#shut up nameless no one cares

[zillychu]

there is a heinous lack of Venti + Mondstadt character content and I'm one category 7 autism event away from filing the void myself

[blazingblorbos]

The last 20 seconds of this trailer have me in the strongest chokehold

[montmartrasse]

in rouen during jesus he knows me when copia was singing ‘do you believe in god?’ i pointed at the new ghoul and he shook his head no, then i did the baphomet as above so below sign and he shook his head yes

[sovaghoul]

Mine own trans Dew series.

reblog with your fave trans ghoul porn fics please i'm doing research (the research is jorking it)

[solxamber]

Romance Clichés With: Leona Kingscholar

Cliché: Misplaced Jealousy

Others: Azul ; Vil ; Kalim ; Idia ; Jamil ; Riddle

it's gonna be a little series where each of them gets a cliché!

For days now, Leona had been simmering. He’d never admit to caring about something so trivial, but that simmer was rapidly reaching a boil, one muttered “Savanaclaw guy” at a time. Because you—his supposed close friend, the only person he could actually stand around here—had developed some grand crush on… someone. Someone you kept bringing up. Some unknown, nameless, faceless moron in Savanaclaw.

And you just wouldn’t shut up about him.

Leona had been sitting through your monologues, listening to you talk about how strong and loyal and amazing this guy was, and it had started as a minor annoyance. But as you kept going, he realized something deeply frustrating—maybe even painful.

That after everything, you had gone and chosen some other Savanaclaw idiot over him. And it stung, more than he’d ever want to admit, to hear you talking about anyone like this.

But today was the breaking point.

You were lounging in his den, casually chatting with him between classes. As usual, the conversation took a familiar turn, and you sighed dramatically. “I mean, I guess it’s just… this guy, he’s just… I don’t know. He’s got this strength that’s so impressive, and he always knows how to take charge. Like, he doesn’t even need to try, you know? It’s like he was born to lead.” You didn’t notice Leona’s eyes darken or the way his fingers clenched into fists.

“Just the way he’s so confident,” you continued, “he’s got this whole ‘I don’t care about anything’ vibe that’s really charming in a weird way. It’s like he’s always one step ahead of everyone, even when he’s—”

Leona cut you off with a harsh scoff. “Right. Real inspiring. Sounds like a real prize,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “And I bet he doesn’t even realize how perfect he is, right?”

“Exactly! He’s the type who’s always underestimated,” you continued, oblivious to the thunderous look on Leona’s face. “But if people would just give him a chance, they’d see all his best qualities. He’s fierce, but he’s got this heart of gold underneath it all. People just don’t get him.”

“Oh, don’t they?” Leona’s voice was low and strained, a bitter edge cutting through his usual drawl. “Must be nice to be so adored by someone.”

“Hey,” you said, “don’t say it like that. He doesn’t even know I like him. I don’t even know if he’d ever see me like that.” You let out a wistful sigh that was like a slap to his face.

Leona’s patience finally snapped. “Unbelievable,” he snarled, standing up so fast that you jumped. “You’re completely clueless.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Clueless? Leona, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you,” he bit out, eyes blazing. “You’re here—wasting your time on someone who probably doesn’t even care about you while you throw yourself at him like some kind of fool. I mean, what’s it gonna take for you to get it?”

You were stunned into silence, and he kept going, frustration pouring out in a way that you’d never seen before. “After everything, you go and pick someone else?” His voice cracked a little, and it made your heart ache. “I thought maybe… maybe if there was anyone here you’d choose, it would be me.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You were utterly bewildered. “Leona… what are you talking about? It has always been you.”

He blinked, staring at you, completely thrown. “What?”

You took a step closer to him, speaking slowly, trying to get through his thick skull. “Leona, all that stuff I’ve been saying—every time I was talking about this person I liked, I was talking about you.”

Leona looked like he’d been hit by a lightning bolt. His mouth fell open slightly, and he was struggling to catch up, his usual composure completely shattered. “Wait… you’re serious?”

“Yes! Why else would I even talk about Savanaclaw so much?” You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “You were the one who kept assuming it was someone else.”

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, running a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you saw a raw vulnerability in his eyes that he usually kept hidden. “All this time… I really thought you’d gone and chosen some other guy,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Thought at least you’d pick me.”

The way he said it made your heart break a little. He looked almost small, like the thought of not being chosen had left him gutted in a way he couldn’t fully hide. You reached out, gently taking his hand. “Leona, it’s always been you. You’re the one I’ve been drawn to from the start.”

A surge of relief softened his features, and he gave a quiet, almost disbelieving chuckle. His usual swagger returned, just a bit, as he held your hand tighter. “Well,” he murmured, his gaze becoming intense, “then what’re you waiting for?”

You didn’t waste another second. You closed the space between you, capturing his lips in a kiss that was long overdue. He responded immediately, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, pulling you closer. The kiss was fierce, almost possessive, and when he finally broke away, he was wearing a smug, satisfied grin.

“About damn time,” he murmured against your lips, though there was a warmth in his voice that softened the usual sharpness. He looked down at you, his fingers grazing your cheek with an unexpected tenderness. “Next time, just skip all the theatrics and tell me, alright?”

You laughed, leaning into his touch. “I thought I was being obvious.”

“Obvious?” He huffed, rolling his eyes with a faint smile. “Trust me, you’re terrible at ‘obvious.’”

But as he gazed at you, that smirk melted into something genuine, something that showed how deeply he cared. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice barely above a whisper. “So… you’re really mine, then?”

You nodded, and he let out a pleased sigh, holding you even tighter. “Good,” he said, his voice low and possessive, like he was finally claiming what was his. “Now let’s ditch these losers. We don’t need anyone else, just us.”

You smiled, resting your head on his chest as his hand gently stroked your back. “Fine by me,” you murmured, happiness bubbling up as you pressed small kisses along his jawline, making him chuckle.

For once, Leona didn’t have any sharp retorts, no scowls or walls to put up. He just held you, his heart finally at ease, the weight of his doubts and insecurities melting away as he finally let himself be happy.

Masterlist

[sunderwight]

Thinking about what if SJ had left the Qiu manor a little earlier (some other final straw breaks the camel's back sooner), and actually manages to get a lead on YQ and follows it to Cang Qiong Mountain while YQ is in the thick of his "locked suffering in a cave" arc.

SJ arrives and is immediately struck by the needle-in-a-haystack-ness of the situation. The population of all the peaks put together is huge, and he has no clout to leverage, no reason to get people to care what he's there for and a strong reluctance to tip his hand about... basically anything. Even totally earnest intentions to find his childhood friend.

So SJ skips the usual disciple trials (none are being held at the time he arrives anyway) and just steals a disciple uniform for An Ding. An Ding has a lot of outer disciples. SJ doesn't even know which peak it is, he just sees the place that has the most faceless/nameless lackeys doing grunt work and goes okay, I bet they don't always know all their own by name and face, and he's correct.

The bluff works hilariously well. When he gets back to An Ding with his "fellow" disciples he just finds an unused storage room to sleep in, and even when he gets sort-of caught out at it the shixiong who catches him just bemoans the hazing/bullying on the peaks. When SJ establishes that he's fine sleeping in the store room, Shang-shixiong even bribes him to keep his mouth shut about the "bullying epidemic" by giving him a proper cot and blankets to use. So SJ doesn't even have to deal with being in a dorm.

He multitasks actually learning what cultivation he can from the other An Ding disciples and masters, and investigating all the other latest arrivals to the peaks. It isn't long before Shang-shixiong spills the beans about the rising star of Qiong Ding Peak, who came from apparently nowhere during the selection trials, matches Yue Qi's description, has the same surname, and disappeared mysteriously a few weeks ago.

Shen Jiu's gut twists around at word of the disappearance. He is all too aware of the kinds of things it usually means when handsome, talented boys with no family or backing just disappear mysteriously all of a sudden. He's heard things about the sort of uses cultivators have for people with a lot of raw talent and not a lot of knowledge or protection, too. Qiu Jianluo used to make it a point to explain exactly what SJ's cultivation talents could be used for (cauldron stuff), both as a threat and also as a warning against him trying to go outside and find a master. Even Yue Qi had sort of tried to warn him, in his own way, by demanding SJ always keep it a secret.

Yue Qi might have believed that the righteous cultivators in an official sect wouldn't stoop to such dirty, underhanded methods, and might have thought he was safe here. SJ holds no such optimistic illusions. The An Ding peak lord give every impression of the same kind of sycophantic public servants who used to take kickbacks from wealthier families in his home city, and even only glimpsed at a distance, the sect leader gives him the creeps.

Anyway, SJ eventually figures out that something is up with the Ling Xi caves, goes down and finds a sealed-off cavern with just a few cracks he can peer through. Cue reversal of the last time he saw Yue Qi, with the older boy now being the one locked away by a cruel master, and SJ having to whisper reassurances and promises of rescue.

[morose-melodies]

the nameless stowaway | yandere! capitano x reader

summary: while on a ship trying to get to natlan, the captain found a way to pass time; watching you, a stowaway.

content warning: the captain killed someone and that's about it!! (tell me if I missed anything)

for two days and three long nights had the captain been on this ship as it aimlessly navigated the sea.

it started on the second day when the ship went slightly off course. the captain of the ship could not figure out how to get back on course and now, the captain was forced to remain on the ship and slowly get sick of it and everyone on the ship.

besides him, eight other people occupied the ship, not including the captain of the ship... oh, and you were also there.

you were a sneaky stowaway and he only ever caught glances of you at night - watching as you snagged snacks from people's bags and ran back to wherever you had come from.

he didn't mind, nor did he care enough to stop you, that was, as long as you didn't try it on him.

but, tonight was a bit different - instead of stealing from people's bags, you snuck into the galley and shut the door behind yourself. the captain chuckled, you would have a feast tonight.

most of the passengers had felt too sick to eat that morning, so most of the food had been left untouched.

you had eaten all that you could, hoping it would keep you full enough for the next two days before creeping out of the galley. you knew that the captain knew, and considering all you had heard about him, you were afraid that one day he could come and behead you for stealing people's food.

but he hadn't, not yet at least.

you went back to your hiding place, behind a large pile of luggage, and snuggled up in your thin, sort of damp blanket and rested - soon enough, you'd be in natlan.

...

when a storm came, and the waves got violet and rocked the ship - you could not rest behind the luggage, let alone outside. you got up from where you rested, blanket over your shoulder as the cold rain pelted down on your skin.

no one was out; all of them rested in the berth, and you could not enter it since you had snuck onto the ship.

at this point, you were shivering, tumbling, and drenched in rain - seeing no point in your blanket anymore, you tossed it away, as you did, you saw the captain, standing at the door of the berth... exiting it?

you stilled, this was the perfect time for him to kill you, right? he would toss you overboard and no one would notice or even know that he had killed you, maybe, or maybe he would draw his sword and chop you up into little piec-

"I'm sure you must be regretting your decision to sneak onto this ship now, right?" it was an idle conversation or perhaps a threat, was he threatening to tell everyone?

"oh? sorta... but, it'll be fine once we get to natlan."

"I doubt we'll make it to natlan. it seems more likely that we end up back in snezhaya," the captain sighed afterward - he would have to report to the tsaritsa and blame the captain of the ship which seemed all so childish.

"huh? I thought this ship was headed to natlan..."

oh, you looked so very disappointed. the captain shook his head, "that's no longer the case. the captain has no idea where he's headed."

"aren't you the captain?"

"the captain of the ship," he clarified, shrugging his coat from his shoulders and approaching you, placing it over your trembling shoulders, "I'm afraid i cannot make room for you in the berth - you'll have to make do with my coat."

...

and, of course, you made due.

you survived the storm - you might have come down with something but you survived. as you lay in your hiding spot, the large coat over your shoulders, you waited for the passengers to finish their breakfast so you could have the leftovers.

it was a while before you heard the passengers quiet down, and you figured they had split up, leaving the galley, so you got up, leaving the coat behind, and snuck into the galley.

they had hardly left anything behind today.

"hm..." still, you ate whatever was left behind. though it wasn't filling, it was something and you were grateful.

after finishing, you turned to leave but there stood the captain - wait, how long has he been standing there? "have you been watching me?"

"nonsense," he replied with a firm shake of his head, before stepping past you, "I see you haven't changed in your ways?" was he teasing? of course you haven't changed! you were starving and-

the captain set a plate of untouched biscuits and other foods on the counter, "woah... where'd you get those from?" you inched towards the plate, grabbed the biscuit, and ate it.

"it's all leftovers."

"those guys are hogs," you mumbled as you stuffed your face with another biscuit.

and the captain bit back a smile.

...

it was times like these where you doubted if you'd survive - for the last five days, all you could smell was saltwater and humid air, and now, you could smell nothing.

you hadn't bothered to get up for a while now - instead, you remained curled up in the captain's coat, pitying yourself.

perhaps this wasn't worth it...

"stowaway, where are you?"

it was the captain. he had been looking for you for a while now - he was under the assumption that you had fallen overboard but he couldn't be sure since he did not know where you went to hide every day after snagging food.

you didn't want to reply, but found yourself doing so anyway, "'m here."

the captain paused and turned to face the pile of luggage. "have you been hiding here the entire time?"

"yeah..."

you didn't sound well, not at all. the captain pushed the luggage aside and though you groaned and protested, he tugged you out of your hiding spot, his coat still wrapped around you.

"you took no precaution before getting onto the ship, did you?" the captain looked at you - sickly and pale, and sighed. "stay here, don't move an inch," he instructed you before standing and walking off.

first, he ruins your hiding spot, and then he walks off? it was a shame you were too tired to fuss about it.

when the captain came back, he had a warm drink in hand. he crouched down to your level, took your hand, and placed the drink into your hand, "I doubt it'll cure you, but, you're deathly cold, it will surely warm you but I'm afraid this is all i can do to help."

"thank you," you mumbled before sipping at the drink.

while you sipped at your drink, the captain fixed your hiding spot that he had ruined and felt the urge to give you another one of his coats to keep you comfortable, but he resisted.

...

each day, the captain would bring you a warm drink to help your cold clear up, and though he doubted it would work, you were already feeling much better.

you had crawled out of your hiding spot for the first time in a while, the captain's coat over your shoulders and you snuck to the galley.

just as you opened the door, you knew you had messed up - there was a man inside, and he had seen you.

you weakly smiled at the man, as you took a step back while he took steps towards you, "are you the rat that's been stealing all the leftovers?"

"i... um, maybe?"

"and are you the rat that's been stealing from people's luggage?"

"yes, but i'm sorry! i won't do it again, i promise-"

everything you had said was enough to piss the man off and the sight of you wearing the captain's coat only made him angrier.

the man grabbed your upper arm and tugged you along with him, even as you whined and tried to explain yourself, he did not listen.

"look, I'm sorry i won't do it again-"

"i don't wanna hear it from you-"

"I'll take the stowaway from here," it was the captain, once again swooping in and saving you, "good looking out. I'll make sure they cause you no more trouble."

the captain grabbed your arm and tugged you from the man's grip, pulling you along as he walked off, out of the man's sight. "you need to stay put," the captain commented as he brought you back to your hiding spot, "go on. I'll bring you something to eat - I'll do that for you every day, will that keep you out of trouble?"

"you don't have to-"

"I will. now, stay out of trouble."

...

"what'd you do with that stowaway?"

"i did away with them."

"really now?"

"of course. i would not lie."

"good, if you hadn't stopped me that day, i would have done it mysel-"

the man could do nothing but scream as he fell overboard and into the cold water.

soon enough he would die.

this was the preferable way, there was no need for the captain to bloody his sword over something so trivial.

...

"don't you feel hot wearing all of that armor?"

"not particularly."

"what about the mask, isn't that hot?"

"no."

"is that your hair?"

reaching forward, you tangled your fingers in his long black hair, "it is," the captain gently nudged your hand away, "there's no need to touch, though."

as sweet as you were, he had seen you sneeze into your hand moments earlier.

"my bad," you apologized, setting your hand to your side, "do i have to give you your coat back ever?"

"we've been over this, no? i have many other coats, so, keep that one," the captain replied, looking at you and the way your lip twitched at his reply.

"look at that cloud," you pointed above the two of you, and the captain looked up, "it's heart-shaped."

"I see that," he nodded before glancing at you; the way you smiled at a silly cloud was - hm, the captain found himself smiling while looking at you.

odd.

"wait-" you stood up, quickly running towards the railing and pointed ahead, "do you see that?? isn't that land??"

the captain also stood and looked to where you were pointing, and indeed, it was land. "you have a keen eye," the captain looked at you, at the way you grinned, at the way you held yourself, and dare he say he would miss you.

"ohmigosh!!" you cheered, leaning further over the railing to see where you were going... you saw snow and your shoulders dropped, "no way..."

the captain chuckled, looking at you once more, "this was all such an inconvenience," but, in a way, it felt worth it; after all, he was able to meet you.

"you were pretty cool, thanks for the coat... and um, thank you for not throwing me overboard or something," you looked up at the captain to see he was already looking at you.

"I wouldn't dream of harming you," the captain assured you and though you couldn't see it, he had hearts in his eyes as he looked at you.

he did not want this ship to reach snezhnaya - he preferred things stay the way they were but he knew that couldn't happen.

the captain was patient; he could wait. a person like you wouldn't give up on their dreams so easily.

[whetstonefires]

Thinking about the parallels set up between Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu, and how actually most of them are oddly specious.

The sketch of the backstory lines up, but on close examination they're mirror images.

Wei Wuxian wasn't kicked out of his sect, he left it. Wei Wuxian didn't hate the house he grew up in, he loved it, and getting the people there killed was the absolute last purpose for which his dark powers were ever intended.

Jiang Cheng was no Mo Ziyuan--his jealousy was a complicated thing all twisted up with love, and while he would lash out at Wei Wuxian both as a casual means of shit communication and more damagingly in moments of high tension, he had neither the desire nor the ability to bully him, and in general respected his boundaries almost too well.

When Wei Wuxian destroyed himself about Jiang Cheng, it was to give him cultivation, and protect his life and happiness. He would never have killed him.

Madam Yu was a domineering aunt-like figure, who hated Wei Wuxian for reasons of reputation, and because she had resented his dead mother, but she crucially did not have the power to actually disrupt his lifestyle to any significant extent.

Mo Xuanyu was shut up in a small room to rot; Wei Wuxian didn't even attend classes unless he wanted to. Mo Xuanyu was weak and disliked; Wei Wuxian was brilliant and popular.

Mo Xuanyu's uncle is a cipher of a figure, without character or agency, a nonentity who is resented to death apparently mostly for what he didn't do; in theory he is the master of the house, but he certainly never protected his wife and son's punching bag from them.

And this is what got me thinking along this track: because people keep interpreting Jiang Fengmian as this, as exactly like Mo Xuanyu's nameless uncle, a nonentity who lets his wife make all the decisions, and is contemptible therefore.

He shows up in fic characterized this way all the time, handled narratively as a gap rather than a person, an absence where there should have been a parent, and it's...totally inaccurate? The man only has a few scenes but the things that are most firmly established about him are:

he regularly goes out of his way to protect Wei Wuxian

he's extremely fond of Wei Wuxian

he cares a lot about ethical behavior

he's conflict-avoidant and gentle

he can and will overrule Yu Ziyuan when he's made up his mind, and there's nothing she can do about it

his communication skills are mediocre at best

he doesn't understand jiang cheng

he has a dumb sense of humor

Now almost none of this made it into cql besides point 4 and maybe 6, 5 is technically there but buried by the cinematic framing, so I totally get why the fandom on the whole struggles to characterize him well, and it's easier to write him off.

But it keeps bugging me to see him and Yu Ziyuan squashed into the mold of the Mo, because not only is that boring and reductive and kind-of-missing-the-point, it's like. Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng's characterization suffers a lot when you alter the environment and take away the influence exerted by their shared father figure.

Jiang Fengmian was Wei Wuxian's primary adult role model and it shows.

Jiang Cheng's relationship to his own sense of ethics is fraught because 'teaching him good ethics' was his dad's number one parenting goal, but they misunderstood each other so badly (partly because Yu Ziyuan kept loudly misinterpreting them to each other, which is so realistic I can't get over it, that's exactly how it works good lord) that Jiang Cheng has a direct association between the concept of 'doing the right thing even when it's hard' and a feeling of personal inadequacy.

The fact that Wei Wuxian got their dad-person's approval for being exactly himself and Jiang Cheng not only couldn't do that, he couldn't even get that same level of approval when he really pushed himself to rise to expectations, because Jiang Fengmian did not intend that warmth as a 'reward,' and so never realized he was withholding it, and therefore misunderstood Jiang Cheng's visible jealousy as a dangerous sense of personal entitlement that had to be carefully restrained, which reinforced his distrust of Jiang-Cheng-the-person and fed into a shitty loop where they were less and less able to relate to one another--that's fantastic. That's so human! I love it so much.

Both their failures are their own but at the same time it would never have gotten so bad if Yu Ziyuan hadn't been interjecting herself in there, in the middle of their relationship, fucking it up. That's family, baby.

I would ofc like if there was more fic engaging with the subtleties of all this because it's so good, mxtx did such elegant work here and it is not sufficiently appreciated. But it's the kind of thing that's hard to write good fic about; I am struggling with it myself.

So mostly I wish there was just more fic that didn't impose Mo Xuanyu's cliche angst backstory on Wei Wuxian, who has a whole different thing going on.

[shalomniscient]

hiii i have a request 🥹🥹 if possible, could you write a comfort fic with himeko or kafka and reader? reader who has trouble sleeping or has been exhausted from missions, going straight to himeko's room after returning to the astral express and just melting into her arms. or, reader who hasn't seen kafka in a while and just really misses her, needs her to put her mind at ease, so kafka drops by the express unexpectedly and spends the night taking care of reader. can be either sfw or nsfw, I dont mind either 🥹

omg this is so cute! i’ll do both ;)

SLEEPLESS NIGHTS || hsr x reader

cw. nudity

notes. dunno why i felt the need to mention this but this fic operates on established relationship between reader/character, just fyi :)

HIMEKO

Trailblazing was never going to be easy. You knew this, and you accepted it. To walk the path of Akivili was to lend a helping hand to whosoever needed it. And you do enjoy it—the feeling of making a change in the vast universe, shoulder to shoulder with companions that you would give your life for, and who would do the same for you. You wouldn’t give up your spot on the Astral Express for the world.

But you are only human, at the end of the day.

You’ve been taking back-to-back missions recently, and it’s slowly taking its toll on you. As a more experienced Nameless with many years under your belt, your assistance is slightly more prized over the younger crew—not to say they were incapable. Dan Heng and March alone made a terrifying duo, which was only exacerbated when Stelle joined the mix. But at the end of the day, they’re still a little green and wet behind the ears, so any of the harder jobs tend to fall to you or Welt. And with Welt supervising them on the Luofu, that just left you.

Your footsteps are heavy as you drag yourself back onto the Express. There’s a rip in your jacket from where a Mara-struck soldier tried to slash at you, and several small cuts all over your fingers from the cutting wind of the Disciples. The Luofu had commissioned your blade to quell the number of Mara-struck still roaming around, but for every six you strike down, another dozen seem to take their place.

You sigh as you flop onto one of the many couches on the Express, letting your weapon clatter onto the ground. You’re sore, tired, and aching—all you want to do now is sink into your pillows and sleep, but you have to clean up first. You shut your eyes with another weary noise, deciding to rest up a little before heading to your cabin. Or, shared cabin, rather.

A gentle tap on your shoulder stirs you from your brief rest. You crack your eyes open, and are met with a gentle, golden gaze—it’s Himeko. She’s foregone her usual attire, instead dressed in simple nightwear now, a blanket around her shoulders.

“Hey,” you rasp out. “Were you about to go to bed?”

She shakes her head, smiling softly. “No, I was waiting for you.”

“Ah. Sorry, I must’ve kept you up for a while then.”

“It’s alright,” Himeko says, picking up your weapon off the ground, and placing it inside one of the secure compartments beneath the seats. “I was working on some designs, anyway.”

Then she rises back up, and reaches out to cup your face. Her thumb brushes over your cheek, and you lean into the touch. Then she pulls away, and you nearly whine in protest, before she extends the same hand to you. “Come. Let me care of you tonight.”

You take her hand without hesitation, your fingers slotting perfectly in between hers. You let her lead you to your shared cabin, near the back of the train cart. The door slides open with a small hiss, and the scent of warm, freshly brewed coffee fills your lungs. It’s a comforting, distinctly Himeko scent that you feel some of the tension in your shoulders bleed out.

Her fingers work deftly as they undo the buttons of your clothes, and she frowns when she notices the rip in your jacket.

“I got a little sloppy,” you explain weakly, with a tired grin. Himeko rolls her eyes, but folds it neatly and sets it on the edge of the bed, no doubt to be repaired by the next day.

“As long as you’re unharmed,” she murmurs, working on your shirt now. Your hands rest on her hips as she divests you of the rest of your clothes, until you’re in nothing but your underwear. “The bath is ready. I’ll be there soon.”

You nod, and drag your exhausted limbs to the bath. You strip fully, and then sink into the warm, bubbly water, audibly groaning as the heat from the bath seeps into your aching muscles. The small cuts along your hands sting a little, but you know Himeko must’ve mixed in some antiseptic to ensure no infections take root.

Himeko walks in a little later, and takes a seat on the edge of the tub, smiling as she takes in your relaxed appearance. She brushes some hair out of your eyes, then reaches over for the shampoo and conditioner, tucked away in another small, secure compartment. The Express is littered with them, so things can be stored safely and not make a mess of the train during jumps.

You feel like dissolving when Himeko starts to wash your hair, expert fingers massaging your scalp wonderfully. Her hands--hands that fix, hands that mend--travel from the base of your neck up to the back of your skull, then along your temples, before repeating over again. It's incredible, the way she can put you back together so easily. She chuckles when she notes your reaction.

“Enjoying yourself, my dear?”

You can only manage a wordless grunt in response, feeling like you’re in an entirely different plane of existence right now. Time blurs as Himeko washes out the shampoo and works in the conditioner, before washing that out too and leaving your hair thoroughly clean and smelling like fresh roses—the same scent as hers.

You almost don’t want to leave the warmth of the tub, but Himeko coaxes you out anyway. She offers you a towel and a bathrobe, and leaves you to dry yourself off for a while. You wring out your hair, then dress yourself in a comfy pair of silk nightclothes. When you step out of the washroom, Himeko is waiting for you on the bed, her legs already tucked beneath the covers. On her lap is her laptop as she types away, no doubt finishing up on her many engineering designs.

You practically dive into bed, snuggling under the sheets and pressing close to your lover. She’s warm as always, thanks to her Pathstrider ability being of the Fire type. Himeko hums to herself, wrapping one arm around your shoulders as you bury yourself in her side, uncaring for the dampness of your hair. She reaches over to the bedside table, and with a click, switches of the main room lights, leaving only the soft glow of the lamp next to the bed.

You chance a glance up at her, even as drowsiness nips at your heels. The gentle golden glow of the lamp makes her look divine, enhanced by the fiery red of her hair. There is an affection in her eyes you know is reserved only for you as she leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Rest, now,” she says, her words a caress against your skin. “You deserve it, my love.”

“I love you,” you mumble, eyes slipping shut as sleep finally claims you. It’s easy to oblige the request, safe and sound in her arms like this. These moments make you wish that dawn—or the Express’s approximation of a circadian rhythm—would never come, and you could linger in the embrace of your beloved for eternity. The last thing you hear before you drift off is Himeko’s soothing voice, almost lullaby-like, and you can hear her smile.

“I love you too, dearest one.”

KAFKA

For the nth time that night, you wake up to the sight of your bedroom ceiling.

You sigh and twist in your bed, turning to check the time on the alarm clock on your bedside table. It’s 1am in the morning, and you still can’t sleep.

You don’t really know the root of your recent bouts of insomnia. Maybe it was the workload? But Himeko has given you several days off already. Maybe it was the stress of having to manage the younger Astral Express members, but Welt shoulders that burden most of the time. Could it be Pom Pom then? You shake your head at that—the conductor was usually the one stressing, not being the cause of stress.

Then maybe… maybe it’s because you miss her.

Kafka, your secret lover.

You miss the presence of her next to you in your bed, and the steady, powerful beat of her heart under your ear as you rest your head on her chest. Miss the elegant cadence of her breathing and the feel of her hand in yours.

You sigh again. You know she’d laugh if she ever knew about your silly longing. I mean, you volunteered for this infiltration mission; you knew what you were signing up for. But still, it’s funny—you miss that about her too. Her laugh.

You reach for your phone, resting on the bed. During your last… rendezvous with Kafka she had the foresight—or maybe Elio did, who knows—to give you an encrypted number to contact her with.

Only in case of emergencies, doll, she had crooned, as she tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Use it wisely.

Your finger hovers over the number. Does this even qualify as an emergency? It’s just a few sleepless nights. Kafka probably has more important things to do, executing Elio’s endless number of scripts and whatnot. In the end, you shut off your phone and throw your head back on the pillows, ready to resign yourself to another long night—

—when your phone suddenly buzzes with urgency.

You jerk in surprise, brows furrowing as you pick it back up. Who could be calling at this hour? You squint in the darkness as you read the caller ID, and your heart leaps into your throat.

It’s the emergency number.

You fumble to answer, quickly sitting up and pressing the phone to your ear, making sure to cover your mouth and the reciever. The rest of the Express definitely wouldn’t be able to hear you, but you always feel some sort of lingering paranoia, sneaking around like this with Kafka.

“Hello?”

“Hey, doll,” a familiar, smooth voice says, and your heart flutters. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Kafka,” you breathe out, not bothering to hide the relief in your tone. Kafka chuckles on the other end.

“That’s me,” she hums. “You answered pretty quickly. Were you not sleeping?”

You hesitate for a moment, but decide to come clean. “No. I… haven’t been sleeping well, recently.”

Kafka is silent for a few seconds. “I see,” she says, and something in her voice shifts, imperceptible to the average person. But you aren’t an average person, not to Kafka. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you reassure her. “Just a little insomnia. Nothing to worry about." The other end goes quiet, so you decide to change the topic. "Why'd you call? Isn't this for emergencies only? Are you in trouble?"

"You worried?" she chuckles, and you can see her smirk in your mind's eye. "I'm alright, doll. And as for emergencies... well, I missed you. Isn't that an emergency?"

It's such a Kafka-esque answer, but it pulls a breathless little laugh from you all the same. "Ugh, you..."

"Me," she affirms on the other end with a snicker. There is small, comfortable silence between you, before she speaks again. "Listen, doll, I've gotta go. But don't worry your pretty little head--you'll sleep perfectly well tonight. I'll make sure of it."

You blink, confused at her words. But before you can question it, Kafka hangs up the call, leaving you both confused and a little disappointed. Usually she'd say goodbye and throw in those three special words, though not this time, apparently. You wonder what she means as you shut your phone off again, and lie back onto your pillows. You close your eyes, and try to do as she says.

You're not sure how much time passes, but it doesn't work, predictably. You groan in frustration, just about ready to get up when a lithe hand slips over your mouth.

You jerk in surprise, one hand flying reflexively to the knife you keep beneath your pillow, the other gripping your assailant's wrist. You swing the knife in an arc, only for it to be caught and restrained by thin, pink, familiar ropes. They glow ever so slightly, illuminating a familiar face, that has your mouth falling open under the hand.

"Good to see your reflexes haven't dulled," Kafka teases, nimbly prying the knife out of your hands and letting it clatter onto the floor. She then removes the hand over your mouth, and releases your wrist from the strings.

"Kafka," you whisper, your hand moving to cup her cheek, your thumb tracing the ridges of her face, "are you real?"

She leans into your touch, that signature smirk tugging on her painted lips. She's really here, solid and tangible beneath your fingers. "You could consider me a dream, if you'd like."

"How did you even get in here?" you ask, not taking your eyes off her for a moment as she shrugs off her coat and begins undoing the buttons of her shirt. Kafka offers you a smug grin at that, pulling a little device from her pocket.

"Custom-made IPC teleportation beacon," she answers with a wink. "Jailbroken courtesy of Silver Wolf, of course."

You make a mental note to buy Silver Wolf the next battlepass in that game of hers. Kafka sets the device on the bedside table, now dressed in only her undergarments. You swallow as you take in the expanse of her milky skin, firm abdomen and muscled thighs, all while Kafka raids the clothing storage beneath your bed for something to sleep in like she's been on the Express this whole while. She eventually settles for one of your old t-shirts, which drapes over her frame in such a sinfully delectable way that you'd pounce on her if you weren't so damn tired.

"Move over," she orders, pulling her hair out of its usual ponytail, and letting it cascade down her shoulders and back. Kafka has always been beautiful--but like this... you would not have been able to distinguish her from Idrila the Beauty themself. You wonder if that makes you her knight. You shuffle to the side of the bed, and Kafka slips under the sheets next to you. Strong arms wrap around you and hold you close, close enough that you can rest your ear against her chest, and hear the soothing lullaby of her heartbeat. Immediately you start to feel drowsy, and Kafka chuckles.

"You really missed me, didn't you, doll?" she muses, carding her fingers through your hair gently. "I'm here now, my dear. Sleep, alright?"

Your eyes flutter shut almost instantly. It's funny, how she doesn't even have to use her Spirit Whisper on you to get you to obey. Maybe love itself is enough of a whisper to your soul, or maybe you've always been weak for her. But oddly enough, you don't find yourself minding all that much if that's the case. You don't mind much of anything when it comes to her. Though you don't ponder for very long as you snuggle closer against her warmth, your arms winding tight around her waist. She'll be gone by morning, you know that. She has to. But for now, this is enough, secure in this haven that is her embrace, and you let yourself drift off into slumber.

(The next morning, nothing remains of her--you may have truly considered her a dream, were it not for the imprint of her form on your bed, and a tiny note on your bedside table, undoubtedly written in her hand.

All it says is i love you.

And for the both of you, that's all it needs to say.)

[ataraxiaspainting]

Glide.

Yan Chrollo x GN Reader.

Synopsis: Touching the sky yourself is impossible, but having others do so is attainable. That is, as long as your captor does not find out.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, manipulation, some dehumanization, and descriptions of violence/death.

Word Count: 800.

*~*~*~*

Whenever Chrollo leaves, he makes sure the balcony door is unlocked.

The platform is nothing special compared to the last one – or the past few hundred of them. It still overlooks a town square just like the rest of them, albeit the square in question has much fewer people out and about down there.

There are only three kinds of people you see nowadays. Those like Chrollo who always yearn for something more, those like the room service that just want to pay their rent this month… and… and you.

But you have hoped, prayed, that there are greater types of people than that more times than you can count. Those like your family, who you dream are still looking for you after all this time – after the fire, after the forensic identification, after the funeral. Those like people who catch the paper airplanes you throw out past the balcony’s fencing, reading your notes with expressions clear as day – you can see them even from up here in this gilded jail.

It’s a shame. A crying shame. Instead of sharing what you have written with him, you give them to nameless strangers who would most likely never give the messy, scribbled letters and numbers time of day. Chrollo considers asking Shalnark or Feitan to hunt them all down, but his rationality stops him halfway because that would cause this whole city to become a ghost town. 

It would be an easy feat for him alone. Hundreds of thousands have already fallen because of his notions; what is a few hundred more? If he partnered with a fellow Troupe member, he does not doubt in his mind that all the letters would be collected within the hour.

But… then again…

It’s a waste of energy, Chrollo decides. I’ll just go to the source.

He twists the key into the hotel room’s lock, opens the door, and looks around as he shuts it back up. The time is 11:00 sharp – far earlier than the usual time he comes back after scouting this town one too many times for every piece of loot he can get his bloodied hands on. There are some nice original copies of books in the museum a few blocks away, a set of necklaces that are said to belong to a long-dead princess of an empire with diamonds as large as the palm of his hand in the jeweler across the street, fur coats made out of near-extinct wildcats that were sold by the zoos who claimed to protect them from such threats… and many more things. It’s shocking, in a way. This place’s population is so small, after all.

Chrollo wants to give them all to you if you would let him.

The hallway that leads to the bathroom, bedroom, and balcony is flooded with crumpled-up paper of varying shapes and sizes. He can even see the expensive embroidered paper he had given you days ago amongst the messes – he knew of your hobby then, he always knew, and that’s why he left the balcony door unlocked for you day and night.

He saw it more as enrichment than anything, just another little something to keep you occupied when you weren’t allowed to come with him. For some, the activities are chewing on bones and digging their claws into couches. For you, it is writing notes so bizarre no one would believe them.

To each their own, Chrollo thinks as he smiles. He’s careful not to make noise as he approaches the balcony slowly.

“No ‘welcome back’?”

The balcony’s door was already open when he saw the disarray all over the hallway’s floor. There you were, huddled in the seating area with your arm frozen in the air. In your hand is a paper airplane that was just about to launch into the sky.

You turn your head as slow as humanly possible with your eyes closed. You’re most likely praying to whatever cosmic force there is that you were hearing things, hearing the people from below, or maybe a gust of wind that sounded too human-like. But once again, the heavens refuse to listen to your desperate prayers. They gladly cast you back down to hell to keep the devil himself at bay. A necessary evil.

Your wings were cut off long ago, after all.

Why would God let you back in?

“Dearest.”

Your arm lowers, and with it your hopes and dreams.

“Oh…”

Oh indeed.

You’re… crying.

“Come here. Let me wipe your tears away.” Chrollo moves faster than you can blink, positioning himself on the chair next to you.

You scramble, standing up as you slap his hand from your cheek. 

“Don’t, I-”

“Shh…”

He points at the cushion – clearly sat on for hours considering how deep the middle’s crevice is.

You sit back down.

[thatidiotsuds]

hey ,sorry to bother, but can you pls make a fic about John McTavish where he is off from work and a few weeks later he gets a call in the middle of the night by one of the men in 141 asking if he is okay ,because no one has heard from him in a while( while they talk softly trying not wake you , 141 did not know john had a partner , you wake up and he apologized) pls if you have time, and thx if you can. All love❤ .

Hey Alicia4674! 🎉 You’re my very first request, I hope you like this. Feel free to throw more requests my way— Hope you’re having an awesome day! 😄✨

John "Soap" MacTavish x Fem Reader

Secrets for Safety Reasons

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or images used in this work, nor do I claim any rights to them. GIF not mine

Warnings ⚠️: None, maybe grammatical and spelling errors 😅

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish was always a protective soul. If he were an animal, he’d be a Leonberger—loyal, strong, and always on guard. He might deny it, but deep down, he knew he was fiercely protective. Anticipating any possible danger was just part of who he was.

When Captain Price called him up during his daily training at the base gym to meet in his office, Soap felt a rush of hope. Maybe this was it. Price handed him a letter, and Soap’s heart raced as he read the words: he was finally relieved from duty and allowed to go home.

“Cheers, Captain,” he said, trying to keep his excitement in check as he made his way back to his chamber. He shut the door behind him, urgency coursing through him. Just like every time he was on leave, he quickly gathered his valuables, desperate to get back to you, his beloved wife, whom he hadn’t seen in far too long due to his missions.

He couldn’t wait to share stories of his adventures, leaving out the dangerous bits, of course. He knew you’d give him that disapproving look if you heard about the close calls. But he also knew you meant well; you loved him, and that was what mattered.

As he packed, he included some gadgets and tools he’d picked up during his missions, knowing how curious you’d be about them. A smile crept onto his face as he thought of your excitement. He placed his journal on top of the neatly folded clothes in his duffle bag and zipped it up.

After exchanging handshakes and hugs with his mates, he made his way home, leaving you a voice note on your nameless caller ID, the icon of a shampoo bottle making him chuckle. He kept his private life a secret, even from his closest friends. Not even Simon Riley knew he had a wife. The thought of the enemy finding out and coming after you made his stomach churn with anxiety.

That was why he chose to live in a small, secluded town in Scotland—somewhere hard to find but still accessible.

Once he landed and made it home, he spent every waking moment with you, showering you with kisses, even while you were cooking. He didn’t want you to leave his side; he just wanted you safe in his arms after being apart for so long. At home, he was the complete opposite of the serious, tough soldier everyone knew. He was clingy, affectionate, and playful, allowing himself to be vulnerable around you because his love for you was deeper than words could express.

Weeks later, one night, he woke up in a cold sweat, panting as memories and trauma from his missions crashed over him like a tidal wave. He shot up in bed, trying to calm his racing heart.

He glanced over to see you reaching for his hand in your sleepy state, and it made his heart flutter. Just then, his phone vibrated on the wooden surface of the bedside table. He picked it up and saw multiple missed calls and messages from his team. He quietly got out of bed and walked to the window, answering the call, knowing they must be worried since he hadn’t sent an update about his safe arrival.

“Hey, Lt.,” he said in a low, husky voice, careful not to wake you.

“Johnny, how’ve you been?” Ghost asked. “Garrick and Price have been trying to reach you for weeks.”

“I’ve... been busy, that’s all. A lot of things going on here at home,” he replied, glancing back at you as you shifted in bed.

“I’m glad you made it home. I’ll let the others know. Watch your six, alright?” Simon said.

“Cheers, Lt. You too, mate,” Soap replied with a small smile before hanging up. He placed the phone down on the nearest shelf and climbed back into bed, pulling you against him and kissing the top of your head, lingering there for a moment.

“Who was it?” you mumbled sleepily.

“Sorry to wake you, Bonnie. Just the lads checking in,” he reassured you softly. “Go back to sleep, love. I’m right here.”

With that, he settled back down, feeling the warmth of your presence beside him, and soon drifted off to sleep, comforted by the knowledge that you were safe.

---------------------------------------------Hope you like this fanfic, let me know if you have a request, feel free to send it over.

MASTERLIST

[sunshine-theseus]

Pequeña | Kyra Cooney-Cross x Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Summary: you make stupid decisions but you got your girl in the end.

Warning: fluff, horrible self-care, fainting

My parents and I moved from Spain to England when I was 5.

I was a quiet kid with no friends, who spent most of her time reading or listening to music. At seven years old my parents decided to sign me up for my local football kids club to try and get me to ‘open my wings’, their code for ‘stop being a fucking loner we value popularity over smarts’. I haven’t seen them in 8 years.

Turns out I was fucking great at football and by 12 I was in the Arsenal Football Academy. At 15 I was playing for their Women’s team in the WSL and was debuting for England’s national team. I spent most of that time on the bench of course, but by 17 I had a large ‘1’ on my back and was starting 90% of games at Arsenal. I didn’t have many friends though, especially when I knew most would either leave to bigger leagues or transfer teams. I preferred it though because that meant I had plenty of time between training and games to study and read and play music.

Another 6 years later and I’m playing for England in the Semi-finals of the 2023 World Cup against Australia. I wasn’t our main goalie, but Mary had gotten a concussion so that left me and like hell I would let us lose this close to the finals. I’d nearly managed to keep a clean sheet until Sam Kerr came running up from halfway, past Millie and chipped it behind me into the goal. Despite the goal, we won.

As I’m walking toward the girls, I tripped over something, or someone, sitting on the sidelines near the tunnel. One of the Aussie girls, clearly tired and upset, curled up to their goalkeeper. If there was one thing I could do, it was recognise a phenomenal goalkeeper when I see one, and Mackenzie Arnold was just that.

“I’m sorry.” I whisper to her as I pat her shoulder and copy the gesture for the girl next to her.

I didn’t know much about her, but I’d seen her play. Her footwork was incredible, and she was clearly underrated and underestimated, something Arsenal could benefit from.

“Wanna swap jerseys?” it comes out soft, I almost miss it as I turn away. When I turn back around, I expect to see Mac offering her’s, but instead I see the younger girl looking up at me questioningly and I smile. I’d already swapped with Mac in a friendly earlier this year, and I love collecting jerseys from different players.

“Fuck yeah.” and within seconds she has my jersey pulled over her head, and it hangs loosely, clearly a few too many sizes too big for her.

I then pull on her’s, for a moment fearful it would be too small, but I’m thankful for her clear preference for baggy clothes as it slips over my torso. Mackenzie beckons over their photographer, and I pose with the still nameless girl. She’s small in comparison to my 5’11 stature and I giggle at the difference before offering her a piggyback for a silly photo.

As she jumps up, I notice shocked stares of my teammates from the corner of my eye but shake it off as she wraps her arm around my neck as if to choke me.

“Has anyone told you how small you are?” I ask her as I drop her back to the ground.

“They don’t shut up about it.”

“I think I’ll call you Pequeña.” I chuckle at her confused look.

“It means small in Spanish.”

“What the fuck!? Fine I’m calling you fucking Giant or something.”

I don’t get her actual name that night, but I look it up when I get back to my hotel room, Lotte missing from the space.

Kyra Cooney-Cross. An unexpected star.

I watch one of her games instead of doing my uni work and fall asleep to one her interviews playing.

~~~~~

I don’t expect to see Kyra until whatever friendly we have with Australia before the Olympics. In the time after the World Cup and before pre-season, I’ve hung her jersey in my hallway, along with all the others. I put her’s at the entrance with others like Mapi León and Christine Sinclair, people I consider special.

We also begin talking. A lot. I spend most of my spare time calling or texting her, but I don’t tell anyone.

The shock I get when the final minute of the pre-season transfer window approaches, and I get a notification from the Arsenal Women twitter account.

‘KYRA COONEY-CROSS IS A GUNNER✍️’

~~~~~

We’d been knocked out of the qualifiers for the Championship League and yet I walk into training on Monday with a slight spring in my step and excitement buzzing through me. I wave to all the staff and greet everyone, asking how the girls are when I walk into the locker room.

It’s Katie who asks.

“What the fuck is up with you Ms Dark and Broody?”

“Whatever do you mean?” I giggle.

She gives me and incredulous look before turning to the rest of the locker room who share similar expressions.

“W- wh- wh-” she continues to babble as Steph pulls her back to her cubby and pats her shoulder as a way of reassurance.

“You just… you’re never so smiley or talkative. At all. Like ever. Like in the past 8 years you’ve said maybe 100 words per season to me.” Lotte speaks up.

“Not true!”

“I’ve only seen you without a book off the pitch 13 times. I started counting after the 1st.” My jaw drops.

“She’s not wrong Y/n. You’re pretty reserved and stoic. Which there’s nothing wrong with! But it’s just odd to see you, well like this.” Manu points at me as if that’s explanation enough.

“Wow thanks gu-” I’m cut off by someone jumping on my back and screaming.

“BEANSTALK!” and I’m smiling all over again as I turn my head to see the young Australian I’ve been missing.

“PEQUEÑA!”

“I can’t believe I had to put up with your nerdy shit in person every day now.” She jumps off my back and moves to greet the other girls except for Steph and Caitlin who she obviously knows.

We don’t get much time to talk before Jonas calls us into the meeting room. He introduces all our new players like Kyra and Lessi and announces the return of Vivianne and Beth to our playing squad, before going over how we need to improve after our defeat in the Champions League.

“L/n, I know you just came 2nd in the World Cup but you cannot be slacking like you did in the game against Pairs. You’ve got to be doing more.” I don’t get to reply before he’s ushering us out onto the pitch.

I’m left in a sour mood the rest of training, once again avoiding everyone, including Kyra who seemingly found a close friend in Alessia. I had given my all in that game against Paris, but they were good, and I’d stayed up until 2am the night before completing one of my assignments for my uni degree, something Jonas had encouraged me to do.

I was more mad that he didn’t allow me to tell him why but either way, I’d decided I would be staying after training to practice until I couldn’t any longer. So I did. And I came in an hour early the next morning to get more training in. I continued to do this for a while, studying once I got home until I couldn’t keep my eyes open now that my usual study time was booked. Eventually the girls stopped inviting me for coffee or team bonding and Kyra stopped trying to talk.

We were playing against Man United when I began to sway side to side, and my eyes began to droop. I think Kyra noticed first while on the sideline, and whispered something to Katie as she passed by the bench, but nothing came of it until United got a corner. They didn’t even get to kick the ball before I crumpled to the ground beside a clueless Lotte and Katie Zelem.

I don’t feel myself get carried off the pitch or get transferred to an ambulance. I don’t think I recognise anything happening around me until hours later. The clock on the wall says 9:21 and I think I’ve only slept for a few hours, but then I notice the sun streaming through the curtains and realise the few might actually be a lot.

I then recognise the limp bodies spread across the room. The awfully sterile white room which is nothing like the warmth of my olive-green bedroom. I don’t think I’d been so slow to figure out what was going on in my life.

“Beanstalk! You’re awake!” I look to the small brunette who has been hunched over asleep next to me for god knows how long and smile.

“Hey pequeña.”

“You are so stupid!” Kyra slaps my arm and sends me a sharp glare.

“What the fuck is going on. You’ve been exhausted 24/7 and no one sees you outside of training.” I then decide to explain my rather stupid schedule and reasoning to her.

She stares blankly at me for a while.

“You are genuinely so fucking dumb. I was so worried about you.” She whispers.

“Why?”

“Because I love you.” Her eyes drop to her lap.

“Te amo.” I’m not sure she understands it but she smiles either way and leans in.

Just as our lips meet, Katie abruptly wakes up in her corner of the room and shrieks.

“What the fuck!” and we’re left to quickly pull away as she tries to wake everyone else up to tell them what she saw.

“Katie don’t be fucking ridiculous! They’re both sound asleep.” I hear Kim whisper shout, followed by more of Katie’s babbling about how we’re just pretending as they trail out of the room, assumedly getting coffee.

As the door clicks shut, I open one eye to glance around the now empty room. It seems everyone needed some coffee. Except a certain Australian, whose eyes also peak open.

“Kiss me.” And then her lips are on mine again.

~~~~~

I don’t play again until our game against Bristol for the Conti Cup. Jonas apologised for pushing me too hard but made it clear I was to properly rest before I get to do anything and makes Sarina Weigman promise not to play me during our international break.

Kyra also gets her first starting debut.

It’s a tough game, and in the 84th minute, Kyra drops to the ground. I nearly run to check on her, but she gets back up, and within another minute she gets subbed off for Vic.

The whistle blows, signalling the end of the game, we win 3-1.

I meet Kyra in the middle of the field, pick her up and swing her around. Our first proper game playing together seems like an obvious thing to celebrate. And before I can think, I’m leaning down and kissing her, something I’m not sure if I’ll regret later.

She smiles that smile, brighter than the sun, and I melt.

“Te amo pequeña.”

[exonerin]

Amnesiac oviwan goes crazy

I think this prompt is based on this beautiful artwork by @kirab0sh1, which I reblogged because it's so perfect. It's pretty and flustered Anakin is amazing. I'm a huge fan of the artist anyway, actually. I'm 'feral' for their nyanakin. He's the cutest.

No one has given me a prompt before, so I'll admit I dropped everything else because I'm quite pleased and happy with this. Anyway, here's 4.9k of Obikin (it's also on AO3):

Impulse | Inhibition [Obikin | Fanfic | ✓ ]

Death was part of the war, intricately intertwined like poison ivy suffocating a quaking aspen tree. Those vines had wrapped around Anakin's throat, choking him expertly as he waited. He was a soldier, so he could hurt and harm, but the art of healing was beyond him.

A nameless Padawan stood by his side, wringing their hands. According to the reports, they had volunteered to place the bomb in the droid factory, but Obi-Wan had turned the offer down. The kid would have died if they had gone. So, Obi-Wan had stepped up, unfailingly willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. His former Master was the best Jedi in the Order. A swell of pride caught under the weight lodged in Anakin's throat.

His concern sat heavy on his heart, chilling him to the marrow of his bones.

"General."

Anakin's gaze snapped up from the tips of his boots, meeting the medic's gaze.

"Is he fine?" he rasped, forcing the words past the tendrils wrapped around his throat.

"General Kenobi is awake."

A shaky exhale pushed past Anakin's lips. His knees almost buckled under the weight of his relief as he brushed past the medic into the tent to confirm his words.

Anakin froze on the threshold. Obi-Wan sat on the edge of the bed, adjusting his vambraces without a care in the world. Only hours ago, he had rested in Anakin's arms, a limp weight while the droid factory exploded around them.

"Master," Anakin blurted, the title slipping from his lips. Nerves coalesced in his stomach. He had defied Obi-Wan's direct orders. Would Obi-Wan lecture him for saving his sorry life? Possibly. Would Anakin cry or snap? He hoped for the latter, but the former seemed equally plausible. He couldn't get rid of the weight in his throat.

Obi-Wan straightened and turned to look at him.

"Hello there," he greeted.

Anakin shuffled his feet.

"You're letting a cold draft in, darling," Obi-Wan chided him.

Darling?

Confused, Anakin stepped forward to let the tent's flap fall shut behind him. His body moved automatically, following the implicit order while his mind reeled.

Darling?

"Master?" he asked, his uncertainty dripping from his shivering voice.

"What's wrong, dear one?" Obi-Wan asked him, his expression creasing in concern.

Anakin shook his head minutely, feeling like the world was a fallen mirror. Spidery cracks ran over his reality, distorting the image in subtle ways that made no sense.

"I-- I don't--" he stammered, too befuddled by Obi-Wan calling him 'dear one' like they were enemies on the battlefield to produce a coherent thought.

Obi-Wan slipped from the bed gracefully, not impeded by the life-threatening injuries he had sported. Yet, Anakin still felt his Master's dead weight in his arms.

Obi-Wan crossed the tent with a handful of long strides, crowding Anakin by the entrance. Anakin stood rooted to his spot. The invisible poison ivy has curled around his ankles, fixing him in place. Yet, he still angled his chest away awkwardly.

Obi-Wan smiled, but unlike his typical mild smiles, this one had a cutting edge. This was a razor blade pressed against Anakin's pulse, an explicit threat. Frozen, Anakin blinked, aware that his eyes were so wide they ached.

"Master?" he asked weakly.

Obi-Wan lifted a hand, cupping the side of Anakin’s throat, covering the fluttering pulse point.

"You keep calling me your Master, dearest," he pointed out.

Anakin blinked.

Ah.

Here was the lecture on defying direct orders from his superior on the battlefield. Sullenly, he dropped his gaze.

"You know I saved your life," he grumbled.

"Did you now, darling?" Obi-Wan asked. Confused, Anakin's gaze flicked to Obi-Wan's eyes. "Thank you, my dear," Obi-Wan purred. "That's very sweet of you. Shouldn't be surprised when you're so pretty, though. You look so sweet with your golden curls, pouty lips, and large, blue, doe-like eyes."

"Oh," Anakin sighed.

"Beautiful."

The thumb of the head cupping the side of his throat moved, brushing over his Adam's apple. Obi-Wan repeated the movement, petting his throat, and Anakin's mind shorted. His mind blank and devoid of thoughts, he gawked at Obi-Wan.

"Am I your Master, darling?" Obi-Wan asked, emphasizing each word with a slow, burning brush over Anakin's throat. Nerves sparked under the touch. Anakin knew Obi-Wan could feel his fluttering pulse under his palm, revealing how affected Anakin was.

"Yes," Anakin responded breathlessly. "Or you used to be," he amended, aware that he would start blabbering if he didn't shut up. "For eleven years. But you're still my Master."

"Then, you must be mine already," Obi-Wan mused, his roving gaze turning calculating. Obi-Wan's gaze was tangible as it swept over his body, assessing him using a metric Anakin didn't understand.

Appreciation.

"Mine?" Anakin squeaked.

"Mine, indeed," Obi-Wan agreed casually.

Something was dreadfully, terrifyingly wrong, a mental voice noted, drowned out by the static in Anakin's mind. Obi-Wan would never act like this.

"And how lucky I am that someone so sweet, perfect, and oh-so-very-delectable is mine."

Anakin didn't know what his expression revealed. Flustered, he shook his head.

"I'm not perfect," he protested, the words falling from his lips in a warble.

He wasn't prepared. This Obi-Wan overwhelmed him, his voice leaving no room for argument, charming Anakin far more effectively than the politicians and enemies Obi-Wan usually targeted. Each term of endearment made him feel hot, sweat gathering in the small of his back, his nape, where tangled curls rested, and the crooks of his quivering knees.

"Your cheeks are red, dear," Obi-Wan purred. "And the tips of your adorable ears, too."

Anakin squeaked, the sound forced from his lungs, his throat constricting under Obi-Wan's thumb.

"Obi-Wan?" he whispered, his voice breaking on his Master's name.

Obi-Wan titled his head.

"Is that my name, dearest?" Obi-Wan asked him, his voice pitched doting and encouraging. "Would you repeat it for me?"

Anakin stared at Obi-Wan, his lips moving around his Master's name soundlessly. Then, another part of Obi-Wan's sentence snagged on his smooth brain, somehow penetrating the white noise.

"You don't remember?"

"Maybe I will if you say my name, darling," Obi-Wan suggested. "And won't you introduce yourself, sweet?"

Anakin swallowed thickly, distracted by the faint pressure of Obi-Wan's thumb.

"Obi-Wan," he said helplessly.

Obi-Wan leaned in closer until the proximity blurred Anakin's vision.

"Again," Obi-Wan said, making the order sound like praise. The word fanned against Anakin's lips, and Anakin couldn't stop his gaze from settling on Obi-Wan's lips, framed by the bristles of his beard. Resisting never occurred to Anakin.

"Obi-Wan," he repeated. It was a breathless whimper, barely audible, but Obi-Wan hummed nonetheless.

"Well done, dear one."

"Obi-Wan," Anakin pleaded.

The flap of the tent rustled behind Anakin. Immediately, Obi-Wan's hand fell away. His Master retreated a few brisk steps, establishing too much space between them. Helplessly, Anakin stared at Obi-Wan. The medic didn't expect Anakin to stand so close to the entrance, bumping into him with a durasteel tray. The impact sent Anakin stumbling further into the tent.

Broad hands grabbed his arms, stabilizing him.

"Careful now, dear."

Helplessly, Anakin's gaze lifted to Obi-Wan's pale blue eyes. Obi-Wan's attention wasn't on him, though. Instead, Obi-Wan studied the medic with a neutral expression. Poison ivy tightened around Anakin's chest, an odd jealousy spreading from the places where its softly barbed tendrils touched bare skin.

"How are you feeling, General?" the medic asked.

"It seems I cannot recall anything," Obi-Wan confessed with a sardonic smile. Amusement laced the statement as if this was barely an inconvenience.

"You sustained a head injury, General. I am confident the memories will return during your recovery," the medic said. "But I must urge you to rest. If you cannot follow my recommendations, I will put you in a bacta tank, General."

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "Then, I suppose it's imperative that I cooperate," he said. His hands slid from Anakin's arms again, the cold invading the memory of Obi-Wan's palms. Anakin stifled a disappointed sound, though he supposed his feelings were visible in his unguarded expression.

"Thank you for saving my life, dearest," Obi-Wan said. "Allow me to show my appreciation once I'm released from this good man's care."

Anakin knew that all he would be rewarded was a lecture when Obi-Wan's memories returned. His lips pulled into a pout before he could control them.

"Okay," he muttered. "Get well soon, Master."

He turned around, leaving the makeshift medbay on trembling legs. Outside, the Padawan still waited. Anakin brushed past them, the weight lodged in his throat returning.

***.

Bitter disappointment held him in a choke hold, each term of endearment echoing in his mind as he patrolled the perimeter of their temporary camp. If he called the Council to update them on their progress, they would call Anakin back to another battlefield. Anakin was reluctant to leave.

"Anakin."

Anakin stiffened, not daring to glance over his shoulder. Thus, he kept his gaze trained on the dusty planes stretching to the dark horizon. The shadows of sprawling mountain ranges were invisible in the dead of night.

Anakin.

His Master had made a full recovery. Swallowing more inappropriate disappointment, Anakin inhaled deeply. It did little to center him.

"Hello, Master," he said.

Obi-Wan moved to stand by his side, their shoulders almost brushing.

"You remember everything," Anakin pointed out. A bland observation that Anakin hoped hid the barbed, thorny mess of emotions inside his chest. The vines constricted around his beating, bleeding heart, squeezing it harshly. He needed something from Obi-Wan that he had never known, but it had neither name nor shape. It was a ghost of a memory that only existed in amnesia.

"I do," Obi-Wan agreed. "I felt it prudent to discuss what happened."

Anakin exhaled forcefully. "Are you here to lecture me, Obi-Wan?" he demanded. "I saved your life for the eighth time."

He shot Obi-Wan a morose glare, surprised to meet Obi-Wan's gaze.

"Not at all, darling," Obi-Wan said.

Darling.

Anakin almost choked on his saliva. Breathlessly, he stared at Obi-Wan in the dark, wishing he could see Obi-Wan's expression better. Would the dark at least conceal how flustered Anakin felt or the red on his cheeks?

Darling.

"I'm sorry," Obi-Wan said, sounding surprised. "That was a slip of the tongue."

Anakin wet his lips. His mind had screeched to a stop, wiped clean with a single word. His fingers twisted in the leather of his tabard, the gloves creaking to betray his fidgeting.

Darling.

"Also, that would be the seventh time, dear."

Dear.

"Oh," Anakin croaked, too far gone to argue this point.

"Sith-spit. I don't know what's wrong with me. My apologies, Anakin."

Anakin nodded woodenly. His stomach dropped from his body and splattered on the dusty ground.

"You did well, Anakin. You guided us to victory while I was unavailable. I updated the Council on the successful destruction of the droid factory. Tomorrow, we'll receive further directives."

"Thank you, Master."

Anakin inclined his head to hide how pleased the off-hand praise made him.

Darling.

Tension sat in the pit his stomach had left behind.

***.

He had almost forgotten about the slip-up until weeks later when he rejoined Obi-Wan on an unassuming Outer Rim planet. His attempt to sneak behind the Separatist blockade had been... less than successful. Anakin could admit that.

However, he was reluctant to do so when Obi-Wan joined him by the carcass of his spaceship, humming thoughtfully.

"That was an excellent crash landing, dear one."

Anakin's hand fell from the cut on his cheek in disbelief. Behind him, his shuttle still smoked, at risk of exploding. Yet, his legs had turned into jelly. Obi-Wan had called him dear one so offhandedly, and it soothed the black hole in his soul. He hadn’t known he had longed for this until two words had scrambled his brain. Every jumbled thought was encrypted, and Anakin didn’t possess a key.

"The-- They shot me down," he managed haltingly, pointing at the sky where the Separatist blockade glittered like stars in broad daylight.

"I see," Obi-Wan mused. "And it didn't occur to you to stay on the Resolute?"

Anakin shook his head, still struck dumb by the term of endearment.

***.

A few hours plus a scuffle with some battle droids later, it happened again. Anakin was unprepared. He always was.

"You have an awful disposition for throwing yourself in danger, sweet," Obi-Wan lectured him in the makeshift medbay.

Anakin would have shrugged and snapped, but he could only squeak.

"I'm sorry, Master," he said instead. His betrayal at his quick folding must have been visible on his face because Obi-Wan shook his head.

"You aren't in trouble, dear. No need to be so contrite -- though it's a good look on you."

Anakin's jaw dropped.

Obi-Wan looked equally shocked, which morphed into unease.

"My apologies," he sighed. "That was highly unprofessional."

Anakin shook his head weakly. "I don't mind," he stammered. His fingers trembled as he lifted them to touch his hot cheeks.

"Nonetheless, it's uncalled for," Obi-Wan said. "It seems I don't have control over my tongue."

Anakin's gaze flitted to Obi-Wan's lips.

The medic tending to Anakin's newest collection of scraps cleared his throat.

"It may be a consequence of the head trauma you sustained earlier," the medic said.

"I see," Obi-Wan mused. "Well, I will endeavor to be more conscious of what I say."

"Do you call others terms of endearment, too?" Anakin asked. The thought this wasn't just for Anakin hadn't occurred to him, and it was a screwdriver to the heart. His displeasure snuck into his question, twisting the words into a panicked demand.

Obi-Wan paused, his brows furrowing. "Fortunately not," he said after a long pause.

Anakin's shoulders sagged, his relief palpable.

"Okay," he said.

Obi-Wan inclined his head -- it wasn't quite an agreement, but Anakin didn't know how to interpret the gesture otherwise. He couldn't look away from Obi-Wan's face, looking for clues or reassurance.

Obi-Wan swept out the medbay, abandoning Anakin to the medic's care. He didn't return, and when Anakin finally escaped, he had already left with his squadron. They had traveled to the other hemisphere of the planet where Anakin couldn’t intercept Obi-Wan. He blamed his disappointment on the unsatisfactory end of their banter. It couldn’t be anything else.

***.

Although Anakin was eager to see Obi-Wan again, he had somehow lost track of time. He was too late for the mission briefing again. Obi-Wan already believed he showed up late on purpose -- and his Master wasn’t strictly wrong. Swallowing a curse, he sped up, hoping no Jedi would stop him to lecture him on running in the hallowed hallways of the Temple. Obi-Wan would take care of that, and Anakin loathed that their reunion after three missions in different sectors of the galaxy would start with a lecture on tardiness.

"There you are, dear," Obi-Wan said. His exasperation erased any doubt that this was a stern reprimand. Anakin rolled his eyes.

"I know I'm late, but I was held up by--" Anakin's justification for his tardiness withered on his tongue when Master Windu coughed. The Master's bewildered expression gave him pause.

Dear.

Oh.

Oh, well.

"I'm here now," Anakin said when he couldn't recall his excuse. Several council members already crowded the Holo table in the meeting room. Their presence was impossible to ignore. Yet, Anakin couldn't stop staring.

Obi-Wan looked… simultaneously confident and unnerved. Uncertain and resolved.

Dear.

Anakin was the only one who received these terms of endearment.

Mine.

His gaze lowered slowly, bashfulness pulling on the corners of his lips.

"Anakin, love."

Anakin lifted his gaze from the floor, worried about what his eyes revealed but unable to resist the call. Obi-Wan already studied him, his eyebrows rising. Anakin blinked, his cheeks so hot that his eyes stung. Each breath was loud to his ears, drowning every sound but Obi-Wan's voice. A voice that hooked in his guts and tugged.

"Yes, Master?" Anakin's voice was reedy, barely audible despite the great acoustics in these meeting rooms. His throat clenched around emptiness, bringing back memories of Obi-Wan's palm cupping his throat and a thumb petting him.

A cleared throat made Obi-Wan's gaze flick away, but Anakin was frozen. He couldn't turn to check who had produced the sound.

"We will talk about this later, dear one," Obi-Wan warned him. His expression twisted into a grimace when he realized his new slip of the tongue.

"That's unfair," Anakin complained, though his heart wasn't in the complaint. "It's only five minutes, Master."

"Later," Obi-Wan stressed.

***.

While the other Masters left the room, Obi-Wan didn't budge. He leaned back against the edge of the Holo table, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Anakin didn't move either, rooted to his spot halfway to the door. Feeling self-conscious, he watched Master Fisto bring up the rear, smirking at him before closing the door. Slowly, Anakin turned back to Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan's expression was neutral, but his eyes were too narrowed, his lips too pursed. Obi-Wan's masks never failed, but… inexplicably, there was a crack.

Perhaps he shouldn't ask-- oh, Anakin definitely shouldn't ask. He licked his lips, the tip of his tongue dragging over chapped lips. Obi-Wan's gaze flickered down before rising again.

"Why do you call me pet names?" he asked.

Obi-Wan sighed, letting his head tip back, and Anakin swallowed dryly. Then, Obi-Wan ran a hand through his hair, making Anakin's fingers twitch by his side. Thick titian locks spilled between Obi-Wan's fingers.

"Residual effects from my brush with death," he said, a mirthless smile on his face. "I'm experiencing trouble with my impulses and inhibitions."

"Impulses and inhibitions," Anakin parroted, dumbstruck.

"But don't assume I have forgotten why I asked you to stay behind, dear one," Obi-Wan told him sternly.

Anakin knew he blushed furiously.

Impulses and inhibitions, dear one.

"It was only five minutes," he rasped.

Obi-Wan's fingers curled around the table's edge, drawing Anakin's attention to their width. He remembered them wrapped around his throat so gently, stroking him lazily.

"My face is up here," Obi-Wan commented. "Sweet," he added.

Anakin couldn't swallow or stifle an odd noise, caught between a squeak and a sigh.

"Yes, Master," his mouth replied while his mind was tangled in a web of ivy.

"You agree so readily, but have you considered acting on it, dear heart?" Obi-Wan asked when Anakin's gaze remained fixed on Obi-Wan's fingers. A strange hunger coiled in his guts. A yearning too sharp but a craving too soft. "Sometimes, I wonder how you can be so sweet while so obstinate. I shouldn't like it nearly as much as I do when you act out."

Anakin's gaze lifted automatically, traveling higher until he met Obi-Wan's gaze.

Obi-Wan called him sweet. So sweet, his mind supplied helpfully. Obi-Wan liked him, and his expression revealed he hadn't intended to share this much. Perhaps Anakin was in a better position here, capable of keeping his secrets. Nevertheless, he felt woefully unprepared and so embarrassingly timid in the face of praise. His sharp, brittle pride was softened, molded, by the aggrieved fondness in Obi-Wan's expression.

"And now, you aren't even gloating," he said softly. Anakin knew this couldn't purely be a lack of impulse control. This was Obi-Wan -- all of it was Obi-Wan, but it was…

"Your reactions make it easier to swallow this inconvenience," Obi-Wan said. Of course, Anakin's Master would refer to his permanent injury as a trifle.

"My reactions?" Anakin asked though he didn't want to know the answer.

Obi-Wan shrugged.

Obi-Wan's hands fell away from the edge of the Holo table, and Anakin swallowed thickly.

The first step Obi-Wan took, heading in his direction, Anakin didn't move.

Then, Obi-Wan took a second one with purpose, and Anakin mirrored him. Another step and Anakin retreated further, balancing awkwardly on his heels.

"Obi-Wan?" he asked hesitantly. "Are you having more problems with your impulse control? Because this looks like a very bad idea."

His emphasis on the last three words made Obi-Wan grin -- though it was closer to a smirk. A shiver ran down Anakin's spine, prompted by excitement for something he couldn't identify.

"I think it's an excellent idea, dear," Obi-Wan said, the term of endearment almost a caress.

"Oh," Anakin sighed, forgetting to retreat further. After a handful of steps, Obi-Wan stopped in front of him.

"So, what are we doing?" Anakin asked weakly, his attempt at bravado failing spectacularly.

"We were talking about your reactions, darling," Obi-Wan said, his voice almost a purr.

Anakin's eyes widened impossibly. 

Obi-Wan reached for him, and Anakin waited with bated breath. His eyes slipped shut when Obi-Wan's hand curled around his left cheek, its presence soothing. He breathed slowly, poorly stifling a pleased hum.

"Anakin."

Startled, Anakin opened his eyes. Belatedly, he realized he was nuzzling Obi-Wan's palm, the burrowing a source of calm and quiet. Slowly, dread filling the quiet, he focused on Obi-Wan. What would he find in Obi-Wan's expression?

Humiliation seized Anakin when he met Obi-Wan's astonished expression. Unable to sustain the eye contact that laid a claim on Anakin's soul, he lowered his chin, dislodging the palm resting against his left cheek.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan repeated. Although the urge to look up was near-irresistible, Anakin gritted his teeth and focused on the tips of their boots. They stood close, but it had seemed so much closer while he had looked into Obi-Wan's eyes.

"Don't be embarrassed, dear," Obi-Wan said, his voice pitched excruciatingly gently. His Coruscanti accent wrapped around the term of endearment. A finger curled under his chin to help him tip his chin back up. Anakin could have pulled away or resisted Obi-Wan's guiding touch.

Instead, his lips went slack, and his eyes flicked up before his face did. Obi-Wan looked as powerless as Anakin felt.

"Is this an impulse?" Anakin asked, his voice a soft whisper.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Premeditated," he said.

"You want..." Completing this sentence was too mortifying; it left Anakin open to rejection. And Anakin feared rejection, the shame of humiliation his undoing.

"I want you, Anakin," he said. "And maybe I never realized until I couldn't stop calling you mine despite my reservations and better judgment."

"But you didn't remember me when you said that, Master."

"And that's the source of this problem, dear. I would never have addressed you so otherwise. And once I saw your reactions, I couldn't forget."

Anakin nodded earnestly, pressing his chin against Obi-Wan's finger.

"Because you are beautiful," Obi-Wan said. "Angelic, really."

Angelic. Anakin's Master had called him beautiful and angelic so casually. While Anakin stewed in flustered embarrassment and timid vanity, Obi-Wan sounded unaffected. His eyes pierced Anakin, picking him apart like his honeyed words.

Anakin swallowed thickly, aware that his cheeks felt hot. 

"I can't forget anymore," Obi-Wan confessed. "You stepped into that tent, and I knew I had to have this beautiful man. I knew I wouldn't know rest until I kissed those lips you bit raw so carelessly and wrapped my hands around your waist."

Anakin spluttered, suddenly hyper-aware of his chapped lips and the utility belt snatching the fabric of his tabard around his waist.

"And for weeks, I haven't known rest," Obi-Wan said.

Anakin wet his lips unconsciously, growing even more overheated when Obi-Wan's gaze dropped to his lips.

The hand slipped from Anakin's chin, telling him he had moved first. He pressed closer, bridging those last few centimeters until his fists balled in the lapels of Obi-Wan's tabard. A shuddering sigh escaped him, tension and nerves set free.

Then, their lips brushed in a fleeting, feather-soft touch. It almost tickled, his lips tingling under the touch and the knowledge that his lips touched Obi-Wan.

Anakin gasped against Obi-Wan's lips, who moved to place a kiss on the tip of Anakin's nose.

"Is this okay, dear heart?"

"Yes," Anakin said solemnly. The word twisted into a promise, its gravity making Obi-Wan lean in again.

"That's a relief."

Anakin hummed in agreement, his gaze on Obi-Wan's lips as they shaped around the words. He wanted them to move against his.

"Because I've wanted to do this for weeks."

Obi-Wan's hand ran through his curls, tightening around his hair to angle his head. Breathlessly, Anakin waited, his heart pounding in the hollow of his throat in anticipation.

"You're silent, dear."

"I'm waiting," Anakin protested, aware of how each word fanned against Obi-Wan's lips. The negligible sliver of space between them seemed to drag on for miles. Why were these last centimeters impossible to cross?

"Patience," Obi-Wan reprimanded.

Shocked, Anakin's jaw dropped.

Patience?

Did Obi-Wan lecture him while trying to kiss him?

When Obi-Wan moved in, Anakin leaned back, his throat arching impossibly. His head rested fully in Obi-Wan's hand, pressing against the fingers. The tendons in his throat strained uncomfortably, but the discomfort was forgotten when he met Obi-Wan's puzzled expression.

"Patience," he challenged.

Obi-Wan chuckled, and Anakin's stomach flipped several times. Dizzy, Anakin blinked, feeling ridiculously proud of making Obi-Wan laugh.

While maintaining eye contact for as long as possible, Obi-Wan lowered his mouth to Anakin's throat. The first open-mouthed kiss against the stretched column of his throat made Anakin squeak. An undignified, high-pitched noise that made Obi-Wan nibble on the skin.

He gasped as Obi-Wan kissed a trail up his throat, his hot tongue mapping out a path that meandered endlessly.

His journey took Obi-Wan to a sensitive area under Anakin's ear.

"May I kiss you, darling?" he asked, his voice softer than a whisper, a breath against spit-slick skin.

Anakin grunted. "Uh-uh," he managed. Obi-Wan straightened while Anakin remained arched back, balanced only by the hand in his hair supporting his weight. 

Obi-Wan's eyes were heavy-lidded as he observed Anakin. Nervously, Anakin wet his lips, worried about how chapped they were.

But Obi-Wan didn't seem to mind.

His free hand moved to Anakin's lips, tracing over them with the pad of his thumb. Then, his hands moved to Anakin's back, helping him balance.

A wounded sound escaped Anakin. He hadn't assumed a touch between his shoulder blades would feel so intimate, but Obi-Wan's palm resting proprietary between his shoulder blades seared. He hadn't known so many nerve endings lined his spine, but they all sang. He bucked in Obi-Wan's hold, so distracted by the touch that he missed Obi-Wan leaning over him. 

"It's okay, dear," Obi-Wan shushed.

Anakin produced an incoherent sound, his gaze flicking to Obi-Wan's face. Proximity blurred the details, but he could still see Obi-Wan's eyes before his own slipped shut.

Obi-Wan's lips slid smoothly over his, barely catching on Anakin's moist, chapped lips. After an endless moment, Obi-Wan's tongue replaced his lips, tracing a familiar path over Anakin's lips. Obi-Wan mirrored him, but the sensation was incomparable.

Because it was Obi-Wan.

Anakin's hands balled tighter in Obi-Wan's tabard, probably wrinkling the material beyond salvaging. The thought of leaving a mark satisfied him. Paradoxically, his heart slowed. It was easy to let Obi-Wan lead, giving and yielding but taking when Obi-Wan offered.

When Obi-Wan's lips pressed against the seam of his mouth, requesting access, Anakin responded eagerly. Yet, Obi-Wan pulled away again, watching him intently. He smiled warmly, and Anakin tried to return a smile.

A soft kiss landed on his cheeks, which burnt hot under Obi-Wan's lips. Anakin suspected he was redder than ever, a suspicion confirmed by Obi-Wan's single-minded focus on his cheeks.

"Kiss me?" Anakin asked, his lips moving over Obi-Wan's jawline, brushing through his beard, which was coarse against his tingling lips. Obi-Wan froze. Then, he moved to Anakin's lips faster than before.

Anakin sighed in relief or wonder, allowing Obi-Wan free access. His lips were still too slack, his mouth unresponsive, but Obi-Wan caught his bottom lip anyway, worrying the sensitive flesh between his lips and tongue. Obi-Wan's fist uncurled in his hand, cupping the back of his head instead. The hand on his back pressed Anakin closer, crushing Anakin's fists between their bodies. Remembering the existence of his hands, Anakin reached for Obi-Wan's face, letting his fingers run through Obi-Wan's beard.

Against his lips, Obi-Wan's beard was coarse, but the bristles were soft underneath his calloused fingers. Fascinated, Anakin mapped Obi-Wan's face blindly. Obi-Wan hummed, the sound vibrating in Anakin's body.

He responded with a wounded sound, his hands slipping away when Obi-Wan deepened the kiss impossibly, his tongue inside Anakin's mouth, roving over his teeth and flicking against the tip of Anakin's tongue. The tip, which Anakin always used to wet his lips when he was nervous. Their tongues were impossibly wet against each other, although Anakin's mouth had felt dry before.

Time turned syrupy, mimicking Obi-Wan's movements as he guided Anakin through the kiss. Obi-Wan was thorough in his mapping of Anakin's mouth, slow and steady. Leaning back in Obi-Wan's hold made the blood rush to his head, but Anakin barely noticed until Obi-Wan guided him upright, running his hands through Anakin's hair. Anakin's lips moved around nothing, the broken pattern tugging on his staticky mind and stomach.

Disoriented, utterly discombobulated, Anakin let him, almost whining in frustration or disappointment when Obi-Wan's hands fell to his sides. Anakin panted as if he had run a marathon. He blinked at Obi-Wan, his confusion probably visible in his expression, making Obi-Wan laugh. A deep, hoarse sound of amusement that rumbled against Anakin. Anakin's stomach clenched helplessly.

"Hello there, beautiful," Obi-Wan said.

It was so utterly unfair that Anakin could go even redder in the face, and he knew the red had likely migrated to his ears, the tip of his nose, and the hollow of his throat, too.

[walpu]

Walp walp!

Hear me out, Nameless!reader that's been to many places, even the dangerous ones since the Trailblaze Path grants them faint power and allows them to better adapt to harsh environments. So imagine Aventurine didn't hear a news from them for a LONG time, way longer than usual even for them, thinking they've abandoned him.

Until reader came back with so much scars and brusises, handmade stuff like patterned fabrics, sunburns, chunks of turquoise meteorites, a dishelved look, jewelries. Because they sure survived extreme harsh environment that has low precipitation with high risk of being hit by a small space object, and did I mention nameless!reader survived a ferocious tribe?

Aventurine was speechless, why would they go to such place for a long period of time until he takes a closer look of what kind of gifts they've made for him. They waited until it sinks in before showing him photographs of the place they were in. Sigonia-IV. Reader already shuts him up from the "you didn't have to do this" because no, as a follower of Akivili it's also their duty to traverse different kinds of worlds and embrace it, and their personal mission to get something for him made them deadset on going there.

They gotta admit, he's strong for surviving that kind of place, made them admire him even a bit more.

Maybe its because I'm sleep deprived but it made me SO emotional image not even kidding

Him having a peace of home, knowing that you're willing to do that fir him, that you care enough to think about small details like this 🥹🥹🥹

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Fall Season! 🍁🍂🌻🎃👻🧛🏻‍♀️ … Three faced goddess continuation 👉🏻👈🏻? God dammit shana i fucking loved this prompt, 2012 Tony is the only version that has rights and I’ve had such a problem with him ever since aou, but your writing took me back to when I actually loved his character

a continuations of 1

Rhodey heads to the smith, unsurprised to see a line of people outside of it, waiting for the man inside to succumb to his need to eat or sleep and pounce on him for whatever issue they believe needs his immediate attention. Peter is among them, the closest to an apprentice that exists, but he can’t enter the forge without everyone else pushing in too, so he waits with all the rest of them.

When they see him coming, they groan, knowing their chances have been destroyed, except for Peter, who just looks relieved.

He remembers a time when Edward belonged to him alone. Edward exists because of him, after all, and needs must, but sometimes he can’t help but resent that this is another piece that he’s had to share.

“When I walk back out, it better be to an empty hallway,” he says blandly.

He receives a chorus of, “Yes, General,” and a jaunty wave from Peter before he’s opening the door and then shutting it firmly behind him.

In the beginning, the alchemy lab and the forge had occupied the same space, the outpost not yet big enough to have the rooms to spare. It had been quickly remedied once Rhodey had found about it, because the last thing any of them needed was losing him to an explosion of his own making, but he can’t say he’s surprised to see a cauldron bubbling ominously in the center of the room. “You have a lab for a reason.”

Surprised brown eyes snap up to meet his, and then there’s that familiar grin that always causes tension to unspool from his spine, even when it really shouldn’t. “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. How goes the battle on the Eastern border?”

As if he doesn’t know. “They’re retreating. Our soldiers are holding the line and it looks like they’ve given up attacking us on that front. For now.”

“Sounds like something you should tell the king,” he says, frowning down into the cauldron as if it’s personally disappointed him.

Rhodey closes the distance between them, grabbing his chin and tilting his head to the side, frowning at the bruising mostly hidden by his hairline. “I am. But it’s a bit of wasted effort, considering the king is half the reason for their retreat.”

“Just half?” he pouts. “I really think that I deserve more credit-”

Rhodey kisses him to shut him up, a strategy that he’s been employing since they were teenagers, the whole reason necessitating Edward in the first place.

The second prince could not be scene dallying with someone so below him in station, the fact they were known to be friendly was a fluke of a broken wagon and much derision to all who heard of it. But Edward was no one, an educated fifth son of some nameless noble with a talent for metalwork, and no one cared if he kissed a commoner.

Then war had come knocking and a king could not do what needed to be done and so Edward had shifted from Rhodey’s to the country’s overnight.

Tony hums happily against his mouth and Rhodey pulls back rather than deepening it. Half the trick with was not letting him get distracted. “You need to get some sleep. Have you slept at all since getting back from the battle?”

The deep bruises under his eyes already tells him the answer, but it’s still worth asking.

“Need to figure this out,” he says, tilting his head to the cauldron. “It’s a coating for the blades to get them sharp enough to cut through armor. Not our armor, obviously, but other people’s.”

“A day,” he says, because Tony is needed everywhere at all times in all ways, and someone has to keep him from running himself into an early grave, and at the outpost, that’s him. “Just a day at home. I know you miss it. It’s been a while.”

Tony’s eyes go distant and fond. “Yes,” he agrees, and that one word has all the exhaustion that he won’t let show.

“You disappear all the time, no one will question it,” he murmurs, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“I’ll go if you will,” he returns. “You haven’t been home in even longer than I have.”

“Less of a need,” he argues, and he should argue against this too, when it’s unnecessary and dangerous, but he’s tired too. “Fine. We’ll need to sneak out to the woods if you don’t want to get caught.”

Tony clearly hadn’t expected him to agree that easily. “You hate flying.”

He hates how much pain it puts Tony in, but since he’s flying either way to get home, it doesn’t matter. “I’ll deal.”

Tony kisses him again, writes down some notes, douses the cauldron, and then they’re using the secret entrances that had actually been the whole point of building a lab near the forge. When they’re far enough away, Tony’s chest glows, the light and sparks spreading out from his chest to effulge his body and liquid gold and mercury sliding down his limbs. Rhodey has to close his eyes against the light, but Tony’s arms around him are always welcome, even when they burn almost too hot to stand.

The Iron Mage flying to the castle is a common enough sight that it raises no alarm and the brightness of Tony in flight means no one can tell he has a passenger, seen as nothing more than their own personal shooting star.

Tony melts the iron shutters back with a wave of his hand, likely reforming it behind them with a more intricate pattern than they’d been wrought with, because he always had such opinions about anything he hadn’t crafted himself.

He’s barely set Rhodey back onto his feet and folded the star back inside himself when there’s the running of little feet coming straight for them. Rhodey’s not surprised.

She’s always watching the stars, looking for her father.

Tony bends to pick up Morgan as she rounds the corner, barreling towards him with single minded intensity. “Daddy!”

“Hey, buttercup,” he says, hoisting her into her arms and settling her on his hip. “Miss me?”

“Yes,” she answers, wrapping her arms around Tony’s neck in a hug. She turns her head to grin at him, Tony’s eyes shining in her face. “Hi Rhodey. I missed you too.”

“Hi, Princess,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. She frees one arm from Tony to grab onto the front of his jacket, keeping him in place. He settled a hand on her back and that seems to satisfy her.

The door pushes open and Pepper is standing there, still with hair up and braided around a circlet and in a deep blue silk gown. “Someone here is supposed to be asleep.”  

Tony and Morgan’s innocent faces are identical and equally unconvincing.

“It’s me, isn’t it?” Rhodey asks.

“It’s all three of you, really,” she answers, striding forward. She squeezes his shoulder, then uses it as balance to push herself to her tip toes.

Tony bends to meet her in a kiss, chaste enough that Rhodey doesn’t feel the need to pull away but long enough that he assumes Tony’s sleep might end up experiencing a delay.

“I don’t want to go bed,” Morgan says. “Daddy’s home.”

“I’ll be here in the morning,” Tony says and Pepper’s face relaxes. “Come on, I’ll put you to bed myself, okay? And then you can tell me about all the new things you learned over breakfast.”

“I’m not tired,” she insists, but only waves at him when Tony pulls away to take her to her room.

Rhodey waves back, almost goes with them, but having the two of them there will just make her twice as riled up.

“I could have another, you know.”

He looks down at Pepper, blinking. “I thought – after the war?”

After the cave, after swallowing a star rather than being swallowed by it, Tony couldn’t justify staying on the sidelines, couldn’t justify only contributing to the war as Edward. Besides, being captured in the first place had shown him that he wasn’t safe as Edward anyway, but even Tony couldn’t justify taking to the battlefield without an heir, without a child of Stark blood to inherit, without a queen who could rule both while he fought and invented and in the event of his death.

Prince Gregory had been ten years older than Tony, he’d been the boy everyone knew would be king. Tony was just the spare, and not even one had on purpose. It’s why he’d had the freedom to meet Rhodey in the first place, to take on the name Edward and poke and prod his way through universities and labs and harassing blacksmiths into teaching him a craft a prince was never supposed to know. They’d assumed his father would arrange his marriage to some foreign noble for political reasons and Tony would install her onto an estate and do what was necessary to add a couple kids to the royal line and that would be that, he would then be free to spend his time on pursuits he enjoyed and with the man he loved. He was just the second prince, after all, it’s not like what he did really mattered, and he and Prince Gregory had never gotten along anyway.

Lots of people hadn’t gotten along with Prince Gregory, lots of people had thought his temper and his cruelty and several other attributes made him unsuitable as king. Maybe, on their own, they wouldn’t have mattered much – Rhodey thought Prince Gregory was not so much worse than King Howard – but he was constantly compared to the brother ten years his junior and found lacking.

They never found out who was behind the attack that killed Tony’s parents and brother. With their enemies sensing weakness and declaring war soon after, it was easy to pin the blame on them. But there were persistent rumors that it’d been someone, or several someones, that wanted Tony on the throne over his brother.

Rhodey doesn’t know if it’s true. All he knows is that relief rippled through the country far heavier than mourning.

The relationship he and Tony had, the future they’d mapped out, had been possible for a snubbed second prince and utterly impossible for a king. Tony had put off marriage for longer than he should have, but he couldn’t forever, and his urge to get out and fight now that he could pressed down on him.

Pepper had been his friend first. Their friend first. A noble, but only barely, and utterly unsuitable for the title of queen according to her pedigree and also the only one Tony would agree to marry so the rest hadn’t mattered.

If she were anyone else, he thinks he would have hated her. But Pepper had come to him after Tony had asked her and said, “I love him,” like throwing down a gauntlet.

He’d known. Who couldn’t help but love Tony, once they got to know him? And Pepper was beautiful and competent and trustworthy, could have Tony’s children and lead his country and keep all his secrets. And Tony might be able to resist falling in love with Pepper when she was only his friend and confidant, but as his wife, the mother of his children, his queen? He would fall.

“I want what’s best for him,” she’d continued in what he thought was going to be the worst conversation of his life, “and that’s me and you. He would never give you up. You know that. You should have a little more faith in him.”

“He needs you,” he’d said quietly. What Tony needed is something he couldn’t be, he wasn’t a noble or a woman.

Pepper had lifted her chin in defiance, every inch the queen she was going to become. “He needs us.”

That had been years ago. They made it work, awkwardly and painfully at first, but much smoother these days, warmer and easier. When the war ends, he thinks things might even be easy.

Tony and Pepper had needed to have a child and quickly, to secure the succession. She’d been pregnant within four months of their marriage and Princess Morgan’s birth had been greeted with relief by the country. Still, more heirs are better, especially with Starks being thin on the ground, but Tony resisted the idea of having another child in the midst of war, another child that he might die on and abandon.

Which is what makes Pepper’s statement so confusing.

“I didn’t mean right this second,” she says, lips turning up at the corners. “I know I’m not exactly your type, but I certainly wouldn’t mind the process myself. Morgan’s yours, of course, but if you wanted – I wouldn’t mind. Tony wouldn’t either.”

He understands what she’s offering and he’s shaking his head before she’s even finished talking. “We can’t – they’d know.”

“Maybe the next one will take after my genes,” she says. “Goddess knows Morgan’s all her father.”

She is, so clearly Stark, from her eyes to her intelligence to her love of trouble. But there’s no way a child of his could pass as a child Tony’s, which is what any child of the queen’s would have to be. Even if they came out pale enough to pass as a Stark, which isn’t any sort of risk they could take, it wouldn’t be worth the risk of anyone finding out that a child in line for the throne was not of the Goddess blessed bloodline.

“Tony’s children are my children,” he says, and means it. Pepper and Tony had always been clear about that and it had been a relief, to not have to be so close and yet so far, to be able to love Morgan as his daughter even if it was nothing he could ever say out loud. “Go and help him with her. I know you have a lot to catch up on.”

He’ll go to his room, with the bed and comforts that he’s missed quiet a lot, and get the sleep that he’s also missed.

She sighs, squeezing his arm. “Don’t wander. I get up early and Tony never sleeps through it.”

Tony will get up with her, and kiss her as she heads to the hall, then go down to his room and crawl into bed with him, still sleep warm, until he has to get up and put in an appearance as King Anthony.

Rhodey smiles and nudges her towards the hall. “Go on, your husband is waiting.”

“Our husband,” she corrects imperiously and doesn’t move until he laughs and nods and repeats her words back to her.

[kachowden]

Yandere Ex & Reader? Hell yeah.

Tw: Harassment, physical assault (not towards reader), weirdo behavior, Chris is a dickhead, suggestive mentions.

His skin prickled aggressively. Teeth clenched together, grinding against their own enamel.

“Christophe? man? You seein anyone new recently?”

His eyes trailed listlessly to the right of him. Nick wasn’t anything special in his mind. Average teen with slightly above average looks in the eyes of the campus. A constant pain in his as, but- useful. Very useful.

“You know I’m not. And don’t call me Christophe.” His tone did little to hide his irritation, though Nick seemed oblivious to it. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Yeah yeah whatever man. Does that mean you’ve gotten over that Ex of yours?”

Christophe’s shoulders tensed violently.

“So they’re on the market then right?”

“Fuck yeah dude!”

Two other members of their group laughed crudely, their names so insignificant that Christophe hadn’t made the effort to remember them. They weren’t useful.

His brows furrowed deeply in agitation, and he was quick to shoot the two teens a burrowing glare. “You shut your fucken mouth.”

Nick laughed awkwardly, patting the fuming blonde on the back. “Now now Chris…they’re just messing with ya…”

One of the other members didn’t seem to agree, his own confrontational personality showing light as he crossed his arms moodily. “I don’t see why your panties are in a twist. Last time I checked you two broke up sophomore year. Don’t you think it’s about time you move on and let the rest of us have a taste?”

The moronic teen made a crude hand gesture towards his friend, who seemed to recognize the tension in the air, and made the wise decision to glance away from the act.

Smart move on his end.

The thud of a body against tile echoed the empty corridor, the perverse male choked and sputtered against the hand that crushed his throat.

“I’d watch my tongue if I were you. With all the shit you spew I’m surprised someone hasn’t cut it out yet and saved the rest of us the headache.”

Blue eyes stared at brown eyes, so dark they looked black, and made quick work to try and wiggle his way out of Christophe’s hold.

“F-fuck Off-!” A fist in his gut made him nearly hurl, his eyes straining and bugging painfully in his sockets from the blood rising to his face. His stomach heaved incessantly, and at this rate he found he might die from asphyxiation on his own bile. Not that he knew what asphyxiation was.

Christophe watched boredly.

“D-dude chill out-“ the other nameless tried to de-escalate the situation, but was quick to stop when he saw the look in Christophes eyes. “J…just say sorry man..” that was directed at the pinned idiot, his smart mouthed friend.

The blue faced male was sane enough to try and spew out an apology, it sounding disgustingly gurgled, though it was the best he could manage while on the verge of passing out. Christophe sneared, dropping the male to the floor.

The blue eyed teen landed to the floor with a heaving thud, his body contracting in its vicious attempts to breath again, his buddy sliding next to him and trying to keep him alive.

“Let’s go.”

Christophe’s indifferent tone was appealing at best, as he made his way down the corridor.Nick was quick to follow.

“You think they’ll snitch?”

A scoff.

“No. He’s stupid. Not suicidal.”

————-

There you were. Mindlessly reading. Fitting, since you were in a library.

This had become routine for Chris.

He found it in himself to admit he could stare at you for hours. And he had before.

It wasn’t hard too. What drew him to you now was the same thing that drew him to you before.

You were so….you. It was weird in a painfully charming way.

You were such a normal person. You had your own quirks, like everyone did. But you didn’t stand out. You weren’t popular. You weren’t a social outcast either. You were just…kinda there.

It was enthralling at the best of times. Irritating at the worst. Perfect at most.

He could acknowledge that your normalcy was intoxicating. Especially in his day to day life.

Christophe would never acknowledge however, the way he still clung to the sight of you after all these years. That your departure from him had affected him as much as it did. That would be soul crushing. Because it meant you still had power over him, which he very much knew you did. But he’d never admit it. Even to himself. He’d die parading it as some morbid interest in your breaking point. In his desire to study you like a lab rat. Someone he’d poke at until he got the reaction he wanted.

And he always got what he wanted.

But even then. Even if he claimed that, his interest in you was not romantic. Was not what it once was years ago.

Your skin looked so empty now, and he physically ached with the desire to leave marks on it like he once did.

He knew deep down he was lying.

The staring quickly became unsatisfactory, and with little hesitation he made his way over to your table, his hand slamming beside yours as he hovered over you, a cruel grin stretched on his lips.

“Looks like the nerd decide to hang out in its natural habitat today.”

“…..”

He fucken hated when you ignored him.

“Your friends finally ditch you Y/n? Surprised it took this long.” He didn’t mean that. If your friends had any sense they’d never leave you alone.

“Go away Christophe.”

Fuck.

He loved it when you said his name. Something primal always sprang forward, and you were none the wiser to being the only one who could call him that without getting a broken nose.

“Why? I just wanna hang out with my favorite person in the whole wide world~” his expression was pulled into a pitiful frown, though he knew you could see through his bullshit. You always could.

“……”

He growled deep within his throat, hand darting forward and snatching the book from your own

The sudden grin on his collar didn’t register until it was choking him, and his eyes were met with the sight of your scalding glare. Your noses bumped together, and it took everything in Christophe to not look at your lips, otherwise he knew he’d try to kiss them. He had very little self control in moments like these.

“Fuck off Chris. Give me back my book.”

Fuck he wanted to listen to you so bad, his thighs were quick to clench together in anticipation, licking his suddenly chapped lips as he trembled in your hold. Though not from fear like you probably suspected. If you were even paying attention to details like that, which- god he prayed you were.

“Careful-! Wouldn’t want the faculty seeing you manhandle their favorite student” He tossed the book to you, and once you caught it you dropped him to the ground.

His eyes darted upwards, the visual of you above him, staring at him like the filth on your boot was burned into his retinas.

Fuck fuck fuck.

“You’re pathetic Christophe. When are you gonna get over me.”

Never. Never, he would stay hooked on you for the rest of his life and he’d known that even before you both broke up

He’s craved you for years. Ages. You’d never know the true extent of how pathetic he was.

“Like I’d still be interested in someone like you Y/n. The end of our relationship was like a blessing. I’d never felt so alive.” Liar. Liar liar liar. It was painful saying these things. Even if your expression was exciting, the way he got to see it almost wasn’t worth it. They burned his tongue.

Being away from you was like being wrapped in heavy cuffs and weights. He felt more suffocated then ever. He needed you.

“Whatever. Just leave me alone this week. I have enough bullshit to deal with right now.”

He had so many questions. He wanted to ask what was wrong. To hold you and tell you that you could talk to him. That whatever, or whoever was bothering you, he’d beat the shit out of them if you asked. He’d do it even if you didn’t too.

But he stayed quiet. And he watched as you left him their on the floor. You cared so little for him.

He savored the backwards glance you threw his way.

Fuck.