, concern flickering across his face.  

You inhale sharply, pasting on a smile. “Yeah.”  

His gaze lingers and he reaches for your hand, fingers tracing over your knuckles, grounding you.  

And you let him.

Pedro’s fingers brush against yours, absentmindedly tracing circles on your skin. It’s distracting, in the worst—and best—way possible. Because while your brain is busy spiraling into the logistics of dating him (HR, PR, and the absolute circus that would come with it), your body is attuned to something else entirely.  

The warmth of his touch.  

The way his thumb skims your knuckles, slow and deliberate.  

The fact that he’s still looking at you, waiting.  

You should pull away.  

You don’t.  

Instead, you let yourself revel in the moment—the quiet intimacy of it. The unspoken something humming between you.  

Pedro tilts his head slightly, his voice dipping into something lower and softer. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”  

Shit.  

You wet your lips, glancing away. “Nothing.”  

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Liar.”  

Your fingers twitch beneath his, but Pedro doesn’t let you go. If anything, he tightens his grip, his thumb grazing along the inside of your wrist. Your pulse stutters beneath his touch, and the bastard notices.  

His mouth quirks. “You gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”  

You exhale, trying for nonchalance. “I was just thinking about… logistics.”  

Pedro’s brows lift. “Logistics?”  

You nod, keeping your eyes trained on where your hands rest between you. His are warm, calloused, steady—while yours feel like they’re trembling.  

He waits, because he’s patient.  

You swallow. “You and me.”  

That catches his attention. His fingers still against yours. “You and me?” he repeats, as if he needs clarification.  

You nod again, throat tightening. “If we—” You hesitate, glancing up at him. “I mean, if we—”  

Pedro leans in, smirking. “Sweetheart, if you say ‘if’ one more time, I’m gonna start thinking you don’t actually want this.”  

Your face warms. “That’s not—”  

“Because I do.”  

That shuts you up.  

Pedro watches as your lips part, but no words come out. He squeezes your hand gently, his voice quieter now. “I want this. I want you.”  

Your breath hitches.  

He’s serious.  

Gone is the teasing, the playful back-and-forth you’ve come to expect. Instead, there’s something raw in his expression. Something real.  

It terrifies you.  

It thrills you.  

Because god, you want him too. You want the hand-holding and the stolen kisses. The nights spent talking until dawn, and the mornings where he’s still half-asleep, murmuring your name against your skin.  

But it’s not that simple.  

Your job. His job.  

The entire world watching.  

You press your lips together. “Pedro—”  

“I know,” he says, before you can voice the fear curling in your stomach. He squeezes your hand again. “I know what you’re thinking. The press, the attention, the PR nightmare.” His lips twitch. “HR paperwork.”  

You groan. “It’s a lot.”  

“It is.”  

You glance up at him, finding nothing but understanding in his gaze.  

“But,” he continues, voice steady, “none of that changes how I feel about you.”  

Your heart lurches.  

He exhales, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb. “Look, we don’t have to figure everything out tonight. We don’t have to rush into anything.” His lips curve. “But I do think we should stop pretending like this isn’t happening.”  

You bite your lip, hesitating.  

Pedro watches you for a moment, then—so softly—he murmurs, “I mean, we’re literally on a date right now.”

You exhale shakily, still nervous, still unsure.

But when you meet his gaze, all you see is him.

The man who stays with you every night, who takes care of you, who watches you like you hung the damn stars.

And suddenly, the choice doesn’t seem so complicated.

You nod. “Okay.”

Pedro grins, squeezing your hand once more before lifting it to press a lingering kiss to your knuckles.

“Good,” he murmurs, against your skin. “About damn time.”

The night air is cool against your skin, a crisp contrast to the warmth still lingering between you and Pedro. You stand beneath the glow of the streetlamp, hands tucked into the pockets of your coat, shifting on your feet as you both wait for the car to pull up.  

The date had been perfect—sweet, intimate, just the right mix of playful and real. And now, in the quiet of the evening, with the city humming softly around you, the weight of it all settles in your chest.  

You glance up at him. “Thank you for tonight.”  

Pedro turns his head, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Of course.”  

“I mean it,” you say, voice softer now. “You didn’t have to do all this.”  

He raises a brow, smirking. “Sweetheart, it was a date. That’s kinda the point.”  

You huff out a laugh, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “Yeah, but I would’ve been just as happy staying in bed, cuddling and watching TV.”  

Pedro tilts his head, considering. “Noted.” He slips his hands into his coat pockets, rocking back on his heels. “So next time, we skip the fancy dinner and go straight to you wrapped up in my arms?”  

Your face heats. “That’s not—”  

“Because that’s exactly what I’m hearing.”  

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “I walked into that one.”  

Pedro chuckles, stepping closer, ducking his head slightly so you can’t hide from him. “You really did.”  

You peek at him between your fingers, and he’s watching you with that same look—the one that makes your stomach flip, the one that makes you forget about all the reasons you shouldn’t be doing this.  

Sighing dramatically, you drop your hands and shake your head. “I’m probably gonna have to put all my social media on private after this, huh?”  

Pedro snorts. “That or just straight-up deactivate.”  

You groan again. “Great.”  

“Hey.” He nudges you this time, his smile teasing but fond. “I’ll protect you.”  

You roll your eyes. “Oh, sure. From the merciless Twitter discourse?”  

He grins. “From everything.”  

Your breath catches.  

Because he says it so easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  

Like he means it.  

The car pulls up, but you don’t move, and neither does he. The world around you feels smaller somehow, quieter, like the streetlamp glow is its own little universe where it’s just you and Pedro, standing too close, staring too long.  

And then—so softly—he says, “C’mon, let’s go back to the hotel.”  

And you do.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING 

The ride back to the hotel is drenched in a thick, unspoken tension. Not awkward, not uncomfortable — just heavy with the weight of what now?.  

You sit next to Pedro in the back of the car, closer than you probably should be, his thigh pressed against yours, his arm casually draped along the seat behind you. Every bump in the road shifts you slightly closer to him, and neither of you do anything to stop it.  

Your heart hasn’t stopped hammering since dinner. Every time you glance at him — out of the corner of your eye — you catch him already looking at you. Smiling that soft, fond smile like he’s already memorized the shape of your mouth, the slope of your nose, the exact way your eyes light up when you laugh.  

And god, you’re fucked.  

Because now you want him. Like, really want him. Not just in the dreamy, faraway way you did when you first met him — but in a raw, aching, desperate way. You want his mouth on yours again. You want his hands gripping your waist like he can’t get enough of you. You want him in your bed, in your space, in your life.  

But you also know what happens if you let this happen. The HR meetings. The PR nightmares. The rumors. The tabloids. And oh god, what happens if someone already snapped a photo of you tonight? Did you already trend on Twitter without knowing it? Did DeuxMoi already post something? Is your inbox about to implode?  

You feel sick.  

Pedro must notice the shift in your expression because his hand gently grazes your knee. “You okay?”  

Your head snaps up. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m just—thinking.”  

He smiles. “About?”  

About how I want you so bad it’s physically painful.  

About how I’m probably already in love with you and I’m gonna ruin my entire career if I act on it.  

About how you’re gonna kill me when you find out how unprofessional this is.  

“…Stuff.” You force a laugh. “Good stuff. Don’t worry.”  

Pedro’s quiet for a beat, like he can see right through you. Then, softly — “You’d tell me if something was wrong, yeah?”  

Your throat constricts. God, why did he have to care so much? Why did he have to be so good and sweet and thoughtful — it just made you fall harder.  

“Yeah,” you rasp. “I’d tell you.”  

The car slows in front of the hotel entrance. Your stomach flips. Pedro shifts, his hand grazing your thigh as he reaches for the door. “C’mon.”  

You step out into the evening chill, and Pedro is already there — waiting for you, like he always does. His hand brushes the small of your back as you both head inside, and it takes everything in you not to lean into it.  

The lobby is quiet, warm light casting golden shadows across the marble floors. You barely register the receptionist’s polite smile as you pass. All you can think about is him. The warmth of his touch. The scent of his cologne. The way you’re about ten seconds away from inviting him upstairs.  

The elevator doors open. Pedro gestures for you to step inside first.  

And the silence kills you.  

Your heart is a hammer. Your pulse is thick in your throat. Neither of you speak, but you can feel it — the tension, the pull, the gravitational force tethering you to him.  

Finally — just to break the silence — you clear your throat. “Thanks again for tonight. Seriously.”  

Pedro’s mouth curves into a small smile. “I should be thanking you. I haven’t had a night like that in… a long time.”  

Your chest aches. “You didn’t have to do all that, y’know.”  

“I wanted to.” His voice is quiet but firm. “I wanted to take you out. I wanted to see you laugh. I wanted to… just be with you. Is that so hard to believe?”  

You don’t answer. You can’t.  

The elevator dings. You almost jump.  

Pedro steps out first, waiting for you. The walk down the hallway is agonizing. Not because it’s long — but because every step feels like a countdown to goodnight.  

You reach your door. Your hand fumbles with your keycard. “So, um—” You force a laugh. “I guess this is—”  

Pedro cuts you off. “Do you want it to be?”  

Your mouth goes dry.  

“…What?”  

“This. The end of the night.” He’s watching you like he already knows your answer. “Do you want me to say goodnight and leave?”  

The air crackles. You physically cannot speak.  

“…No,” you breathe. “I don’t.”  

Pedro’s mouth quirks. And then — without breaking eye contact — he slips his hand into his back pocket and pulls out your spare room key.  

Your jaw drops. “You still have that?”  

He twirls it between his fingers, smirking. “Told you. Your bed’s better.”  

“Oh my god,” you choke out, covering your face. “That’s not even—”  

“I’m serious.” He steps closer. Close enough that your breath tangles with his. “I don’t wanna leave. Not yet. Not when I finally have you here — really here — with me.”  

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.  

Your mouth crashes into his before you can stop yourself — desperate, hungry, wild. His hands find your waist, pulling you against him with a groan, like he’s been starving for you all night. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly, and Pedro growls into your mouth.  

“Jesus fuckin’—” he gasps, dragging you toward the bed. “Been thinking about this all night, sweetheart.”  

“Same,” you breathe, your back hitting the mattress.  

Pedro laughs, low and rough. “Yeah?”  

“Yeah,” you admit, breathless. “You—god, you have no idea how bad.”  

His mouth devours yours again, tongue brushing yours in a kiss so deep it leaves you lightheaded. His hands are everywhere — your waist, your hips, your thighs. You whimper when his mouth moves to your neck, and he smirks against your skin.  

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re killing me.”  

“Good,” you rasp, clinging to him.  

And god, it’s perfect. It’s heat and teeth and hands tugging at clothes and whispered please, please, don’t stop. You’re pretty sure you’re seconds away from completely falling apart when—  

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.  

You barely hear it. Just the faint vibration of your phone somewhere across the room. You ignore it. Pedro doesn’t notice.  

His mouth is on your throat, and you’re gasping, arching into him when—  

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

“…Shit,” you pant, barely coherent. “Phone.”  

Pedro groans, not even slowing down. “Ignore it.”  

“Okay.” And you do. Because right now, nothing else matters except his mouth on your skin, his hands in your hair, and the undeniable pull of yes, yes, yes.  

But it doesn’t stop.  

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.  

Yours. His. Both phones — vibrating frantically, insistent and loud.  

“…The fuck?” Pedro pants, finally pulling back. His hair is wrecked, his lips kiss-swollen, and he looks utterly ravished.  

You groan, covering your face. “Oh my god, we’re so fired.”  

Pedro laughs breathlessly, reaching for his phone. “It’s probably nothing.”  

It’s only after your shirt’s halfway off and Pedro’s mouth is dangerously close to your collarbone that his phone won’t stop buzzing.

“…Jesus,” he groans, reluctantly pulling away. “Who the fuck—”

You groan, rolling onto your back, panting. “Just — answer it. Before we actually get arrested or something.”

He groans dramatically, dragging himself off you and fumbling for his phone. “Swear to god, if this is Joseph asking about football—”

But he freezes.

Staring down at his screen. Mouth slightly agape.

“…Pedro?” you frown.

He doesn’t answer. His face has gone completely blank.

Your stomach twists. “What’s wrong?”

“…They’re not calling about us.” His voice sounds distant. “It’s not about the dinner or the kiss.”

Your brow furrows. “Then what—”

But your phone vibrates again. And this time, you actually look.

Missed calls. Texts. Notifications. From everyone. Your supervisor. Pedro’s publicist. Omar. Daisy. Random work contacts.

And then you see it. The text from your manager that stops your heart.

Supervisor: They’ve reviewed the footage. Call me immediately.

Your stomach drops.

“…Pedro,” your voice cracks. “What footage?”

He’s staring at his phone like it just shattered his entire world. Pale. Breathless.

“…The accident,” he finally says. “The day the light rig fell. They — they must’ve gone through the security footage. And now—”

You freeze.

And then, from the corner of your eye, you catch a name flash across your screen.

Rob Beggs, Safety Manager. Incoming Call.

Your throat locks.

“…Oh my god,” you whisper.

And that’s when Pedro looks up at you — his face drained of color, his throat tight — and all he says is:

“They have news about what happened... about the accident on set last week.”

The phones finally stop ringing.

And the silence that follows feels like it could crush you.

End Notes:

LOL I HAVE BEEN HIBERNATING

I hate midterms with a burning passion.

I apolocheese with the cliffhanger but it had to be done with this chapter LOL

also OOOOOO A LITTLE STEAMY CHAPTER... who am I??

TAGLIST: @comfortzonequeen @christinamadsen @liciafonseca @greenwitchfromthewoods @iqr-x @southernbe @maryfanson @brittmb115 @taytay0403 @whimsiwitchy @zymiii @sarahhxx03 @leilanixx @lilasskicker-23 @https-murdock @barnescamboy @widowsvail @senhoritamayblog @morganlolitta @suzysface @reidsworld @xmaykeca @dontlookatme121 @mandaloriankait @picketniffler @pedrofan @mystickittytaco @enchantingchildkitten @seven-seas-of-fuck-you @ro-nahime-things @senhoritamayblog @hermionelove @ashhlsstuff @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall @youusunshineyoutemptress @klajmekkk @aomi-nabi @churchofjoemiller @pascalitobarnes @ccmoonshine @its-different-for-girls66

[flamingpudding]

Little Snippets #8

A/N: Recently reread an older prompt thread of Danny reincarnating as Tim and remembering his previous life at nine... that inspired this...

Something was different about Tim. They all noticed as they watched the third Robin as he went through the cave like a whirlwind on fire. Collecting small gadgets and trinkets, his laptop and other things before hurrying off with some kind of excuse again. Dick arched an eyebrow and glanced at Bruce. The first Robin felt tempted to as Bruce for help to figure out if something had happened during their last mission.

While near death situation weren't uncommon in their line of work, they never before had affected the young teen the way they have right now. Dick had first thought, the kid had suffered some kind of head trauma considering how disoriented he had been when he first woke up. But this, was ridiculous, it wasn't like Tim was acting all to different from his usual self but.... Dick shock his head. Maybe he was just imaging it. The kid was still the same, tinkering with gadgets and drinking coffee or energy drink in amounts the kid was still way to young to consume the way he does. Maybe the boy hit puberty finally.

In his room Tim dropped everything he had collected from the Batcave into a pile, before quickly grabbing a notepad and scratching out bullet points as well as adding new points. The kid then proceeded to start pacing his room, counting something down with the help of his fingers as he muttered to himself.

"Okay Tim, think... I should have everything I need... I just need to remember the blueprint and then build it. It's not like I never build gadgets of my own. It something I have always done once I got into it... so it will be easy to make it and then..." His muttered continued before he plopped onto the ground, not before grabbing his little multi-tool box. His hand grabbing his notebook once again as he opened it and began scribbling down.

"If I use the parts of the stun gun.... and then the chip set from the bat mini computer.... then use the metal from one of the many batarangs..." Tim mumbled to himself, before coursing as he dropped his pen. His hand going intangible for a brief moment. His eye twitches for a second before he took a deep breath calming down, then picked up his pen again. He really needed to get started on building that Fenton bracelet.

"They just had to knock me hard enough into the head that I would remember my past life...." Tim mutters quietly, annoyed with the goons he had fought during their last mission. He took another deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. Memories that belonged to Danny Fenton flitting across his mind. When Tim had woken up the first time he hand't remembered for a hot second that he was Tim Drake, son of Janet and Jack Drake, ward of Bruce Wayne and third Robin to Batman.

He literally thought he was Danny Fenton waking up in a strange dimension. After his initial panic calmed down Danny, or rather Tim had anaylized his situation and figured out, he was remembering his past life. It made the most sense. At first that was easy to deal with, until Tim one day fell through the floor. Thankfully neither Bruce, Alfred or Dick had noticed that incident. But to Tim, that meant he unlocked his abilities from his past life.

Which how was he going to explain that? 'Oh hey Bruce, I woke up and I don't have a meta gene but I remember my past life and now I have ghost abilities.' Yeah... that would go really well with the paranoid old man. Someone Tim was currently babysitting until that man recovered from his grief.

That brought Tim to his next dilemma. Because he remembered Danny Fenton read comics, while he mostly read comics centered around Martian Manhunter his past self thankfully had a friend that was into Batman and had discussed the comics with him. That was lucky for Tim. Because Tim wasn't stupid, he had seen other kids at school read these kind of books before. So he was aware that he was currently experiencing and living through the plot of one of these reincarnations book.

A part of him was partially sure that he could blame that on some of his ghostly friends from his past life.

Eitherway, thanks to his past life's friend. Tim had knowledge of the future, even if he didn't remember everything. Bad point, he had by now figured out in which timeline he was. Or at least Tim believed he had, which meant he was to late to prevent the fall of the second Robin, but if he calculated right either Damian was going to appear soon or he would be joining the Teen Titans which meant one step closer to going to get attacked by an enraged second Robin coming back. There were targets painted on his back. At least he wasn't at the point at time where he had another insane fruitloop obsessed with him.

Tim groaned. "I swear if this life were a novel it would be called, 'how to survive your siblings rage after awakening to your past life'."

There was a pause in the moment where Tim just let his mind wander. Before sitting straighter and getting to work onto the things he needed to suppress his ghost powers for the moment as well as making plans for the inevitable appearance of his future siblings. He just hoped he remembered the order of events correctly let alone that they were from the timeline he was in, otherwise he would be screwed.

"And that is, if I really only remembered my past life and did not taking over another kids life.... And Ancients... please don't let this be a Joker Jr. timeline...."

[thoughtfulfiction]

Little Duckling

Author’s note: reposting my old work on this side blog! Let me know if you’d like to read a specific one. Thank you for reading!

Warning: pregnancy and childbirth

Saturday 10pm

Justin had been asleep for almost two hours as you folded laundry and put it away in the nursery. Your induction was scheduled for Monday morning promptly at 8am and everyone within the Chargers organization knew that this was happening because your husband absolutely hated taking the day off. But this was understandably a special exception to the rule. You’d spent the last 9 months mentally and physically preparing yourself for this moment but the idea of having a human being relying on you for everything was still such a daunting task that you almost wished the day wouldn’t come. Not until you felt completely prepared at least.

And then the ache in your back and hips reminded you that your baby girl was quickly running out of room and would be making her entrance soon, whether you and your husband were ready or not. On the bright side, your stomach had dropped significantly in the last few days, allowing you to breathe easier and for Justin to poke fun at your pronounced waddle. He affectionately started calling you Mumble last week, from Happy Feet. The dad jokes were coming in strong.

You heaved yourself out of the chair you were parked in and were headed off to bed before a slight pain wrapped itself around the base of your stomach. The pressure moved from the back to the front, settling on a spot underneath your belly button. You stopped walking and used the wall to support yourself, rubbing small circles around the area until it passed. As a Braxton-Hicks veteran, you continued your trek to the bedroom, completed your nighttime routine and headed off to bed.

Sunday 2am

It happened again. The slight twinge of discomfort had you holding your breath for about 15 seconds before letting go and you had to take several deep breaths to recover. After a few minutes everything was normal again and you had to turn around to make sure that Justin was still asleep next to you. Throughout your pregnancy he’d become a much lighter sleeper, often waking up at ungodly hours to get you snacks or a few nights when you caught him talking to your belly, whether it was talking about the playbook or just telling her he couldn’t wait to meet her, it warmed your heart just the same. But you were thankful for now that he just missed that entire exchange because you were definitely not in labor…right?

Sunday 7am

You were definitely in labor. On a Sunday, when the Chargers were playing the Broncos at home. Of course. You’d experienced three contractions so far, just about four hours apart so you had plenty of time. There was no way in hell you were telling Justin. As soon as it was appropriate, you scooted yourself out of bed and went down to the home gym for some prenatal yoga and a good stretch, hoping it would provide a boost of positive energy. Then you hopped in the shower, allowing the warm water would relax your tense muscles and maybe help you delay the inevitable.

By 8:30 Justin was awake and making breakfast for the two of you while you sat on the couch watching New Girl. He brought your plate and a cup of orange juice to you which you were grateful for, but the thought of putting anything but the juice in your body made your stomach turn.

“Are you alright? You’ve barely touched your avocado toast and you’ve been devouring it the last few days.” He ran a gentle hand on your forehead like he was checking your temperature and caressed your cheek when he realized you weren’t abnormally warm. “I can make you something else before I leave if you want?”

“No, I’m fine! Just not hungry yet, I’ll probably eat later.” You lied through your teeth, desperately hoping that he would let it go. The excuse seemed to satisfy him enough for him to head back upstairs to watch some film and get ready. An hour and a half later, he headed downstairs just in time to find you stretching out your back, the cramp beginning to wash over you.

He replaced your hands with his own, slightly lifting your stomach to take the weight off for a bit. “Your stomach is hard as a rock,” he observed furrowing his brows and starting to piece things together. “Are you sure everything is ok?” His soft voice attempted to mask his worry filled words.

“Yeah I’m having a fake contraction, you know they’re so common these days.” You rushed out, attempting to use his extensive research against him. He could probably write his own version of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” with his newfound pregnancy knowledge. It was both impressive and scary how much he had grown to know what’s going on in your body before you did.

Although he nods his head in understanding, his face is still full of distress. And you could tell he was analyzing your words and tone of voice for any sign that you were lying, leaving you to mentally curse at the fact that he knew you so well and you’d need to work extra hard to convince him to go on like this was a normal day.

Although he let out a deep sigh, he didn’t ask any further questions. “I know, I just hate the thought of you being in pain and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

You tap his wrist so he can slowly drop your belly and you turn around in his arms. “You’re so cute, but it really isn’t that bad. A lot less painful than playing with ankle that’s hanging on by a shoestring I can tell you that.” You chuckle, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back and you felt compelled to return the favor, sensing he too needed some comfort. “Here’s what’s gonna happen today though. You are going to go and kick Denver’s ass then you’re going to come home, we’ll celebrate and then tomorrow you’ll be on your way to being the greatest dad to ever live. How does that sound?”

Justin chuckles, giving you a peck on the lips, nose and forehead. “If I’m half as good a parent as I know you will be, then I know I’ll be golden.”

“Stop it before I start crying, you know I’m super hormonal right now this isn’t fair.” You mumble, tears brimming your eyes. He gives you one last kiss before reminding you to call your friend Dani to stay with you, even though your moms were on their way to your home.

Once he pulled out of the driveway you could relax, letting out a deep sigh and patting your swollen middle. Crisis averted.

For now.

Sunday 12pm

Contractions were officially every hour and Dani was trying her best not to freak out in order not to freak you out. But she was definitely freaking out. What started out as more intense period cramps were becoming a lot sharper, so much so that you couldn’t even focus on Encanto, which was the last sign you needed to know that this was the real thing. You did manage to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and take a nap while she was with you, fluffing your pillows and telling you that you were doing amazing. Three hours later, there was a knock at the door and Dani went to open it for Holly and your mom. The two becoming best friends was probably the cutest thing in the world and your mom had even flown to Oregon three days before just to spend time with Holly and drive to California with her. They were the sweetest. And of course they brought snacks. There were lactation cookies for you in the freezer already but they brought more and they brought an abundance of food to eat during the game, which usually would have made your day, but today all it did was make you want to stick your face in the toilet.

You greeted the two women with hugs as Dani helped set up their spread and they immediately asked how you were feeling.

“I just woke up not too long ago so I’m feeling great now. Very ready to not be pregnant anymore so I can see my f—ohhh wow. Ow.” You groaned, one hand on your contracting belly and the other gripping the counter for dear life.

Dani’s eyes bug out of her head as she moves to rub your back. “That was the roughest one yet.” She was right, this one left your whole body sore, a loud reminder that things were definitely moving along.

“This one?” Your mom questions, looking between you and Dani. Then, she and Holly exchange a look.

“Oh my gosh sweetie, you’re in labor!” Holly exclaims, “we need to get a hold of Justin immediately. I’ll call Mark, I’m sure he’s already at the stadium.”

You cannot shake your head fast enough, “there’s no need to call him yet, that was the first bad one. And this game is important.”

“It’s Justin hun, every game is important,” Holly laughs, giving you a loving squeeze.

“But you know what’s even more important to him? You and that baby girl that’s getting ready to meet us soon. Are you sure you don’t want to tell him now?”

“I’m sure,” you sigh, allowing your mom to guide you back to the couch, sinking down into it with a groan. “Once the game is over he’ll be here and we’ll go have a baby. But not a moment before.”

Admittedly, it was getting harder to focus. Justin was playing great, but of course so was Bo Nix. The Chargers would score and the Broncos would answer. The Broncos would get a stop and the Chargers would force a punt. You were entertained but the battle happening within you was the most interesting one to the people in your house.

Your mom had gone down to find your birthing ball, which helped for about half a quarter, just in time for a Ladd McConkey touchdown to put the Chargers up by 10. By the end of the third you were forced into a squat behind one of the couches, spreading your legs to hopefully ease the increasing pressure on your hips. You breathed through the contraction, the sensation sending a pins and needles feeling near your tailbone. Holly made sure you stayed hydrated, having secretly texted her husband halfway through the fourth quarter when the game was firmly in hand to have their son home as soon as humanly possible. Contractions creeped on 30 minutes apart, leaving you panting and groaning in discomfort until your muscles relaxed.

Fifteen minutes later, you were pacing around the living room and you had to stop to hold onto the couch again, your mom helping you roll your hips as you felt thin beads of sweat building around your hairline. Things were getting real and scary and you needed Justin.

“What time is it?” You murmured, cupping your stomach with a hiss as the baby moved.

“It’s 7:15 and he’s on his way home, baby.” Your mom whispers, sensing your increasing distress, “he’ll be here soon.”

“My back hurts,” you state suddenly, a slight tremble in your voice. “Everything really hurts.”

Your mom grabs at your hips, squeezing them together to apply counter pressure, giving you momentary relief.

Dani was in charge of timing contractions and all you knew was the moment in between them where you could actually form a coherent thought. Time was no longer real. You headed upstairs for some time to yourself and a wave of nausea hit you and you emptied probably everything you’d eaten the entire day, which in hindsight probably wasn’t much. But you weren’t in the headspace to think clearly right now. You walked back towards to the bedroom and clutched the doorway, visibly feeling the heaviness of the baby moving down, almost sending you to your knees if it weren’t for the solid, calming presence that was suddenly in front of you.

“Hey babe.” You breathe out, feeling a little unsure that your legs were capable of holding you up until you could sit on the bed.

He pulled you into his arms as close as your belly would allow and pressed his lips your forehead. “Hi. Glad I could make it back in time. I knew something was off with you this morning,” he narrowed his eyebrows at you when he pulled away, walking you slowly back into the room placing a firm hand on the small of your back, making circles with it while holding your hand with the other. “Alright baby…how long have you been in labor?”

You let out a dry laugh at his disappointed dad look. “Since 10 last night I think? But let’s focus on the important things, you played great and you won but man you guys really took a minute to shut the door on ‘em.”

“Right, the important things.” He says with a knowing smile. “I know you love football as much as I do now, but if you told me earlier I would’ve been at your side in a heartbeat. You know that, right?”

God, you hoped your baby had his caring heart. “I do know that, I really do. But I also knew that you’d be able to do both. The Chargers are your family too and—”

A contraction creeped up on you, leaving you to hold onto your husband’s forearms with a sharp sound of pain, the pressure reaching an overwhelming peak that you hadn’t experienced before.

“Squeeze as much as you want, it’s okay.” His voice attempts to soothe you but you couldn’t hear him over the animalistic grunt that escaped you. Your body tensed involuntarily and he could see your stomach hardening as the tension continued to build. There was nothing more he could do than hold you through it, until something gave way and the floodgates opened…literally.

Even he sounded breathless by the end of it. “Your water just broke.”

Sunday 10pm

Contractions in the house were terrible. But contractions in the car, with no cushion from the water bag made it feel like she was right between your legs.

“Justin, you have to go faster. Please.” You panted out, desperately clutching the grab handle and leaning your head back with a loud moan. “Can you turn on the air, I’m dying in here. And I need to put the seat back, my back is killing me, I’m sorry.” You felt like a turtle stuck on its back, waiting for someone to turn it over and set it free.

“Yeah, yeah do whatever you need. And you don’t need to apologize,” he pats you on the leg, “do whatever makes you comfortable, we’ll be there soon.” He kept looking between you and the road, slightly worried that he’d have to deliver the baby in the car. The only thing that slightly reassured him the whole drive was your sigh of relief when the fan came on. First babies were supposed to take a while but he’d missed the entirety early labor, so from the sounds that he was hearing he figured you were in or at the very least extremely close to the transition stage. His grip on the steering wheel tightened and remained that way until the birthing center came into view. Your parents had called ahead and would meet you there when given the word, so all you had to do was check in and you were brought to your private suite.

Seven centimeters dilated and without painkillers made your husband question any football toughness he thought he had. You were so close to meeting your baby and he was a mix of anxiousness, nerves and excitement. Most of all he felt so much love and admiration for your determination and strength. Holding off on telling him you were in labor so he could be there to get the job done with his teammates was one thing and it was a complete whirlwind to be there with you while you worked to bring your baby into the world.

Once he was finally able to tear his eyes off the baby’s heart monitor, all of his focus was back on you. He wasn’t going to say anything but the agony in your voice was really starting to take a toll on him. Months of mental preparation for this moment was nothing like the real thing and he felt utterly helpless, desperately trying to maintain some sort of control and be helpful in any way.

“Honey you’re shaking, are you cold?” Without even giving you time to answer he was up on his feet, reaching for his bag to grab the blanket he’d seen you drape over yourself on several movie night occasions.

You shake your head while your teeth continue to chatter, reaching for his left hand, “I think it’s the adrenaline. I’m okay I promise,” you shift uncomfortably in bed, trying to just go along with how your body is feeling and reacting. Your belly tightens, a white hot pain generating an unexpected moan as you palmed your stomach. Justin places his hand on top of yours, whispering to you that the contraction is almost over and constantly reminding you that you’re doing great.

The two of you decided to use gravity to your advantage and walk around the building since the entire floor was closed off at your husband’s request. He couldn’t risk anyone leaking the most private and cherished moment in his life.

“I can’t believe this is our last night as a duo.” Justin whispers, walking at a snail’s pace while you waddled alongside him. “It’s been a great ride, pal.”

“Wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else. And I have a feeling this ride is going to get a lot more interesting from here on out.” You gave your belly a soothing pat.

He strokes your back as you sway your hips again, “thank you for choosing me to be the one that gets to do this with you. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, more than anything in the world.” You grin, pulling him in for a soft kiss. His hand cups your face as he pulls you in even closer. The kiss oozed joy and gratitude. Your husband wasn’t a man of many words, but his actions spoke volumes.

You squeeze his arm again suddenly as pain bubbles deep in your core and you rip yourself away from him to press your lips together to stifle a yell. “We need to get back to the room. Now.”

The noises leaving your body would have horrified you if you weren’t already sitting backwards on the toilet wearing only an oversized t-shirt, with your legs spread and the man of your dreams digging his thumbs into your back. “Harder please,” you groan, feeling like your tailbone is seconds away from shattering.

“I’m not getting a break,” you cry, clenching your jaw, leaning back and asking him to help you up. He hooks his hands under your arms and basically lifts you to your feet. “It’s not stopping, I can’t—oh fuck.” It felt like you were going to throw up, but out of the other end, which could only mean one thing. “She’s—Justin she’s coming right now. I have to push.” You took a breath and focused completely inward, your entire body going rigid, shaky straining sounds of effort pouring out of you.

The quarterback immediately sprang into action,“easy babe, breathe. I’ve got you.”

You held onto one of his hands and moved into a squat on your shaky legs as he pressed the red button on the side of the bathroom door, allowing your midwife to come in.

The baby felt like it was seconds away from falling out, everything suddenly feeling like it was moving a mile a minute. The midwife was saying something but the ringing in your ears was so loud you couldn’t focus on anything but getting your baby delivered.

After another throaty shove, you came back to yourself a little, feeling a gentle hand rubbing your shoulder. “Babe? You gotta slow down. Take a second, I can already see her a little bit you can give yourself some time.”

“I can’t, the pressure is too much!” Tucking your chin to your chest, you let out a yelp as you push again, using him as a solid wall to rest against as you spread your legs to give your baby more room. “Holy fuck your baby is huge,” your husband and the midwife both laugh, “I’m sorry it’s just—this is really hard.”

Pushing felt good, even though it left you shaking like a leaf in a cold and sweaty frenzy. At some point during the delivery he’d pushed your hair back with his lucky headband that was always around his wrist if it wasn’t on his head. It was the most intense experience of your life but you took one look at those bright green eyes and he reminded you that he was with you the entire time and you knew you could do anything with him by your side.

Remington Grace Herbert was born Monday morning at 1:42am with those exact same eyes that you fell in love with.

“Hi Remi,” Justin sobs, kissing her cheek. “We’ve been waiting for you, baby girl.”

“She sure knows how to make an entrance.”

You hand her off to her dad after scooting over to give him more room on the bed. He wraps a free arm around you, securely holding her in his other one, totally in awe. “She’s so perfect. You’re perfect. You did so amazing, I’m so freaking proud of you.” He kisses the side of your head.

You cuddle into him with a content sigh, “Our perfect little duckling is finally here.”

[bookworrm1999]

How Far Away? Part 12

Caleb x Mc

Tags: unplanned pregnancy, presumed death, depression, miscommunication

Mentions of suicide

Summary: Mc and Caleb fight right before he goes on a long mission into space. Caleb ends up MIA while Mc finds out she's pregnant. She struggles to deal with the grief while Caleb is fighting for his life to make it back home to her.

AO3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Epilogue

Laying on the couch with a bowl of popcorn on your belly, you absentmindedly put a handful into your mouth.

An old cartoon movie playing on the Tv in front of you, it was nostalgic but you were only partly paying attention.

Your little girl was currently dancing the samba inside your tummy. Her little head pressed up firmly into your right side of your ribs.

Reaching down you could lay a hand over the pressure and feel the hard little curve of her head.

She was quite insistent on making her presence known.

Maybe it was to comfort you.

Her little movements made the bowl on your tummy wiggle up and down, like it was laying on jello instead of your firm belly.

Wondering about names, you briefly thought about naming her Apple as a joke. But no, you’re not a celebrity and while her dad may like apples, she didn’t need to be saddled with a name based off an obsession with food.

Ah well, you’d come up with something. Your stomach grumbled despite you shoveling popcorn into your mouth.

It wasn’t especially filling but the baby made you feel so hungry despite popcorn starting to fill your stomach.

Wandering into the kitchen, you scanned the fridge for leftovers. Oh there, there’s some leftover chicken. Dumping it into a pan to warm it up, you set it on the stove and wait impatiently.

The smell started to fill the house and made your mouth water with anticipation. God, you were so hungry you could eat a whole cow.

You’d think that a baby so small still, wouldn’t cause hunger like this.

Arms came up behind you, wrapping around your belly. A sleepy head laid onto your shoulder, breath hot against your skin.

A low voice next to your ear

“You could’ve gotten me up, I would’ve made you something.”

“You’re still recovering, besides we have leftovers so I’m not exactly exerting myself too much here.”

“I thought I was supposed to be your personal assistant for the rest of your pregnancy.”

“That was before your heart stopped and you refused to come back for a while. You took two days to wake up Caleb. That doesn’t exactly make me want to ask you to hop to it and make food for me.”

Yes, Caleb was stubborn even in death it seems as it took 10 minutes for his heartbeat to come back.

Maybe he subconsciously thought that you would be ok without him, maybe you screaming at him after coming to your senses to come back or you’d beat his ass, helped him come back to the light.

It took another two days for Caleb to regain consciousness. You had nearly strangled him for doing it to you once again but the sight of him finally awake with a sleepy smile, had just sent you, tears and all, into his arms.

He had only been awake for a day and he was still recovering. The nano probes seemed to be hard at work as Caleb had reported to Sylus that it no longer felt like ants beneath his skin.

You had caught them nerding out together over his arm just a few hours ago over a video call.

They had been talking all morning and it made you feel lonely…

**

“So you have a bird that you built yourself?”

“Yes, I’m quite proud of him. I named him Mephisto and he’s quite a beauty. I only wish that he wasn’t so sensitive to water. I’ve tried to tweak him but the solution still eludes me.”

“He looks magnificent. I’d love to help you with him, you’ve already helped so much with my arm. It’d be a way to pay you back!”

You watched from the doorway as the boys gushed over technical stuff that flew over your head a bit.

Shaking your head in disbelief, you’d never think that Caleb had basically hated him not too long ago.

They sounded like long time friends.

**

“Hey, what are you thinking about?”

“Just thinking about when you wanted to set up your next play date with your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?”

You blink innocently at him

“Yes, your boyfriend. You two spent all morning talking, it seems a shame that we should keep you two apart.”

“Oh for- he’s not my boyfriend! I was just giving him an update on the progress on my arm.”

“Uhuh, for three hours. ‘Oh Sylus! I’d love to help your with your bird! You’re so smart! Thank you for all your help, you’re my savior!’ Don’t worry, I’ll set up a play date for you two boys soon.”

“Really? You’re going to regret that!”

You pretend to think with a finger on your chin

“Mmmm, no I don’t think I will.” Laughing as you plated your chicken and tried to move towards the table.

A hand takes the plate from you, placing it on the counter.

Lips meet yours in a flurry. Sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, his hands coming around your back and your head. His thumb drawing small circles on your bare skin left by your shirt riding up.

This quiet intimacy was one of the many things you had missed while he was gone all those months.

Pulling away to rest your foreheads against the other, breathing each other in.

“I thought this was supposed to be a punishment?”

“Do you want it to be? Cause I can take things to the bedroom.”

“Mmm maybe when you can prove to me that you’re all better.”

His hand slides down to cup your backside

“Oh I can prove that just fine.”

Rolling your eyes, you push his face away and turn to your food.

“I’d rather eat.”

“Rude.”

“Who got me pregnant?”

“Point taken.”

Sitting down at the table, you start to devour your chicken with zeal.

“Actually, I was thinking of going to scout out Ever’s Headquarters here in Skyhaven.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for that? Seems a bit soon.”

Coming over to stand behind you, he puts his hands on your shoulders, large enough to reach down to your breasts. His hands began to massage you and you almost melt against the table.

This was playing dirty to get you to be putty in his hands.

“I’m not going to actually kill him yet. I just want to go take a look, see where the best place would be. I have an idea of what I will most likely do but I need to double check.”

Looking at him with suspicion in your eyes, the emotion coming through in your voice

“That’s what happened the last time you went out, it can’t be a spur of the moment thing. This guy is the head of a big company and we can’t take it lightly.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“I’m choosing to trust you.”

Caleb comes down and kisses your cheek, smoothing your hair down.

“I promise your trust isn’t misplaced.”

**

Caleb looks up at the building with trepidation. He hadn’t been lying when he said that he wasn’t going to do anything today besides do some scouting.

He hadn’t told her yet but his brain felt a bit like mush. Like he had received a concussion which made sense since he did receive some amount of damage to his brain.

Caleb hadn’t realized how much that chip was affecting him. He felt so light and all of his emotions didn’t have to be tamped down.

Anger, joy, sadness, all of it was there at the tips of his fingers.

That chip had really made his worst qualities come out into full force.

Hopefully it would let him make this plan with a clear head.

With his brain feeling like mush, his Evol felt weaker for the moment.

That was worrying but he’d give himself some grace.

Okay, it was showtime.

With his uniform in place, the blank mask on his face, he made his way up to the secret top floor.

No one paid him any mind but his brain kept whispering that everyone knew. They could tell that he was a dog unleashed and that they would try and get him back under their thumb once again.

Taking a subtle breath, he gets his anxieties under control.

The head of Ever wasn’t always on the premises but with the Professor dead. The man in charge was here to take care of part of the void left behind.

Caleb had an idea of what he wanted to do when it came to assassinating him but he’d need access to that man’s office first.

Well, that’s when an opportunity presented itself.

“Hello, Caleb. Fancy sssseeing you here.”

“Hello, Viper.”

“Wow, I’m sssurprised you haven’t attacked me yet.”

Caleb twists the other man’s hand behind his back in response.

“Uncle, uncle!”

Such drama, his evol is weak right now. He lets Viper go with a flourish.

“Now, what a way to greet me. After I came here to tell you that the big man wantssss to talk to you.”

“Thanks ever so much.” Sarcasm coming from his tongue with a heavy tinge. As Caleb walks away, the other man calls out to him.

“There’ss sssomething different about you.”

He did not need this, he needs to bring Viper to his side somehow before he blabs his mouth.

Viper loves to call him his friend but really he just appreciates the strong.

“Do you think that I’m strong, Viper? Who will you choose to follow in the end, I wonder?”

Leaving him alone to think on that, he heads to the head of the company's office.

Caleb stands in front of the large desk with his hands folded behind his back.

It was always dark in this office, the only light coming from the doors leading to the balcony.

The building was quite high so it left this impression of a billionaire looking down on the rest of the world from his solitary dark room.

The other man sat in front of him, his hands folded in front of him on the desk

The two regarded each other with vague interest, waiting for the other to break the odd silence.

A battle of who will give first.

Caleb has a lot of patience in this department, he’d stand here all day. This was all for her sake after all.

Standing there, he surveyed the room for anything he could use.

An alcohol cart in the corner, self help books and poets like Samuel Beckett and John Keats on the bookshelf, the way the room is always kept dark, energy boosting drinks, the way the room seems to feel so bleak.

An idea had already been formed in his head but what he had collected so far just helped it along.

Yes, this would do nicely.

He had promised not to do it today, he’d go home and wait for another day but taking the time to survey was worth it.

The man in front of him broke first

“Colonel Caleb, we don’t usually talk in person, one on one like this, do we?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear that you returned from that deep space mission alive and in one piece. The Professor seemed quite distressed about the whole ordeal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I seem to remember that the day of his demise also coincided with his check up on you. The time of his death happening almost not an hour after you left.”

“It was unfortunate, sir.”

“Mmm, yes.” As if the death didn’t really bother him, but Caleb caught the tightening of the other man’s fingers on the chair he was in.

“It has left me with quite the predicament. No one left as capable as he was, to head the Fountain of Atei project. We frequently send you out to keep our dogs in line and it puts your life on the line.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It honestly leaves me with so few options that it brings me back to a plan that we had kept on the back burner. You know the one that I’m referring to?”

Caleb tells himself not to react, this man wants to see him break, show a feeling.

“Yes, sir.” Keeping calm was like keeping a lid on a boiling pot.

“Mmm, I suppose you do. Well, I’ll be putting together a game plan to bring in our new asset. It will need a new team to bring it under control. Which is where you’ll come in, you were manufactured as a pair after all. Your sole purpose was to keep it under our control.”

“Yes, sir.” Murdering this man would never be able to sate his lust for bringing these arrogant bastards to heel. They think they can just walk over everyone in this world, modify humans, control wanderers, play the chess board so that they alone come out on top.

It was sickening.

“That was all I had to say to you, you can leave now.”

“Sir.” Caleb turns to leave and is stopped at the door.

“Good to have you back… Caleb.”

It sends an eerie shiver down his spine. Not gracing this man with an answer, he leaves without a word.

**

Coming home, he feels exhausted. Putting on a front, for work and for his love was draining.

It must not be enough because she notices how he really feels in an instant.

“Bed, now.”

Caleb doesn’t have the energy to argue and goes to sleep instantly.

The next day, he’s talking with Sylus once more and goes over his preliminary plan with him.

“May I ask why you’re going over this with me and not her?”

“She tends to want me to put my safety as the utmost priority when she is. I want to do this, this way because it’s fast and efficient. It will save her. I told you what they want to do with her. Can I trust you to help me?”

The unspoken words being, can I trust you to help me which is really about helping her.

They each knew the other's feelings towards her, it wasn’t a topic up for discussion but they could trust the other when it came to protecting her.

“Yes.”

So the plan began, Caleb gave a rough outline to her but kept the finer details to himself.

If this went downhill, she needed plausible deniability if they decided to question her.

Caleb waited at a corner store on the street below the balcony of the building containing Ever’s headquarters.

The very balcony of the office he had visited a few days ago.

This is where Sylus came in, sending Mephisto in to do surveillance and relay information to Caleb.

They need to wait for the right moment, their target needs to be on the balcony alone.

He had been sitting here for an hour, looking unbothered with a book in hand and a coffee on the table in front of him.

It had taken some convincing to let her let him out on his own for leisure for so long, but having Sylus come along convinced her.

Not that Sylus was physically present, but she didn’t need to know that fact.

“Target in sight.”

Showtime

Caleb gave no indication of being bothered, the only signal being a nod of his head as if agreeing with what he was reading.

A small pad nestled in the pages of his books gave him a view of what Mephisto was seeing now that the target was in view.

The man was watering a plant, how quaint.

“Beginning now.”

Slight red energy creeping around the target’s legs, manipulating them so that the man walked haltingly and unwillingly to the edge of the balcony. Coming up to the man’s waist but it was no matter for Sylus.

“In position.”

The man pulled himself up onto the railing, standing with uneven balance. The energy just barely showing through Mephisto’s eyes, manipulating the man’s body. Caleb’s power pinching the man’s mouth and paralyzing his tongue over the distance, seen only through the screen.

“Now.”

The energy lets go, the man falling forward, no longer being held up.

The fall was not fast enough for Caleb, wanting the man to suffer and make sure that the fall really killed their target.

Placing gravitational pressure on the falling man’s back, speeding his process, already starting to crush his bones. Keeping his tongue paralyzed, so no one noticed the man falling yet.

The illusion that it was this man’s choice being supported as he didn’t make any noise, as if he accepted his fate.

The man hit the ground with a small splat and boom. Concrete cracking and blood blooming, like a flower of hope for a new world.

All happening across the street from the corner store that Caleb was at.

“Confirming no vital signs.”

That was all he needed to hear, getting up and gathering his stuff unbothered. The sounds of a siren in the distance, the crowd gathering around the fallen body, it was as if none of it existed to Caleb.

Tasking the clean up and crushing of Ever to Sylus. Recruiting Viper to help take it down from the inside as it was no longer the all powerful cooperation that he had been interested in, in the beginning.

It was all over on Caleb’s part.

He was finally free and so was she.

Only one more part and it’s the epilogue!

Tags: @moonberry69 @supermyeon22 @tinnyrabbit @gavin3469 @marina27826 @crowleysthings @tabi-callico @midiplier

@his-ocean-emissary @rosalyne08

@xaviers-pookie-bear @tsunamethyst @thejujvtsupost @cherrybeomgyu

@gojosballsack69 @apple-lov3r @dinochocochip @violetpurplez @raiyuxa @nickibunny23 @sh3sa1dwhat @playboygeniusphilanthropist @flwerie @lynnlovesthestars @twilightsmissingfur

@kasuumi @i-messed-up-big-time @mcdepressed290 @mc-cos-charm @needsleep3000

[dreamsofminnie]

“Ethereal Paintings”

25~ Do not perceive my impending doom☔️

Scaramouche X reader smau | word count: 1,632

Anxiously they all huddle around a single lit-up home screen, occasionally murmuring to each other to shove over cause they can't see.

The wait for the ding of the following message took up seconds they couldn't bear to sit still for.

“How can a single message be an excruciating pain to wait for.”

“Maybe they got old fingers to type fast.”

“Okay, zoomer. Have you ever SEEN them??!? They are in their prime!! And still go on dates!!!”

“The ideal parents…”

“Okay but still…what’s taking so long??”

“I bet the other two aren’t even there yet.”

“Expected though. He probably needed a few dozen pep talks.”

“....and how was Ayato the one to do that and go with him??”

“Probably so Scara isn’t forced out….Ayato has a third key just in case…”

An unrelevant message popped up from scara on Kazuha’s phone. He reads it out loud.

“Do not perceive my impending doom. I’m likely to get shut out.”

Layla frowns and she shakes her head. “Her parents will warm her up first.”

“As long as they tell us they got in though…it’s been a while—”

*DING*

The phone lit up and the awaited message popped up. The blue-haired Kamisato grabbed her phone fast and opened it up for all 8 pairs of eyes to see.

“They’re in!!”

☔️☔️☔️☔️☔️☔️☔️☔️☔️

The door creaked open afraid to startle the resident and make a mess of the situation.

That was proved to be unnecessary as the pair peered past the dark and dimly lit studio. She wouldn’t have noticed at all. Only two large white eyes stared up at the intruders, its tail swishing as it sat over the resident like a gargoyle.

The woman’s lips frowned and eyebrows furrowed in apprehension and anguish. She waves her hand and the man gets her message.

The flutter of thick curtains draws open loudly, the room now getting beat with the rays of moonlight and the twinkling of the city underneath the building's height.

The noise couldn’t even wake the slumbering resident. Too drawled out in her vicious unhealthy cycle of mourning from an act of betrayal.

“Honey….” The woman’s voice was laced with worried concern for the view of her daughter sprawled across the carpeted floor.

But now that light is in the large studio did they see what lay beneath her was actually a canvas she scrawled all over in dark purple.

illumi darted away as her mother approached her body. Father looked at the cat and dug through his pocket, bending down he poured the cat treats into a bowl on the ground.

“Courtesy from your owner.” He smiled as he watched the cat eat happily and he scratched her head before joining his wife beside their main concern.

Father picked y/n up and the three of them headed to the bedroom upstairs. The only place that seemed untouched by her crazed despair.

Concern grew as they saw how rigid her body was in his arms. “She’s much lighter than her average weight…”

“...I saw convenience store snacks in the kitchen. Oh, my baby…” He lays his daughter down on the bed as the couple sits beside her next to each other.

Mother touched Y/n’s forehead and sighed in relief. “No fever at least. I’m betting on large migraines instead.”

“How should we wake our little darling artist?” Father grunts out as he watches y/n furrow her face restlessly.

Mother smiles nostalgically, Father gets the memo and they both place their palm on either of y/n’s cheeks stroking her face, she bristles and her face relaxes.

Deep bagged eyes blearily open in a daze. Her night terrors had dissolved from a familiar warmth as she took moments to recover her awakening.

“Our go-to way of waking you up when a nightmare consumes you. Better than getting terrified awake.” Mother giggles as she softens her voice and eyes. Leaning in she kisses her forehead which astonishingly melts the throbbing migraine, somewhat.

“Mom…dad…’m so tired. And numb…” Y/n struggled to sit up as her parents helped her up.

“Darling, you have no energy at all. Drink this, hot rejuvenating soup. 100% mother-made and she had the whole pot put in containers for you to save for later on.”

Father passes a thermos while the three get comfy and close to hold each other. Y/n sat in the middle.

Mother watched her gulp down the warm soup and waited till she was halfway done. Make sure she has enough nutrients for the heavy topic.

“Now…y/n. Why are you destroying yourself… Are you tryingg to have a more rough love story than ours?” She lightly teased to try and pry a smile from your sunken lips.

Having no energy to move a muscle and only lying on their shoulders, her lips mumble.

“I don’t...love him. He’s my enemy. Stole from me…my life’s passion. Didn’t consent to a.i feeding…Falsified his affection and…broke my heart.”

“Darling, have you ever gotten his viewpoint–“ Father got smacked on the head lightly as mother cut him off.

“We’ve chatted with the boy, albeit over text buutt, I can see him trying desperately to get you back. This is no story like ours, but I do think it’s time to return and face him once again.” Her words provided an unfounded warmth.

“You don’t have to accept any apologies, answer him, or force him to conform, just listen to his story. How else would you be able to debate with him?” Mother gives her a secure pat to go forth and face it.

“If I knew from the beginning I would've asked Papa to sue him...making a mess of art’s history…” Y/n whimpers and keeps her head down, he eyes puffy from lack of sleep and the sinking spirals of despair.

Mother quirks an eyebrow, curious and suspecting the real motive of all this. “My little artist…do you think you have to hold up the grandiose history of the art world I had a part in? All alone?”

Father's eyes understood but y/n scrunched up her face and body. She thought about it too much subconsciously that it was her job to parade around history like it was her legacy to maintain.

The berating thought of sheltering the traditional art from the wrongful social norms, she took it on herself. Building herself around a castle she wanted to protect, her walls having a gaping hole from a purple wrecking ball caused a collapse.

The wall feels lacking in her way of protection and slowly rebuilds. Her art castle is her only safe space and requires all her attention. The cracking walls tremble in another collapse, begging to open up the castle.

“And the walls have chipped y/n…I never asked you to uphold my reputation in history, nor will I ever carry such a weight. Sure I was important, but it’s the past now, oh my sweet color child.”

Tears welled up in y/n’s eyes. She couldn't let it go. Her mother was her idol, her inspiration. To let others mindlessly trample her past work was horrifying.

“Fear of A.I art covering up traces of the beautiful art I’ve founded, your fear drives hatred, dear. You’ve let it consume you. And you’ve let it destroy you.” Mother pulled your trembling body close and sighed lightly as she latched onto her.

“Do you hate how he tempted you, what he used against you, or the sinking feeling that he’s left the morals you silently pleaded him to follow?” She placed a kiss on her head while holding father’s hand behind her as she bawls.

Father ruffled her hair and followed mother to kiss her head as well.

“Let me tell you my view of our story. When your mother went off the radar, I was restless and worried. I didn’t dare ask one of her friends the whereabouts of her. I cared and soon enough my mind raced so often with missing her. Then I thought of a possibility of me driving her away permanently because of my ignorant bickering and debating. I didn’t want to be her cause of giving up and destroying her foundation.”

Father’s mouth curls bitterly following with a softer voice.

He feared he was the problem, that his stubborn rebuttals caused her to get tired of him. He hated how he was like that. But he couldn't help it. It was in his nature.

Is that what Scara’s feeling…?

“So when I saw her again, all shining in that much deserved spotlight and passion, I knew I loved her creative spark with each time I've ever thought about her in the 3 years she's been gone.”

He didn't want to leave that spotlight where she was the star. She shone to him in a way he knows he’ll never get to experience again if he lets her go.

Y/n listened, just like all the times she’d pay clear attention to their stories.

This time was no different, no matter how the tale was meant to free her, she wanted to be guided by her parents she loved so dearly.

So she opened her heart and head to these experiences; a gateway to guide her own turmoil.

But… How does he feel? Was I like a shining light to him…?

That thought made your heart wrench.

“She came back, with much more vigor than the last time I saw her. And it filled my soul. It meant I didn’t crush her spirit, and she thanked me for pushing her past her limits.”

“I was her revelation.”

“Her reason to start again."

“You are your mother’s daughter Y/n, pursue that soulful feeling again."

Now… did I have a right to go back to him after anguishing him as he did to my unwarranted goal.

Would he still. . . Pursue me with this obstacle i made. . .

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Synopsis{3}-> Scara decided to stop his a.i art creations when he realized that you are really his fav artist—as long as you were the one to teach him how to paint and draw. Facing multitudes of slip of the tongue from your friends; you figured out that he was your mortal nemesis; hatred brewed and twisted your view on him.

Lmaoo, i write Scaramouche’s name so much it autocorrected

Yayyy done, now to the fun part😚

Male POV🤤🤤

//Taglist//

@akagism2 @pokidot @feiherp @kyouzki @rmiyuki @infe-risk0 @sakurapeach @bluebelony @kichiyoshi @mikctp @kur44pika @cupids-chamber @crucnhice @neigesprincess @scaramoo @gojoandelsalovechilde @childeslegstrap @sakiimeo @d4y-dr3am3r-blog @m3gitsune @scarletttcroww @sashiette @beriiov @rizakari @xiaossocksniffer @lxry-chxn @bryai003 @eunchaeluvr @goj0h @the-ghost-0f-t0m0 @sketcheeee @ozzierenato @ohmyfinggod @kiyomi-hoku @ynverse @featuredtofu @reinoodle @angeilix @keizuk @sayokeshii @liuaneee @scarasbaby @peaceindreams @samyayaya

[bookworm551]

Take the Edge Off | Part 9 | Stitches

Summary: After a failed mission, Miguel needs to patch you up.

A/N: well, new year, new chapter (finally). I’m getting real close to finishing up this series, maybe 2 more parts. This took forever bc I needed a filler and had no idea what to do, and this is also the longest part so far. At least I know where to go from here, so I should have the next part up relatively soon 💀

Warnings: smut (duh), canon-typical violence, wound care

10.2k words

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 10

You had grossly underestimated how difficult catching Ghost would be.

The main issue was finding him. He was smart, and he seemed to realize that anytime he spent too much time in one dimension, you and the team would pounce, and like water in your hand, he always managed to slip away. The closest you came to catching him was about three weeks after your bet, and it was an absolute shit show.

"Fuck me," you grunted under your breath when another explosion knocked you into the wall. Ghost came from a universe with hammerspace, and every new dimension he traveled to, he managed to store away more and more dangerous equipment. Now, you were there in some alleyway, half your team missing, fighting off a barrage of missiles, bombs, and sharp projectiles.

Across from you, Ben was tangled in a net trap, and Malala was groaning on the floor as she recovered from an intense electrical shock. Clenching your jaw, you leapt off the wall at Ghost. You were getting aggravated by how difficult this was. Why couldn't he be a regular villain and let you catch him?

Anticipating your move, Ghost jumped out of the way. You webbed him and yanked him toward yourself. Rather than fighting your pull, Ghost flew at you and pounced on your form, knocking you flat on your back. He drove his fists into your ribs, and you cried out as electricity coursed through your body. He held his fists, adorned in makeshift gauntlets, to you as you lay paralyzed by pain.

"Where's the big guy?" He asked you, his voice low and silky. "He's always a good time." You weren't even able to breathe from the shocks pulsing in your ribs, but before you would've been able to answer him, your attention was captured by the sight of a yellow portal to your right.

For one dreadful moment, you thought it was Ghost's escape. His slippery nature was due to the watch he had stolen from Ben all those months ago, and it seemed almost impossible to keep him in one dimension long enough to catch him.

To your tremendous relief however, Miguel's muscular form flew out of the portal, knocking the anomaly off of your body. You took a ragged breath as the two men tumbled to your side. "Oh! Here you are!" Ghost laughed, pushing himself off the floor to face Miguel. "We were just talking about you."

Miguel turned his head for a moment to assess your form still gasping for breath. "You're late," you wheezed to him as you rolled onto your side to stand up again. You'd been here fighting alongside Ben and Malala since the alert from Lyla had gone out, and Miguel was only just now showing up. You didn't even know where Jess and the others were.

Seeing that you were well enough to give him sass, Miguel turned back to face Ghost, shooting a web that Ghost easily avoided. "You missed," he teased, but he was quickly eating his words when Miguel yanked the dumpster he had webbed instead and slammed it into the arrogant anomaly.

While Ghost was still recovering from his hit, Miguel threw his containment unit device at Ghost’s form. It slid right next to him, but a microsecond before it deployed, the anomaly rolled away, causing the orange force field to envelop nothing.

"Interesting," Ghost stated, sounding genuinely fascinated as he observed the glowing orange cage. You huffed in irritation, finally managing to sit up now that your muscles weren't spasming anymore. As much as you usually enjoyed banter with your enemies, you were not in the mood.

Miguel lunged after Ghost, who pulled another weapon seemingly out of nowhere and fired a spray of spinning razors at him. Miguel began twisting through the air, managing to evade every blade with expert precision.

Unfortunately for you, your screaming muscles weren’t able to move quite as fast as you needed. You leapt through the air to try and dodge the razors, but midair, one clipped you right in the shoulder, cutting deep from the front of your shoulder down almost to your back.

You cried out in pain, slamming hard into the ground as you fell. The wind was knocked out of your lungs, and you lay there struggling to breathe while hot pain blossomed in your shoulder.

Hearing your pained cry, Miguel froze, his body automatically turning to find you. You lay there a moment before moving to roll onto your good side. You pushed yourself up with a groan, and you were surprised to find Miguel at your side and pressing you back down to the floor. “Don’t move,” he urged as he gently held you down.

Even though his face was hidden, you could see he was examining your wound. “I’m fine,” you grunted, moving to sit up again. Miguel must’ve seen that you weren’t too terribly wounded and watched you carefully while you sat up off the ground before finally saying, “Okay.”

Together, you turned back to face Ghost. He was standing with a curious look on his face and an unsettling smile on his lips. “Now, that is interesting,” he said. Before either of you could move at him, Malala came swinging in a blur and knocked the anomaly off his feet. “I’m getting real tired of his gabbing,” she muttered, sounding as aggravated as you felt.

Ghost didn’t stay down for long. “It seems I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he observed. He quickly typed something into his watch, and a portal opened up beside him. “No!” Miguel snarled, leaving your side to lunge after him. You also stood up, grinding your teeth in pain as you leapt after him.

To buy himself time, Ghost threw down two small capsules that flashed brightly, making you balk. When the sun spots faded from your eyes, there was still a thick cloud of smoke around you, causing you to cough weakly. Your eyes scanned the alley for your rival, and you found him scooping up the containment unit device Miguel had thrown.

You flung yourself at him, trying to web the device from his hands. Hitting his arm, you pulled him forward with all your strength. He flew at your body, but when you raised a hand to hit him with your bad arm, pain flared from your shoulder and caused you to stumble, and you only managed a weak punch.

Seeing your pain, Ghost pulled a knife out of who-knows-where and severed the line between you. Scrambling away, he jumped for the portal and fell inside it just as Miguel tried to catch him, and within a breath, the portal to an unknown dimension closed.

“No!” Miguel shouted in frustration, his fist punching the wall where the portal had been mere seconds ago. You let out an aggravated breath. This was the closest you had ever been to catching Ghost, so frustratingly close that it made your chest burn in anger.

There was a tense second where nobody spoke. You could see that Miguel was breathing hard. At your side, Malala stood up with a heavy sigh and moved over to help Ben who was still entangled in a net.

Miguel whirled on you. “What happened?!” Miguel shouted at you. You gaped at him incredulously. “You’re asking me?!” You shot back angrily. “Where the hell were you when the alert went out?”

Miguel’s mask retracted to reveal his scowling face. “We had him!” he snarled, ignoring your question and directing his anger towards you.

Your frustration boiled in your chest. Not only had Miguel been late to the call, but his accusatory words were some of the first that he had spoken directly to you since he added you to the team. It had been weeks since you had spoken to each other. It seemed as though since your last encounter, he had been avoiding you. Your interactions had been brief and relevant only to the mission, and you hadn’t even spent any time alone together since you had been added to the team.

“Yeah, we had him,” you repeated angrily, your own mask retracting. “We had him until you stopped going after him.” His face contorted into a scowl, and his figure towered over you. “You had plenty of time to incapacitate him,” he argued.

You scoffed. ���Yeah, I had plenty of time waiting for you to show up,” you shot back. “And as soon as you do, you turn your back on him.”

“You were hurt,” he stated sharply. His eyes fell to your shoulder, and you thought that some of his anger dissipated from his face. “You are hurt,” he corrected himself, his voice still sharp but a bit less angry.

You almost scoffed again, but when you looked down at your shoulder, you grimaced. Your suit had retracted around your cut, exposing the deep slice in your shoulder. In your adrenaline-fueled state, you had only briefly felt it, but now, seeing it slowly oozing blood, the pain was suddenly very noticeable.

"Shit," you sighed under your breath. You were used to dressing your own wounds, but this one was in a spot that was going to be difficult to treat. "I'll be fine," you said dismissively.

Miguel seemed to compose himself a little bit. He closed his eyes with a deep sigh before looking back at your shoulder. "You need stitches," he said.

You rolled your eyes. "I said I'll be fine," you repeated firmly. "Don't be stupid," he replied in a flat voice. "And don't try to tell me you can do it yourself." You closed your mouth and huffed. That's exactly what you were about to say.

"Fine, I'll get Jess to do it," you stated in exasperation. "Happy?"

"Like hell you will," he muttered, typing something into his watch. A portal opened beside you, and Miguel looked back at you, irritation still evident on his face though perhaps not so much as before.

"What?" You asked expectantly. He shot you an impatient look. "Go," he told you sharply. You shifted your stance defiantly, stubbornly remaining where you were. "I don't want to go with you," you argued. He sighed in exasperation. "Would you stop being so damn stubborn and go through the stupid portal?" He snapped.

You stared up at him in contempt. His demanding tone and harsh mannerisms made you feel resistant to accepting any of his help. After ignoring you for weeks and snapping at you during this failure of a mission, he was the last person you wanted seeing you in pain.

You both continued staring at each other, each refusing to look away first. You felt blood oozing down your back, and the pain was really starting to radiate in your shoulder. Miguel stared at you with a deadpan expression, knowing it was only a matter of time before you would give in.

You realized with a wave of aggravation that he was going to win your staring standoff. With a sigh, you grit your teeth together and looked down in defeat. "Fine," you muttered sourly. Pushing past him, you walked into the portal and didn't bother looking back to see if he was coming.

You weren't quite sure what you were expecting on the other side of the portal, but you were somewhat surprised to find yourself standing in Miguel's room. It was just as you remembered it from weeks ago— simple, neat, and barely used.

From behind you, Miguel stepped into the room, not even sparing you a glance before heading to the bathroom. You hesitated for a moment before reluctantly following after him. He pulled out a large black bag onto the counter space filled with all sorts of medical equipment. He was laying out materials for suturing as you walked in.

"Sit."

You scoffed in annoyance. "I know you know how to say please," you grumbled. He didn't respond, turning to his sink to wash his hands rather than answering you. If you had been in a pettier mood, you wouldn't have moved until he asked nicely, but you were in pain and ready to get it over with, so you pushed yourself up onto the counter by the sink and waited for him.

Miguel pulled a pair of gloves over his hands and inspected your wound carefully. "Your suit," he said flatly, indicating that it was in the way. Sighing, you let your suit retract just enough to reveal half your torso for him. It didn't matter that this man had seen you completely naked on several occasions, you weren't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing you undressed now, even if he was only going to stitch you up.

Miguel began with wiping away the blood from the skin around your wound. You flinched hard. The pressure he used was light but still painful, and you closed your eyes to fight the grimace that was trying to show. It took you a second to realize that this was the first time he'd touched you in weeks.

Despite your irritation towards him, you couldn’t help but notice how closely he was standing to you. From the corner of your eye, you watched his face as he worked diligently to take care of you. His eyebrows were slightly scrunched as he focused his attention on your skin, and there was only the sounds of his soft, steady breathing in your ear.

When he was satisfied with how your skin looked, he sprayed antiseptic on it before asking, “Do you want something for the pain?” You considered it for half a moment before shaking your head. You had managed stitches before, and it wasn’t as painful as some other shit you’d experienced before.

He waited to see if you’d change your mind before lifting the threaded needle with his forceps. Despite your resolution against painkillers, you ground your teeth as the needle punctured your skin. "Sorry," Miguel murmured softly as he pulled the suture through your skin. He was obviously trying to work as gently as possible, but pain was inevitable with suturing.

Taking a deep breath and closing your eyes, you tried your best to ignore the pain, but with how slowly he was going and how thick the tension was, you knew you were going to need a distraction.

"Are you sure we couldn't have just used butterfly stitches?" You asked sourly as he pulled the thread again. "Yes," he replied firmly. "This is deep. You got lucky, too. If it had been just a few inches over, the blade would've hit your neck, and you'd need a lot more than sutures."

"It wasn't luck," you replied pointedly. "It was skill." Miguel gave a disbelieving snort as he pulled the thread tight. "If you really had skill, it wouldn't have hit you at all," he mumbled.

You huffed indignantly. "Oh, please," you began, "don't pretend like you haven't had to take a few hits before. It's practically in the job description."

Miguel didn't reply as he pierced the needle through your skin again, causing you to wince at the pain. You thought he was going to make some sharp bullshit retort about how he didn't get as hurt as you, but instead, he just sighed.

"This was too close," he murmured at last.

Your defensive attitude softened considerably at his words. Studying his face closely, you realized that he wasn't being critical, he was being protective. With your new understanding, you almost felt bad for being angry at him.

"I've had closer," you told him wryly. He frowned. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" He asked in a dull voice. You gave a small huff in amusement. "It's supposed to show you that you don't have to worry about me," you explained earnestly.

He didn't say anything to you as he continued sewing up your cut. The sting of the needle caused you to wince again, and you tried to think of something to talk about to distract you from the pain.

"At least I don't have to fix up my suit," you said at last, hoping he would pick up the conversation. Miguel hummed before replying, "It's almost impossible to destroy unstable molecule fabric."

You raised an eyebrow at him. "Well if it was impossible to destroy, wouldn't it protect me from even getting cut?"

"That's not how it works," he told you flatly.

"So then how does it work?"

He gave a short sigh, indicating to you that he was not in the mood to entertain your curiosity. Nevertheless, he did. "The molecules work almost as a form of energy," he explained. "They assess the host molecules and change with them. The suit learns your body and reacts with it."

Another stitch was added, but you didn't feel it quite as much as before.

"When you were cut, it didn't destroy the suit," he continued, "it interrupted it. Your skin was damaged, and the suit left it exposed because your wound isn't the default for the molecules."

You studied his face as he spoke, a smile slowly growing on your lips. When he had finished explaining the science of the suit, he seemed to feel your stare and glanced down at you, raising an eyebrow in suspicion.

"Nerd," you said at last.

That seemed to pull him out of his grumpiness somewhat, and he turned his attention back to your shoulder. "You asked," he mumbled, but the sharp edge that was in his voice was gone.

"So then how does the suit retract into my web shooters?" You asked, genuinely interested in knowing more about the fascinating technology you wore everyday, and it definitely helped distract you from the pain.

"Since the suit can take on an energy form," he explained, "it can be stored in the web shooters as a form of data." You stared down at the web shooters on your wrists. It was amazing that such an unsuspecting piece of technology housed such powerful energy.

"They look just like my old pair," you noted. Miguel nodded, his eyes never leaving your shoulder as he worked. "I know, that's what I was aiming for," he said, "but I was thrown off by the web cartridges you use."

You smirked. "Pretty cool, right?" You said proudly. "I built a system that condenses the water in the air and converts it into a hydropolymer to supplement my web supply. It's not as strong as my original formula, but it saves me from having a web block."

Miguel's eyebrows lifted somewhat as he listened. If you hadn't known better, you could almost say he was impressed. He must've noticed your staring because he turned his eyes to meet yours, and his face softened.

"Nerd," he said.

You smiled in return and rolled your eyes. "Whatever," you mumbled playfully. His lips widened fractionally, and his eyes returned back to your shoulder. You felt more relaxed now. The anger and irritation you were feeling before had disappeared as soon as you saw him smile.

"How's it looking, doc?" You asked after a moment, trying to turn your head to see his progress. “Don’t move your head,” Miguel said and nudged your face with the back of his wrist. "And you're not going to be doing any swinging for the next few days.” Your eyes snapped up to look at him. "It's not that bad," you argued weakly. "I'll be fine."

Miguel gave you a stern look. "In your shoulder, it is that bad," he said. "If you tear this, it's going to scar even worse than it's already going to now."

You rolled your eyes again. "Well, you know better than most that this isn't my first or worst scar," you argued, "and it probably won't be my last." It was true. Your body was covered in scars large and small, old and new, and this was just another addition to your collection.

Miguel didn't reply to you. He had worked steadily from the back of your shoulder to the front, but the closer he got to your neck, the worse the pain felt. You did your best to remain neutral, but you couldn't help the small grunt of discomfort that sounded in your throat. Miguel heard it and asked gently, "Do you want something for the pain?"

You shook your head in response. "I have my own stuff," you told him before a crooked grin pulled on your lips. "But you know what I've heard is a natural pain killer?" You added slyly.

Miguel heard the mischief in your voice, and he looked back at your face with suspicion. "What?" He asked carefully.

In a sweet tone, you answered, "Kissing."

Miguel gave you a disapproving look, but you caught the ghost of a smile on his lips. "I told you not until we get the anomaly," he said pointedly.

You weren't discouraged by his assertion. "I just want to see if it works," you told him innocently. "It's an experiment."

"With an ulterior motive."

"The motive is to get rid of the pain."

He still wore a skeptical look, so you tried again. "It's for science," you explained, batting your eyes at him. After weeks of not touching him, you longed to feel his body against your own.

Miguel was unconvinced. He gave an unimpressed hum and pulled his needle through your skin again. It seemed he wasn't going to budge. Heaving a large sigh, you continued, "But if you don't want to participate, maybe I'll find someone else who does."

Miguel pulled his stitch tight, making you wince. "I bet you think that's funny," he said in a flat voice.

"I bet you don't," you shot back.

"Because it's not."

"Well," you began slowly, hesitating as you wondered if you should even start this conversation with him. You’d thought a lot about him the past few weeks, and barely seeing him for weeks now had made you realize that being a casual fling wasn’t what you wanted anymore. "I know you've expressed many times that this isn't a relationship,” you said carefully, “so I don't really see what the issue is."

Your heart was beating a little faster now. Your words opened the door to a conversation that you were both eager and terrified to have. You wanted desperately to know how he felt about you, about whatever this was between you. You were also nervous that he didn't feel what you felt or want what you wanted.

At your words, Miguel's face darkened. He stayed quiet for a second before he resumed suturing. "If that's what you want," he muttered at last.

There was a tense silence that settled between you. You stared up at his hardened face, trying to determine what he was thinking.

"It's not," you replied quietly, "but being on this break got me thinking."

"About?"

"About how I feel about this whole arrangement."

The tense silence returned. Miguel's eyes were fixed determinedly on your shoulder, and his eyebrows furrowed as he listened to what you said.

"You want to end it?" He asked, his voice level and neutral.

"No," you said a bit too quickly. "It's just..." you trailed off, trying to think of the best way to tell him what you wanted. Doubt nibbled at your mind, and you wondered if this was even a good idea at all.

Miguel noticed your apprehension, and he stopped sewing your wound to give you his undivided attention. His dark eyes met yours, and he was so close to you that it caused your heart to flutter.

You looked away to regain your thoughts. "I know that this is supposed to be a casual thing," you began slowly. "And I know what you said about time and relationships. I just..." you sighed, shifting uncomfortably on the counter. "I don't want to be just a diversion for you, a mindless distraction that you can pick up or put down as you please."

Your face burned as you spoke, and you couldn't bring yourself to look at his face. Miguel murmured your name softly, and you closed your eyes to keep from seeing his reaction.

"If that's still what you still want, that's fine," you continued quickly. "I'm not trying to force you into something you don't want." You sighed as you opened your eyes again. "That's just how I feel," you finished quietly.

Silence enveloped you, suffocating, nerve-wracking silence. After a couple heartbeats, you forced yourself to look up at Miguel. He was still staring at you, but instead of wearing an awkward or even condescending expression as you had expected, his face was soft, almost thoughtful.

You stared at each other quietly for a moment longer before he finally turned his gaze back to your shoulder. Picking up his hands again, he began working on your sutures without reply.

Your stomach tightened anxiously at his silence, and you felt a wave of disappointment wash over you. You didn't feel the pain of your wound anymore now that your mind was racing with what you just said and Miguel's utter lack of response.

"It's not that I don't want it," he said at last. "Because I do."

Your eyes shot up to his face as he spoke. His gaze was still fixed on your stitches, but you could see clearly that he was thinking about what you just said.

"Then what is it?" You asked quietly.

Miguel took a moment to respond, his hands never ceasing their work. "I built my whole life around what we're doing here," he began slowly. "When I say I don't have time for a relationship, it means I can't give you the time you deserve." He glanced over at your face briefly before returning back to your shoulder, his eyes growing distant.

"The last time I let myself get close to someone, I hurt a lot of people," he added quietly. "More than I could ever make up for." He paused for a moment and sighed. "I just don't want to see that happen to you," he said softly.

Your heart ached. You remembered what he told you, how his actions triggered the destruction of a universe. The burden of his past still clearly weighed on his conscious, and you didn't know what to say to him to comfort him.

In the silence following, Miguel tied off the last stitch. With a pair of scissors from the kit, he snipped the line. You looked down at the neat row of sutures that held your cut closed. His work was precise, and you knew it was miles better than what you could've done by yourself.

Miguel was cleaning up his materials, clearly trying to avoid eye contact with you as he did. You watched for a second before taking a deep breath.

"You know, I've learned a lot of things since I was bitten by that stupid spider," you began, breaking the silence around you. "First, pain is unavoidable." You pointed to your shoulder's fresh stitches. "Case in point," you said wryly.

Miguel didn't react to your weak joke. He continued packing his materials away, but you could tell he was still listening to what you were saying.

"My second lesson," you continued, "was that I would always be alone."

Miguel paused, and his eyes turned back to your face. "There was nobody who knows what it's like to be me," you explained. "Nobody who knew what I've sacrificed. I had nobody to trust with this secret life, and the longer I did this, the more I regretted being Spider-Woman."

You stared down at the web shooters adorning your wrists as you contemplated your own words. You had never told anybody this before, not even the other Spiders. You had suffered so much by yourself, and only now for the first time did you feel like you could share your life with someone.

"But when I came here," you continued quietly, "it all changed. Suddenly, I was surrounded by people who did understand, who also felt how I did." You paused again, and you finally looked up at his face. His eyes were watching you with a look of understanding and sympathy that made your throat tighten unexpectedly.

Your eyes broke away from his stare again, and you stated quietly, "When you offered me a place here, I wasn't alone anymore."

Miguel nodded softly. "That's what I wanted," he replied. "A community for people like us." You tilted your head up at him and studied his countenance. "Then why do you still act like you're doing it alone?" You asked.

He sighed uncomfortably, crossing his arms in front of his chest and leaning against the sink counter. "In a lot of ways, I am doing it alone," he stated quietly. "Everyone here enjoys doing the missions, seeing all the new dimensions, and meeting new Spiders. I'm the one who has to do all the damage control, the recruitment, the dirty work." He sighed again and muttered grimly, "I don't always like what I have to do."

You raised an eyebrow at his melodramatic statement. "You know, it would probably be more enjoyable if you actually interacted with the other Spiders," you told him with a pointed look.

Miguel huffed a short breath. "I'm not trying to get close to anyone," he stated firmly. That made you pause and tilt your head in interest. "Then what am I?" You asked, a curious smile pulling at your mouth.

His gloomy expression lifted somewhat as he looked at you. He uncrossed his arms and planted them on the counter on either side of your body, and he stared at your face thoughtfully. You stared back, waiting for an answer.

"You," he began slowly, "were a distraction to take the edge off." You hummed thoughtfully in response, wrapping your legs around his waist to bring him closer. "And now?" You prompted, your eyes falling to his lips.

"And now," he echoed, "you're the person I bring back to my room to stitch up because I don't trust anyone else to do it."

You smiled at him, and your stomach fluttered at how close he was to you. You wanted so badly to kiss him. Your lips yearned for the feeling of his mouth against yours.

"I guess that makes me pretty special," you replied smugly.

A glimmer of reluctant amusement shone in his face, and he tilted his head in mock consideration. "I think 'special' is a stretch," he stated coolly. You placed a hand over your heart dramatically. "Ouch," you gasped. "And you wonder why I joke about going to other people."

He raised an eyebrow at you. "I don't wonder," he stated. "I know exactly why you do it."

"And why is that?" You asked coyly.

Miguel shot you an unconvinced look. "Because it gets under my skin, and you know it," he replied. You smirked, unable to deny the truth in his statement.

"If that's true, then that would make me a horrible person," you told him.

"You are a horrible person."

Your smile widened, and with your good arm, you raised your hand to his chest and let it slowly wander up to wrap behind his neck. "Then why do you like me?" You asked innocently.

Miguel was looking at your lips now, and there was a hint of playfulness in his face. "'Like' is a strong word," he said thoughtfully. "I think 'tolerate' is more accurate."

You rolled your eyes with a smile. "Damn, is there anything in the first aid kit for a broken heart?" You joked. He couldn't stop himself from smiling softly at your theatrics. "You're ridiculous," he said.

You hummed, pulling him closer to your face. "You love it," you insisted. His nose brushed against yours before he repeated, "I tolerate it." You chuckled and gave a careful shrug. "Same difference," you said before pulling his lips down against yours.

You couldn't resist smiling against his lips as you kissed him for the first time in weeks. You were savoring every sweet second of his body against yours. His mouth moved slowly against your own, and he snaked an arm around your torso, making your face glow with a faint blush.

His words echoed in your head. It's not that I don't want it. So, he did feel the same way you did, or at least, to some degree he did. The thought alone made your stomach flutter, and you ran your fingers through his hair while trying to memorize how his lips felt against yours.

When you finally broke apart, you still wore a smile on your face as his forehead rested on yours. "Oh wow, that does help with the pain," you commented. The pain had subsided considerably when his mouth was pressed against yours.

Miguel chuckled and kissed you again briefly. "Consider your experiment a success," he said. You hummed thoughtfully. "I would be an irresponsible scientist if I didn't repeat my experiment to prove its validity," you argued, earning a smile from him before you pressed your lips to his again.

It felt so good to kiss him, especially after the shitty failure that was today's mission, and the warmth of his body melted all your troubles away from your mind. You didn't care about the mission or your injury. He was here with you, everything else could wait.

With your fingers still running through his hair, you grabbed a fistful of jet-black strands and deepened your kiss, pushing your tongue into his mouth with a sigh. His hand on your waist tightened while he grunted softly into your mouth.

Breaking away from your lips, Miguel murmured your name in a low, warning voice. "Hmm?" You replied innocently, looking up at his dark eyes through your lashes. "We had an agreement," he said.

"Yeah, when I was on the team," you told him. "But you just said that I need to lay off for a few days..." you gave him a pointed look, "...which means I'm technically off the team for a few days..." you pulled his face back down to yours, "...which means that our agreement is null and void."

With that, you pressed your lips to his in a deep kiss before he could argue back. It was a weak argument, and you knew it, but you didn't want him to challenge it. You wanted him to want you.

His grip around your waist tightened as he pushed against your tongue with his own. You couldn't help the small moan you gave as his passion began to show, and all the longing you'd been feeling for Miguel the past couple weeks began welling up inside you.

Your lips separated for a moment. "Treacherous," he murmured breathlessly against your skin. You hummed, blinking your eyes open to look at him. His face looked restless, and you knew he was hungry for more.

"So I've been told," you replied smugly as you moved your lips down to his neck. Miguel gave a deep sigh at the feeling of your kisses on his sensitive skin, skin that felt warm and soft to the touch.

In your growing desire for him, your teeth gently nipped his bare flesh. Miguel sucked in a sharp breath at the sensation, his fingers gripping your waist tightly as he whispered your name again. You smiled deviously as his reaction, and your legs wrapped around his hips to bring his body flush against yours.

"Give me more," you mumbled against his skin. Miguel took a second to respond, his breathing ragged as he tried to keep his composure. "You're hurt," he argued weakly. Based on his strained voice, you knew he had all but given in to the craving of your touch. You raised your head up so that you could look him in his dark, restless eyes, noses brushing gently as you were both panting lightly in anticipation.

"Then make me feel better."

That was all you had to say before he kissed you with the hunger of a touch-starved man. He pulled you off the sink in one swift movement, holding you upright with your legs still wrapped around his waist, and walked out of the bathroom to where his bed was waiting for you both.

Finally, you thought. The tension between you these past few weeks had been torture. Seeing each other around HQ after your last encounter and not saying a word in passing was aggravating, and you had been longing for the moment when you could wrap your arms (and legs) around him again.

When his legs hit the side of the bed, he lowered you carefully down onto it. You still had your good arm wrapped around his shoulders, and when he placed you on the top of his bed, you hissed in pain and clung to his body. The edge of your stitched-up wound had touched the comforter, making it sting. 

"Maybe not like this," you said with a light chuckle.

A flash of concern crossed Miguel's face when he realized your pain, and he moved to roll off of you. Still holding yourself close to his body, you rolled with him and found yourself straddling his lap.

With a smirk, you hovered your face over his. "Much better," you stated smugly. Miguel was still assessing your face for any traces of discomfort. "Are you sure you're up for this?" He asked. You shot him a look. You would've thought he was trying to find a way out of it if it weren't for the fact that his fingers were unconsciously trying to move your hips against his hardening cock.

"I've been craving you for weeks," you whispered against his lips. "It would take more than this to keep me off of you." His face gave way to a smile at your words, a true smile that filled his whole face. Fuck, he looked so good. The way he lit up with you knocked the wind out of you, and you could've stayed there forever just admiring the beautiful smile he had before he raised his head to kiss you.

You leaned into him, growing hot with desire. Your suit, so attuned to what your body wanted, retracted all the way back to your web shooters. Miguel's hands traced across the skin of your torso as his tongue slid against yours, and his suit also disappeared from his body.

Feeling his skin against yours set your heart racing. His fingertips felt electric as his hands wandered up your back to unclasp your bra. Careful not to hit your new stitches, he removed it from your body, taking in the sight of your bare body with a lustful expression before lowering his head to take one of your breasts in his mouth.

You sucked in a sharp breath as he moved his mouth sloppily over your skin. Leaning into him, you ran a hand through his dark hair and grabbed fistfuls of the strands. You missed this, the feeling of him exploring your body. It was so much more than taking the edge off now. It was almost like a form of worship.

"Feeling better?" He murmured, tilting his head up to watch your enraptured expression. "Mhmm," you hummed, a lazy smile pulling at your lips. "But don't you dare stop."

Miguel smirked. "Wasn't planning on it," he replied in a low voice. As he spoke, his hands slid down your body and began pushing your underwear down over your ass. Leaning forward, you lifted your legs to allow his hands to remove your last piece of clothing.

You were breathing hard in anticipation now. You placed sloppy kisses on his chest, his neck, practically any of his tanned skin that you could reach. From his throat, the softest little moans sounded in response to your touch, and each fueled your desire. In your desperation, your teeth grazed his skin again.

His breath caught in his throat, and his fingers dug into your skin. You smirked, enjoying his reaction to your teasing. "You like that, don't you?" You observed slyly. Before you could give him the opportunity to respond, you bit down on the muscle at the base of his neck, not enough to be painful but enough to leave a mark.

He moaned loudly, an unrestrained sound that demonstrated the power you had over him. You released the skin between your teeth before moving them up his neck and biting him there, gentler than before. You were fairly certain he stopped breathing for a moment as you bit down on his soft skin. When the moment passed, you let go again, moving your mouth up and nipping his earlobe.

Miguel was practically paralyzed by your touch, and you could feel his heart racing wildly under your hand. He was completely at your mercy, unable to stop you even if he had wanted to.

But you knew he didn't want you to stop.

Still holding a fistful of his hair, you pulled firmly and tilted his head back to expose his neck to you. Letting his earlobe slip out of your teeth, you moved your mouth to his jaw, placing a kiss on the skin there before gently biting it.

He groaned your name. There was a desperate edge to his voice that made your cunt ache for him. When you moved your lips up to his, he kissed you with such fervor that it was less like he was kissing you and more like he was trying to devour you, like being completely pressed against you wasn't close enough.

"I need to...be inside you," he gasped, his lips still trying to kiss you as he spoke. He sounded as breathless as you felt, and when you opened your eyes to look at him, his eyes were hungry with his desire for you.

Maybe if it hadn't been so long since you'd been together, you would've prolonged the teasing, exacerbated his frustration, but you found that you were also desperate to feel him inside you. Every inch of your body burned for him, and you knew he burned for you, too.

Settling back down slowly on his lap, you allowed Miguel to guide your hips to his cock. Your forehead rested against his, and you gave a small gasp when you felt the tip tease at the entrance of your pussy. Giving Miguel another messy kiss, you lowered yourself down his length.

God, he felt good.

Your head lolled back as he stretched you out so perfectly for the first time in weeks. Miguel released a hot breath against the skin of your neck, his hands holding your hips tightly as he slid into your tight cunt.

"Oh, fuck," he whispered. "I've missed this."

If you had been in a clearer state of mind, you would've pointed out it was his own damn fault for making the stupid rule in the first place. But right now, the only thing on your mind was that you needed to move your body against his.

Raising your hips up again, a loud groan spilled from your lips. You'd almost forgotten just how big he was. His cock was buried deep inside you, setting every nerve on fire. Every muscle in your body tightened with the feeling of his dick sliding out of you, and your hands, one still in his hair and the other holding onto his back, curled tightly as you clung to him.

You moved back down again, your eyes closed tightly with the sensations of riding him. Miguel's hands gripped your waist tightly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as you moved slowly up and down the length of his cock. His breathing was shaky, and so was yours. Neither of you said anything as you took the time to reacquaint yourselves with the feeling of each other's bodies.

You soon grew impatient with the slow pace you were keeping. You raised your hips off of his lap with greater need, grinding your pussy down hard against him as you did. Miguel's reaction was immediate, and you heard a growl deep in his throat. His hands encouraged your pace and eased some of the effort off of your knees.

The sound of your ass smacking against his lap filled the air, and combined with the sounds of his heavy panting, it only fueled your lust-crazed mind. Blinking open your eyes, you looked at Miguel and found that he was staring up at your face. A shimmer of sweat gleamed on his forehead, and his lips were parted as he breathed hard.

Your eyes locked with his dark gaze. Even as you continued to move along his length, you couldn't help but feel utterly paralyzed by his stare, so brazen and intentional, completely in awe of you. It made you feel powerful, revered.

Loved.

You managed to break out of your paralyzed stupor and crash your lips down on his. Now, you were the one who felt as though you couldn't be close enough to him. Even with his cock pumping in and out of you with ever-increasing speed, you wondered if there was anything that could satisfy your need for him.

Your pace was uncontrollable now. Small, whining moans escaped your mouth with every rise and fall of your hips. Miguel's fingers dug into your waist tightly, and he grunted as he pulled away from your lips.

"Wait," he gasped quietly.

Your eyes snapped open, and you froze. Was something wrong? Were you doing something he didn't like?

Miguel's face struggled to compose itself. "You need to slow down," he finally said. You stared at him for a second before you understood what was happening.

A wicked grin grew on your face. "Why?" You asked deviously. Miguel shot you a glare, his chest heaving. "You know why," he grunted. "Just slow down."

Still wearing your devilish smile, you started moving your hips again. "I don't want to," you told him, your words sounding almost childish as you choked back a whine. Miguel cursed under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he fought against the pleasure your cunt brought him.

"Wait, wait," he groaned again, trying to hold you still. Now, this was a power trip if you'd ever felt one. You knew you were only a few moments away from causing him to unravel. Now, he was begging you to ease up because he knew he couldn't last against you.

You grabbed his jaw in one hand, forcing his face to look up at you. "Why should I?" You demanded to know. He was panting hard, and his eyes seemed hazy and unfocused.

"I need to take care of you first," he managed to breathe. You huffed an amused breath. He never failed to get you off, and despite the fact that you were more than happy to finish him off in record timing, you were inclined to let him take over for you.

Miguel placed a soft kiss to your lips. "Let me take care of you," he pleaded in a whisper. "Let me taste you."

The thought alone of what he could do with his tongue was enough to make you moan. Instead of replying, you kissed him hard before lifting your hips up off of him entirely. You felt a twinge of regret from the loss of his cock inside you, but when he slowly rolled you over, the rush of anticipation quickly replaced it.

Miguel pulled you to the edge of the bed, careful not to cause your stitches to hit the comforter. With your good arm, you were propped up by your elbow while he slowly moved down your body. He placed tantalizing kisses on your throat, your collar, your breasts, your stomach, practically every inch of your body he could see. With every kiss, you felt like your body was slowly being set on fire, and you moaned impatiently as he slid off the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms under your thighs the way he loved to do.

When his mouth finally landed over your pussy, you nearly fell back against the bed. A cry of pleasure tore from your throat. The hand you weren't leaning on came up and grabbed his hair while you squirmed in his grip. His lips were sealed over your pussy. He was alternately sucking at your clit and circling it with his tongue. You struggled to breathe as he continued working at a careful pace.

"Miguel," you gasped, your thighs flexing beneath his hands.

Miguel moaned against you, his movements growing faster and faster. His head pressed firmly against you. Your heart was pounding furiously in your chest as you tried to keep your arm from buckling. His tongue moved expertly against you, lapping hungrily at your swollen clit. You tugged at his hair as you tried moving under his arms, but his grip kept you in place.

Your head fell back with a long whine. You knew at the rate he was going that you weren't going to last long. He was all too familiar with the way your body worked, and he knew exactly where to focus his efforts to get you off.

Lifting your head up again, you blinked your eyes open to look down at him. Half of his face was blocked by your arm, so you released the hold you had on his hair, letting your hand trace the edge of his face. His dark eyes were gazing up at you intently, watching your every reaction.

Letting your hand fall away from his face, it rested on your thigh as you let out another high-pitched moan. Without stopping his tongue, Miguel released his grip on your leg and took your hand in his. You looked down at him and squeezed his hand while he continued swirling his tongue over your pussy.

"Don't stop," you panted, your stomach tensing from his movement. He tightened his grip in two quick pulses, and even though his mouth never left your cunt, you could practically hear the words he was thinking—I won't.

Your legs were shaking now, and you barely had the strength to keep yourself up off the bed. Pleasure was taking over your body and coiling at your stomach. Miguel knew you were close by the quickening of your breath and the tightening of your grip, his tongue maintaining its steady pressure.

Finally, with a loud cry, your body began trembling under his touch. You squeezed his hand hard as you came against his mouth. The feeling of ecstasy burned in every part of your body while you struggled to breathe from the pleasure that had now completely overwhelmed you.

Miguel eased his pace to lazy circles, his eyes alight with smug satisfaction. You writhed under his mouth, growing restless from the overstimulation you were beginning to feel. "Oh, fuck," you gasped, moving your hips to escape his warm tongue. He let you move away from his face, releasing his grip on your hand and thigh.

Miguel pushed himself off the ground and began crawling over your body. "See?" he said in satisfaction, sounding out of breath. "I'll always take care of you." You moaned again, still trying to recover from your high. "Careful O'Hara," you managed to say. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

He smirked down at you, his lips and chin glistening with your wetness. Pushing forward, his body forced yours down. You wrapped one arm around his shoulders, clinging to him to keep from laying on the bed. "Not like this—my stitches," you whispered.

Miguel froze for a second before placing a hand behind your back to help you up. "How do you want it?" He asked quietly. You took a second and bit your lip as you considered the myriad of ways he could fuck you.

"Like before," you decided finally.

His subtle smile returned, and he rolled off of your body and onto the bed. Pulling yourself up, you straddled him again, though perhaps not so fast since you were still hazy from your orgasm. His hands guided you back down to where his cock was waiting for you.

Miguel rested his head on your good shoulder as you lowered yourself slowly back down on him. His hot breath fanned against your skin as he groaned at the feeling of your wet pussy around him. You let out a strangled gasp, feeling yourself stretch out again for him. You moved slowly, still halfway stuck in the stupor his mouth had left you in, and everything was still so sensitive for you.

Gradually, you began moving again. Miguel's arms wrapped tightly around you, pressing his body up against yours. His skin felt like fire—burning, consuming, enthralling. You rested your head against his as his strong arms helped lift you up and down his length.

"You feel so fucking good," he grunted quietly against your cheek. "You don't understand...what you do to me." Your nails dug into the skin of his shoulder as he spoke. The movement of his cock inside you made it difficult for you to formulate a response, but you managed to choke out, "Tell me. Tell me what I do to you."

He groaned softly. "You drive me fucking crazy," he muttered. "I can never focus when you're with me—," he groaned again, "—but I can never stop thinking about you when you're not." His arms were moving you up and down faster as he spoke, and you could tell he was fucking out his frustration. "The way you smell," he continued breathlessly, "the way you feel, the way you look when you're cumming all over my cock."

You gasped sharply, the combination of his words and his increasingly desperate pace rendering you speechless. "I want to have you every second...of every day," he murmured in your ear. You were panting hard against his skin while his cock continued driving deep into your aching cunt.

"Then have me," you whispered so quietly that he wouldn't have heard it over the lewd sounds of your fucking if it hadn't been said directly in his ear. "Have me every day."

He groaned, and turning his face, he captured your lips in a kiss. The taste of your pussy still lingered on his mouth, and you moaned softly against his lips. Everything felt so good, and when you broke away from your kiss, you looked deep into Miguel’s eyes and whispered, “I’m yours.”

And just like that, Miguel's body tensed, and with a long moan against your skin, he came inside you. You stilled as he held you tightly against his body. Beside the sound of your heart beating furiously in your ears, there was only your heavy breathing to fill the silence between you.

You could've stayed like that forever, feeling his strong arms wrapped around your body, hearing his breath against your ear. Your body still buzzed with pleasure, and there was nothing in your mind except that cursed phrase you fought so hard to ignore, the one that whispered to you constantly in the back of your brain every time you looked at Miguel.

I love you.

Over and over, it echoed in your mind, begging to be spoken. You'd heard it nagging in your heart for a while now, and you had tried your best to ignore it. Even after weeks of next to no contact, your feelings hadn't wavered for him.

Now, as you sat there wrapped in each other's arms, you felt those words ringing louder than ever, and for one dreadful moment, you thought you might say it out loud.

No—no, you couldn't. A bolt of fear yanked the words off your tongue. You couldn't jeopardize this. It was too precious to you. Even if this was all you could have, the occasional fuck, sleeping together knowing that he would always have to leave for something more important than yourself—wasn't it better than nothing? Wasn't it better than before when you were all alone? Especially now that he admitted to feeling something real for you, you couldn't ruin it with those three words.

Miguel finally moved when he turned his head toward yours. Your noses brushed against each other for moment as you both gasped for breath before your lips pressed down on his. You moaned against him softly. Still holding your body to his, he leaned back against the bed, bringing you down with him so that you lay on his chest.

After your breathing began leveling out, you shifted, allowing his cock to pull out of you with a groan. You slid off his chest onto your good shoulder with your body still pressed against his. You lay there like that for a while in comfortable silence, enjoying the feeling of each other's warm skin.

"It's been too long," Miguel sighed, finally breaking the silence. You smiled. "And whose fault is that?" You asked as you looked up at him. A small smile formed on his lips. "You were the one who swore you'd catch Ghost," he pointed out. "Is it my fault for believing you?"

You scoffed. "It's your fault for making that stupid rule in the first place," you argued. There was a quiet chuckle that rumbled in his chest. "It's called compromise, sweetheart," he said smoothly. "I can't let you have everything you want."

You tried to keep a straight face, but his snark caused your lips to quirk upward. "And why not?" You demanded to know, propping yourself up onto your elbow to look deep in his eyes.

Miguel looked at you with a subtle smile still adorning his face. "Because then everyone is going to complain about how I favor you over everyone else," he replied evenly. "And then, one by one, they'll all leave until it's just you and me."

You hummed thoughtfully. "That doesn't sound so bad," you said, settling back down next to him. "Just you and me against the multiverse."

He hummed as well. "Just you and me," he repeated, and in his voice, you could hear him imagining it, the two of you together across every universe.

You had imagined it before, too. You and Miguel, together, always, through everything. It was such a sweet dream, and yet the truth was the bitter chaser that always followed your longing—different dimensions, different lives. What future could you have together?

If Miguel was thinking the same thing, he didn't say it. He seemed content to just lay with you in silence while his fingers gently caressed your arm.

After a moment, you sighed. You could feel Miguel's head turn to look down at you in curiosity.

"You know, I meant what I said before," you told him softly.

"Hmm?"

"About being more than just a fling you can ignore outside of the bedroom," you explained.

"Ah."

You felt his head turn back up to stare at the ceiling, but his fingers still brushed against your skin. "I mean, is that what you still want?" You asked, lifting your gaze to look at his face. "Be honest."

There was a beat of silence before he quietly answered, "No."

You waited, hoping he would say more. He sounded almost reluctant in his reply, so you could tell there was more to it.

It was Miguel's turn to sigh. "I don't—I don't want this to be casual either," he began slowly. "I want it to be real, but I can't give up my work here. I won't. And one day, you'll hate me for not putting you first."

You scoffed lightly at those last words. "I could never hate you," you told him. There was a slight pause before he muttered, "Don't be so sure."

It could've been a joke, but the way he said it was so serious, it made you pause, and looking up at his face, you found there wasn't any traces of humor. You pushed yourself up a bit to face him better. His eyes moved back to you, and you held his stare for a moment.

"I could never hate you," you repeated in a soft, earnest whisper. Miguel didn't respond, he only watched you carefully before a tiny, sad smile pulled at his lips, looking as though he wanted to believe you.

"Careful," he murmured. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

You smirked at him and leaned in close. "I'll try my best not to," you said before closing the gap between your lips. He kissed you gently before pulling away to say, "And I'll try—about what you want, I'll try."

Your heart leapt, and there wasn't anything you could do to contain your smile. "Thank you," you whispered before kissing him again. You could feel him grinning against your lips, and his arms pulled you close. When you broke apart, you settled back down next to him.

"If they all start complaining though, I'm blaming you," he said. You chuckled. "Fair is fair," you replied. "If they don't like it, they can leave." He huffed in amusement. "Until it's just you and me?" He asked.

"Until it's just you and me."

[mushroomnoodles]

for the wizardbetty au, how do simon and betty manage to get by with little morrigan, particularly when they’re still a baby? i imagine it can’t be easy, but at least they have each other haha

simon and betty had been actively looking for a place to call home like.. since he was about 6 months pregnant? initally betty had really high standards for a home but when simon was clearly not able to keep going anymore (month 8) she lowered them and they settled in a train car in the farmland- close enough to get supplies, but far enough away where they shouldn't be bothered.

betty spent a lot of time up until simon gave birth scavenging and bringing shit home to make the train car more.. livable. simon would help her put things together and work on decorating but he was pretty tired and sluggish.

she and simon had been gathering baby supplies for months beforehand, so they weren't entirely caught off guard when they were born

betty found a cow first, then a goat, just a week or so before golbaby was born. and that was what morrigan ate! betty continued work on their home after the baby came because she needed it to be a fortress to protect her hubby and baby. she was really worried golbaby wouldn't be able to digest the milk (little did she know they could've eaten anything) but once they started eating she really felt like, hey, maybe this parenting in the apocalypse thing isn't going to be so difficult after all!

when simon recovered from giving birth he and betty would take turns scavenging and foraging for supplies (although betty did most of it still. simon cannot defend himself at all. mfker couldn't even stake a vampire who wasn't paying attention to him) while the other watched morrigan. they were wayyyy too little to be taken out into the real world.

and of course, their newly official relationship definitely helped betty and simon's morale. honestly, the biggest hurdle was just.. golbaby's powers.

also, the song betty sings to golbaby

[s-wave-entertainment]

*BAM*

THAT WAS THE SOUND OF ME BUSTING THE DOOR DOWN. HI. Okay so first thing's first, I recently saw an animatic (??) by @/armintist on Instagram about N's perception of Tessa as of ep. 6 and it has broken the dam. Your honor I think about what must have been going through his head at that given moment So Often; some may say too often (I know my roommate definitely would, sorry Anna-). Y'all, he literally just remembered her existence and because we have no canon timeline as to how long was between eps. 5&6, I'm going to assume it was no LESS than two hours, IF EVEN. Doll could have gone straight to "Tessa" from Uzi's house, we'll never know. But like... what in the fuck was going on in his brain? This person, who he KNOWS that he knows, that he has vague, barely comprehensible memories of from a time far back into his past that he only just got back, is suddenly standing right in front of him again. And he hesitates, because OF COURSE HE DID. It looks like her (or does it? He doesn't remember his face, he never even truly saw it), it sounds like her, it feels like her... but how long has it been? And why here, why now?

Honestly, "Cyn's" pretty smart. She knew he would be willing to go along with what he told her because he's never really pressed into his memories before. He's relieved the tidbits of them, sure, but he tends to acknowledge them and move on. She knew all she had to do was act right and he would probably trust her. But what she didn't account for was him finding a love worth fighting for, and that's where her ultimate fucky-wucky was. But I'm not here to talk about "Cyn's" strategy, I'm here to talk about our beloved traumatized murder robot puppy.

What do you think happened when it hit him that that skin over Cyn's body wasn't of it's own creation? That his friend was technically still alive, if you count her preserved remains being thrown over a robot body like some sick and twisted reverse fursuit. And it can't be said that that didn't happen, because it definitely did. N's little episode in the hallway while "Cyn" hunted them down showed us that he is in fact recovering his memories. Slowly, and at very unfortunate times, but he is. And I can almost guarantee you that at some point, in some way, he must have recovered the full memory of the gala massacre. And oh me oh my, that must have been a long, hard day for him. Thank God he has Uzi now-

That aside, he must eventually realize what happened. And as he remembers more and more good times with her, his little heart probably just shattered more and more. Along with all of the other BULLSHIT he must be remembering following ep. 8.

AND ANOTHER THING ON THAT NOTE. I have so so so many emotions about N and how good he is and how,,,, Genuinely Good his heart is. Like actually. Y'all, need I remind the court that he was supposed to KILL Uzi. He had her PINNED TO THE WALL with a wing, but after watching her father turn around and ABANDON HER, he stopped. And sure, it can be reasonably said that this is because he spent some time with Uzi beforehand, but how long would they have had together, logistically? Ten minutes, maybe twenty, tops?? The fact that that was enough for him to COMPLETELY CHANGE SIDES and want to help her instead (which is also attributed to the conversation they had in the cockpit but again, TEN MINUTES)... listen, Uzi had no one before she found N, but N had no one either. J openly abused him, and V had to act like she hated him to protect him. N was lonely, just like Uzi. Somehow, someone found him who was kind to him and seemed to actually care. She was a little edgy, but she talked to him and she listened. It was more than he had at the base - and the same was true for Uzi. But again, I could talk about how much I love NUZI for hours, right now I want to talk about how good N's heart is. He was a worker, once. A worker who did everything he could to be... useful, to Tessa's parents, but a good friend to Tessa. And he loved his friends. He has,,, so much love in his heart. He always has. And he gives it so readily, and it can hurt him, but he like - he gets better about it, I believe. He can guard himself better these days, but he just. He still cares. And he cares so much and he just. GOD. GOD I LOVE HIM AND I FEEL SO TERRIBLE FOR WHAT HE'S BEEN THROUGH. FUCKING HELL-

[ldysmfrst]

So much has happened

Hello, dearest readers,

One of these days, I hope things finally work out.

Let me explain what has happened in the last few days/week.

On February 21st, my oldest special needs child had knee arthroscopic surgery to add a cadaver tendon to the inside of their knee to stabilize their patella and stop it from dislocating up to 7 times a day.

I spent that weekend being a nurse mom, keeping them on their medications every 4,6 and 8 hours, plus assisting with dressing, washing, and wound care.

Then, from February 24th - 28th, I helped my 65-year-old stroke and brain tumor survivor mother pack up her bedroom, as she has been living with me since 2008 as a dependant because today she and her boyfriend of 10 years are moving to North Carolina.

In the midst of all that, I had to have my T2022 Toyota Highlander Hybrid Broze Edition voluntarily repoed because I am still not working, still waiting for my shoulder, uterine, hernia, and knee surgeries while still recovering from the sepsis, which can take up to 3-5 years.

I am lucky enough that my mother's boyfriend gifted me my mother's 2016 Ford Fusion, so I am not without a car.

However, the only help I had in watching my youngest child while I worked or cared for the oldest special needs child, aka my mom, is now gone, which leaves me trying to figure out what the heck to do.

Childcare near my home costs about $360 weekly (excluding school holidays and breaks).

This means I would essentially have to work to afford it.

If I did get a job, it would also push us out of the assistance bracket for health insurance, requiring me to earn enough to cover that expense.

However, with my pending surgeries... I can't find it myself to get a job when I might need to leave.

Who knows how long it will take to recover from each surgery in this upcoming year or two?

I don't mean to bitch, but I just wanted to let you all know what has been going on and my current level of stress, which is why focusing is hard.

Maybe now that the surgery is over and my mom is gone, then I can stop freaking out internally and get some writing done.

💜💜💜

[voylitscope]

CA: TWS 10th Anniversary Ficlets (Day 8)

Daily ficlets for the CA: TWS 10th Anniversary Event @catws-anniversary. With Huge thanks to @sparkagrace and @cable-knit-sweater for running this wonderful event! 💞

Eight | April 2nd | Theme: Bucky Barnes | Prompt: Ghost story | Words: 1,000 | Canon Divergence | Gen | No Warnings | Steve/Bucky, Post-TWS, dancing, Bucky Barnes recovering

Steve thinks his new apartment is haunted. He hasn’t told anyone else anyone about it.

He guesses he maybe should.

But he’s got a whole list of reasons not to. The list starts with how he’s not completely sure he’s just imagining it all —that most of it hasn’t been dreams. It ends with the way he’s afraid that if he’s right —

If he’s right, well, then, he’s afraid talking about it might make it stop. And the last thing Steve wants to do is scare away the occasional presence in his apartment.

It’s too scarce as it is. It’d been barely perceptible at first. Objects in places that weren’t quite right. A shadow there and gone before Steve could blink. The feeling of being watched — so real it made Steve’s skin flush, but without a source he could find when he turned around.

A little more solid, sometimes, in more recent weeks. The sound of his own name in late hours, but with no response when Steve’d tried to answer. A bottle of water and some pills on his nightstand the morning after he’d returned from a mission that’d had left him bruised and exhausted.

(The pain and injuries were gone by the time Steve woke up, but he’d said a thank you out loud before taking a sip of water, anyway.)

Steve’s even gotten a couple full glimpses. A single second of a flash of movement from a figure that hadn’t stopped when Steve called to it. A half second of the most familiar eyes in the world locked on Steve’s but then disappearing before Steve could recover from the shock of it.

All of those moments could have been dreams — could have been entirely in Steve’s head.

He doesn’t know what do, even if they’re not.

(He doesn’t know how to figure out what his ghost wants.)

Until, on Steve’s birthday, his haunting turns into a full-fledged ghost story.

(Unless it’s a dream.)

It’s late, and he’s been home for a while. It’s late enough that it’s probably nearly the 5th now, and Steve’s been meaning to stop drawing, get out of the chair in his living room, and head to bed for at least an hour.

It’s soft musics that finally make him put down his pencil. The song is playing at a low enough volume that, for a second, Steve thinks the sound is coming from the street or a neighbor —

But then he recognizes it. Steve hasn’t heard this song in about 70 years..

Steve’s heart is pounding as tries to run his eyes over every inch of his apartment. .

“Bucky?” His voice comes out in a whisper.

He’s never gotten an answer. There’ve been no conversations during this haunting.

Until now.

“Made you a promise,” Bucky’s voice says. Steve still can’t see him. “Didn’t I?”

“A promise?” Steve echoes, standing up.

Bucky emerges from shadows in Steve’s hall that shouldn’t have been large or dark enough to hide him. He’s wearing a button down shirt and jeans. His hair his pulled back at his neck. He’s somehow looking right at Steve without really meeting his eyes. He looks calm. He looks terrified and skittish. He smiles at Steve and it’s unsure and hesitant and heartbreaking and beautiful.

And Steve feels like he can’t breath.

“Think I told you that if we both made it to your next birthday we’d have to dance. I figured this counted,” Bucky says. Then he frowns and pulls his eyes away. He looks like he might fold right back into the shadows. “Maybe I didn’t.”

“You did,” Steve says. He nods, and he waits for Bucky to look back at his face. Then Steve holds out his hand.

For a few seconds, Steve’s certain that Bucky’s about to disappear or that he’s about to wake up.

But Bucky nods, too, and he puts his flesh hand into Steve’s before taking a few steps toward him. It brings them close together — close enough to dance.

Steve moves slowly. He’s still so sure he’s about to ruin this somehow.

But Bucky stays when Steve wraps an arm around his waist. And Bucky’s arms end up around Steve’s neck. And they both take small, tentative steps that bring them even nearer to each other.

And they together dance to a song Steve hasn’t heard since 1945.

And he can hear Bucky breathing and the beating of Bucky’s heart.

Steve wants to pull Bucky in closer and beg him to stay. He wants to ask him if this real. He wants Bucky to assure him this isn’t a dream or a ghost story at all.

He wants to ask Bucky if he’s okay — where’s been, where he stays, where he goes, what else he remembers — Steve wants to ask him a thousand things.

He wants to kiss him.

Steve’s almost sure that doing any one of those things would ruin this moment — could maybe make Bucky stay away for a long, long time.

So he simply feels the heat of Bucky’s body, and Bucky’s hands on him, and Bucky in his arms, and he dances.

And when he music stops, he says,

“Buck —" and he’s not surprised when Bucky shakes his head.

But he is surprised when he gets one final response.

“Happy birthday, Steve.” Bucky says, hands gone from Steve before Steve can blink, back across the floor and halfway into those shadows before Steve’s taken a couple breathes.

“Thanks for the dance,” Steve calls. He doesn’t get a reply to that, but he hopes Bucky heard it.

He hopes next time, if there is a next time, will be soon. Steve hopes the haunting of his apartment keeps on increasing.

(He hopes he’s not asleep on that chair in his living room right now.)

He’s still not planning to tell anyone about this. Not yet, anyway. Steve wants to keep this one to himself for a while.

(They’d always planned on that birthday dance being a secret, anyway.)

🎆 Seven | April 1st | Theme: HYDRA | Prompt: Project Insight | Words: 300 | Canon compliant | Not rated | No warnings | Bucky POV, implied Steve/Bucky (in a similar way to, you know, the literal plot of CA: TWS.)

🎆Six | March 31st | Theme: Sam Wilson | Prompt: Partners/Missing Scenes | Words: 350 | Canon compliant | Not Rated | No Warnings | Gen, Sam and Steve friendship, a tiny teaspoon of Sam and Riley emotions that you can interpret however your heart desires.

🎆Five | March 30th | Theme: TWS Cast | Prompt: Stunts | Words: 350 | Mature | No Warnings | RPF, Chris Evan/Sebastian Stan, very light/implied sexual content (but throwing this one under a cut just in case), sexual thoughts/tension, intentionally unspecified POV

🎆Four | March 29th | Theme: Natasha Romanoff | Prompt: Trust Issues | Words: 350 | Canon compliant| Not Rated | No Warnings | Gen, Natasha and Steve friendship

🎆Three | March 28th | Theme: SHIELD | Prompt: Surprise Visitor | Words: 300 | Canon compliant | Not Rated | No Warnings | But: very brief Steve/OC (sort of), and, I guess, privacy invasion via audio recording? I don’t know how to tag that. It’s canon that Steve’s DC apartment was bugged. So?

🎆Two | March 27th | Theme: Steve Rogers | Prompt: Guilt | Words: 300 | Canon compliant | Not Rated | No Warnings

🎆 One | March 26th | Theme: On your left | Prompt: The Smithsonian | Words: 250 | Canon compliant | No warnings | Not Rated |

(Ficlets Tumblr-exclusive until all are complete.)

[cardcaptorsakura96]

Finding Each Other-Chapter 4

Fandom: Superman, Batman, Shazam, and Wonder Woman

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lois Lane, Dick Grayson, Diana Prince, Billy Batson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Kara Zor El, Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Alfred Pennyworth, Lex Luthor, Jonathan Kent, Connor Kent

Summary: Clark Kent always knew he wanted a family. He just always thought it would be traditional like his parents. Little did he know that destiny had something different in store for him.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

As Clark woke up, he felt pressure on his arm and along his side. He opened his eyes and smiled. B was still cuddled in his arms on the balcony lying on the bench which somehow turned into a bed during their late-night fucking. Clark looked around and saw that the sun was out and shining brightly. He loved feeling the sun’s rays against his skin. He definitely needed it. It was the first time outside of battle that he ever felt sore but in a good way. 

B was different from his previous partners. For starters, B was insatiable. He had the stamina of the Energizer Bunny. He kept going and going until Clark honestly lost count of the number of times they had sex after the tenth time. As insatiable as B was, he was a little surprised that B took off everything but his black t-shirt. When Clark tried to pull it off, B gave him a hesitant look which caused Clark to back off. Once he did that, B smirked and pounced on him. It was odd, but he did notice that B had several scars on his legs. 

Maybe he has worse ones on his chest. 

As Clark started caressing B’s leg, he smiled. B’s legs and arms were very muscular. 

He must have a rigorous health regime to stay fit.

“Are you looking for round two?” 

Clark looked down startled to see that B was smiling at him coyly.

Clark smiled while cuddling into B more and said, “I was just admiring is all. I am still recovering from our last round.”

B smirked and asked, “I tired out a big, strong, and handsome man like yourself? That I find hard to believe.”

Clark chuckled and said, “Believe it. I am sore in places that I didn’t know possible.”

B looked down and said, “Oh. Sorry about that. Sometimes, I can come across as too intense.”

Clark smiled softly while pushing B’s face up and gently caressing his cheek.

“I am sore, but in a good way. I have never been with anyone who could keep up with me like that before. It was very refreshing, and something I would love to explore again.”

B smiled coyly and said, “Ah, so you would like there to be a next time.”

Clark smirked and said, “Well, I did ask you on that date.”

B smiled as he leaned in to kiss Clark who leaned into the embrace. They stayed in each other’s arms until B leaned back and rested his head on Clark’s forehead. 

B said, “I look forward to seeing where you take me.”

B leaned down to kiss Clark on the cheek and then started to get up. 

“We should go downstairs and have breakfast.”

Clark looked up at B startled and asked, “Are you sure you want me to stay?”

B smiled and said, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Clark chuckled nervously while rubbing the back of his neck and said, “I didn’t want to create an awkward situation between you and your son if he is up.”

B chuckled while looking down at his watch and said, “You don’t have to worry about Dick. It is 8 am right now. Dick is normally not up until after 10 on the weekends.”

Clark breathed a sigh of relief. He thought that Dick was a cute and bright kid, but he didn’t want to have an awkward scene explaining why he was in the house in the same outfit as he was wearing last night. 

The duo got dressed and headed out of the library. As they headed downstairs, Clark noticed  B veered off to stop on the second floor. He followed B curiously until they went to the last room down the hall. Clark marveled at the room as they went inside. It was a huge bedroom. It had a king-size bed, an ensuite bathroom, several dressers, a computer, a TV, a gaming station, and a walk-in closet. As B headed for the walk-in closet, he said, “I just wanted to change into something more comfortable. If you like, you can borrow some of my stuff so you don’t want to walk around in your suit.”

Clark chuckled while rubbing the back of his neck and said, “I’m fine. I don’t want to be too much trouble.”

B smiled while coming out of the walk-in closet dressed in a fitted black tank top and grey sweatpants. Clark nearly drooled at how the whole look accentuated B’s muscles. B walked up to Clark with a blue t-shirt and black sweatpants. 

“I have a spare you can use. It is really no problem.”

As B placed the items in Clark’s hand, Clark rubbed the back of his neck and said, “You really don’t have to do this. I will be fine in the…”

Clark’s eyes widened as he felt the fabric of the items. He looked down at the clothing in shock and began rubbing them more and said, “These are softer than even the sheep I used to help raise on the barn. Where did you get these?”

B looked up thoughtfully and said, “I would have to ask Alfred. A friend of his created a unique cotton polyester blend in his clothing for their shop in the UK.”

Clark kept rubbing the back of his hand against the fabric. 

I have never felt anything this soft. This is so amazing!

Clark looked up sheepishly and asked, “Are you sure you're okay with me wearing this out?”

B chuckled and said, “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mind parting with it.” 

Clark smiled and said, “Thanks!”

Clark quickly put on his new outfit while B went into his walk-in closet again. As Clark finished getting dressed, B came out with a garment bag and placed Clark’s suit in it.

Clark smiled and said, “Thanks so much for this!”

B smiled and said, “You're welcome. Now let’s get something to eat. A certain someone left me particularly ravenous.”

Clark blushed as he followed B downstairs back to the kitchen. Clark was startled to see Alfred not only awake and dressed, but already placing down two plates with food already on the table. 

As Clark and B sat at the table, B said, “Morning Alfred.”

“Morning young Sir. I take it you had a good evening given the smile on your face,” said Alfred as he headed to the table with cups and pitchers of orange juice, apple juice, and milk and a pot of tea. 

B smirked while looking at Clark causing him to blush and said, “I had a really good time last night.”

Clark chuckled while looking down as Alfred came to the table with his own plate of food. After a couple of moments, Clark looked back up and noticed that on his plate were bacon, eggs, toast, sausage, and a stack of pancakes. 

As Clark started to eat, he looked at Alfred thoughtfully and asked, “Do you guys normally have breakfast at this hour?”

Alfred smirked and said, “No, not on the weekends. However, I had a feeling you guys might be up. If you come around here long enough Master Clark, you will realize that I am aware of everything that happens in this household.” Alfred turned to Bruce with a raised eyebrow, and said, “And I mean everything.”

B paused eating to give Alfred the side eye while Clark nearly choked on the apple juice he was drinking.

Did he hear us last night? Crap! I hope I didn’t leave a bad impression.

B went back to slowly eating his food and said, “I hope we didn’t disturb you last night, Alfred.”

Alfred looked up at Bruce with a raised eyebrow and said, “I did get an unexpected surprise when I went to the library to return the book I was reading this morning. One might remember to want to close the balcony door next time.”

Clark nearly spit up his food. B looked over at Alfred sheepishly. 

As Alfred went to take a sip of tea, he said, “I just hope that the young Sir would let you stay in one of the guest rooms next time. While the balcony has an amazing view, it does get chilly out there at night.”

B chuckled sheepishly and said, “You never hold back your punches, Alfred.”

Alfred smirked while drinking more tea and said, “No, not at all.”

Clark looked at Alfred mortified and sputtered, “I…am…so…sorry. I…know what…it….must…have…looked…..like…”

Read the rest on AO3

[yuurei20]

Short translation from Twisted Wonderland: the first novel

After the drama of Riddle's overblot Ace calls Yuuya stubborn, completely catching him off guard.

“Stubborn? Yuuya is speechless. No one has ever called him that in his entire life. ‘Well, that’s just…’

Yuuya tries to justify himself, but finds that he cannot explain it away.

'No one just walks up to a housewarden in a situation like that and tells them, ‘Let’s not fight anymore!’. Cater-senpai even got all serious, and still couldn’t do anything.’

‘It’s true, ever since the Dwarf Mine,’ Deuce laughs, leaving Yuuya stunned.

Stubborn? Him? Yuuya has avoided so many things in his life in order to stay out of fights—that is how much he hates them. He has intentionally never had any hobbies or made any friends, expressly for that reason.

But is that really why? Or had he just not been able to?

He didn’t want to rock the boat through interpersonal relationships. So he just avoided all conflict. But is that all?

Watching Riddle-senpai throughout all of this, Yuuya thinks he may have come to understand something. Maybe he just prioritized his own principles over friendship. If that is the case, he may be far more self-centered than he’d realized.

Ace nudges Yuuya’s shoulder.

‘Well, it’s better than being all embarrassingly self-righteous. You don’t go around saying that it’s for everyone else’s benefit. Saying that it’s just about you makes you more trustworthy.’

‘But I, Ace and Deuce—you both, I really…’

‘Yeah, yeah—we get it.’ Ace waves him off to dismiss the topic.

Yuuya looks to Deuce, who shares a glance with Ace and smiles. Deuce gives a shrug as if to say, ‘Don’t worry about it.’"

‘You’re flustered, Ace. You’re just as contrary as Yuu is.’

‘Shut up,’ Ace retorts.

Considering how long they’ve known each other, Yuuya isn’t sure if it is okay to call the two of them his friends yet. They might dislike it if he did.

But this is the first time that Yuuya has felt so strongly about wanting to be there for someone. And it seems to be getting across to them, quite clearly.

In an attempt to move on from the awkward topic, Ace clears his throat.

‘By the way, Yuu, do you have any plans after this?’

‘After this?’ Yuuya looks at Ramshackle Dorm’s clock. It is not even 8 in the morning.

‘I haven't decided when, but I was thinking of going to the library to study today,' Yuuya says.

He has been busy with prepping and reviewing, every day, in order to keep up with his classes. Just two days ago, Professor Crewel gave him a reference book with a note saying, ‘read this over the weekend.’

Though the book is labeled as being for middle school students, it is still nearly incomprehensible to Yuuya without a dictionary. And he still hasn’t finished reading the book he borrowed from Professor Trein, or done the daily training taught to him by Professor Vargas.

He is busy with assignments every day, but still feels fulfilled.

‘So that’s a no,’ Ace says, rising to his feet.

‘Why?’

‘Because of the Unbirthday Party. It’s today.’

Grim’s ears give a twitch. ‘Party…delicious food…?’

‘Oh, right, and there’s a present for you from Cater-senapi.’

‘Present!?’

Yuuya gives a wry smile at the suddenly very much awake, very self-serving Grim.

‘But holding it today—was it just suddenly announced?’

‘There has been talk about hosting it as soon as Housewarden Rosehearts recovered, so there was a rough plan in place for a while. But we decided to keep it a secret from you and Grim until everything was ready.’

‘Ready? You mean for the party?’

Deuce grins and slides a hand inside his jacket. Ace is smiling as well, as though plotting something.

‘Here. Put this on and let’s get to that Unbirthday Party.’

Staring at what Deuce holds out to them, Grim and Yuuya’s eyes go wide."

[fanfoolishness]

a rain that sounds like home (7/8)

After the destruction of Tantiss, the Bad Batch is safe at last. As Crosshair begins to recover from his injuries, it becomes apparent that not all of his scars are physical, and that guilt and grief are wounds that cut deeper than any blade. His family is determined to be there for him -- if only he can let them in.

Canon-compliant, focusing on PTSD, amputation recovery, and sibling grief, with plenty of whump, hurt/comfort, and emotional catharsis. Set shortly after the return from Tantiss and my fic Breaching the Wall. 43,000 words total.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 8

Chapter 7: Release.

Echo brings a gift for Crosshair, but things go wrong when Crosshair's trauma finally catches up to him. Crosshair and Omega POV. 7818 words. Art post here.

---

“So how’s it feel to take a break from saving the galaxy?” Crosshair asked.  He sat perched on a rocky outcropping ringing a small natural pool, his feet submerged in the water, toes digging into the sand.  Batcher waded placidly in the surf beyond the rocks before taking off to chase after Omega, who let out a whoop of delight before running over to where Hunter and Wrecker were building a citadel out of sand and stones.

Echo chuckled from where he sat beside Crosshair, reaching up with his left hand to shade his eyes.  While there were clouds smudging the horizon, the sun was still fierce today.  “You’ve got a high opinion of what we’ve been up to.”

”Tell me I’m wrong,” Crosshair challenged.

”We like to think we’re making a difference,” said Echo.  “Time will tell.  But we’ve been able to start cleaning up some of Tantiss’ messes.  Hemlock had smaller operations elsewhere and we’ve been able to start shutting them down.  We’ve gotten more clones out.”

Crosshair nodded.  “Good.”  His mouth quirked to one side.  “Cody?”

”No.  Sorry, Crosshair.”

Crosshair nodded.  He knew Echo would have told him, but he couldn’t help but ask.  

“So what do you think?” Crosshair asked.  He gestured to Hunter and Wrecker, now being half-buried in the sand by Omega.  Batcher rolled around in the sand, making funny little noises that carried on the breeze to where Crosshair and Echo sat.  

“I think Pabu suits you all,” Echo said.  He smiled.  “The house is great.  Never pictured you or Hunter being domestic, but it works.  And Omega — she’s really happy here, isn’t she?”

”She is.  She misses you, but she gets it.”  Crosshair reached up, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

We miss you, he thought but didn’t say.

They fell silent.  Crosshair gazed into the pool, noting little fish with small tendrils around their mouths darting near his feet.  A crab-like creature in fluorescent violet crept at the far end of the pool, waving two pairs of pincers and dancing back and forth.  The tentacles of blue and green anemones drifted back and forth with every small movement of the water.

“Did you bring it?” Crosshair asked in a low voice.

”Yeah,” said Echo.  “Just waiting on you.  Did you tell the others?”

Crosshair rubbed his right arm.  “No.  Not yet.  I wanted to make sure….”  His voice trailed.

”That it would work?”

”Uh-huh.”

”We can have AZI come by anytime.  After dinner or —“

Crosshair pictured Wrecker peering over his shoulder, Omega’s wide eyes, Hunter grimly watching.  He couldn’t take that kind of pressure.  “Maybe just you and me.”  

“We could sneak off.  But we’ll need a distraction…”

They watched as Wrecker erupted from the sand, chasing after Omega like some kind of crazed monster, clouds of sand flying everywhere with each leap he took after her.  Hunter roused himself from his own sand prison, letting out a whoop as he ran after them.

Echo snorted.  ”Yeah, that’ll work.”

---

They put in the call to AZI a few minutes later, once they got back to the house.  The droid had set up a little medical clinic in Upper Pabu but also made house calls.  Crosshair and Echo sat in the kitchen, waiting for the droid to arrive.  

On the table before them sat a sleek chromium crate.  Crosshair stared at it, his leg jittering under the table.  He bit down on his toothpick, shredding it between his teeth.  At last he reached out and flipped the lid of the crate open to look inside.

A metallic hand lay in the box, glinting beneath the lights.  He picked it up gingerly, cradling it in his left hand, holding it near his stump.  Its joints curled slightly with its own weight as he shifted it.  It was colder than he’d thought it would be, but it matched the size of his real hand closely.  He tried to picture it articulating, gripping, holding a blaster — or a razor.  His face twisted and he set it back down within the crate.

”Synthskin is harder to get,” Echo said quietly.  “I can keep looking —“

Crosshair shrugged.  “A glove’s fine.”

“You ready for this?”

”Not exactly.  But it’s not like I was ready to lose it, either.”

The door chimed, and Crosshair got up to key it open.  The medical droid hovered there cheerfully, flying in with a twirl.  

“CT-9904!  CT-1409!  It is a pleasure to see you both today. I understand you are in need of my services for attachment of a prosthetic.  How are you feeling, CT-9904?”

”Fine.  Can we get on with it?” he asked, fighting back his nerves.

”Very well.  Where would you like us to proceed?”

“Maybe the bedroom,” Crosshair said.  “I don’t know about doing surgery in the kitchen.”  

Echo laughed.  “Might not be the most hygienic, depending on who’s cooking.”

They moved to the bedroom, and Crosshair had to admit the droid was efficient, scanning his arm as soon as he sat down.  Echo sat beside him.

“Your healing has progressed well, CT-9904.  Your amputation site should be able to support this prosthetic without complication.”

”All right.”  That, at least, he hadn’t failed at.

“I will begin by installing the interface between the organic components of your arm and nervous system and the cybernetics of the prosthetic.”  The droid hovered over to him, taking his arm, a flurry of needles pricking his skin and numbing it before the droid held up something that looked like a slender microchip.  Crosshair looked away, feeling only a faint sense of pressure.  “The installment is not permanent.  You will be able to remove the prosthetic as desired, whether it is for cleaning, repairs or replacement.  Simply twist and release to undo the locking mechanism.”

”All right so far, Crosshair?” Echo asked.

Crosshair nodded, his mouth a thin line.  Until he remembered what the droid had just said.  “What do you mean, there’s an interface?” Crosshair asked.  “That’s just where it attaches, right?”

”That is what it looks like at the surface level, yes, but the interface interacts directly with the remnants of the radial and ulnar nerves, and from there to the brain.  This allows for precision control of the prosthetic and a true cybernetic melding of organic and synthetic.”

Crosshair stiffened.

”So… it would be controlled like my real hand?”

”Yes.  With practice, you should be able to achieve proficiency and dexterity equal to that of your natural hand.”

Echo’s eyes widened slightly, understanding his fear, but he didn’t say anything.

Are you saying it’s in my head?

Crosshair’s mouth went dry.  “What if I — I don’t want it to interface?  Couldn’t I turn that off?”

”That is the only way the prosthetic will function,” AZI said.  “It is a feature of its design.”  The droid tilted his head at Crosshair, blinking his huge yellow eyes.  For a moment, they looked disturbingly like Tech’s goggles. “Do you prefer I not proceed?”

He was afraid. Shaking, jerking, uncontrolled, weak…

He was terribly afraid.

But Echo had done this for him.  Omega would be proud of him for trying.  Hunter and Wrecker would ease off his back if he could show them he was getting better, especially with something big like this.

”Just get on with it,” he said.

He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against his toothpick.  Even though he wasn’t looking, and the skin had been temporarily numbed, he could still sense a pressure, hear the sounds of clicking and whirring.  And then suddenly there was a new weight on the end of his right arm, slightly heavier than the weight of his left arm, dragging it downard unexpectedly.  

One last click, and then he felt it.

He opened his eyes with a gasp.  He stretched out his fingers, haltingly, one at a time.  The metallic fingers whirred with a soft subtle sound.  He reached out to touch the new hand with his left, and jerked backward, realizing that he could feel the sensation in both hands.

”I — I can feel it,” Crosshair said, his voice cracking.  He looked at Echo with wild eyes.  “It’s  working!”

Echo gave him a smile.  “Looks that way.”

“Your new prosthetic is fully installed,” AZI said.  “There are multiple exercises I would recommend to help accustom you to using your new hand, as it will take your brain some time to readjust.  I can review them with you now if you wish, or link them to a datapad —“

”Datapad,” said Crosshair.  “I’ll look at them later.”  He let out a long breath.  “Let me just… get used to it for now.”  He stood up, using both hands to push himself off the bed.  It was a dizzying sensation, the palm and fingers of his right hand curling around the edge of the bed, pushing upward, slackening once he rose to his feet.  “Thanks, AZI.  Echo.”

”How’s it feel?” Echo asked as they walked the droid back to the front door.  

“Strange.  But… familiar.”

The droid left the exercises on the datapad on the dining table, then took his leave.  Echo and Crosshair turned and looked at each other.

”Well, now what?” Crosshair asked.  He clasped his hands together.  He clasped his hands together.  The sensation was strange — the asymmetry between the two hands was apparent, but there were two of them.  He felt half-faint with hope, with something light and free. 

Echo looked at him proudly.  “Whatever you want, Crosshair.  What do you feel like?”

He could stop having to rely on them.  Show them he’d recovered.  Show Omega everything was fine.

He tried reaching down to the pouch of toothpicks on his belt with his right hand.  His fingers took a moment longer than usual to make the required movements, but still managed it, and he inserted the toothpick between his lips.  He flashed Echo a tight grin, and Echo laughed, clapping him on the back.  

It wasn’t long until Hunter, Wrecker and Omega tromped in, still half-soaked and shedding sand as they came through the front door.  “Oh no you don’t,” said Crosshair, getting up from where he had been sitting with Echo.  “You’ll make a mess.  Let me get you a fresh towel.”  He crossed the distance to where they stood, and held out a pile of towels in his right hand.

There was a beat.  Then a soft gasp from Omega, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.  “Crosshair!”

”You went for it!” Wrecker exclaimed.  

Hunter smiled at him.  “How’s it feel?”

”It feels fine.  Take your towels, you’re dripping,” Crosshair said coolly.  He shoved the towels at them, but couldn’t hide a smile.

”So that’s where you two went!” Omega said with a hint of accusation.  She wrapped her towel around herself and kicked off her beach shoes.  “Can I see?”

”Sure,” he said.  He held out his right arm, opening and closing the hand.  “I’ll have to find a glove.  Might scare the kids.”

”I don’t think it’s scary.  I think it’s interesting,” Omega said.  She slipped her hands over his, peering up at his face.  “Can you feel that?”

”Yes.”  It wasn’t the same as his real hand, but he could feel the pressure of her grip, the sensation of her warm skin brushing against the metal of the constructed palm and fingers.  He squeezed her hand, tentatively, making sure not to squeeze too hard and hurt her.  

The effort of focusing made his head ache and his wrist prickle.�� He shook the sensations away.  Maybe AZI’s exercises would help sort that out.

”Where did you find it, Echo?” Hunter asked, drying off.  

“One of Phee’s contacts knew a seller,” said Echo. “Pulled a few strings.  AZI got things set up.”

“You sure were sneaky about it,” Wrecker said, finishing with his towel and laying it around his shoulders.

“There’s nothing wrong with privacy,” Crosshair said loftily.  Wrecker snorted.  Crosshair knew Wrecker had never understood the concept.

“Well, looks good, Crosshair,” said Wrecker, giving him a wide smile.  

Crosshair lifted his hand and raised his first two fingers to his temple, then shifted his hand out in a slightly sarcastic salute to his brother.  The hand obeyed his thoughts, and though there was a slight delay from when he planned the movement to when it happened, it was still working.  It scarcely felt real, yet it was.  Somehow, it was.

He grinned.  He couldn’t help it.

---

“So what am I supposed to be doing here?” Crosshair asked, looking down at the baskets of fresh produce Omega had set out.  They stood together in the kitchen while Echo, Wrecker and Hunter caught up in the living room.  Batcher sat patiently between Crosshair and Omega, watching hopefully in case any food was dropped.

“I’m trying soup tonight!” Omega said.  She stood up on the kitchen stepstool and propped up her datapad against the wall with Lyana’s recipe displayed.  “I had it over at Shep and Lyana’s.  It’s really good, but it has a lot of steps, and I thought maybe you could help me with the chopping.  You know, for practice!” she said.

He nodded.  “Right.”  He held out his cybernetic hand, curling the fingers into a fist and then releasing them, then hesitantly picking up the knife.

“You only have to chop these,” Omega said quickly. 

“And how big is chop again?”

“Chop is big.  Dice is small.  Mince is insanely small.  Just chopping.”  She estimated the size with her thumb and forefinger, holding them up to Crosshair.  

“I think I can do that.”  He set to work with a large deeproot, bracing it with his left hand, cutting slow careful rows into it with his new hand.  Each chop took him time to line up, followed by a moment to carefully sink the blade into the vegetable’s flesh.  He was going slowly to avoid cutting himself.  Omega watched him closely, even though she knew she had other parts of the meal to prepare for; it was just mesmerizing to see Crosshair focusing, to see him with both hands, to see him doing this with her.

There was a small ahem.  She looked up to see him giving her an amused look.  “I thought I was helping you with dinner, not doing it all myself.”

“I just got distracted,” Omega said, unable to keep from smiling.  She turned back to the water she was starting to boil for the noodles.  “It’s just… you look happier.  And you’re doing a really good job.  How does it feel?”

He considered.  “It’s not the same as before.  I have to think about how to use it.  The droid said that should improve.”

“I’m sure it will never feel exactly the same, but hopefully it starts to feel like second nature!  Like when you first started training with your rifle, or when I started with my bow,” Omega said, finishing washing the last of the produce.  “I hope this turns out all right.  I know Echo can be picky.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Crosshair said in a low voice, winking.  

Omega giggled.  “He can look so stern when he wants to.”

“Mm-hm.”  Slow, careful chop, chop, chop.    

“How much longer is he staying?” 

“I don’t know.  You’ll have to ask him,” said Crosshair.  “He said he might be able to fit in a supply run for the island tomorrow before he gets back to it.”  He finished with the deeproot and reached for a pile of mallow tubers.  Omega added the chopped deeproot to the soup base, which already smelled lovely from the spices she’d added. Once the vegetables had sauteed, she’d add the broth, and hopefully it would all work together.  

“It’s good he’s been out there fighting,” Omega said quietly.  She’d been thinking since last week, when she’d had that horrible nightmare about Hemlock and the bridge again.  Everything that man had touched needed to be stamped out, and if her brother Echo was the one who had to be out on the front lines, destroying any last traces of Hemlock’s work, she understood.  Thinking of it that way had helped soothe some of the sense of missing him, and she’d felt lighter all week.  “We’ll always have room for him here, but I know he’s not done yet.”

“No.  You can never keep a good ARC trooper down,” Crosshair agreed.  He added the chopped mallow tubers to the pot and Omega gave them a good stir.  They sizzled, commingling with the spices.  “What else do you have?”

“These are really good,” Omega said, passing him the sea onions.  “They don’t take as long to cook, so they go in after the roots.”  

“The cooking part is all you,” he said.  “I’d probably burn it all.”  He got to work on the sea onions, mouth thinning in concentration.  They had a different texture than the roots and Omega knew from experience they were a little trickier to chop.

“Thanks again,” Omega said.  

“For helping with dinner?  We all have chores.”

“Well, that too, but the other night,” Omega said shyly.  She cast a glance back at her brothers in the living room, still talking amongst themselves.  “I’ve been meditating again before going to sleep, and I haven’t had any more bad dreams.  I’m glad you didn’t listen when I told you to get out of my room.”

He glanced at her, his expression soft.  “Just wanted to help.”

“You did,” she said, reaching out and patting his arm.  Her nightmares of Tantiss, Hemlock, the bridge, they all felt so far away now with Crosshair here and safe beside her, the rest of her family in the next room, everyone safe and healthy.  She sighed contentedly, taking a big whiff of the vegetables, which were starting to smell delicious.  “It’s like… I still had this weight I was holding onto.  Like Tantiss was something that I couldn’t ever leave.  But now —“

Crosshair’s knife clattered to the counter.  She looked over hurriedly.  “Did you cut yourself?”

He looked pale, tense, every line of him rigid and angular as he stared down at his new hand.  He shook his head just slightly.  “No.”

”Are you okay?”

Batcher whined, nudging Crosshair’s leg.

He picked up the knife again in his right hand, taking a deep breath.  “Here’s the onions.” He scooped them towards her and she added them to the soup.  

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

He set down his knife and reached for a toothpick, coming up with it and setting it in his mouth with his new hand.  His eyes darted back and forth, but his face was impassive, back to a cool mask.  “The onions sting.”

She squinted, feeling their fumes rise up from the pot.  “Yeah, they do.”  She fiddled with the spoon, stirring clockwise, then counterclockwise.  “But anyway.  Thank you.  For helping me with dinner.  And the other night.  And… taking care of yourself.”  She nudged him with her shoulder.  

He looked faintly exasperated, but his eyes were fond.  “You don’t have to look after me.”

”Don’t have to, but I want to.”  

“Hm.”

She glanced up at him again, hoping to see him smiling.  But his face tensed again, the lines between his brows tighter than usual, and she turned back to the soup, disquieted.

---

Crosshair stood in the refresher, holding his right wrist and staring at his new hand.  He examined every facet of the hand, every joint, every hinge, every turn and twist.  Everything was perfect.  It was metal, cool where flesh was warm, different…  but perfect.

But he’d dropped the knife while chopping vegetables.  Had his hand shaken?  Or had it been a momentary lapse, a disconnect between the new technology and his body?  

AZI had said it could take time to get used to.  That’s all it was.  It had to be.

You should achieve dexterity equal to your natural hand….

He bit his lower lip, remembering just how useless his natural hand had become.

He stared at his hand, almost daring it to tremble, but it rested still and calm on the edge of the sink.  He shook his head.  

It’d be fine.  There was no alternative.  He was fine.

He left the ‘fresher, joining the others around the table.  Omega had finished making her soup and was just finishing setting out a bowl at his seat.  Batcher was curled under the table, ready for tidbits.

“What’s up, Crosshair?  Upset tummy?” Wrecker asked.  

“Sorry to disappoint,” Crosshair said in a withering tone.  He looked down at the soup, somewhat impressed to see his chopped vegetables didn’t look too uneven.  

“Well, let’s give this a try,” Omega said, plunging her spoon into her bowl.  She blew on her spoonful first to cool it, then hesitantly put it into her mouth.  Her eyebrows rose.  “Hey, it’s pretty good!”

Crosshair followed her lead, holding the spoon in his right hand.  The movements to get the spoon into the bowl were a little jerky, a little stiff, but he was able to take a spoonful of soup only slightly slower than the others.  It was good, a rich and filling broth with fish and vegetables.  He focused on taking another spoonful, and another, his hand obeying him slightly more smoothly with each attempt.  He’d eaten half the bowl this way before he looked up and saw the others deep in conversation.  He’d been focusing so sharply he’d completely blocked them out.

“Emerie sends her regards,” Echo said to Omega.  “She’s back at base, working on analyzing some of the data we lifted from the secondary lab on Arvela-4.”

Omega nodded.  “I’m proud of her.  I’m so glad she changed her mind, in the end.  I always hoped she would, but I couldn’t ever reach her all the way.”  She frowned, as if she wished things had been different, but the disappointment lasted only a moment.  “I just never thought it would be you who changed her mind!”

Echo chuckled.  “The way she tells it, it was a perfect storm.  You started her thinking about it.  Then the kids.  Then I showed up.”

“It must have been some lecture you hit her with,” Crosshair said slyly.  His own interactions with Emerie had been less brutal than those with Hemlock, of course, but they hadn’t exactly been warm and fuzzy, and the best he could muster up for her was neutrality.  He was glad she was being useful, though.

“Yeah, no one can stand up to Echo for long when he gives you that look,” Wrecker agreed, finishing off his soup and setting his bowl down.  “Going for seconds, anyone else want more?”  He got to his feet.

“I’m good,” said Hunter.  “But this was delicious, Omega.  We should keep this recipe around.  Maybe I could figure it out, too.”

“It really wasn’t that hard,” Omega said, beaming.  “And Crosshair helped.”

“Hardly.  It was all you.”  He took another spoonful of soup, which had started to cool off, but his hand continued to obey him.  Maybe it’s going to be fine.  “You’re getting good at this cooking thing.”

She gave him one of those dazzling smiles, and went back to eating her soup, her cheeks pink.

“You said Emerie’s working on data from Arvela-4.  Anything useful?” Hunter asked as Wrecker sat down with another bowl.

Echo raised his eyebrow.  “I thought you were staying out of things.” 

“I am.  We are,” Hunter protested.  “Doesn’t mean I can’t stay informed.”  He gave Echo a rueful smile.  “Besides, old habits die hard.”

“Fair enough,” said Echo.  “Emerie’s given us more information on some of the side projects Hemlock had cooking -- you should have seen what his plans were for the zillo beast!  Good job getting her out, Omega -- but there’s still layers of encryption on some of the other data we don’t have a hope of getting through.  Maybe Tech would have been able to make sense of some of it--”

Crosshair’s hand jerked, his spoon clattering violently in his bowl as his fingers trembled.

He stared down into the bowl, struggling to keep his breath calm, his eyes burning as his hand slowly quieted.  He could feel his siblings staring at him.  He let out a long breath through his nostrils, blinking rapidly.

“Crosshair?” Echo said quietly.

“It’s nothing,” Crosshair hissed.  “I’m just getting used to it.”  He dropped the spoon into his bowl, then quickly tried to hide his hand under the table, willing it to stop shaking. 

Stop it.  Stop it!

Batcher licked his hand under the table.  He recoiled.  He knew she was only trying to help.  But the touch was an electric frisson boiling up his arm and back to his brain.  He balled up his hand into a fist, pulling it away from the hound.

Hunter, sitting beside him, reached out to pat him on the shoulder, but Crosshair pulled back and dodged the attempt.  “It’s fine.  You don’t have to --”

“I said it’s nothing,” he snarled.  But under the table he could still feel it, shaking and twisting against his thigh.

His heart rattled in his chest, his breath coming too fast.  They were all staring at him, Omega’s face full of pity, Hunter and Wrecker concerned, Echo looking saddened -- 

“Stop staring at me.”  He practically spat the words out.  Nothing was wrong.  He’d imagined it, he’d just been clumsy, it wasn’t the tremor coming back, it couldn’t be --  He whipped his arm out from under the table and grabbed his spoon, determined to get back to eating, and his hand trembled so badly the spoon fell to the table, bounced, and rolled off onto the ground.

“Crosshair,” said Echo in a low voice.  He held out his hand.  “Take a moment.  It’s okay.”

“How is this okay?” Crosshair fired back, raising his voice.  He could feel it, he was losing control, but he couldn’t stop himself.  Couldn’t fight the anger, the disappointment, the shame --

Omega stared at him with huge eyes, and Wrecker put his arm around her, drawing her close.  “Hey, don’t worry about it.  We can help --”

“Remember, AZI said this might happen,” Echo said slowly.  “That it might function like your real hand.  But this is just the first day.  It can get better.”

“Does this look better to you?”  He slammed his fist down on the table, spilling the rest of his soup over the edge of the bowl, the silverware jumping.  His fist shivered.  He stared at Echo, panting.

“The droid said there’s exercises.  It’ll take time,” Echo said, keeping his voice as soothing as possible.  It grated in Crosshair’s ears, winding him up further.  “It took time for me, remember?  I had to adjust to going back into action, the Kaminoans had to do a lot of work, Tech helped me--”

Tech’s name shattered the last remnant of his composure.  A sick fury roiled up within him, blurring the edges of his awareness, tainting everything with a burning, agonized rage.  He leapt to his feet and Echo stood up with him, holding out his hands in a placating gesture.  It didn’t matter, too little, too late.  

He thrust out his hand where they could see it.  The metal hand’s fingers trembled faintly at first, then more aggressively into a twisting flutter, the fingers jerking spasmodically against the palm.

He’d never leave Tantiss, not really.

“Look at it!” Crosshair raged, waving his quaking hand in Echo’s face.  “It will never be better!  I’ll never be —”  He clawed at it with his left hand, gripping the metal hand as hard as he could and twisting until he felt a click.  He shuddered at the sensation of feeling his left hand twist his right hand off, the sudden return to feeling only his stump, prickling with its new attachment point.  The hand was a hunk of metal again, disconnected once more from his brain, and he shoved it into Echo’s chest hard enough for the other clone to stumble where he stood.

“Crosshair, stop it --”

“You shouldn’t have bothered,” he choked.  “It’s useless.  I’m --”

He had to get out of here.  He elbowed Echo out of the way as the others rose to their feet.  He rushed past them.  He couldn’t be around them like this.  He couldn’t be around himself like this.  He stumbled to the front door, smacking the wall panel with his left fist until the door opened, and bolting out into the open air.

He couldn’t breathe.  He took great gulping breaths, trying to bring in air, but it didn’t work, it didn’t work, every breath seared.  He looked wildly around the path on the side of the house, stormed around the corner to the patio and sank to his knees.  He cradled his right arm against his chest, gripping his wrist so hard his fingernails bit and tore into the skin.  The pinpoints of pain felt distant and muted.  They were happening to someone else.

He bowed over himself, gasping for air.

There was no point in trying.  There was no better he would get.  He was ruined.  Doomed to his right hand being gone or useless, doomed to always needing help, doomed to make things harder for everyone else, doomed to fall apart when the others were moving on.

He’d lost the only thing he was ever good at, and no matter what they did, that would always be true.  What good was he now?

Through the maelstrom, he sensed something.  Something familiar.  Eyes — eyes on me —

His head snapped up, and he looked around wildly.  Hunter stood beside the house several feet away, one hand resting on the wall.

“Get out of here.”

”Crosshair.  Please.  Let us help.”  Hunter looked infuriatingly calm.

”Let you help —“ Crosshair closed his eyes.  “There’s nothing you can do.”

”Sure there is,” Hunter said, edging closer to him, crouching down closer to Crosshair’s level.  “We can get AZI back to look at it.  Echo said there’s exercises.  There’s Omega’s meditation.  We weren’t born soldiers, we had to train, remember?  So train for this.”

He shook his head.  “Can’t do it.”

”You can.  I know you can,” Hunter said, shifting a little closer.    “And if it’s not perfect?  It’s okay.  We don’t have to have a hundred percent success rate anymore.”

He didn’t care that Hunter’s words made sense.  They made sense for the others, not for him.  ”It isn’t good enough!  I can’t keep being useless like this, Hunter!” he burst out.

Hunter sat down cautiously beside him, and Crosshair let him, too worn down to push him away.  He glared at him instead.

“You’re not useless, Crosshair.  Hand or no hand.  Believe me.”  Hunter sighed.   “You’re one of us, whether you like it or not.  And you don’t need a hand for that.”

Crosshair tried to catch his breath.  Tried to think things through.  But it was all a painful, disorienting blur.  At last he said, “I thought — if I could make this work, that it’d fix everything.  But it won’t work.”

”Why not?  Let’s just call AZI —” Hunter tried.

”The droid will say the problem’s organic.  My nerves.  My head.  I’m the fucking problem,” Crosshair growled.  

“Damn it.  You’re not a problem!” Hunter snapped, glaring back at him.  “Why can’t you understand that?”

“If you think that, you don’t understand me at all.”

“So help me understand,” Hunter said.  “We’re not soldiers anymore.  You can let it go.  All of it.”

“How can I let go -- when --”  He couldn’t even get the words out.  There was something clawing inside him, a wound he’d been burying under his missing hand, Tantiss, Mayday, Kamino, everything he’d done, something he couldn’t dare examine.  But a face in his mind’s eye blotted out everything.  “When I never got to —” He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t even think it.

He stared down at his stump.  Specks of blood dotted his arm where his fingernails had torn into the skin.  Before he could stop himself he whispered, “He could have fixed it.”

”Cross?” Hunter asked, his face softening.  

“Tech could have fixed it!” he shouted, and suddenly the weight of what he had just said crashed over him, sucking out the air in his lungs, crumbling the last of the walls he’d built up after Kaller, Kamino, Tantiss.  It was too much, too much, too much.

Tech was gone, and he wouldn’t fix anything ever again.

He froze, staring at Hunter, who looked stricken.  Hunter reached out cautiously.  He laid his hand on Crosshair’s arm.

It was such a small touch.  Just the simple weight of Hunter’s hand, warm and sturdy.  He’d carried burdens far heavier a thousand times.  He took a shaky breath.  He was fine —

The sobs exploded out of him with a violence that nearly made him sick.  His eyes screwed shut, tears forcing their way out to streak his face.  Crosshair sank against Hunter, sobbing in a way he’d never let himself before, shoulders heaving, silent in one breath, his voice a hoarse and wordless cry the next. He couldn’t stop it; it was a wave churning him under, drowning him in grief, a force far bigger than himself. All he could do was take breath after raw, ragged breath.  It poured out of him, Tech, Tantiss, Mayday, his hand, his mistakes, his failures, a corrosive guilt he’d been carrying for years now.

And Hunter put his arm around him, saying nothing, but saying everything.

He didn’t know how long he cried, or what made him stop.  The sobs slowed to slow, shuddering breaths, then faded into quiet, hitching exhales.  He felt as drained and boneless as he had after Kamino, after Barton IV, after CX training.  At last he managed to open his swollen eyelids, realizing that the sun had fallen and the sky was deep in blues and grays and blacks.  He let go of his right arm, noting how his fingernails had left bloodied half-moons in the skin of his wrist.  

He lifted his head and pulled away from Hunter, slowly, stiffly.  Hunter let him go, looking at him quietly, without judgment.

Hunter, who had stayed with him instead of leaving, stayed and held him through the storm.  

“I should’ve been there, Hunter,” he whispered.  Hunter let him speak, and he kept searching for the words, dropping his gaze so that he didn’t have to look his brother in the eye.  “If I’d gone with you on Kamino… he’d still be alive.”

“You can’t live on ifs, Crosshair,” said Hunter, his voice rough.  “You can’t die by them, either.”

“But Tech will never know,” he managed, his voice shaking, tears threatening again.  He scrubbed his face with the back of his hand, hiccuping.  “I’ve been trying to make up for it, but I -- I can’t.  No matter what I do… it won’t ever be enough.  He’ll still be gone.”

“I know,” said Hunter, and Crosshair managed to look at him, realizing that Hunter had tears in his eyes too.  “You think you’re the only one who blames himself?  Join the club.  But you can’t dwell on that.”

“But you were with him.  You never left him.  It’s not the same.”

Hunter met his eyes, then nodded.  “Maybe it’s not.  But he wouldn’t want you to blame yourself. He’d have been proud of you, you know.”

Crosshair let out a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a sob.  “Tech? Proud of me?  He must have hated me for everything I did.  I turned my back on him.  On all of you!  And for what?”  He slumped.  “I deserve what I got.  That’s why the hand will never work for me.”

“Stop it,” Hunter growled, shaking him by the shoulder.  Crosshair froze again.  “Don’t you dare say he hated you.  Tech’s the one who found you were a prisoner.  He’s the one who got your message.  And instead of running from the Empire, he’s the one who pushed to save you because you were still our brother.  I’m ashamed to say he had to convince me.  I’d… given up.  But Tech didn’t.  He was better than that.”

Hunter’s words didn’t make sense.  Tech had to have hated him.  To have blamed him.  “You had the right idea,” he muttered.

“No,” Hunter said.  He let go of Crosshair and leaned back against the house, his shoulder brushing against Crosshair’s.  “I didn’t.  I missed you, for some reason --”  He cracked a loose, awkward smile, and Crosshair chuckled, ducking his head.  “But I just pretended nothing happened. Like you’d never been one of us.”

“Reasonable of you.”

 “No, it wasn’t. Tech still talked about you. He missed you,” said Hunter.

Crosshair squeezed his eyes shut, feeling fresh tears leak down his cheeks.  He let out a shivery breath.  “If he did, then that makes it worse.  That he… died… before I could -- before I could --”  His words failed again, and he shook his head.  Before I could apologize.

“I know,” Hunter said softly.  

Crosshair nodded, swallowing.  Somehow having Hunter acknowledge his darkest thoughts softened them.  “I wish I could tell him.”

“I think he knew,” Hunter said, gazing out at the darkened sea in the distance.  “But you can’t ask him, and maybe that’ll never go away.  Not really.  It’s unfair.  And it hurts, it fucking hurts.”

“It does,” he whispered.

There was a faint noise; the sound of the front door opening, footsteps.  Batcher rounded the corner of the house first, running to both of them, licking Crosshair’s face, then Hunter’s.  She parked herself at Crosshair’s feet, her bulk crushing his toes.  

“Go on,” he said with a faint smile, patting her.  He knew she was just trying to help, but he also knew his feet weren’t exactly a comfortable pillow.  She looked at him for reassurance, and when he nodded, she reluctantly got to her feet to go explore the patio, looking back at him after every sniff.  Eventually she settled into a scrape of sandy soil and made herself comfortable, but situated herself so she could still keep an eye on him.

“Batcher, come on, leave them alone,” Omega called, her voice strained.  She came around the corner, Wrecker and Echo behind her.  She looked at them hopefully.  Probably relieved he hadn’t socked Hunter in the face. “Crosshair… how are you feeling?”

“We can leave ya alone, if you want,” Wrecker said.

Crosshair sighed, leaning back against the wall of the house, staring up at the cloudy night sky.  “Stay, if you want.  It’s fine.  I’ve already made an ass of myself tonight.  Can’t get much worse.”

“No more of an ass than normal,” said Echo warmly.  Crosshair snickered through the clotted mucus and tears in the back of his throat.

The others joined them, sitting down on the patio, just quietly being with them.  Omega sat down on Crosshair’s other side, weaving her arm around his.  For a moment, nobody spoke.  Then Crosshair said haltingly, “Sorry.”

“You’d better be,” said Echo.  Crosshair opened one eye, looking at him skeptically.  “If you were trying to knock me down, that was pathetic.”  Crosshair chuckled again.  How Echo put up with him, he’d never know.

“Is there anything we can do, Crosshair?” Omega asked gently. She patted his knee with her free hand, and he smiled apologetically at her.  

“No idea,” he said honestly.  “Clearly, I’m not the best one to ask.”

Wrecker propped up his chin on his hands, wearing a sad smile.  “It ain’t just your hand, is it?  And it ain’t just tonight.”

”No.  It’s… everything.  My hand.  Tantiss.  My… mistakes.  And… Tech.”  He closed his eyes.  “Especially Tech.”  There was a faint, guilty sense of relief, finally saying it aloud.

“Oh, Crosshair,” said Omega, leaning against him.  He relaxed slightly, her small hands grounding him.  “Why didn’t you talk to us?  You know we all miss him too.  All the time.”

”How do you talk about him?  Without —“ He put his hand over his face, squeezing his eyes closed.  “How?”

”It gets easier,” Wrecker said.  “But it’s scary at first.  Not gonna pretend different.  But… sometimes it’s nice to talk about him.  He’s our brother, y’know?  Always will be.”

“Tech isn’t the first brother I’ve lost,” offered Echo. “Fives and I… we were as close as we could be.  He thought he saw me die, and he never knew I was still out there.  Rex told me how we lost him, and… it’s hard.  I won’t say it’s not.”

Wrecker reached out, patting Echo on the shoulder.

Echo smiled at him. “But I started to realize, their deaths aren’t who they are.  I won’t let that be what defines them.  Fives was one of the finest ARC troopers there ever was, and that’s how I’ll remember him.  Same goes for Tech.  Tech was a genius.  He was selfless. And he flew like a damn maniac.”  He grinned fondly.  “That’s how I think of the brothers I’ve lost.  Who they were, and what of them I carry with me.”

“I like that,” Omega said softly.  She thought for a moment.  “Once Tech told me that he processed the world differently, but that it didn’t mean he didn’t care. I used to think nothing ever bothered him, that he just didn’t care about things like I did.  But he cared about things like he did. And he cared about you, Crosshair.  He told me he respected that you’d chosen a different path.  I never thought about it like that.  But Tech was always thinking.  I loved that about him.”

Crosshair tried to picture Tech saying those things.  He couldn’t quite imagine it.  But there was something warm stirring within him at the idea, at Omega’s words.  He turned to her and nodded with a lump in his throat.

“Didja know he was a racer?” Wrecker asked.  “One of the best the Outer Rim’s ever seen?”

“What’s this?” Hunter asked, giving Wrecker a suspicious look.

Omega wore a secretive, gleeful smile.  “We might have kept it a secret because we knew you’d get mad.”

“What do you mean?” Hunter asked warningly.

“Cid needed backup and took us to a riot race,” Omega said, shrugging innocently.  “Her racer broke down and, well, Tech said he’d do it.”

“I thought humans didn’t riot race,” Crosshair said.

“He was crazy!” Wrecker roared, laughing full-throatedly.  “Humans don’t do it. But he jettisoned his weapons!  Took the abandoned racing tunnel!  Led the other drivers into a trap!  He was cutthroat.”

“And then when he won, the whole stadium went nuts!” Omega said.  She pulled her hands away from Crosshair, shaking her fists in the air.  “‘Tech, Tech, Tech…’”  She laughed, sinking back to her sitting position, shaking her head.  “We, um, all made a pact not to tell you and Echo.”

“It wasn’t exactly laying low,” Wrecker admitted, looking sheepish.

Hunter sighed.  “Probably for the best you didn’t tell me then.”  He cracked a grin.  “Only Tech would’ve been that crazy.”

“Tech wasn’t one for laying low in general,” Echo mused.  “You know he fought on a broken leg on Serenno?”

“That sounds like him,” Crosshair conceded.  He hadn’t been the only one of the group with a habit of telling them he was fine when he absolutely wasn’t.

“By the time we got to him for a pickup, he’d passed out, but not before taking out multiple stormtroopers. That was a nasty break.  I was mad at you for not keeping him off it,” he said, shaking his head at Echo.  “I knew Tech wouldn’t have any sense when it came to taking it easy, but I thought you at least would be responsible.”

“Tech was a force unto himself, and you know it,” Echo said defensively.  Hunter smirked.

Crosshair looked back and forth between them.  Something in his chest was loosening, breaking up, easing the awful ache he’d been carrying.  He took a deep breath, and his lungs seemed to fully expand for the first time in months, maybe years.

“Did I ever tell you about the time we accidentally got obliterated?” Crosshair asked.

The others stared at him in surprise, then leaned in to hear his tale.  He turned to Omega.  “Don’t get any ideas.  Like I said, this was accidental.”  He smiled slightly.  “Remember that mission on Hassaria?”

“I remember you and Tech got separated from us,” Wrecker said.  “Had to pick you up the next day, and you both looked like crap.  Sweaty… puking your guts out… Tech said you guys got poisoned by some local bug or something --”

“Actually, a local Republic sympathizer took us in after we wiped out the clankers,” Crosshair said.  “They offered us dinner and something to drink, and we didn’t realize that whatever it was, it was strong. Not until it was too late.”

He lowered his head, trying not to laugh.  “The Hassarian started trying to teach us a local fighting song.  We, uh, might have joined in.” Joined in was an understated way to describe Tech bellowing the words out in a fine tenor, Crosshair singing the women’s parts in a wailing falsetto, and the Hassarian declaring them their new best friends forever.  “We might’ve also started singing every dirty song Wrecker ever taught us.”  He reached down, taking a toothpick from his belt.  “Not that you heard it from me.”

Omega stared at him, open-mouthed, eyes wide.  “Crosshair!”

Hunter laughed, shaking his head.  “Actually, when we rendezvoused with you I could smell the alcohol from twenty paces.  But I thought it was funnier if I didn’t let on and made you nurse your hangovers in secret, so…”

“You knew?” Wrecker yelped.  “Oh come on, I woulda loved to make fun of ‘em!”

Omega giggled, nudging Crosshair in the side.  “I’ve never heard any of you sing.  Maybe we should start a band.  Lyana’s been getting me into Trandoshan funk, maybe that’s your true calling…”

Hunter held out a hand.  “We might want to take this indoors,” he said, glancing up at the sky.  “Just a hunch, but --”

A bolt of lightning flashed distant across the horizon, followed by a clap of thunder and the first few drops of rain.  Batcher let out a howl from where she’d been dozing in the sand, and scampered to the door.  Hunter got to his feet, offering Crosshair a hand up.  Crosshair clasped it with his left hand, allowing his brother to lift him to his feet.

For a moment, they looked at each other.

Crosshair saw Hunter.  Really saw him: the weight of all that had happened since Kaller was etched in the lines on his face, the bags beneath his eyes.  The years had been hard on him, too.  He knew his brother could have turned away from him, and had, many times.  

But he was here now, his strong hand gripping Crosshair’s, his support real and true.  He was loyal.  And that meant everything.

Crosshair nodded at him, and Hunter nodded back, and they went inside with the others to get out of the evening rain.

[wheredidalltheusersgo]

The Stranded and The Scaly

Chapter 14: A day to recover

Day 8

Chapter warnings: Vomit, blood

Ba-dump.

Ba-dump.

Ba-dump.

Geoff's heart pounded in his chest loud enough for Ezekiel to hear it from a few feet away. At least it was beating a little slower than before.

Geoff was currently laying on his back with the baby gopher clutched to his chest. The weight on his chest provided by the gopher was strangely comforting, and it was helping to keep him grounded. He briefly recalled a breathing exercise Bridgette had taught him last year, maybe it could help him calm down.

He took a deep breath and held it in, counting in his head.

1...2....3...4.

On the fourth second, he exhaled slowly.

Huh, that made him feel a bit better. After four seconds of holding his breath, he repeated the exercise.

Over at the small stream in the cave, Ezekiel was wringing water out of a small piece of cloth. Geoff focused his eyes on him as he walked over. Zeke gently brushed a lock of hair out of Geoff's face and began to wipe away the blood smeared around his mouth with the damp cloth. The gesture was strangely soothing, Geoff thought as he sighed quietly. While he cleaned Geoff's face off, Ezekiel began to stroke his thick, blonde hair. Geoff couldn't help but let out a weak purr as his eyelids grew heavier. In the next minute, he was fast asleep.

When he noticed Geoff was out like a light, Ezekiel took this as his cue to continue with the cleanup job he was doing. After washing the cloth out, he began to scrub the blood off Geoff's claws. It was a tricky task because of how much blood was caked under them, but there was nothing a little elbow grease couldn't fix. Geoff had really gotten roughed up, hadn't he? Ezekiel took a moment to rest his head on Geoff's chest and feel the slow rise and fall of it as he breathed. For a cold-blooded mutant, he was surprisingly warm...

Ezekiel just couldn't help himself from falling asleep as well.

When Geoff woke up, he was aware of three things. The grime that had been scrubbed from his claws, Ezekiel using his chest as a pillow, and the overwhelming nausea he felt.

Moving Zeke and the gopher off his chest, Geoff bolted to the stream in the cave and hunched over in front of it. He retched. Bloody chunks and bile erupted from his throat and spewed into the water. Oh, how it all burned. This was worse than the time his friends had triple-dog-dared him to eat that muffin out of the cafeteria trash. He regretted going berserk on those wolves, because they were messing him up from beyond the grave. As he laid on his side and clutched his stomach, he was distantly aware of a small, calloused hand rubbing his back.

"Zeke?... is that you?.."

He recieved a grunt of affirmation in response.

"Man, I'm so sorry for causing trouble.. I didn't mean to go crazy out there, I couldn't help it! I-" Geoff's words were silenced by a loud sob coming from his own throat. Big, salty, alligator tears rolled down his scaly cheeks as he looked at Zeke. The smaller boy immediately cupped Geoff's cheeks and tried to wipe his tears away with his thumbs. After all he'd done, Zeke was still trying to comfort him. Geoff really didn't deserve his little buddy. He gently nuzzled into the smaller boy and whimpered quietly.

"Still need rest, come."

Ezekiel wiped Geoff's mouth with the damp cloth from before and guided him back to the spot he was originally resting in. Geoff laid on his back and held both Ezekiel and the gopher close, sighing contentedly. At least he got all those wolf guts out of his system. He felt a bit better now.

Geoff stared down at Ezekiel, who had snuggled into his chest and shut his eyes. He couldn't help but smile a bit, the little fella was like a kitten! He gently stroked Ezekiel's hair with his now-clean claws and recieved a small smile from the little mutant in return.

After a few minutes, Geoff let himself fall asleep once more.

Unbeknownst to the two mutants, however, they were being quietly watched. The cameras hidden all around the island had captured Geoff's massacre in high definition.

"Well, well, well! So Scott WASN'T lying after all!" A small cackle could be heard from within the dark studio.

"Chef, it looks like we've got ourselves a gator to trap!"

-----

[maleficore]

I really don't think I'll ever get to actually writing it this decade because I have just That Many other wips and this story is Long, but my god I keep rolling that RDR2 Modern AU of mine in my head like a pretty pebble and I have Many Thoughts. Looong ramble under the cut.

The general gist of it that it's supposed to be a "happy ending" to a true crime story, but it isn't. Not for a long while, at least. Like imagine watching a 45 minute documentary on a missing person's case, the credits roll and you're like "Wow so happy that they turned up in the end" but on the other side of the country that person has been having the worst fucking time for the past year and would've probably been better off missing.

Let me explain.

Up until May 1999 the story plays out like your run of the mill Modern AU that is kept as close to canon as I can make it. Of course some things are different in the way that comes from throwing everything a 100 years into the future like how Eliza and Isaac died in a car accident, not a home robbery. People have jobs that are different, some backstories needed to be adjusted. Arthur's last name is Matthews and not Morgan, having been adopted by Hosea and Bessie when he was around 8 or so. Him and Mary have actually been married, but it still didn't work out. Small divergences, seemingly inconsequential.

Then on May 18th Arthur Matthews goes missing. Leaves no clues as to what might've caused him to leave and where, had showed no signs anything could be wrong before he disappeared. A proper mystery. Of course it's a big thing for a while, Hosea being a pretty well known crook defence lawyer makes it interesting for the news, but after 6 months of nothing even the nastiest vultures get bored and everyone pretty much assumes Arthur to have died. Especially since he's well known to be a recovering alcoholic with multiple relapses under his belt. Probably fell off the wagon again, tripped into a ditch, hit his head. Dead.

That's when Arthur Morgan shows up.

It's up to the reader to decide if this is some universe warping time travel shenanigans or if he's the same person that went missing, just having an episode of some sorts. To everyone in the story Arthur "I'm telling you, I jumped off a sinking boat in 1899 and then showed up here" Morgan comes off as Mentally Unwell, so it doesn't really matter since it is not told from his perspective anyway and there's no way of really knowing.

(It's John's POV by the way. Forgot to mention that, whoopsie.)

And the entire story is basically a whumpy hate letter to all time travel AUs where Arthur gets yeeted into our times and pretty much shrugs it off with minor discomfort (/lh I don't actually hate those, they're silly fun, but they're not realistic?? And I am a realism nerd). Here, he gets majorly fucked up by it. Because how could he not be? First off, Hosea, who he just watched die maybe days prior, is alive and well. So is Sean and so is Lenny. He may be happy, but all that only makes everything feel even less real, pushes him further into believing that the reality he's in is some sort of a mirage or a dream. People talk about all these things that have not happened to him, there are pictures of a stranger with his face in places he's never been to. It's distressing and Arthur might be a guy that handles pressure well, but I doubt there's a single person on earth that wouldn't break under the weight of that. He's no different.

He keeps getting really distressed whenever that kind of stuff gets brought up too often. Starts having regular panic attacks, gets put on medication, sent to therapy. The "gang" are there to help him through it, but the situation takes a lot out John in particular once he realises that whatever has happened to Arthur seems unlikely to be reversed. Just as much as the person in every single family picture is a stranger to Arthur, this Arthur is a stranger to John. It's like he really died in a way. So the plot is just as much Arthur learning to cope and maybe eventually accepting that all of this is real and he's just "crazy", as John watching him go through it while simultaneously grieving the person he no longer is.

Basically an essay pondering the question "What makes us who we are, our memories or personality?" disguised as a fanfic because I like getting philosophical sometimes lol And I genuinely love it. This AU is my baby and really want to work on it, but it would have to straight up be a novel-length story. I don't have that in me 😭😭