#trying to make myself a scene pack and I keep getting distracted

[stewystew]

Another clip bc I would do anything for them

[moody-alcoholic]

Visit to Manchester

Another scene I wrote for my fic that got removed.

Summary: Established relationship Simon x OC, 1.6k words. Mentions of feeling sick and vomiting, throwing up, unplanned pregnancy scare (kinda), mentions of medication including birth control, hurt/comfort... I don't watch football, I don't know which team is better :(

MASTERLIST

Enjoy <3

I promised I would spend the weekend in Manchester with Simon but after the 3 hour train ride I was feeling exhausted. I would have driven but I was not feeling well, I woke up with a headache I couldn’t shake for hours. Then my stomach had been doing flips all day. I had gone through a whole pack of alcohol wipes using them to quell the constant urge to vomit. I should have maybe cancelled, but I made the trip anyway, it’s only for 2 days. I’m sure it’s just something I’ve eaten I’ll probably feel better later. Or I could just be hungry? I tried to push the thought away as the train came into Manchester station. I stepped onto the platform and headed through the gates, I saw Simon distracted by his phone. I smiled and walked over to him picking up my pace so I could jump in his embrace. He looked up from his phone smiling as he hugging me. He smelt of aftershave I had to pull back from the hug, it made my stomach do flips again. He plants a kiss on my forehead and I grab his hand as we go outside.

“How was the train?” He asked leading me to the car park.

“Okay I guess, it was busy.” It was Friday peak evening rush, I should have come a day earlier.

“You should have driven you wouldn’t need to worry about parking.” I shrug. We get to his car and I throw my bag in the back seats then get in the front. I feel the rush of adrenaline as my mouth fills with saliva. I force myself to swallow, the embarrassing thought of throwing up in his car grounds me.

“Do you have any mints?” I ask as he pulls out the parking spot.

“Should be some gum somewhere.” I start looking through the glove box sure enough there’s an open packet. I pop one in my mouth offering him one. He shakes his head. The drive to his flat was quick only about 10 minutes I listened to him talk about what he was doing in London, it gave me something to focus on other then the pit re-forming in my stomach. When we got to his place I spat the gum in a trash bin and followed him to the lift. He was on the top floor so we would get a nice view of Manchester, or at least that’s what he promised. I had to squeeze his hand to keep myself grounded, by the time the lift made it to his flat I was trying to hide the hot flush that came over me.

“Sorry the place is a bit of a mess I only got back yesterday.” He says as he opens the door. He didn’t seem to notice my change in demeanour, inviting me inside. It was a nice flat, open plan bar the bedroom and bathroom, and the nice balcony overlooking the city. I smiled making my way over to the couch, dropping my bag by the coffee table. He turned on lights and opened the balcony door a bit letting fresh air in. The breeze was nice. I took my shoes off as he came to sit next to me. Extending his arm out so I could rest my head on his shoulder.

“You okay?” He asks. I panic I don’t want him to think there is anything wrong but It just makes the feeling worse, the lump comes back in my throat.

“Yeah, just feeling a bit… ill.” I said, he pulled back looking at me.

“Do you need anything?” He asked.

“Water?” I ask. He kisses my forehead then gets up. I sit up feeling my mouth fill with saliva again. I try to swallow but it doesn’t help. I freeze feeling shivers run up my body. I’m going to be sick. I stand up walking to the bathroom, but it soon turns into a run as I barely make it to the toilet before I’m vomiting into the bowl. I grip the seat heaving until I’m sweaty and exhausted. I reach up and flush the toilet hearing Simon knock on the bathroom door.

“Can I come in?” He asks.

“Yeah.” I croak. He walks in handing me a glass of water I swill my mouth out and spit it in the toilet. I sit back against the sink looking up at him. He bends down in front of me.

“I’m sorry.” I say. “I think it was something I ate.”

“It’s alright.” He says brushing my hair out my face. I drink some more water trying to get the taste of vomit out my mouth, when I’m feeling better and my stomach has settled Simon helps me to my feet. He goes into the bedroom and I follow him grabbing my bag from beside the coffee table. He’s rummaging through his wardrobe, as I strip changing my shirt to something more comfortable. I feel clammy as I throw my pants, shirt and bra onto the floor. My whole body feels fragile as he walks over to me with a blanket in his arms.

“You want to lie down? Or we could just chill on the sofa?” He says.

“Sofa sounds nice.” I reply. He takes my hand in his and I follow him out to the sofa. He sits down leaning back. Giving me plenty of room to lie up against him. I smile at him and sit on the sofa. I want to lie in his shoulder but the pain in my stomach forces me to plant my head on his thighs.

“Want a pillow?” He asks throwing the blanket over me.

“I’m okay.” I say, I was feeling exhausted now. Simon’s hand slips under the blanket and he rubs my back.

“What me to put the TV on?” He asks.

“Yeah.” Some background noise might actually help give my mind something to focus on. He reaches over to the remote turning it on and channel surfing until he lands on a Top Gear re-run. I feel him lean back more giving me more room for my head. He rubs his hand up and down my back. Eventually I close my eyes exhaustion taking over I feel Simon’s hand move under my shirt pressing on the small of my back making me relax into him more, before I knew it I had dosed off.

I was woken to the sound of the doorbell. I jumped awake looking out the window it was dark now.

“Sorry, I did tell them not to ring the bell.” I sit up feeling dizzy. He gets up heading to the door. I see him take a bag from someone and say thank you.

“I was going to order Chinese but it thought maybe you might want something a bit lighter.” He comes over to the sofa. “There is this great deli does the best panini’s I’ve ever had.” I smile as he starts taking food out the bag. I pick up a bottle of water and gulp it down. My stomach felt more settled now.

“It’s mozzarella, tomato and pesto.” I take it out his hand and rip the paper off. It did smell amazing. I took a bite hoping it would go down easy and I wouldn’t be heaving into the toilet again. He was right though it was amazing.

“So they put crack in the pesto or something?” I ask smiling at him.

“Yeah I think that’s it.” He laughs. I demolish the sandwich as we contemplate what to watch. I let him pick and I snuggle up to his chest with his arm round me. I’m not paying attention to the TV so he ends up on Sky sports watching the local game. I don’t mind, I’m just happy my brain isn’t in ‘do not vomit’ mode. He leans back once he is happy with his choice.

“I thought Man-U weren't playing this week?” Trying to sound invested in what was going on.

“This is Man city love,” He says running his and down my back.

“Which ones the good one?” I ask. He chuckles pulling my body further up his chest.

“Depends on who you ask.” He says. I watch the players run around trying to focus on what the casters where saying, hoping I could understand something so I didn’t come across as the typical woman who knows nothing about football. Every now and then something would happen and Simon would explain what was happening. I listened to his enthusiastic remarks then it went to half time. Simon got up clearing the trash and taking a beer out the fridge. He didn’t offer me one but he asked if he could have one. I was almost taken aback by the question, nodding my head telling him ‘of course it’s your place.’ He came back to the sofa pulling me back on his chest and making sure I was covered by the blanket. I felt him relax back down as he took a sip from the can.

“I’m not pregnant by the way.” He seemed shocked by the statement, coughing mid drink, I guess it was pretty out of the blue. He placed his can on the coffee table wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I never thought… I wasn’t worried about that.” He says as I feel his body stiffen.

"I’m on the pill.” I say gripping his body tighter. He seemed flustered as he squeezes my hip. “Periods are a bitch on deployment.” I explain, trying to lighten the mood. He smiles down at me kissing my forehead.

“It’s okay.” He says. Those two words reassured me every thing was okay. It made me relax back into his chest while he adjusts the volume on the TV as the game starts up again. I smile rubbing my hand on his stomach.

“So do we like this team or not?” I ask as his hand finds its familiar spot on my back.

“Yeah we like this team.” He replies kissing the top of my head.

[clown-friend-gt]

Octomer Chapter Five

TW: Blood, violence, implied death

It's finally finished, and only one day late! Thank you to everyone who read this far. This chapter gets a little heavier and more action-packed towards the middle, but it gets lighter towards the end again.

This isn't the end for these characters, by the way. This story is just an introduction to them, and I'll probably still write scenes between them, when the mood strikes. If you have anything you want to see, or anything you'd like clarification on, feel free to let me know.

I hope you enjoy the last part of this story

************************************************************************

Spots didn’t come back to visit me the next day. Or the next. Or even the day after that. By the end of the week, I was starting to worry I’d dreamed the whole encounter.

I’d finished getting unpacked. Now all there was to do was get caught up on my work, but I kept getting distracted. I kept looking out the window, hoping I’d see him out by the cliff each time. But I had no such luck.

At night, I’d go out and sit on the edge of the cliff like I had that first night. I’d sing “La Mer” until I got sick of it. Then I sang every other song I could think of, hoping that the sound of my voice would be enough to bring him back. In the end, I only ended up making myself hoarse.

The weekend arrived and I had nothing to do. Thankfully my phone started working again the morning after Spots left, but I couldn’t stand the thought of sitting around the house all day. No, I had to get out and do something.

There was a short dock down at the beach where my grandpa used to keep his boat tied up. In addition to the house, Grandpa had also left me the boat in his will. I figured now was as good a time as any to check it out.

I left the house around noon. It was a clear but windy day, perfect for sailing. I tied my brunette hair back in a low ponytail so it wouldn’t whip into my face. Then I went down to the beach.

Grandpa’s boat sat right where it always had, along the side of that old dock. It was a little catboat, just over fifteen feet long with only one sail. Above the waterline, it was painted a bright white. The bottom of the boat was painted blue.

The first thing I did was untie the boat. The rope latching the boat to the dock had a thin layer of dust on it; clearly it had been a few years since Grandpa had been able to take it sailing.

Then, making sure I had a firm hold of the rope, I moved to the back of the boat and began pushing it out to sea. I dug my feet into the sand and pushed. It was difficult with the sand trying to slip out from under my feet, but I got the boat moving soon enough.

Now, for the hard part. I crawled onto the side of the boat, trying not to tip it too much. There was no way I could tip this thing over by myself, but if I got it rocking too hard, it’d be hard to stand.

I waited for the rocking of the boat to subside enough to try to stand. I got one foot underneath me, then the other. It was such an odd feeling to try and balance on an uneven surface, but soon enough, I got my sea legs back.

I started by checking the lines the way my grandpa had taught me. The first few times we sailed together, he drilled me on this so many times, there was no way I could ever forget. I got everything untangled and ready to go.

Then I checked the flag at the top of the mast to see which way the wind was blowing. Grandpa told me he could just feel the direction of the wind on his face, but I never got the hang of that. I was just glad he’d kept the flag. Maybe he’d done it for my sake.

Don’t cry now, you have work to do, I told myself, swallowing the emotion before it overwhelmed me.

I used the tiller to point the bow into the wind. The water lapping against the hull kept pushing it off-kilter as I worked. Surely there was a better way to do this, but it wasn’t coming to me, so I kept having to stop to readjust as I hoisted the sail.

Finally, everything was ready. I adjusted my heading, trimmed the sail, and sat down by the tiller, preparing for the trip ahead of me. But as I drifted out into open water, I remembered something my grandpa always warned me about.

“Don’t forget your lifejacket, Sabrina!” I could almost hear him chiding me.

I rolled my eyes, but he’d always insisted, “Lifejackets save lives!”

I was always a strong swimmer, so I felt confident I could keep myself afloat if worst came to worst. But as long as I was honoring his memory, I’d honor his warnings as well.

I stood carefully and went to the cabinet where the lifejackets were stored. Inside was a blue life jacket, faded and covered in dust, along with two other things. A compass and a letter.

I hesitated for a moment. What were they doing there? My grandpa had always kept his compass with him, hung around his neck by a cord. I thought he would’ve been buried with it.

And that letter…

The boat lurched suddenly, reminding me where I was. Right now, I didn’t have time to stand around wondering what was going on. I had a boat to pilot. I scooped the items out of the cabinet and shut it tight.

I fumbled back over to the tiller. The angle of the boat was off, so I tried to fix that while putting on my lifejacket at the same time. It was a bit tricky, and probably would’ve taken less time if I’d just done one, then the other.

I kept the letter trapped underneath my foot so the wind wouldn’t steal it away. My shoes were covered in sand, but I cared more about keeping the letter safe than keeping it clean at the moment. The compass slid across the deck as I struggled with the tiller and my jacket.

Finally, I got everything sorted. I was far enough out that I could reef the mainsail for a minute. That’d keep it from blowing all over the place, giving me time to check the letter.

I picked it up and brushed the sand off as best as I could. The envelope had my name on it, written in cursive. It must’ve been from grandpa.

I tore it open, desperate to find out what he had to say after all those years. The whole letter was in his messy cursive, and the wind kept threatening to tear it from my hands, so I had some trouble making it out. It read:

“Mon ange,

If you are reading this, it means I am gone. I hope we got to speak one last time before the end, but knowing the both of us, it is doubtful. You could always be very stubborn. I suppose you got that from me.

So you’ve chosen to pick up sailing again! Wonderful! Even better, you had the good sense to listen to me and wear a life jacket. Remember this always, for the sea can be a cruel mistress.

There is so much I would like to say to you. So much has gone unsaid between us over the years, old wounds gone untouched. I want you to know that I still love you no matter what, and I am proud of you.

I do not wish to speak much on the day that drove us apart. I know that you probably have not forgiven me. But as long as you understand what I was trying to teach you, I am at peace. This world is so much bigger, and so much more dangerous than you know.

But I’ve given you everything you need to navigate this new world you may find yourself in. You have a trusty vessel, one that contains some of my happiest memories. I cherish the time we spent together here, and I hope you still can as well.

You also have my compass. May it never fail you or lead you astray. But there may come a time when it does, when all of man’s tools fail you. When that time comes, I hope you’ll remember everything I’ve taught you. That is my final gift to you.

Good fortune and good weather to you, mon ange.

         Bon voyage,       

Grandpa"             

A drop of water hit the paper. I felt tears streaming down my face. I wiped my eyes to avoid spilling any more water on the page. Then I folded the letter up and stuck it in my breast pocket for safekeeping.

I look to the palm of my hand, where Grandpa’s compass sits. It’s old, but the needle still points dutifully north. I squeeze it once, before hanging it around my neck.

I felt ready for whatever the world might throw at me.

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As it turns out, I wasn’t as ready as I thought I was. I steered the boat through the wind so that the wind switched from one side to the other, but I kept forgetting to move out of the way of the boom. It smacked me on the side of the head more than once before I realized I needed to duck out of its way.

Managing the sail was a struggle too. Whenever the wind picked up and I started travelling too quickly, I tried to reef the sail like Grandpa taught me. But each time it’s too little, too late.

By the time I realized I was way too far out, the sun was starting to lower in the sky. I checked my phone to see if I could pull up a map or dial 911, but it flashed with that same teal light as before, with weird symbols trailing across the screen.

I put my phone away and tried to check the compass. If I could just figure out which direction I was headed, I could make my way home. But the needle was spinning aimlessly, like it had no idea where I was either.

I was reminded of something my grandpa used to say. Whenever he was teaching me about the stars, or telling me of his adventures, he’d talk about places where “the tools of Man fail.”

A shiver ran down my spine as I realized how much trouble I was in.

Suddenly, the boat lurched wildly, like something had just rammed into it. I clung to the sides, praying the boat didn’t capsize. When the boat began to settle, I cautiously peered over the side to see what caused the disturbance.

Vaguely, I saw a figure below the surface. Human-like, but much bigger. Its arm reached towards my boat, apparently touching the keel below, causing the boat to tilt back and forth. I couldn’t make out any details, but I only knew of one mercreature in the area that size.

“Spots?!” I called out, hoping to get his attention so he’d stop messing with the boat.

The figure’s head shot up. Our eyes met.

It was not Spots.

I froze in place as its massive tail flapped beneath it and propelled itself upwards. Its head breached the water about fifty feet away. The wave that resulted from the humongous figure emerging from the water sent my boat skidding back, nearly tipping it over.

By the time I regain my balance, I’m caught in the shadow cast by the enormous mercreature. It loomed over me, peering down at me like I was an insect. Long black hair stuck to its face, dripping with water. Dark, shark-like eyes glare at me from underneath.

Water rolled off its huge, pale body in rivers. Scars crisscrossed across its torso. Around its navel its skin was gradient, slowly shifting to the mottled gray color of its lower half.

It reached towards the boat again. I wanted to scream. To abandon ship and swim away. But there was nothing I could do but watch as its hand got closer and closer.

It plucked me from the boat with two fingers. I kicked and flailed, but I couldn’t escape the creature’s grasp. My stomach plummeted as I rose rapidly into the air. It brought me higher and higher until I was face to face with it.

Where Spots would watch me with a playful curiosity, this thing stared at me with a sadistic malice. Its mouth split into a cruel grin, putting its conical teeth on full display. A low, rolling clicking sound echoed from its throat, reminding me of the creature from Predator.

That’s when I started screaming.

I screamed and screamed for what felt like a full minute, until my lungs were empty, and I was gasping for breath. In that moment, I was sure that it was going to eat me. That I’d finally found one of the monsters that my grandpa had warned me about all those years ago.

It made no move to bring me closer to its mouth like I thought it would. Instead it brought me to its eye, turning me this way and that so it could inspect me in detail. Then it starts shaking me like I’m some kind of toy.

I squealed and shrieked as it bounced me up and down, clinging to its fingers for dear life. That only made the thing grin wider. Then it tossed me up into the air. Distantly, I heard it cackling as I screamed my head off. As quickly as it started, the horrible experience is over and I’m sitting in the palm of its hand, dazed from the impact.

I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for it to stop tormenting me. Maybe if I stopped reacting, it’d get bored of me. Would it eat me then?

Suddenly, the creature stops messing with me. I heard a low growl coming from it, and I opened my eyes again to see what’s going on. It was no longer even looking at me, instead glaring at the water below. Its hand lowered slowly as its attention was drawn elsewhere.

Cautiously, I crawl over to the edge of its hand to see what it’s looking at. I can’t make out make out anything except for two huge golden eyes staring from the deep. The glowing eyes narrow as they meet with the eyes of the other mercreature.

Spots erupted from the water before the other mer. His teeth were bared and he growled furiously at his opponent.

“Spots!” I called out to him. If anyone could help me, it was him.

His eyes flicked down at me for only a moment. His expression didn’t change, and soon enough he was back to sizing up his opponent. The other mer stood almost a head taller than him, but he didn’t back down.

Without warning, the hand I was sitting in tipped, and I started freefalling. A scream escaped me, and Spots eyes darted back to me. His face fell and he lunged towards me, his hand outreached to catch me. But before he could, the monster tackled him back below the waves.

Hitting the water knocked the wind out of me. I reflexively gasped while my face was still submerged, and my lungs filled with water. Then I bobbed back up, hacking and sputtering, trying to cough up all the water. My lungs felt like they were burning.

My life jacket kept me afloat, but the waves churned vehemently, tossing me around. I desperately tried to regain my composure, but I was thoroughly discombobulated. I looked around wildly for something to cling to.

Grandpa’s boat sat a short distance away. It had capsized completely, but it was my only hope. I paddled towards it frantically. It took a while, but I made it eventually.

I clung to it like it was my only lifeline, which it basically was. With some difficulty, I scrambled on top, so I wasn’t relying on the strength of my arms to keep me anchored. Then, once I was secure enough, I looked over the edge.

Under the water, the two titans clashed. Their battle was what caused the waves to roil so intensely. Occasionally, they’d burst above the water as they fought, and I caught glimpses of the action.

Spots had his tentacles wrapped around almost every part of the other, whale-like mer. Around its tail, its torso, around one of its arms, and even its neck. Meanwhile, the whale had its mouth clamped around one of Spots arms, locking it in place. Spots clawed at its eyes with his free hand, his hooked claws digging into its face.

Each time they crash below the water again, another wave emanated from the disturbance, rocking the boat. I clung anxiously to the keel, praying that I wouldn’t be flung back into the ocean.

Finally, though, my luck ran out. One huge wave crashed into me and knocked me from the boat. I fell back under the waves again, flipping around violently as the current fought to try and keep me below. But thanks to my life jacket, I eventually surfaced.

This time though, I was much farther away from the boat. And before I could even think to start swimming in that direction, the two giants surfaced again. The whale’s face was beginning to turn blue from lack of oxygen, and its unbound arm flailed unpredictably. Then, all of a sudden, its thrashing hand crashed into the boat, smashing it to pieces.

I didn’t have time to mourn the loss. I was under a spell watching those two beasts at war. The whale’s jaw released Spots’ arm as it gasped for breath. Spots flipped immediately, turning to face it head on. He grasped the whale’s head and pushed him back underwater.

The whale thrashed and flailed, but Spots didn’t let up. The expression on his face is one of absolute hatred. He held fast and gritted his teeth with the effort he was exerting.

Then, finally, the whale let loose an awful scream. I’m certain that if it weren’t muffled by the water, it would’ve shattered my eardrums. But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is just how painfully human the thing’s scream is.

Spots let go and let the spasming whale sink into the depths. I don’t know what he did to it, but there’s so much blood. He watched it descend, the expression on his face unchanged.

Then he looked up at me, and I started to shiver. Whether it was from the cold ocean or the horror from what I just saw, I didn’t know. My heart pounded in my chest as he swam towards me.

His face softened the moment our eyes met, but in that moment, I couldn’t find any comfort in it. He tilted his head at me and chirped. I swallowed down the bile that rose in my throat.

Then, all of a sudden, I was rising into the air. Slower, more gently than the other mer, Spots lifted me out of the water, his palm underneath me. At the same time, he lowered himself into the sea, until we were at eye level.

He chirped again, quieter this time. I was trembling so much I could hardly speak.

“Sp—Spots?”

He nudged me with his nose, and a whimper escaped me. He leaned away, a hurt look in his eye.

“I—I—” I sputtered, unable to find the right words.

I looked over the side of his hand. Floating in the bloody water are bits and pieces of Grandpa’s boat. Spots leaned and looked past me, watching the scene as well. Then, with his other hand, he reached out and gently pinched a piece of the detritus in between his claws.

He set it down in front of me. I crawled over to it and flipped it over. The name of the boat was written on the board.

“Mon Ange”

The dam broke. I started sobbing. I was cold and wet and scared and I had no idea where I was and I just lost one of the last things my grandpa gave to me. I was on my hands and knees, my body wracked with sobs.

I felt something gently press against my side. It was Spots’ thumb. He clicked softly at me.

Despite everything, I clung to him. He was all I had at the moment. I wrapped myself around his tree-trunk sized thumb and wept.

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Once I was all out of tears, Spots set me on his chest as he float on his back. He wasn’t headed in any direction, just letting the current carry him. His hand was laid on top of me, his thumb gently rubbing against me to keep me warm.

I stared out into space, no idea what to do. I had no idea which way home was, and it didn’t seem like Spots knew either. My phone was gone, and the compass’s needle still spun uselessly.

I could feel Spots’ heartbeat. It was slow and relaxed. His chest rose and fell with a gentle rhythm. It was like being on the world’s slowest roller coaster, or some kind of living hill.

The stars were beautiful that night. They twinkled delicately at me from above. The wind blew softly and the waves lapped at Spots’ sides gently. I might’ve even enjoyed it if I wasn’t hopelessly lost at sea.

Then it hit me. The stars. I traced them with my eyes, double, then triple-checking my observations.

I knew how to get home!

I squirmed beneath Spots’ hand. He tilted his hand up and I crawled to freedom.

“Spots!” I called. “Listen up! I know how to get home!”

He tilted his head down towards me, blinking sleepily. Then he rose slowly, and with a start I realized I was going to lose the ground I was standing on. I tried to cling to his chest but started slipping as the wet surface gradually shifted from horizontal to vertical.

Luckily, Spots had thought ahead, and kept his hand palm up beneath me as he got up. I fell down into it with a thump. Then he raised his hand in front of his face so he could see what I wanted.

I got to my feet. The surface beneath me had much more give than I anticipated, and I nearly fell over. But I’d gotten plenty of practice balancing on uneven surfaces earlier that day and managed to get used to standing in the palm of his hand pretty quickly.

“Listen!” I pointed in the direction of home. “If you take us this way, we can get back home!”

He tilted his head. I mentally kicked myself. He had no idea what I was saying.

“This way!” I kept pointing emphatically. When that didn’t work, I started making swimming motions.

“You! Swim!” I did the breaststroke with my arms.

“That! Way!” I pointed again.

He made some clicking noises. He began to lower me towards the water.

“No! No!” I shouted, shaking my head and gesturing wildly. He stopped.

“You!” I pointed at him several times for emphasis.

“Swim!” I repeated my earlier motion.

“That way!” I pointed towards home again.

He looked at me, confused, for a few seconds. Then, a little unsure, he pointed to himself, then in the direction I was pointing, flashing his lights as he did so.

“Yes! Yes!” I nodded enthusiastically, bouncing in place.

He paused, looked back at me, then nodded.

I felt myself rising again. He brought me up to the top of his head and tilted his hand, depositing me on top of his hair. I tumbled off and landed on my stomach with an “oof.”

Before I could question him, he began to sink under the water.

“Hey! What’re you—” I shouted.

He cut me off, chirping loudly. Then he started moving in the direction I’d indicated. He started slowly enough, but I still jolted forward. I clung to his hair for stability.

Then he began picking up speed. He swam faster and faster, keeping only his hair above water as he did so. My eyes watered as the wind rushed against my face. I shut my eyes tightly and waited for it to be over.

Eventually, he began to slow down again. I opened my eyes slowly as the wind died down. My stomach caught back up with me after seemingly being left behind several miles ago.

“Urghh…” I groaned, trying to keep my lunch down. I’m sure Spots wouldn’t appreciate it if I threw up in his hair.

I saw lights in the distance. Spots rose back out of the water as we approached the coast. He came to a stop several hundred feet from land and plucked me from the top of his head.

He held me in front of his face with his forefinger and thumb. He clicked questioningly, then turned me around to face the coast.

I scanned the landscape in front of me, trying to determine if I could figure out where we were. There were a few cliffs, but eventually, my eyes barely made out the shape of my grandpa’s house.

“There,” I told him, pointing as I did so. He put me back on top of his head and made his way towards the cliff.

He moved slower, like he was walking across the ocean floor instead of propelling himself through open water. I sat on top, holding onto his hair to keep my balance. The coast got closer and closer, until finally, we were there.

He pinched me gently in his fingers again and lowered me down to the cliff. He set me down on top. I turned to face him once my feet were on firm ground.

He brought his other hand in front of me. It was curled up into a fist. He unfurled it, and sitting on his palm was the board from my grandpa’s sailboat that he recovered.

“You kept it!” I exclaimed.

He smiled at the praise. Then he carefully took the piece in between two fingers and handed it to me.

We stood there in silence for a moment as I waited to see what Spots would do next. He kept looking away whenever I tried to make eye contact. Then he rubbed the back of his neck, almost as if he was feeling self-conscious.

He raised his hand and waved awkwardly before starting to sink underwater. Shocked, I set the board down and ran to stop him.

“Wait!” I called after him.

He looked up at me, halfway submerged.

“Come here!” I told him, laughing in disbelief.

He rose again, until he was back to where was before.

“Closer,” I said, indicating him forward with my hands.

He leaned in close, but still stopped short.

“Come on,” I urged, spreading my arms out for a hug.

Finally, he figured out what I was asking for, and grinned. He crashed into me, nuzzling up against me and chirping happily.

When he had settled down some, I kissed him on the bridge of his nose.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “For everything.”

************************************************************************

Life settled down after that. I fell into a routine. Grandpa’s house became my house, in my mind.

I ended up hanging the piece of his boat on the wall. It sucked that I didn’t have the whole boat, but this was the best I could do. Hopefully, Grandpa would be okay with that.

Sometimes I wonder what he would think of my life now. If he saw Spots and I together. Would he be angry? Scared for my life? Or could he learn to accept it, if he got to know Spots? If he came to realize that Spots was nothing like the monsters he’d seen in his time?

I guess I’ll never know.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when my laptop begins to act up. I pause the episode I was watching, not bothering to try and figure out what’s wrong. I’m used to the weird lights and esoteric symbols that plague the technology around me when he comes around.

There’s a tapping at the window. I look up to see a large finger pressed against the glass, leaving a huge fingerprint I’ll have to wipe off later. The finger retreats, and I see its owner leaning over the cliff to be able to reach the house.

Spots grins when he sees me look his way.

I set my laptop aside and went outside to see him. It’s late at night, which is when he usually comes to visit.

“There you are!” I greet him, and he chirps a greeting of his own.

It’s been a week or so since he’s been by. I’ve gotten used to the fact that he can’t visit me every day like when we were kids. He has his own life now, and I have mine.

I sit in the chair I’ve set up near the edge of the cliff. He folds his arms in front of me and lays his head on top. He stares intently, waiting for me to speak up.

I smile. “Let me tell you what I’ve been up to.”

[ash-whimsicalfanfic]

Serendipity (CH 5)

Leroy Jethro Gibbs X Fem OC/Reader

Word Count: 2586

Warning: Mild language, fluff, smut, angst, graphic scenes, death, murder, gore, violence, mature material…

Prompt: You have a major crush on Gibbs, however you choose to push it away as you fear he doesn’t feel the same way. Suddenly there is a bunch of chances that lead to a happy ending…

I was calm now and Abby fixed my makeup for me. She had an extra shirt for me to borrow. It was a black crop top with a plunge neckline. I had more chest area than Abby so I pulled at the shirt trying to cover it some. It had some chains criss-crossing across it and there was a skull with a bow on the shirt.

"You look great! Now go kick some ass...and save that camera and sketchbook." She says.

I laugh, hugging her before taking the stairs. It goes silent in the bullpen as they look at me. I shift uncomfortably.

"I-I didn't have an extra shirt. A-Abby lent me one of hers." I mumble.

Gibbs walks to my desk, grabbing my blazer as he throws it at me. Tony catches it before it could hit me in the face like it would have. He gives me a small smile, handing it to me. I nod slightly, shrugging it on as I go to my desk.

I open my sketchbook, grabbing tissues to soak up some of the coffee. It was effortless, but it kept me distracted. I grab my camera, pulling out cleaning wipes to clean it up. I turn it on and was relieved to see that it worked. I move the pictures over to my laptop before sending them to Tim and Abby.

I open my sketchbook and work away at it in silence despite the tension I felt. I could feel his eyes on me and it made me want to shrink away and disappear.

I start pulling the sketches out, pinning them to my empty bulletin board. I study them, trying to ignore the coffee stain. I grab the sketchbook and throw it in the bin.

"Problem, Y/L/N?" Gibbs asks.

"Boss, she has to have clear paper. It bothers her if it isn't. I think the coffee is making her upset." Tim says quietly.

"Y/N/N, don't you have an extra in your drawer?" Ziva asks softly.

I hated this. I was being treated like a baby since this stupid accident. I pull the sketches down, shoving them in a drawer as I grab my keys and my phone, jogging towards the elevator.

I was in the closet art store within minutes. I stood in the sketchbook aisle for a good twenty minutes, just staring.

"Ziva said you'd be here." Gibbs mumbles, moving to stand beside me.

I continue staring at the sketchbooks. I was kind of mental over my sketchbooks. I knew I was. But, I've never experienced something this bad before. Not to mention on top of this last week.

Gibbs stands next to me silently, observing me. I tried to keep my cards close to my chest, not wanting him to figure me out. I was falling to pieces and the only person who knew was Abby.

I step forward, grabbing a pile of sketchbooks and adding them to the cart. I got three different sizes, all the same color. I got like ten of each one. Hopefully it'll be awhile until I need more. I push the cart to the pencil aisle with Gibbs silently following behind me.

"Your trying to find a sense of control." He murmurs from behind me.

I keep silent. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was wrong. Either way, I found myself angered that he was trying to profile me. I reach out, grabbing a pack of sketching pencils to read the back. It's the brand I always get, but I found peace in reading the description on the back before tossing a bunch of packs of pencils in my cart. I found myself drifting through the aisles, tossing random stuff in my cart before paying.

I get to my car, ignoring Gibbs. I drive back, aware that he was right there behind me. I grab the bags and head towards the building. I try going for the stairs, but he grabs my arm and pulls me into the elevator. I stay silent, even when he presses the emergency stop button.

"I shouldn't of snapped at you earlier." He admits.

"Rule six." I mutter.

"I didn't say I was sorry. I just admitted I was in the wrong earlier." He says, quirking a brow at me.

"Sounded like an apology." I mutter.

"Maybe it was. Look, I shouldn't of snapped. I had no right. Your right though. I was jealous. It's hard not to be jealous though. The thought of losing you...it's a hard one to grasp." He admits quietly.

"Your the one who said we can't do this and I should just lose my feelings for you. Your the one who said I should find someone else. All because of your stupid rules." I snap.

"I know...can we talk after this case is done? At my house over some steak and beer. Please." He asks.

I stare at him for a moment before nodding slowly. I wasn't sure if this was a good idea. It probably wasn't. He probably was going to explain how we couldn't be together and why. Did I want to hear anymore bullshit? No. I didn't.

The elevator doors opening snap me out of my thoughts. Gibbs walks out, stopping as he waits for me to step out. I ignore the teams concerned stares as I walk to my desk. I sit on the ground, opening the drawer as I pull the coffee-stained drawings out.

"Next time I see that asshole, I'm going to deck him." I say.

"What?" Tim asks horrified from behind me as Gibbs chuckles.

"Who is she talking about?" Ziva asks surprised.

"Where has our innocent baby Y/N gone?" Tony asks.

I wasn't one for violence. I looked at the upside of...well everything. Even if someone made me upset, I tried to keep it together. I run out of room for my sketchbooks and sigh.

I look up when Gibbs grabs a pile. I was confused as he puts a pile in his bottom desk drawer before handing a pile to Ziva, Tony and Tim.

"There. You have plenty on hand and now everyone has them on stock in case you run out." He says, patting my head since he could ruffle it since it was up.

I pull out a new sketchbook, taking the plastic off it. I grab a pencil and start sketching the crime scenes away. I didn't like to redraw. It threw me off. It didn't feel right having to do it a second time.

Nonetheless, I finish them and hang them back on the bulletin board, tossing the other ones in the trash. I study the drawings, my pen between my teeth and my notepad rested against my knee.

I start writing away, glancing up at the pictures occasionally.

"Y/N?" I hear.

I look up and see the shrink. I let a puff of air out, quirking an eyebrow at her.

"Yes?" I ask.

"I don't think we are done talking. You dodged all my questions. I won't let up until I get answers." She says.

"I died. Then Gibbs brought me back. I died again on the ambulance. They brought me back. Then I was in a hospital for two days. Alone on one. Talked to the shrink there. Went home. Dreaded not being able to work a week, but now I'm here. I'm fine. Can you please leave me alone now?" I ask.

"I talked to the therapist at the hospital. Who said you also dodged their questions. You never should have been discharged until you properly answered the questions. That is why I'm not letting up." She says.

"I'm this bloody close to decking you. Your really starting to piss me off." I grumble.

Thankfully, Tim only heard me and he slowly turned to me with wide eyes. I tilt my head at him, narrowing my eyes, daring him to say something.

"She's great! She's just a little grumpy from her run in with this guy earlier. He spilt coffee on her." Tim says.

"Your intimidated by her. From what I gather, she's typically happy and bubbly. However, she seems to be quiet, distant, agitated, on edge and even a bit angry. None of you are use to this side of her." She says.

I take a deep breath in before slowly letting it out. My phone rings and I give her one final glare before answering my phone.

"Hey Abs, what's up?" I ask.

"The shrink lady is coming to talk to you! She wouldn't stop asking questions and more questions and I snapped! But I was trying to understand why she won't stop prying because she doesn't even do that on Ziva or Gibbs! So I did some digging! She's the wife of the get-away unsub who tried to kill you!" Abby exclaims.

"Thanks Abs. I'll be down here in a bit. Relay the message to Gibbs." I say.

I smile, hanging up the phone as I look at the shrink. She taps her clipboard as Gibbs' phone rings. I stand, walking towards her. I heard Gibbs set the phone down and I pull my fist back, hitting her in the nose.

She sways before falling back. I look down at her before heading back to my desk. It was quiet and I look up, smiling.

"Boss!" Tim exclaims.

"The man who tried to kill Y/N...that's his wife. She wanted to see if she remembered her husband or not." Gibbs says, shrugging.

"Did you know? Is that why you said you wanted to deck her earlier?" Tim asks.

"I didn't know then. She was making me mad. I feel better now. A lot better. I think I just needed to hit someone!" I say, smiling.

"Let's not make this our way of letting our anger out." Gibbs says, giving me a lopsided smirk and I shrug. 

"You can always come with me to the gym. They have some punching bags there." Ziva offers.

"I'll take you up on that." I say.

"There is also other ways to let your anger out, Y/N. It can be with a lover, between the sheets, hot...passionate and anger. Ah! I'll stop boss! Please don't hit me!" Tony pleads as Gibbs slowly stands.

"I don't have a lover, Tony. So a punching bag will do." I say.

"You gonna fill us in on what you know, Y/L/N?" Gibbs asks.

"On what?" I ask.

"The case of course." He says in a duh tone.

I scramble up, my cheeks flushing red as he chuckles. I grab a random clear board we keep nearby just because I do my sketches and hang them up before putting them at the front of the bullpen. I stand, staring at the board from the end of the bullpen.

"Alright, the unsub stood between two big oak trees for awhile. I'd say he's been watching out victims the past two to three days at most from the cigarettes on the ground. He had perfect view through the window and the sliding doors. Through the window, he could see the kitchen and living room. Through the sliding doors, he could see the hallway. Our unsub slips in, walks to the living room, pulls the gun out, bam. Husband is dead. The wife was the target." I say, the scene unfolding around me once again.

"How do you know that?" Tim asks.

"The husband was shot execution style. However, the wife underwent extensive pain. She was stabbed in the chest several times, each wound reaching her heart. Maybe a way of communicating his heartbreak or jealousy. Then postmortem he went to overkill by one shot to the head, bam. He took his time with the wife from the report I gathered from Ducky. She went through tremendous pain and was awake." I say.

"Why was the living room trashed then?" Tony asks.

"Well, earlier that night before the couple was murdered, the neighbors filed a noise complaint which then turned to a domestic violence call once the dispatcher gathered that there was screaming and some furniture could be heard breaking. The officers came and went, hesitant. The fight picked back up after, before the two went to separate rooms. From what I could gather, they seem to be on rocky terms. Her ring was in the sock drawer and she had the bedroom. He was sleeping in the living room." I say.

"So, what about the unsub in all of this?" Tim asks.

"I'm going to say that it's safe to assume that the wife walks to her room to take a breather, maybe go to the master bath and splash some water on her face. Then the unsub comes in from the sliding doors. The husband, our marine sergeant, wasn't paying attention. He was trying to cool down himself and get a grasp on his temper. There's a painting above the fireplace. It's of their wedding venue. He was staring at it when he heard a noise. He turns around, bam. The unsub fires of a shot before he could fight. Unsub hides around the corner as the wife comes to investigate when she hears a big thump and finds her husband dead. Then the unsub attacks her." I say.

"I like it. Now, we need to determine who our unsub is." Gibbs says.

"I've narrowed it down a bit. I found a boot print and a bunch of cigarettes between the trees. Abby is still running some tests on the cigarette buds. However, the boot print is a size thirteen marine boot. The pattern is one to the marine boots. Could be a buddy of the husbands maybe. I'm going to estimate that he's about six two with a heavy build or he's heavier set because the weight left behind on the boot print." I explain.

"Any profile?" Ziva asks.

"Again, I think it's safe to assume the wife was the target. The couple is our only murder so far and hopefully it stays that way. So, it's kind of set it in stone that the unsub is more than likely an ex-lover, the baby daddy, a jealous friend of the husbands friend who wanted the wife, or maybe this man knew something we didn't and thought he was protecting the husband. However, that's a leap as he did kill the husband. The wife was the target. She was overkill. I'd suggest that it stems from betrayal, jealously and definitely anger. With how motivated he was for the murders, I'd also like to suggest that he's going to be quite cool and laxed about this. He's probably narcissistic, has strong views on a woman's role, temper-issues and I'd say even paranoid. However, I don't have enough to build on the profile so it very well could be wrong." I say.

"What does your gut say?" Gibbs asks.

"That I'm hungry." I say and everyone chuckles, including Gibbs.

"We will go get lunch soon." He says.

"Okay. However, aside from being hungry, I feel pretty confident about the case built and the profile I presented." I say.

"Then we will go with your word." He says.

I sit, feeling relieved we were closer to the end of this case. However, it did make me nervous at the thought of the end of the case. That meant I'd have dinner with Gibbs and I was dreading it. I knew how it'd go.

[yourmomni]

Fix You 3

A/n: Hola so I'm sorry im late I was gardening this morning till 3 and took a nap that was more like a coma and forgot to turn in the post schedule. But since I messed up I'm going to be dropping part 4 tomorrow YAAAAAY. Anyways please enjoy @loveyouselfalways I hope you enjoy it

I threw my bag over my shoulder hurrying to the front to walk with the others out of the building and too our car.

We walked together waving and bowing to the cameras, smiling rushing to our vehicle. I huffed as I adjusted myself in the seat.

" Hey you okay." Jay was sitting beside me dropping his bag in front of his seat and slamming the door close.

" We haven't talked in a while. I just wanted to check on you." I bit the inside of my cheek feeling bad about ignoring everyone for the past week. " Yeah I'm sorry about that." He smiled. " it's okay we've just been worried about you with the tweets and all." Jay was always the one checking up on me when I was feeling bad about myself. He would make me food, listen to me rant or vent. He was always the one to comfort me.

Not saying the others didn't do their part. Heeseung would find ways to make me laugh, sunoo would distract me by talking about face care making me go shopping with him for new products. Sunghoon acted like he just wanted to go skating just to show off a skill but in reality he just wanted also get my mind off of things. Jungwon would make me sit in his room and watch movies, and Jake would have me help him build his new Lego set in the living room with a show playing in the background.

They all had their ways of making me feel better, they all cared.

We made it back to our company and immediately started changing for our interview. The theme was black so I was dressed in a black dress and a ribbon pulling back two curly strands of hair in the front of my head to Meet in the back. I had a Tiffany necklace on my neck with a matching bracelet.

They set us up in chairs. I was in the front sandwiched between sunoo and sunghoon.

The interview started like any other one. We talked about our new album and a couple of behind the scenes things. It was going well until we started answer these stupid questions that were in a bowl that our fans wanted to know.

" Okay this one says who is the cleanest member." Jay read out loud. I raised my hand. " Oh most definitely me yesterday I went into Jake's room and I swear I saw his clothes in his basket move like it was alive." They started laughing and Jake whined that it was just my imagination. Then I picked a question to myself then out loud. " ohhhh who has the most chemistry?"

Every ohhed " I would have to say Niki and y/n, they get along well maybe because of their ages but their always together and practicing together and they complement each other well." Sunghoon said and everyone began to agree with him. I turned around to look at niki and he was looking at me.

Was he blushing, he smiled at me and I quickly turned around facing the front biting the inside of my cheek Keeping from smiling too hard.

I passed the bowl to Niki and he happily took it spinning his hand in the bowl. " Okay it says……." His smile faltered and his eyebrows frowned a little. " What I don't understand this." Jay leaned over his shoulder reading the question. He scoffed, taking it out of his hand and ripping it in half.

" i don't know who thought that was funny to put in the bowl but it's really unprofessional." Niki and Jay got up and walked behind the camera. We all looked at eachother confused about what was happening.

Jungwon got up taking his mic pack off walking to Jay to figure out what was happening. I turned around and the question was sitting in Jay's seat.

I picked it up reading it

" Who's the strongest member, show by trying to pick up Y/n who is the heaviest."

Sung Hoon snatched the question from me reading it over and over again. The others were reading it over his shoulder. You could hear Niki yelling at the producer behind the camera and Jay was backing him up.

Niki was fuming, his nose was flaring and his knuckles were white from how hard he was clenching his hands into fist. " So you're telling me you read all of those questions and you thought that one was okay to put in there?" The producer rolled his eyes. " it's not that big of a deal it's just a question."

" so it won't be that big of a deal if I punch you in the fucking face " Jay and jungwon grabbed Niki before he could swing his fist.

Everyone rushed towards him trying to calm the situation." I'm going straight to the media, after I tell them about a young kpop star threatening an Elle employ you group will never see another Prada runway Ever again" Jay laughed.

" Is that a threat?" The man glared up at Jay walking towards him. " Try me."Jay's face darkened " If I see so much as a rumor about this situation in the news I will sue you for everything you have with not even an ounce of mercy, after I'm done with you I'm going to sue your company for exploitation of a minor. I will take everything you own. I will rip your company to shreds. You will never work for another company in Korea for as long as I'm alive. I'll make sure of that. Now that's a promise."

The producer was toe to toe with Jay. " I think it's time for you to go." Jake said standing behind his member. The producer mumbled under his breath as he and his crew packed up their cameras and stuff.

" woah Jay the CEO in you came out that was pretty cool." Sunghoon punched his shoulder. Niki started looking around the room. The camera Crew cleared out swiftly. But he was more worried about one thing.

You

And you were gone.

[gurglebellylove]

oh, to have a cute girl whose belly i could keep hungry all day then stuff past her limits on valentine’s day. let me set the scene.

i would ask her to stay empty for me all day, to prepare for our date later that night. she’d complain of course, but she would do it anyway because she knows we both enjoy it too much. she would send me pictures and videos of her empty belly, letting me know just how unhappy her belly was about not having food. to thank her for being such a good girl, i would be sure to already have reservations booked at her favorite restaurant, with flowers and a card telling her how i couldn’t wait to see her stuff her face just for me.

i would pick her up for the date and watch in awe as she shows up to the door with a beautiful, tight red dress on. almost immediately, her belly would growl ravenously, letting me know that it is indeed still empty after my request for the day. we’d head to the restaurant, music turned down low, listening to her belly grumble and growl the entire way there.

even though we had reservations, the restaurant we chose was packed and we would have to wait for a bit before being seated. she’d whimper and lay a hand on her tummy, loud growls filling the space. she’d blush and try to rub her empty belly without being noticed. i’d be mesmerized the entire time, so distracted that we almost miss the hostess letting us know our table is ready.

our waitress would come by, taking our drink and appetizer orders before leaving. my girl would immediately down her water, attempting to fill her empty belly, even if it’s just for a moment. not too long after, our drinks and appetizers would arrive, and with my permission she would dig in. she’d moan softly, happy to be finally eating after being so hungry all day. our waitress would return to the table, constantly refilling our champagne glasses. the appetizers were a good start, but not nearly enough to fill two hungry tummies. our entrees arrive after a bit, and once again we dig in. i can barely concentrate on my meal because of how ravenously my date is consuming her food. i’d give up even trying to finish and just watch her in amazement as she packs more and more food in her expanding tummy. she’d get through it all so fast, not even realizing that i’ve stopped eating altogether just to watch her. scraping her plate clean, she’d look up and catch me, blushing but also enjoying how much she entertains me.

by this point, her belly is nice and full, but this isn’t the end. slightly drunk from the champagne and on the idea of me enjoying myself, she’d ask the waitress for the dessert menu. the waitress would raise her eyebrows in shock, before quickly going to get the menu. i’d smile to myself, excited to watch her shove even more food down her throat. she’d order, knowing her belly was already full and after this, she’d be stuffed. we’d chat for a bit, both of us waiting for dessert to come and finish what we’d started. once dessert arrived, she would take a deep breath before beginning to eat. i’d grab the extra spoon that was brought out, both of us knowing i wouldn’t be using it. i would make her finish it all on her own. she’d eat it slowly, her bloated belly filling up more and more. she’d ask if she could take it home or if i would help her finish, but i would decline both offers, needing to see her eat all of that food in one sitting. determined to make me happy, she’d pick her spoon back up and eat the rest of it quickly, just trying to finish. slightly panting, she’d drop the spoon and lean back a little, trying to soothe her upset belly. i’d smile and whisper how proud of her i was before paying so that we could leave.

her belly nice and bloated after this, she’d be so full that she would get the hiccups. groaning, she’d recline her seat in the car and rub her overfilled belly, burping softly. she would be so full that i would have to help her get out of the car and inside the house. i would kiss and rub her belly, thanking her for the wonderful day she’d given me. she’d smile and let me know she’d do it all over again just to please me. finally freeing her round tummy from the tight dress, we’d head to bed, with me rubbing her stuffed, gurgly belly all night, so content with the best valentine’s day i’d ever had.

[duckingwriting]

WIP Wednesday

Today’s WIP Wednesday is a scene from a Firefly ABO fic I’ve been working on. 

Pairings: JayneXSimon

No warnings for this snippet but the over all piece will have dubcon. And will be rated E on AO3 when I post it there.

“How…” Simon licked his dry lips unable to make eye contact with any of the crew all sitting and eating their evening meal. “How long will we be on Persephone?”

“Pro’lly ‘round a day or so,” Mal answered glancing over at the fidgety doctor. “Puck up mail-“

“Maybe it’ll be ‘nother not so dead body.” Jayne chuckled under the glares of the other two alphas. Simon felt himself squirm more than usual. He hoped no one else noticed.

I’ve got time. Simon reminded himself. No one will find out.

River apparently found something amusing though, what she found amusing was anyone’s guess as a peel of laughter ripped from her making most of the crew jump.

“See ‘bout securing a job,” Mal said eyeing the strangest member of his crew. River was the odd one in their pack of oddities. Having multiple alphas was nearly unheard of, especially with no familial relationships between them especially when one was unmated like Jayne. Well all three of them were unmated by most planets’ laws. While their marriage was airtight, few planets acknowledged a mate bond between alpha and beta, Mal doubted Zoe had ever been attracted to an omega, they tended to be too breakable for the two of them. Which was probably the only reason he could maintain any kind of relationship with Inara. No one could claim she was a weak omega. And she frequently reminded everyone she was not Mal’s omega, even if he never flinched when he was called her alpha. She owned him not the other way around. Then Jayne…well Mal wasn’t sure he was interested in anything other than beta women. Which was good. If he ever laid his hands on the unbound Kaylee, Mal would kill him.

“Yes.” River nodded her head at Jayne before grinning at her brother. “Very pretty red.”

Simon sighed rubbing his temple. Cutting his suppressants down was definitely giving him withdrawal symptoms he didn’t like. “What’s pretty red, River?”

“You.”

Simon closed his fist around the cut on the palm of his hand He had gotten it when he noticed how low his suppressant supply was getting. Everyone had given him a hard time about cutting himself but no one pushed for what distracted him when he laughed it off with them.

“Told ya, she’d stab you someday.” Jayne broke the silence pointing his fork at the smaller man.

“That’s vile.” River wrinkled her nose at Jayne. “You stab him.”

“No one’s stabbing no one.” Mal cut in glaring at the two before leveling a flat stare at Simon. “Maybe keep little sister on the boat ya?”

Simon nodded his head and poked his rations. “I have something I’ve got to get.”

“Alright, Doc.” Mal shrugged. “Add it to the list. We’ll grab it for ya.”

“NO!” Simon coughed to try and covered his outburst as every eye turned on him in silence. “I…It’s…I’ve got to get it myself.”

“Alright, Son.” Book offered Simon a soft smile while the younger man squirmed in his seat. “I’ll keep River company until you return.”

“Thank you.” Simon deflated with relief, even if Mal’s eyes promised this conversation wasn’t over.

[ddwcaph-game]

Four New Traits!

Update: I've received some feedback and decided to reconsider adding the new traits. Check out this post for more information!

I'm not completely sure yet how these traits will work, but since this'll probably be the last ones I'll add in Volume 1, I've decided to add them in the next update and get some feedback sooner rather than later. They are:

💫 [Easily Distractable]

⚡ [Hyperactive!]

😳 [Socially Awkward]

🎒 [Super Organized]

A couple of years ago, someone pointed out to me that some of the MC's choices/thoughts have elements of anxiety/autism/ADHD and asked if this was the case. This was mostly unintentional on my part, and since it's an unfamiliar and sensitive subject, I thought it'd be best to not have an explicit choice for it, but fine if people wanted to headcanon it.

I wanted to give it a shot just like I did with the gender stuff (which was enlightening for both me and my characters), especially because having a young MC gives me a unique point of view to explore them. So I thought about it some more, and I think I found a way to make it work without adding a lot of extra workload.

I know that it's a spectrum and there's no strict definition or a single correct way of presenting them, so instead I separated it into different traits that doesn't directly state that the MC is neurodivergent. Writing in first person makes it hard to account for in every variation in every choice, so I'm keeping it somewhat vague and hopefully this gives the flexibility that MC may be either undiagnosed, or just has those traits.

This is a bit long, so I'll go a little bit into detail how I plan to implement the traits below:

⚡ [Hyperactive!]: (+20% Silly, Doubles [Well-Rested] Stat Bonuses)

You can select this trait at the beginning of Chapter 1, where you choose how to react to the bell ringing. The choice is:

Finally! Sitting inside the classroom for hours is torture. Some people say I'm hyperactive—but I don't understand how some people can just sit around all day.

This will probably restrict most passive choices where you decide not to do anything, and add new flavor text when the MC isn't doing much.

💫 [Easily Distractable]: (+10% Bonus EXP, -10% Knowledge)

You can select this trait when looking at the Top 10 Students list while cleaning the classroom. The choice is:

It'd be nice to see my name up there with Wayne sometime. Understanding the lessons isn't that hard, but focusing on exams, assignments, studying—that's what's really hard. Wayne also struggles with not getting distracted, but he always knows how to keep me engaged when there's something more interesting than what we're studying.

This is a permanent version of the [Needs Improvement] Passive, with Wayne being MC's study buddy instead of JM. I hope the comparison with Wayne here is okay—I want to frame it in a positive light but I'm not sure if this is the best way. (The text after the choice mentions that if Wayne can do it, then MC can do it as well.)

In addition, the trait will also provide some unique flavor text and variations in certain scenes (especially long conversations).

😳 [Socially Awkward]: (+30% Introvert, +30% Reserved)

You can select this trait during Roselyna's introduction after she first hugs you. The choice is:

I stutter. What if I say something wrong? What if I misunderstood what she's saying—or she misunderstands me? Am I overthinking again? I don't wanna repeat myself over and over trying to explain.

MC's mostly comfortable around their friends, so I imagine this will mostly manifest in emotional scenes, when you meet a new person, when you discover a secret, interacting with B, or when MC has the choice of not being sure what to say (excluding their twin), and automatically default to that choice (with slightly different dialogue) if it makes sense. It would be exhausting to read if this affected every conversation.

🎒 [Super Organized]

You can select this trait along with the other organizational traits when packing your bag in Chapter 1. The choice is:

...and meticulously arrange my belongings/stuff by proper label and color. My bag is super organized, and it helps me focus this way.

Not much to say here, it's just a slightly different version of the [Organized] Trait.

***

This is very much new to me, so please let me know your thoughts, or if you have any concerns with the trait names, the wording of the choices, or something else. I'm not entirely sure I'm making sense here either. 😅

Anyway, I hope the start of the new year is treating you all nicely!

[ellitx]

Beguilement | Albedo x Reader

Klee asks for Albedo’s help to make bombs with her.

word count: 2.9k

           “What are you doing?”

            Albedo peered at you from the corner of his eyes, raising an eyebrow why you were holding his cheek. His work ceased when he felt your warm hand touched his face, bringing down the papers on the desk.

            “What am I doing?” You echoed with a slight tilt of your head. “I’m checking if you’re okay. You’re overworking yourself again.” You sighed, placing your hands on your hips. 

            “I’m not.”

           He latched his gloved hand on yours and bring it down back to your side. “Hm…” Your [eye color] eyes had a tint of a doubtful frown as you pout. Seeing the Chief Alchemist stuck in his research lab worried you. It’s been a while since you’ve last seen him and that’s why you’re here today.

            He didn’t mind when you waltzed in suddenly while he was mixing different kinds of herbs. He knew you wouldn’t cause a ruckus inside considering how dangerous his and Sucrose’s works are.

            “Klee really wanted to play with you, you know.” You started and took a sit on a nearby chair in his workshop. 

            “And so are you.” He placed back the various types of equipment to their rightful place and chuckled when he noticed your cheeks reddened. 

            “I—!”

            “Albedo!!” The door slammed open surprising the two teens. The said male felt someone glomped onto his leg. He looked down and saw the Spark Knight wrapped her little arms on his leg so tightly, her ruby eyes scintillating so brightly that was donned with a big grin.

            “I saw the sign wasn’t in your door anymore!! Does that mean you’ll play with Klee?!”

            Albedo rested his hand on the top of her head but threw a confused glimpse at her. He’s a hundred percent sure last time he checked, the “Experiment in Progress” sign was still hanging to let everyone know he’s busy.

            His aquamarine eyes landed on you who was innocently reading his notes, awing at his written discoveries and sketches of a place you've never seen before. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, heaving a sigh. The Kreideprinz knelt down before Klee and ruffled her big red hat whose eyes were bright as the sun and smile so innocent.

            “Yes. My research is almost done so might as well take a break.”

            Your ears perked up at his words and lifted your head away from the notebook. “If that’s so, then I wanna make more bombs with you!!” The child tugged his lab coat and pulled him to the table, laying her hefty backpack on the chair. 

            She let out her collection of bombs to the Chief Alchemist and stretched her arms to showcase her invention. “Ta-da!! I tried to make a different Jumpty Dumpty!” Albedo placed his fingers on his chin as he inspected the object.

            You peered over his shoulder and eyes glimmered admiring the cute little red bunny device. “Woah!! This one seems different from your usual Jumpty Dumpty, Klee!” You leaned against him to get a closer look. 

            The blonde child giggled but let out a yelp when she felt that her feet weren’t touching the ground. Her small hands were now laying on your shoulder as you carry her small stature in your arms.

            The Alchemist’s focus was now on the timer hidden behind Jumpty Dumpty, surprising him. “It’s dangerous if we keep the bombs here. How about we go to Stormterror’s Lair to test it out?” His suggestion made the two girls looked at him with sparkling eyes and nodded eagerly.

            You put down Klee and helped her pack her stuff back inside her backpack. Both of you were chanting happily making the corner of his lips tugged upwards at the adorable scene. 

            “Well then,” He said, taking their attention. “Let’s get going.”

            Before Master Jean scolds us. He said to himself, sweat dropping.

            Both of you threw your arms in the air to cheer. Before you head off, you hung the strap of Klee’s bag on your shoulder and patiently waited for her to come to your side. She clutched your hand a bit tightly but one that won’t hurt you.

            Albedo took his own satchel and kept his notebook and some other materials needed in their experiment. He left a little note for Sucrose, letting her know he’ll be away for a while in case she goes looking for him. 

            Once he was ready, the two girls were already outside the room sticking around until he appears. Klee beamed in delight and grabbed his hand tugging both of you together. She was in the middle while you and Albedo were by her side.

            She started humming joyfully and marched towards the exit. 

            “Klee, Albedo, [Name], and Dodoco are off to Stormterror’s Lair!!” You chuckled at her cute declaration whilst she swung both of yours and Albedo’s arms, sauntering to the old ruins to do the experiments.

  —

             “We can try using flaming flower stamen.”

            “Oh, you mean those burning flowers?”

            Albedo nodded as he tinkered with the Jumpty Dumpties, and letting out the contents carefully on the cloth. 

            “There are few scattered around here, so it’ll be no problem for us to find one.” He lifted up his goggles, placing them atop of his head. 

            “Oh! Klee knows all the locations!!” The said girl jumped from her sitting position, raising her hand like how a student wants to be called by their teacher. “There are few around the lair and some almost at the end!”

            “Waaah!! That’s Klee for you!!” You praised her as you pat her head fondly. She giggled hearing your flattery and clasped your hand with hers. “I’ll go look with big sis [Name]!”

            “Ah, wait—!” But before the Chalk Prince can stop them, both of you were already running carelessly in search of the flaming flowers. He sighed in defeat and continued tinkering with the gadgets.

            Not even a minute later, he heard a loud KABOOM and the cries of the hilichurls in the distance. Several monsters flew in the air and slowly dropped onto the ground while some slimes were running for their lives.

            Thank goodness your vision wasn’t Electro or else the elemental reactions between yours and Klee’s attacks will cause massive damage to the ancient city.

            Sighing for the umpteenth time, his focus went back on dabbling with the bomb, pretending he wasn’t involved with their mischievousness.

  —

             “Oh! We should bring some bone samples for Sucrose for her research!” You exclaimed, watching the hilichurls’ bodies disintegrate in the thin air. You picked up the arrowheads and some horns from the ground left by the monsters.

            “Klee will gladly help big sis!” Your shoulders shake with laughter and ruffled her hair. “And I’ll happily accept your offer~”

            “I think she’ll accept anything as long as their bones, right? I did see some of her collections…” You muttered to yourself as you looked around the area to find anything interesting. 

            “Does fish blasting work as well to find bones?” Klee questioned innocently whilst holding her Jumpty Dumpties in her hands ready to throw them away. “No, Klee. Fish blasting is not good. If Master Jean caught us, you’ll be confined again!”

            “B-but… I’m sorry… Please don’t get mad at Klee.” She clamped her hands behind her back, eyes cast downwards turning glossy. Your heartstrings tugged and felt like an arrow pierce right through you, immediately feeling guilty at your words. 

            “Ah… Klee, I’m not mad! I was… I was worried about you, that’s all.” You raised her and carried the little girl between your arms and nuzzled your noses together. Her ruby eyes brightened up and giggled, slithering her arms around your neck to hug closer.

            “I can’t bring myself to get angry at you and Dodoco! I cherish both of you!” 

                      “Is big sis [Name] saying she loves me and Dodoco?” 

            “Absolutely!” You puffed your chest like a proud mom and rested one hand on your hips.

            “Klee and Dodoco love you too!!” 

            The two of you shared a few laughter and wholesome moment. From the corner of your eyes, a camp of hilichurls spotted you both, ready to attack. You shared a glance with the Spark Knight then smiled, sharing the same ideas. 

            “Hilichurl bones would be a good sample for Sucrose’s research!”

  —

             The Chief Alchemist was busy gathering glands from the frogs, carefully extracting the mucous from them. Others would be grossed out seeing this, but for him— it’s almost like an everyday habit for him to perform this.

            He became inquisitive and wondered where you and Klee are. You were just going to gather a few flaming flower stamens, why are you taking so long? 

            Too distracted from his concern for your state as well as Klee’s, he didn’t notice a figure creeping behind him. Albedo’s perception then blackened and a shiver ran down his spine when he felt something blew on his ears and whispered. 

            “Guess who’s back?”

            His fingers wrapped around your wrist and gently pulled down your hand back to your side. His eyes were met with your own [eye color] gems as you smiled down at him. 

            “You’re finally back.”

            “Bzz! Wrong!” Your arms formed an X, indicating his incorrect answer. The Chief Alchemist snorted at your childish antics, failing to see the Pyro-vision user jumped on him.

            “Albedo, Albedo!! We brought the flaming flowers! Oh, and we also got these!!” The child poured out all the contents inside her bag and showed them to him like she won the biggest prize. Various materials were scattered all over the ground; masks, horns, arrowheads, scrolls, and a bone…?

            “So that’s why both of you haven’t come back for a while.” He observed the items gathered together and nodded to himself. He didn’t dare questioned them what and why were there cartilages included. 

            His eyes caught onto the flaming flower stamen. The cores were still emitting heat even though it was already extinguished. This can be a good time to create a flaming essential oil. The needed ingredients were already here, all he needed to do was to create it using alchemy.

            Good thing they don’t need to come back to Mondstadt just to make a simple potion, as long as the Chief Alchemist is with you, he can create anything. He put out a portable alchemic table— one of his inventions— and commenced to perform his alchemy.

            You and Klee watched him crushed the stamen until it turned to small particles. He then poured the extracted frog’s gland and mixed it together. The scent was odd and strong making you almost puke. How in the world can this man handle the smell?!

            Klee almost looked like she was about to faint as she held on to your coat to maintain balance. Albedo apologized and told you you can take the mint grass inside his satchel to get rid of the smell. 

            Wow, he’s already prepared…

            It brought a smile to your face at the thought of it. You rummaged inside his bag and saw the mints were kept inside the ziplock pouch. You motioned for the little girl to come with you, straying away from the Kreideprinz’s works as to not ruin it, and opened the pouch letting the cool smell waft around you.

            You both breathed a sigh at the refreshing air, forgetting the awful smell that lingered inside you minutes ago. Albedo was already done making the essential oil and attentively spewed the liquid in one of Klee’s bombs.

            A small smoke emitted from it and he cautiously set the cover back to its place. 

            “Is it done?” You asked. The male shook his head and threw the device at an empty area to see the result. He told you to stay back as he used his geo skill to cast a shield to all of you. A sound of a clock ticking can be heard from it and the three of you patiently waited for the outcome yet nothing happened.

            “Did it fail…?” Your question was answered when you sensed the ground shook and a massive outburst greeted your view. Your mouth gaped open in shock and awe, watching many sparks flew in the air almost resembling fireworks during Ludi Harpastum Festival.

            Klee was the one who’s more amazed than you, her eyes wide open and crimson orbs sparkling in admiration at the tremendous explosion. 

            “Waah!! Klee has never created a big kaboom like this in her entire life!!” She faced Albedo and tugged his coat repeatedly. “Can you please teach Klee how to make that? Please please please pleeease with a cherry on top?”

            The male furrowed his brows, slightly troubled whether he should accept it or not. He was quiet for a while, still contemplating his decision. His eyes darted to where you were standing to ask for help but when he turned around, you were gone. 

            In his rear vision, he noticed you used your elemental skill to stamped out the burning grass. His face paled and heart raced when you knelt down and slowly approached the small remains from the bomb to touch it.

            Albedo immediately dashed towards you and extended his arm to reach for you. He screamed your name so loudly surprising you. You felt your hand heating up and your instincts kicked in telling you to run away, but even if you do so, a bright light has already blinded your eyes and ears ringing from the loudness of the bomb’s blast.

  —

             “What are you doing?”

            You peered at the male from the corner of your eyes, raising an eyebrow why he was holding your cheek. Your hands stopped midway from the plate when you felt his warm hand touched your face, bringing down the spoon on the table.

            “What am I doing?” He echoed with a slight tilt of his head. “I’m checking if you’re okay. Your face is red again.” He sighed and took out a thermometer to check the reading. 

            “I’m not!” 

            You latched your hand on his and bring it down back to his side. “Hm…” His turquoise eyes had a tint of a doubtful frown as he sighed. For some reason, this brought a sense of deja vu to him.

            Your behavior was odd after the explosion incident. You’ve been so cold towards him, making him slightly worried. He knows it was his fault that caused you like this, but he didn’t expect you’ve been so hostile to him these past few days.

            It’s like a sudden switch of personality.

            Every time he checks up on you, you just puffed your cheeks and turn your head. He asked the other Knights of Favonius about your condition and all they said was you were perfectly fine.

            How is this perfectly fine?!

            “[Name]!!” The door slammed open surprising the two teens. The said female felt someone jumped onto her bed, making her stomach hurt at the sudden weight. “Klee is so worried about big sis! When I heard you were sick, Dodoco and I were going to give you gifts! Klee thought you were fine yesterday. Diona even said she saw you going to the plaza—“

            “A-Ah— you and Dodoco brought me gifts? That’s so sweet of you! Ahaha..” Your nervous chuckle made the Chief Alchemist raised his brow at you in suspicion. You were fidgeting underneath the bedsheets and avoiding not looking at him in the eye.

            “Klee, what did Diona said about [Name]?” The girl’s attention went to him before she could rummage inside her bag. “She said that she saw big sis walking around the plaza!”

            “K-Klee!!” Your face flushed even more than before. You were stammering so much and you felt like the world was spinning around. 

            Albedo wanted to confirm his suspicions, and so he kept on pushing questions at the little girl, ignoring your attempts to shush him.

            “What kind of gifts are you going to give to her?”

            His question quickly made you sat up and threw your pillow to his face. “Th-that’s none of your concern!! It’s something private okay?!”

            “[Name] told me if I can give her the bombs you made to me. I tried to copy what you did and she seems satisfied with it!”

            Your hands were flailing in the air, not knowing whether you should continue pressing the pillow on Albedo’s face or to cover your face in embarrassment. You didn’t want to clasp your hands on Klee’s mouth to silence her, she might get hurt from your sudden actions!

            Bombs? What is she going to do with those?

            He snapped out from his train of thoughts then eyed you conscientiously. His brain connected the pieces of information together. The heat from your body, the smell of the mint grasses, and a faint of ash from it made sense. Especially how your body temperature dropped all of a sudden.

            He grabbed your wrist and intertwined your fingers together as he pressed his forehead with yours. The close proximity between you two made your head go blank and your attention was solely on his eyes, mesmerized by their colors.

            Klee naively looked at you two with a curious gaze.

            Your body heat skyrocketed and your lips quavered after his words reached your ears.

            “You know, you could’ve just told me you wanted me to take care of you instead of putting an effort to do this.”

            Your shoulders shook in aggravation and embarrassment, smothering him with the pillows to shut him up.

            “I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you!!!”

            Albedo just let your antics be, not bothered by the fact you’re slapping the pillow on him each word escaped from your lips. 

         His lips tugged upwards thinking he caught your trickeries once again.

 reader was pretending she's sick just so he can take care of her lol           

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Family Ties // Benedict Bridgerton

Request: hey lovie!! i wanna start by saying i adore your writing for bridgerton and harry potter and i always find myself coming back to it,, if you’re up for it, would you mind writing a benedict imagine? i was thinking something sweet and domestic?? like maybe him and the reader have kids and they’re going to visit the rest of the family? take it however you want!! <3 - @ddaeng-danvers​

A/N: Thank you so much!! I truly hope you like this. This is the first thing I've written in close to a month now and I love how happy it is. There’s love, and family, and fluff. I am so happy with it. This features characters seen in the prequel books ‘The Rokesby’s’ - I finished reading book 2 today and I think I'm going to own all of Quinn’s books by the time we reach summer.

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: children, marriage, fluff, female reader, she/her pronouns, bridgertons being bridgertons, family fluff, love, romance, kissing, cute, mentions of pregnancy. SPOILERS FOR THE PREQUEL SERIES BUT I CANT BE SORRY, I LOVE GEORGE TOO MUCH.

Word count: 3.3k

Giggles and gasps lighten the morning air as you take those first steps outside. The grass is still wet with morning dew and it dampens the hem of your dress, but you cannot bring yourself to care as the laughter of your children surrounds you.

“You can’t catch me!” Your daughter declares, laughing loudly as her steps quicken on the slick grass.

A quiet smile crosses your face as you watch the scene unfold in front of you.

Your daughter, Violet, continues to laugh wildly as Benedict grabs her from behind, lifting her onto his shoulders. She settles there quickly; having spent a lot of time on Benedict’s shoulders when her little legs wore themselves out from running and exploring.

“My love,” Benedict greets, smiling widely at you, “Did you sleep well?”

“I did until I realised I was alone.”

Benedict casts his eyes upwards, gesturing to the four year old currently busying herself with trying to tidy the permanently messy locks of her father. “Someone,” Benedict emphasises with another glance upwards, “Woke up too early and I didn’t want to wake you.”

Your body warms at the obvious love in Benedict’s voice – for you, for his daughter. Close to a decade being married and he has every capacity to reduce you to a lovestruck fool. It’s perfect, really.

Chuckling, you gaze lovingly at your daughter. “Did you wake your father up?”

She nods; not an ounce of apology on her small face as she continues to mess up Benedict’s hair. “I couldn’t sleep anymore,” she defends, “I’m excited to see Grandma Violet.”

“I’m sure she’s excited to see you too,” Benedict comments, reaching for his pocket watch to check the time. “We’ll have to be setting off soon. Are we all packed?”

You nod, meeting the loving eyes of your husband. “The footmen have everything covered. Where is John?”

Benedict gestures to the overgrowth behind him. “He joined us when Violet wouldn’t keep quiet. He shouldn’t be too far behind.”

“I’ll go in search. Get Violet ready for me?”

Benedict nods, smiling down at you before dropping the first kiss of many to your lips. You watch the pair leave; Violet chattering away about the birds singing in the trees before heading off in search for your eldest child.

“John Edmund Bridgerton,” you call out, voice loud in the quiet garden, “Where have you gotten to?”

“I’m over here,” John calls; his dark brown curls popping up between the rose bushes.

“Shall we head inside? We need to get ready to make the journey to London.”

John smiles, making his way to your side. “You look more like your father every day,” You comment absentmindedly, running a hand through your son’s hair.

John flushes at the compliment; his father was an exceptionally strong man as well as incredibly talented in whatever he pursues. “Thank you,” John replies, reaching for your hand to begin the walk back to your home.

---------

Bridgerton House had always grown violet hyacinths; they perfumed the air, making every inhale sweeter than the last. The door to the Bridgerton London home is opened before you get chance to place your feet on the ground after stepping down from the carriage.

Benedict steadies you as you straighten your skirts whilst trying to keep an eye on your children, making sure they hadn’t fallen out of the carriage. The laughter of your children floating on air has the tightness in your chest relaxing.

You take a moment to stand beside your husband, enjoying the feel of his hands on your waist. It had been so long since a moment alone had been found between the two of you; one of you running after Violet before she scared off another governess. Her stubbornness was to be admired, but it made it hard to teach her the basics in terms of literacy.

“Are you alright?” Benedict asks, noticing your hesitancy.

You smile widely at the love of your life. “I’m fine, my love. I just wanted to be close to you.”

Benedict’s face softens at your confession; he would be the first to admit that he found himself missing you even when he was sat next to you. There were no problems in your marriage but being so busy meant that there was little time for the two of you.

Benedict takes your hand; dropping a kiss to the back of it before turning it over and placing a lingering kiss to your wrist, over your pulse point. You gasp at the intimacy of it, your toes curling at the promise in his eyes.

“Mama!” Violet cries, taking your hand and dragging you through the house in the direction of the portrait gallery with all her might.

You chuckle, turning to Benedict with a helpless look on your face. He holds his hands up, letting you take the lead with your headstrong daughter. “I shall announce our arrival,” Benedict laughs, blue eyes focused on the way his daughter’s slippers slip and slide on the marble tiles of the entrance hall. “John,” He calls, “Would you like to join me?”

Imperceptibly, John takes a step in your direction. An incredibly smart but shy boy from birth, you sometimes worried over his place in the loud, boisterous family of the Bridgertons. “If it’s okay, I want to see where mother and Violet are going.”

“Of course,” Benedict smiles, ruffling John’s hair, knowing how he needed to get used to a new environment before feeling comfortable.

Benedict presses a kiss to your mouth and then to your cheek before taking the steps two at a time to hurry to the drawing room where he can greet his mother and siblings before answering their questions about your whereabouts.

Letting yourself be led through the ornate home of Violet Bridgerton, you can’t help but smile at the determinedness of your daughter. Her little feet stomping away on the marble tiles as she pulls you to the portrait gallery – her favourite place in the whole house bar her grandmother’s knee.

The gallery hasn’t had a new addition to its walls in years; the last painting being of Anthony and Kate on their fifth anniversary. Violet saw it as fitting that their London home had an up to date portrait of Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton. Anthony had argued, but one look from his mother had him falling silent – knowing a losing battle when he sees one.

Generations of Bridgertons line the walls; their famous blue eyes watching the latest generation walk the halls of their once home. John remains silent by your side as he meets the gaze of the men of which his name is descended; if he feels their pressure at such a young age, he doesn’t say.

One painting catches your eye. A young woman and her husband; his hand is resting on her shoulder as she remains seated. They both stare out of the painting; their eyes filled with the stories of generations passed but utterly silent on the matter.

“Who is this?” Violet asks, effectively distracted by the bright colours of the painting.

“That’s your Great Aunt Billie and her husband,” You comment absently, mind occupied with Billie Bridgerton’s eyes.

“Have we met her?” John asks, hand reaching for yours.

“You have, John. She and the Rokesby clan came to your christening. I doubt you remember, you were so young, my darling.”

John flushes at your use of his childhood pet name. Not even ten years old and he was already growing too old for such things, but you didn’t care – he would always be your darling, your first born, the very boy that made you a mother.

“Where are they now?”

“I suppose they are still at Crake House in Kent. We should have to pay them a visit the next time we visit your Uncle Anthony.”

“Can we?” Violet asks, her Bridgerton blue eyes wide with promise and excitement.

“If your father allows it, I see no problem with it.”

The children seem placated at that. With their hands in yours, you make your way to the drawing room where the rest of the family have gathered. Benedict spies you immediately despite being deep in conversation with Colin and Hyacinth; his body and soul finetuned to your presence – feeling uplifted when you’re beside him, feeling as if he was missing a vital part of himself in your absence.

“Grandma Violet!” Your youngest child cries, launching herself for the skirts of the Bridgerton matriarch. Her small arms barely make their way around the legs of the elderly woman who cannot contain her amused giggle at the exploits of her granddaughter. Instead, she gathers young Violet in her arms, placing her on her knee to get a better look at her.

“You have grown,” The matriarch murmurs, brushing back the dark brown hair of her granddaughter.

“John!” Anthony calls, drawing the attention of his nephew. Releasing your hand, John crosses the room to talk to his beloved uncle; the topic of conversation, you know not but they both look incredibly animated and devoted to the matter.

“Where were you?” A low voice sounds in your ears, making you jump. The voice turns amused as a low chortle escapes your husband’s mouth. “I’m sorry, my love,” he offers in apology as an arm wraps itself around your waist, tugging you closer to him.

“If you must know, we were in the portrait gallery.”

“What drew you there?”

“Your daughter,” You comment, tone amused.

Benedict moves to inquire further but is cut off but the gong signalling that dinner has been served. At once, the family moves as one – all ravenous and desperate to begin their meal.

“(Y/N)!” Colin calls out, catching up to you on the way to the dining room.

“Colin,” You greet fondly, “How is married life?”

“Wonderful,” Colin sighs, “Penelope is… Penelope is wonderful.”

You laugh, elbowing the third eldest Bridgerton. “Surely, you remember the early days of your marriage,” Colin states, “The honeymoon period.”

“It doesn’t leave you,” You reply, catching sight of the love of your life just ahead of you. His head is bent as he reaches for the hand of your daughter; her whole hand wrapped around one of his fingers. It sends your heart into a tizzy as you inhale sharply; the love you feel for Benedict Bridgerton could rival the love of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, of the sonnets written by William Shakespeare himself.

“No,” Colin comments, glancing between you and Benedict, “I don’t suppose it does.”

------------

Dinner with a large Bridgerton crowd was never a quiet feat; conversations flowed in every direction. Societal propriety non-existent as everyone spoke over each other; happy to have the company of their siblings, nieces and nephews, sons and daughters.

“Anthony,” You begin, reaching for your glass as you draw the attention of the head of the family, “When would you next be at Aubrey Hall?”

“Kate, the children, and I travel back in two days. Why?”

“We were in the portrait gallery earlier. Violet was rather taken with a portrait of Billie Bridgerton and her husband, George. If Benedict has no qualms, could we travel with you? I think Violet would like to meet them.”

Anthony beams; rather liking the idea of bringing the Rokesby’s back into their lives once more. “I must admit that I haven’t travelled to Crake House in a long time. What a terrible nephew I must seem.”

Violet frowns, picking at the food on her plate. “What a terrible sister-in-law, I must be. It must be close to a year, probably longer since I’ve seen Billie and George. Longer since I’ve seen Edward and Cecilia.”

“That does it,” Anthony declares, “We shall all travel to Aubrey Hall before dropping in on Crake House.”

Meeting Benedict’s eyes across the table you smile at the clear affection written on his face. “You have no objections do you, my love?”

He shakes his head. “Never, my love.”

Turning your attention to Anthony, you nod your affirmation. “Should we write in advance of leaving here?”

Anthony wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll send a missive with the morning messenger; if I tip generously then there shouldn’t be an issue.”

“I’m sure they won’t mind,” Violet adds absently, “I just can’t believe I’ve left it this long. I’m so rarely in Kent and they never journey to London.”

Colin reaches to his right, placing his hand on top of his mother’s. “They will more than understand. Aunt Billie was father’s sister after all. I think even Aunt Billie finds it hard to return to Aubrey Hall.”

“Then it’s decided,” Benedict smiles, “We shall journey to Aubrey Hall and get settled there before descending on Crake House.”

“Do you think Gregory would like to join us?” You ask, thinking of your youngest brother-in-law.

“He’s in his final term at Oxford,” Colin replies, “He’s sitting all number of exams right now, I don’t think he’ll have the time.”

“A shame,” Anthony comments, thinking of his youngest brother and the stress he must be under, “But I’m sure he can complete the journey in the summer.”

“He always was Aunt Billie’s favourite,” Benedict states darkly. You raise your eyebrows at your husband in question. “Gregory struggled with the pronunciation of some plants when he was a child; Aunt Billie thought it was adorable,” He explains, sounding far off as if trapped in a memory of his youth.

Smiling widely at your husband’s tone, you coo, “I’m sure Violet will be her new favourite when we explain what inspired our visit.”

Dismissing all social expectations, Benedict rounds the table, reaching for your hand, pressing a long kiss to the back of it before stating loudly. “You, my love, are a genius.”

“It has been said before,” You laugh, watching your husband return to his seat with promises of the night alight in his eyes. His eyes remain bright as he gazes at you over the rim of his wine glass, no longer paying attention to the conversation pertaining to the history of the Bridgertons and Rokesbys. Instead, his gaze remains fixed on you as he thinks of all the good you have brought to his life – loving him, marrying him, bearing his children. His love for you is endless, and he’ll spend the rest of his life proving that to you.

--------

Crake House was just as grand as Aubrey Hall. The Rokesby’s gaining the favour of the monarch in the seventeenth century leading to an earldom and a rather large estate that bordered on the Bridgerton’s at Aubrey Hall. From then, the two families had been intertwined – as close as two families could get.

“It’s very big,” John comments quietly to Benedict as they leave the carriage.

“Don’t let that intimidate you, John,” Benedict says, “There’s nothing to be worried about.”

As Benedict finishes his sentence, the door to Crake House is pulled open by a strong hand. Deep blue skirts are the first thing you see, and you know that Billie Rokesby nee Bridgerton has arrived.

“Bridgertons!” A feminine voice cries, “I have Bridgertons on my doorstep once more!”

“Billie,” Violet sighs, a fond smile on her face as if the sound of her sister-in-law’s voice has transported her back to times long thought of as memories.

“Anthony Bridgerton,” Billie admonishes as she hurries down the stairs, her elderly frame not a hindrance to her speed whatsoever. “How long have you taken residence in Aubrey Hall? How long has it been since you came to see me?”

“Aunt Billie,” Anthony murmurs, “I don’t suppose you could ever forgive me.”

Billie Rokesby nee Bridgerton eyes her nephew; looking him up and down before taking his face in her strong hands. “Are you well, my boy?”

For a moment, tears shine in Anthony’s eyes as he is reminded of his departed father. He nods wordlessly; trying to get a grip on the feelings rushing through him at the love that emanates from Billie. “I’m well, Aunt Billie.”

Billie nods, stepping back, clearly happy at the information offered by Anthony. She casts her shrewd gaze over her brother’s family; happiness alight in her eyes as she takes sight of your daughter, hiding behind your skirts.

“Who do we have here?” She asks, stepping closer to Benedict and yourself.

“You met John when he was just a babe in arms, but Violet is our youngest,” Benedict introduces, an arm wrapped loosely around your waist.

“Violet?” Billie gasps, dipping at the waist, “Violet Bridgerton, it is an honour to meet you.”

Violet giggles from where she has her face hidden in your legs. You reach down, tapping her on the shoulder. “Come now, sweetheart. Let’s say hello.”

Violet peeks her face out of your skirts, her blue eyes meeting the kind, aged ones of Billie. Violet curtsies, remembering her manners despite her age. “I saw your painting at Grandma’s house.”

“Which one?” Billie asks gently, eyes flickering to the Bridgerton matriarch. “Please tell me it wasn’t the one that Edmund commissioned as an anniversary gift for George and myself.”

Violet Bridgerton covers her mouth to stem the laughter that threatens to bubble over. “The very same.”

Billie huffs, turning to you, “I was six months pregnant, and Edmund thought I would want nothing more than to sit for a whole day with nothing to keep me company.”

“I think you look wonderful,” Your daughter compliments, tripping up on her pronunciation of ‘wonderful���.

Billie’s eyes shine with happiness, “Thank you, my dear.”

“I think our guests might like some tea,” An exasperated but fond voice calls from the doorway. Billie’s face softens at the sound of it; she turns to her husband, finding him watching her with a loving smile on his face.

“They aren’t guests, George. They are my family, and by marriage, your family.”

“All the same, I’m sure they would like something to drink and to rest a little.”

Billie pouts, knowing a losing fight when she saw one. You take in the sight of the pair; their hair had greyed over time, their face becoming wrinkled but their love – it was so palpable, it could be felt in every aspect of their conversation and every expression they sent each other.

Billie and George manage to wrangle the whole Bridgerton clan into their drawing room with promises of food, tea and stories of their mother’s youth. Violet pales at such a promise but Billie’s hand on her arm steadies her.

Your children, John and Violet, join their many cousins on the carpet. They all sit cross legged, eyes intently focused on the elderly couple sitting on the pale green couch. Billie gestures animatedly as she begins one of her many adventurous stories. George leans further back into the cushions, happy to let his wife regale his extended family with the very story of how they had fallen in love. A story told many times, but a story he would never tire of hearing, especially not from his beloved wife’s lips.

You watch all of this from where you sit, perched on the window seat. You smile at the sight of Anthony, Colin and Hyacinth watching Billie with nothing short of wonder written on their faces as they are reminded of the aunt that had explained the way of the land before they had truly understood what it meant to be part of a family with such a large responsibility.

Benedict joins you on the window seat, crossing his legs at the ankles as his heart sings at the sound of his children’s laughter. Silently, he reaches over to take your hand in his. He rests your tangled hands on his thigh; needing you close for a reason he cannot seem to find the words to explain.

“I love you,” You whisper, needing him to hear the words that have begged to be released since you had rolled up to Crake House.

“I love you too,” Benedict responds, his hand tightening around yours.

*********

Bridgerton taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @janelongxox @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff @magicalxdaydream @darkestbeforethedawn16 @gryffindors-weasley​

[heliads]

Rehearsals (Part One)

Based on this request: “Reader is a witch who is directing the Beacon Hills High School musical. Isaac has a crush on the reader. He wants to get closer to her and figures the best way to do that is to help with something behind the scenes.”

masterlist / part two

You can feel your tension growing with every second that you just sit here and think. There are too many variables in the task ahead of you, too many people with too many options to do wrong by you. It’s very important that you get this right, you just don’t know that you can. It’s strange- you’re literally a witch, with magic flowing through her fingertips whenever you wish it so. You live in a town where werewolves, banshees, and kitsunes are just a part of your regular friend group, yet the thought of having to direct a musical at your high school is enough to completely throw you off of your rhythm.

Lydia Martin, one of your closest friends, grimaces at you in sympathy from across the table. “Already overthinking it?” You sigh. “A little. Okay, a lot. I mean, I love theatre and directing is going to be so much fun, I just know that it’s going to be a lot of work and I’m worried about that. Can you really blame me?” Lydia scoffs. “Y/N, I’ve seen you suspend werewolves in midair with your magic. I think you can handle this.”

You roll your eyes. “There’s a difference between being able to use my magic in times of stress and having to manage a whole bunch of high school theatre kids without any spells whatsoever.” Lydia tilts her head to the side, acknowledging this. “Okay, you’re not wrong. So, what’s the plan? I know you’ve got something in mind.”

You can’t help but let a slow smile cross your face as you think of the months ahead of you. “Actually, I do have a plan. Auditions just happened, and I know a few kids who will be just great in the leading roles. I would love to perform myself, but you know just as well as I do that me and a stage and dozens of people watching me just doesn’t work. So…” You end up talking about the upcoming show with Lydia as you walk to class, going over every detail, even those that you haven’t completely thought through yet.

You do this every year- every time you stress over directing the musical, every year Lydia’s there to reassure you that it will all be fine. Honestly, sometimes you think you should just install her as co-director, from all the advice and talks you have with her. She might know the inner workings of every production better than some of the stage crew, and her opinions on costuming and set design and makeup have come in handy more than a couple of times.

Yes, you’re definitely keeping up with everything musical-related. It’s your job, after all, and to be honest, it’s easier to focus on this than the constant power struggle between supernaturals in Beacon Hills and the hunters. You’re a supernatural yourself- a witch, the same as your family and the rest of your coven. You were Lydia’s friend before you were Scott’s, although the second you heard about his status as a werewolf, you were more than willing to help out. You’ve been using your magic ever since, to take down hunters, save your friends, and basically do whatever you can to make sure that Scott McCall and his pack make it out alive from whatever skirmish they find themselves in, a fate that seems to befall them time and time again.

As you walk inside the school, still talking excitedly with Lydia, you fail to notice the blond boy watching you from the parking lot, the one with a soft smile on his face as he looks at you.

Isaac feels like he’s been knocked out cold. Again. He just can’t help it- every time he goes to school, intending as always to go along with whatever plan Derek’s lined up for him about intimidating Scott and his friends and trying to get Lydia Martin to tell them about the identity of the kanima, he can’t help but get distracted. Isaac’s not thinking about danger from a hunter attack, or anything supernatural at all. No, he can’t stop thinking about one girl in particular- Y/N L/N.

She’s walking with Lydia to class now, actually, smiling earnestly as she talks through something. Judging by what Isaac’s picked up from when he coincidentally sits next to them in class or at lunch, it’s probably about the school’s latest musical, which Y/N happens to be directing. Honestly, Isaac doesn’t think there’s a single thing about Y/N L/N that doesn’t impress him.

He’s been sitting on his feelings for a while now, not sure when or how to tell Y/N how he feels. In truth, Isaac sometimes isn’t sure that he should say anything at all- from what he can tell, Y/N is human, and he’s afraid that by getting any closer to her, he’ll be risking her life in the grand game of pack-hunter rivalries. If he got her killed, Isaac would never forgive himself. He also would never forgive himself if he went all this time without ever talking to her, so there’s that.

At the end of the day, Isaac is about to collect his things and go home when he hears music emanating from the school’s auditorium. Curious, he heads over, peeking his head in the door and walking inside once he sees the source of the commotion. They’re doing a rehearsal for the musical, with all of the different performers running through a particularly difficult number. Y/N sits a few rows from the front, holding a clipboard and occasionally taking notes on what’s working well and what needs to be changed.

All of a sudden, Isaac gets the feeling that this just might be his chance to get closer to Y/N. She’s super involved with the musical, right? If he plays his cards just right, he might be able to use this to bridge the gap between them. So, he heads further down into the auditorium, past the rows of empty seats until he’s sitting at the other end of a row from Y/N. It only takes her a little while to notice that he’s there, and a furrow creases her brow before she gestures absentmindedly at the performers, telling them to take a water break.

Y/N walks over to him now, arms folded across her chest. “What are you doing here?” Isaac shrugs. “I was curious as to what was going on. Should I not be here?” She still looks suspicious. “Not a good enough reason. I know things are going on between Scott’s pack and Derek’s, so if you think I’m going to believe that you’re just here for fun, you’re going to have to try a little harder.” Isaac grimaces. He knows exactly how this looks, he just doesn’t know how to make Y/N realize that he isn’t there on Derek’s orders.

“Maybe I just wanted to see you. I don’t know a whole lot about you, you know.” This appears to be the wrong thing to say- Isaac can practically watch Y/N draw away from him and into herself, as if afraid that he’s going to find out a secret that she very much wants to keep. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m friends with Scott and the others, nothing more.” Isaac holds up his hands defensively. “I’m not implying anything. I just want to be involved in the musical. I figured it would be good for me to have a few hobbies that didn’t involve attacking people with claws and fangs every full moon.”

Y/N regards him suspiciously for a few more seconds, then shrugs and turns away. “Whatever, your funeral. We could use someone on the lighting. If you get bored of it, I won’t be surprised.” Isaac can’t help but grin triumphantly, matching her pace as they had to the lighting booth. “I would never dream of it.” Y/N pulls a copy of the musical’s script from some corner of the auditorium, passing it over to him. Isaac makes sure that their hands touch on the exchange, smile broadening when Y/N looks away as if embarrassed. 

It turns out Isaac’s job with the lighting is really easy- all he has to do is press a few buttons at the start of some of the musical numbers and he’ll be good to go. There’s technically already a lighting guy to handle the more complex stuff, but Y/N says that it’ll be good to have another pair of hands and eyes up in the booth, so he does whatever she says. The rehearsal lasts a few hours after that, until the sun is beginning to sink beneath the horizon and it’s way past time for dinner.

Isaac sees this as yet another chance to come his way, so he casually walks over to Y/N as she’s packing up her bags. “It’s late, you know. What do you say we had to that diner a block or so over and get something to eat?” Y/N hesitates, but not for long. Evidently Isaac’s proven himself worthy during rehearsals. “Alright, but if you try any wolf stuff I’ll stab you with my butter knife.” Isaac laughs. “Consider me warned.” He can’t help but feel lucky.

You don’t know how to feel about all of this. This is wrong, isn’t it? You’ve heard enough from Scott, Lydia, and the others to know better than to trust any member of Derek’s pack. Yet here you are, sitting opposite Isaac Lahey in the old diner, casually eating dinner together as if you’ve been together all your lives. To be honest, it feels surprisingly normal, like this is just another weekend activity with a friend. 

As you sit there, looking over at Isaac from across the table, you can’t help but wonder if he might not have an ulterior motive after all, if he really is just there to get to know you better. You watch the way his eyes light up when he laughs, the dishevelment of his blond curls that makes you want to reach across the table and move it ever so slightly out of his face. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that you were falling for him. You suppose that’s why you don’t hesitate when Isaac asks if you’ll do this again at the next rehearsal, and why your heart does a slow loop in your chest when he looks up at you, beaming, after you say yes.

That’s how it is for the next few weeks- Isaac shows up at rehearsals, even when he doesn’t have to be there for lighting, he walks with you to the diner, you get dinner together. At some point, he stopped having to ask, and the two of you would simply meet up, already knowing what to do without having to put it into words. You’re not sure when you gave him this much free rein over your heart, only that you don’t believe that you will ever get it back.

You’re staying late now, after school on a day when rehearsals are not held. You’re trying to fix the latest lighting display after some accident involving a freshman boy and too much shaking of an already volatile soda can knocked some of the lights sideways, but it’s harder to fix than you’d first thought. You’re standing on your toes now, trying and failing to connect a wire to the last of the lights, when the offending bit of plastic and metal is suddenly lifted from your hands and fastened to the string of bulbs with ease.

When you turn around, Isaac is grinning shamelessly at you. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. I had it covered.” He appears unaffected by this. “I know you did. I was just making sure that you didn’t have to prove it.” Isaac scratches the back of his head, staring up at the tall rows of lights. “How’d you even get them up there in the first place? I know all of this is new, and some of them are so high up that I don’t even know if I could get them with a ladder.”

You hesitate for a second. You know exactly how the lights ended up there, after you snuck back into the school late one night when the security cameras were surreptitiously pointed away from you. You’d been able to use your magic to get them all up, but you can’t exactly tell Isaac that. On second thought, actually, you can- if you didn’t trust him before, you most certainly trust him now.

So, you spread your hands, nodding up at the lights. “This is how.” All of a sudden, the metal supports connecting the lights peel down towards you, moving like a snake despite the previous rigidity of the materials. You let the row of lights hover by your hand for a second, then with a flick of your fingers, direct it back where it had been before. You glance over at Isaac, nervous as to how he’ll respond, but he’s just grinning like a schoolboy seeing a magic trick for the first time. “That’s amazing, Y/N?”

You can’t help but laugh. “Really?” He nods. “Really. Just like you.” Now you feel like you’re one of the lights from before, this time caught under his spell instead of yours. Isaac notices this, taking a step closer to you until you’re only a few inches away. His hand reaches up to cup the side of your face, and then he’s kissing you. There’s a feeling in your chest like a firework, and you kiss him back.

Now Isaac’s sure of it- he really is one of the luckiest werewolves to ever cross this side of Beacon Hills. Maybe even among humans, too. It’s opening night now, time to see what Y/N’s hard work has produced over the past few months. In truth, Isaac’s a little disappointed that it’s time to finally watch the show- he’s been enjoying the rehearsals a lot more than he thought he ever would, probably because it means he can keep sneaking glances at Y/N, the beautiful girl he can now actually call his girlfriend.

Isaac’s proud of the crowd streaming into the auditorium, although he knows that he had a fairly large hand in getting them together as well. He threatened and cajoled, requested and coerced everyone he knew into going. Across the room, Isaac can see Scott, Lydia, and Stiles sitting down together. Erica, Boyle, and Derek are lingering in the back. However, he doesn’t go to any of them, choosing instead to walk up to Y/N and take his seat beside her. Isaac reaches over and takes her hand as the lights dim, squeezing it once. This is her pet project, after all. It’s best to support directors during their times of crisis.

In the end, it turns out that none of them have to worry at all. The musical goes off without a single misstep, the entire thing perfect. Isaac keeps glancing over at Y/N, unable to keep a smile off his face. She has this little look of concentration she gets as she watches the show, as if silently running through a check list of all the hardest moments and places where her actors and actresses could mess up. It’s pretty cute, actually.

They walk back out together, breathing in the cool night air with relief. Isaac meets up with the two packs later, noting with grudging appreciation that Derek isn’t trying to tear anyone’s throat out quite yet. In fact, the usually dour wolf almost looks happy, as if he’s been enjoying himself. Strange. Isaac clears his throat. “So, what did we think?” Despite asking this question to the group, Isaac can’t take his eyes off of Y/N, watching her face light up as all of the friends tell her how much they liked the show. Even Derek says something about how it wasn’t that bad, which for him is a stellar compliment. 

Isaac would not mind staying with Y/N for the entire night, but soon enough one of her friends is calling her over and she’s jogging away after leaving him with a goodbye kiss. Isaac watches her go, then turns back to face the rest of his friends. Lydia’s nodding in solemn acceptance. “You’re good together. I hate to say it, but you are.” Isaac can’t help but laugh. “That’s high praise. I’ll take it.” The pack is starting to filter away into the night, talking quietly about this and that. Isaac watches it all with a smile. They did this together, didn’t they? Y/N and him, together. That’s all he wants.

requested by @thornyrose463​

teen wolf tag list: the star of MY musical @underc0vercryptid​

[sequinsmile-x]

High

Aaron gets hurt protecting Emily. 

For my pal @aubreyprc 

Words: 2.3k

Warnings: Canon typical violence/injury. Some cursing. Aaron Hotchner high on pain meds. 

She was going to kill him. 

First, she was going to check he was ok, kiss him until she was sure and then she was going to kill him. 

Emily anxiously twirls her wedding and engagement ring around her finger, attempting to channel her nervous energy into something other than tearing her cuticles apart. A cup of coffee enters her eye line, and she looks up to see Dave standing in front of her, a reassuring smile on his face.

“It probably tastes awful, but at least it’s something.” He says as she takes it from his hand and he sits next to her. “The others are finished at the scene and are on the way.” 

Emily grimaces at the taste of the coffee as she takes a sip, but for a second it distracts her, takes her mind off the fact her husband is an idiot. 

An idiot who she loved more than anything. An idiot who happened to take a knife to the shoulder for her less than an hour ago. 

“He’ll be ok, Emily.” 

She scoffs before taking another sip of the coffee, grimacing at the taste again. “He won’t be once I’m finished with him.” She shakes her head and looks at her friend. “Why did he do it, Dave? We’ve been together for years and this has never happened.” 

“The guy had his arms around you and a knife against your throat.” Dave says, his eyes flicking to the tiny cut on her neck. “He would have done the same for any of us.” 

Emily closes her eyes at the memory. She wasn’t exactly sure how it happened, how she had ended up on the floor and the unsub had his knife in Aaron’s shoulder in a matter of seconds. The first thing she was really aware of was a gun going off, Derek taking a well aimed shot at the unsub to disarm him, but not kill him, and Aaron lowering himself to the ground next to her with his hand pressed against his own shoulder. 

She had held him against her as they waited for the paramedics, her hand against the wound and her lips against his forehead as she told him she loved him and how fucking stupid he was in equal measure. 

“I know he would have.” She agrees, knowing it was true. Aaron would do anything for the team, take any of their places if they were in danger. She knew he carried a burden if any of them got hurt, more so if it was her, and it would take weeks for the guilt to fade, for her to be able to convince him that just because he was their leader it wasn’t his fault. “It doesn’t make him less of a self sacrificing asshole.” 

“Em-”

“Maybe you can save the lecture for when I’m not sitting in a hospital waiting room wearing a shirt covered in my husband's blood?” Emily says, an edge to her voice that has Dave hold up a hand in surrender as he takes a sip of his own coffee.

Emily knew Aaron would be ok. He hadn’t lost consciousness once, even when she had sat next to him in the ambulance, his hand grasped in hers as he tried to hide the amount of pain he was in. But he had been so pale, the blood loss making him look weary as he tried to reassure her that everything would be fine. 

“Family of Aaron Hotchner?” 

Emily looks up to see a doctor standing and looking around, a kind look on her face as Emily stood, Dave not far behind her, and walked over. 

“I’m his wife, is he ok?” 

The doctor guides them back over to the waiting area, indicating for Emily to sit down, which she does, feeling anxiety rise through her chest. 

“The stab wound your husband came in with was very deep, and the scans show that the tip of the knife broke off against his clavicle.” The doctor explains gently. “The tip of the knife is still in his shoulder, so we are going to have to do surgery to get it out and close up the wound.” 

Emily felt like the wind had been knocked out of her, memories of when Aaron had been stabbed before, so many years ago now, flooding back in a way that took her breath away.

“Is he going to be ok?” She asks, shrugging Dave’s hand off of her shoulder as he tries to provide some comfort, knowing right now it wouldn’t do her any good.

“There are never any guarantees.” The doctor says, but she smiles at Emily again in a reassuring way. “But he has remained conscious this entire time, and spent a long time trying to convince us he didn’t need pain meds.” 

Emily chokes out a laugh at that. “That sounds about right.” She clears her throat, forces down the emotion trying to claw its way up it. “Can I see him?”

“Of course.” The doctor replies. “I need you to fill out the paperwork too.”

Emily stands and follows the doctor, briefly turning back to Dave. “Can you let the others know?” 

“Of course, bella. You go make sure he’s ok.” 

She follows the doctor to the room Aaron is in, and she blows out a breath when she sees him. The wound to his left shoulder is packed tight and he looks so pale it does nothing to calm her concerns. 

“Sweetheart.” He says as soon as he sees her, a strain to his voice as he tries to hide the pain he is in. She walks over to the bed and sits on the edge of it facing him, taking his hand in between hers. “Are you ok?” 

He lifts his good arm to press his thumb to the tiny cut on her neck, the one that had stopped bleeding before the paramedic even arrived, and Emily rolls her eyes at him. 

“I’m fine. And I’m not the one with a piece of a knife stuck in my shoulder, honey.” She scoffs as she straightens the cannula in his nose delivering him oxygen. “You scared me.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

She leans forward and kisses him, a gentle thing against his lips to remind herself that he is alive, and then she rests her forehead against his. 

“It’s ok. Just don’t do anything stupid like die during surgery.” She says, her smile wavering as tears flood her lash line. “I’d hate to have to bring you back to life just to kill you myself.” 

He laughs at that and it makes him jolt in pain, wincing as the movement makes his shoulder burn. She shushes him, her fingers soft against his cheek. 

There’s a clearing of a throat behind them and Emily turns to see a nurse standing there. 

“We need to take you down now, Agent Hotchner.” 

Emily turns back to Aaron and kisses him, more forceful this time as she tries to pour everything into it. She pulls back and smiles at him. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.” He says, squeezing her hand.

“I’ll be here when you wake up.”

__________________

The first thing Aaron feels is pain. His shoulder is killing him, a burning sensation lancing all the way down his arm and across his chest. Then he realises how fuzzy his head feels, the tell tell signs of anaesthesia and heavy pain killers in his system, making his brain feel light and heavy at the same time.

He opens his eyes and looks around, unsurprised to see he is in a hospital room. He groans at the light in the room, the brightness of the fluorescent lights making his head swim even more. 

“Aaron.” 

He turns to see Emily sitting next to him, a look of relief on her face. Her presence confuses him, unsure why she was by his side, and why her hand was in his. 

“Prentiss?” He asks, missing the way she frowns when he calls her by her surname. “What happened?” 

“You were stabbed, you had to have surgery.” She stands up, both of her hands now grasped around one of his. She presses a kiss to his cheek and he shrinks backwards, the pain in his shoulder stopping him from moving more. 

“What are you doing?” 

She looks at him, equal parts concern and amusement on her face. “Trying to kiss my husband.” 

“We aren’t married.” He says, and he watches her smile slip away. “That’s mean, Prentiss.” 

Aaron had loved her for years, longer than he had cared to admit. He’d often wondered if she’d felt the same, but this felt cruel. Like she was messing with him when he was so in love with her just having her touch him made his skin feel like it was burning. 

“I could show you our marriage certificate but I don’t carry it with me everywhere we go.” She jokes, a nurse walking in before she could say anything else.

“Oh look who is awake.” The overly cheery nurse says as she sends a smile to Emily. “Your wife was very worried about you.” 

“Not my wife.” Aaron mumbles. Just my beautiful coworker I’m in love with. He thinks, although a small laugh from Emily and the nurse tells him he may well have said it out loud.

“Is he ok?” Emily asks, concern for him sneaking it’s way into her voice. “He knows who I am but keeps insisting that we aren’t married.” 

The nurse finishes checking Aaron’s vitals, making a note on the chart in her hands. “He’s fine, this isn’t totally unusual for someone coming round from anesthetic. I’ve seen some people completely forget who their loved ones are.” She presses a few buttons on one of the machines he is hooked up to. “I’ve set up the next set of meds, so he should sleep soon. Next time he wakes up, try and get him to eat some of the crackers we’ll bring in.”

Emily nods and turns her attention back to Aaron as the nurse leaves. “See, the nurse knows we’re married.” 

“I’d remember marrying you.” He grumbles, eyeing her wedding rings with jealousy. Her husband is a lucky bastard. 

Emily smiles at him, biting her lip to suppress a laugh as he realises he had accidentally spoken out loud again. She pushes some hair off of his forehead, her touch warming him immediately, something familiar about the gesture that his confused brain can’t place. He thinks he sees her get her phone out, but the room is starting to get blurry, his eyes closing against his will. 

“I don’t think you even remember what town we’re currently in, Aaron.” 

“Too pretty to marry me.” He says, his voice thick as the painkillers the nurse had given him start to make him drift to sleep. “Too good.” 

“Go to sleep, love.” She says, a kiss to his forehead as she soothes him. 

He falls asleep to her soft lips against his skin, and he thinks there would be much worse things in the world than being Emily’s husband.

__________________

It takes another couple of hours for him to wake again, and she can immediately tell he’s more lucid this time. A focus in his eyes that hadn’t been present in the few minutes he had been awake earlier.

“Hi sweetheart.” He says, smiling at her in the way he did on their first date, the way it made her feel now no less significant than it had been then. 

“Hi honey.” Emily stands from the chair next to his bed so she can kiss him, and then she settles on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Sore.” 

She raises an eyebrow at him, but leaves it, knowing that she won’t get any further admission of pain from him. “I need to make you eat some crackers.” She says, a smirk on her face as she indicates the package on the table next to him.

He groans, the idea of eating anything making his stomach turn. “Do I have to?”

“Yes. But I’ll give you a few minutes.” 

“I’m your husband, you’re meant to be nice to me.” 

“Oh, so now you remember we’re married?” She asks, a wry smile on her face that develops into a laugh at his confusion

“What?” 

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll tell you later. I took a video.” Her smile fades slightly as she takes in the bandage poking out from his gown, the way his arm was strapped to his chest. 

“I’m ok, Em.” 

“I know.” She says, looking back at his face and giving him a wobbly smile. “Today was rough.” She lifts his hand to her lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “As soon as you are better we’re going to have a conversation about you sacrificing yourself like that for me.” 

“I’d do anything for you.” 

Emily shakes her head at him and rolls her eyes. “You’re an idiot.” 

“But you love me.” 

Emily smiles and kisses him, pulling back just enough to to speak. “I really do.” 

__________________

She shows him the video footage of him in the hospital as soon as they get home, him in their bed on rest for at least a month. She giggles as he tries, and fails, to take her phone from her, his usual strength failing him with one of his arms out of action. 

He promises all sorts of filthy things, once he’s better, in exchange for her deleting the video, which she does in front of him.

It’s only at the office Christmas party a few months later when it pops up in the montage Penelope puts together every year he realises he’s been duped. 

[no-droids]

Dove

Part 2 of 2 of The Locked Door Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 19.7K i apologize for NOTHING

Warnings: DUBCON ELEMENTS, SMUUUUUUT, religion kink, virgin kink, authority kink, degradation kink, praise kink, age gap, ohhhhh the list goes on y’all been here long enough

A/N: I have nothing to say for myself this time im sorry

***

Obi-Wan feels like he’s going to be sick.

Dinner in the grand hall was difficult enough, forking down mouthfuls of expensive food he’s sure was absolutely marvelous, if he could’ve tasted it.  The s’Ziscari clearly splurged on the celebrations—expensive food, expensive decor, expensive everything, down to the silk napkin he studied and fiddled with under the table as he awkwardly waited for you to finish your plate.

He felt uncomfortable, absolutely.  He’s felt uncomfortable ever since he shuffled into this blasted, Maker forsaken robe not long after he left your quarters earlier.

Not black, no.  Not like yours.  Not like what appears to be an overwhelmingly vast majority of the people he’s encountered so far this dreadful evening.

No, his robes are blue.

A strong, eye-catching royal blue, covering his body in waves of fabric—softer than anything he’s ever worn before and leaving him feeling incredibly exposed.  The far more practical robes he traded for these atrocious garments are made of a thick, scratchy wool, a testament to the Jedi’s philosophical rejection of fine or expensive materials.  And, against all logic—to somehow make matters even worse, the sash tying this uncomfortable piece of attire closed has no place to clip his saber, unlike the leather belt he usually wears.  As a consequence, he’s left simply carrying it around by his side.

Granted, for some unknown reason, his robes are still far thicker and longer and more protective than the… stars, the ultra-thin black silk wrapped around your body, but Obi-Wan is so self-conscious about his appearance that he’s not even allowing himself to look at you.  Obviously that doesn’t stop him from refusing to leave your side the entire night, and he finds himself rather grateful that only a very few number of s’Ziscari are fluent in Basic, if only to provide him with a valid excuse to socially detach.

Of the very few people he’s noticed wearing robes resembling his, they’re all far younger than him—much closer to your age than Obi-Wan’s, and stars, everything about this celebration is unbelievably unnerving to him—including, if not most of all, your response to it.  One of the reasons he knows the food was grand, apart from the immaculate plating and lavish dinnerware of course, is because you momentarily excused yourself from the seat next to him to dish yourself out a second helping.

Even now, even in the skybox seats of this distressingly packed arena, Obi-Wan struggles to keep down what little food he could eat while you stand tall next to him and seem completely unbothered by the situation—and by the Maker, it bothers him.  He isn’t used to this.  He’s used to you being the emotionally turbulent one, the one whom he has to pacify, and it twists his stomach with the way the roles have suddenly found themselves reversed.

“I think the blue looks nice, by the way,” you lean sideways to mention casually to him, and he knows.  He knows you’re just jesting, just trying to lighten the mood, but he feels the bile rising up his throat at the fact that you even commented on it aloud.  “Fitting.  Matches your saber.  Your face, though.”  The smallest hint of a smile tugs at your cheeks.  “It’s beginning to match the color of mine.”

“Thank you for that, young one; your sense of humor is positively delightful,” Obi-Wan gripes, clutching the metal hilt tightly in front of him with both hands while he gazes out at the stadium before him, bustling with black hooded figures and a rare flash of blue.  It does not escape his notice that in complete contrast, your arms are loosely meeting behind your back, your saber dangling in one hand while the other lazily holds your wrist.  Your body is… open.  Draped in garments somehow equally as opaque as they are revealing, presented to the wide panoramic view of the audience and stage with no qualms whatsoever.

“Wonder who I got it from,” you ponder with a tilt of your head, and… fair point.  “How long is this thing supposed to last anyways?”

“Stars—‘this thing’ can’t get over with soon enough,” Obi-Wan grumbles, his eyes anxiously flicking down at the empty stage in the center of the audience.  He’s struggling with butterflies and nausea like he himself is meant to have a starring role in this debauchery.  “They’ll have… acts.  Plural.”

“Heavens,” you sigh under your breath, and oh yes.  He agrees.

He’s also painfully aware that he should be using this free time to continue contemplating his decision about… matters concerning later this evening with you, but he’s already feeling massively overwhelmed as it is.  Right now, it’s all he can do to just breathe and attempt to face one trial at a time.

But then, as if the Maker is feeling just particularly malicious this evening, Obi-Wan’s stomach drops when something quiet flashes in the Force and the roar of the enormous crowd instantly falls to dead silence.  The ominous sign rockets through him and while a Jedi should not know fear, this might be the closest he’s ever felt to truly terrified.

“Ooh, dramatic,” you whisper, but regardless of your laissez-faire attitude, his heart is positively pounding as he watches the figures of robed Force sensitives slowly file out onto the stage, and everything inside him lurches at the realization that—

They’re all wearing blue.  Every single one of them is clothed in fabric that matches his current attire, the one that made him feel like a blot on the landscape the entire dinner and subsequent mass pilgrimage to the arena.  A bright splash of color in the midst of an almost inescapably giant ring of black.

You’ve stopped talking.  Truly, he has no idea if that’s a good or bad thing, not right now.  The Force sensitives join hands and create a ring in the center of the stage while every single person in the arena sits in perfect silence, and Obi-Wan feels dizzy.  He’s not getting enough air right now, but he doesn’t even want to breathe too loudly and somehow draw even more attention to himself.

Two of the blue robes break off from their fellow acolytes and meet in the middle of the circle, and to simply avoid having a heart attack, Obi-Wan very purposefully chooses to ignore—like he’s done multiple times this evening—the subtle flicker of curiosity he experiences at the significance of the color blue and what it symbolizes to the s’Ziscari.  He can’t even bear to watch the way the two of them slowly lean in and allow their lips to touch from under their hoods.

Maker, if he turned his saber on and stabbed himself with it, could he convince you it was an accident?  Probably not—no, definitely not, what a stupid thought to have—

“How does she wipe?”  He hears your voice whisper, and Obi-Wan’s facial expression immediately screws up in confusion.

He turns to you, his tone equally hushed but the bewilderment sharpening his consonants.  “How does who what—?”

Only—you’re not even looking at the scene unfolding in front of you.  Your expression is just as confused as his is, but instead of looking down, your chin is lifted and you’re staring directly across the arena at the viewing booth opposite to yours.  He still has no idea what you’re talking about though, not until he follows your line of sight and sees the way s’Zerthia has her jaw propped up in her hands on her throne, looking bored as usual, and how the length of her newly manicured fingernails curves halfway up her scalp from this angle.

“That’s dangerous,” you remark quietly.  “They’re like talons.  Gaudy little weapons she always has attached to her that she decorates, makes them seem less vicious than they actually are.  I see them.  I certainly don’t envy whoever she picks tonight to—”

You cut yourself off with a bit lip smile and turn your face away from him, and Obi-Wan is almost mystified by how casual you’re able to be about this. 

“Whomever she picks to…?”  He trails off with a sigh.  “Do I… Do I want to know?”

“Never mind,” you tell him quickly, lifting your chin once more while still clearly trying not to laugh.  You’re trying not to laugh, while… while that is happening in the center of the audience.  “It was, uh… tasteless.”

He blinks, wondering what that could possibly mean.  Everything about this is tasteless, the entire thing is just an absolute nightmare coming to life.

Though, after a moment of silence, Obi-Wan soon realizes he much prefers it when you fill the void.

“Members of the Royal Court take turns doing it for her,” he eventually replies, decidedly looking anywhere but where the man is slipping the blue robe from the woman’s body.  It takes you a second to register to what exactly he’s referring, but when you finally do, you snort.  It’s too loud.  A few heads closest to your isolated seats turn as Obi-Wan very quickly thrusts his elbow into your ribs.  “Quit being disrespectful,” he hisses under his breath.

“You just—!”  You quickly clamp your mouth shut and face forward again, trying not to smile in an appalled sort of way.  But then—“Oh,” you blurt, not loud enough for anyone else to hear in this open setting but still loud enough for him to glance around and be slightly anxious about it.  “Oh.  Wow.  I wasn’t… expecting…”

Obi-Wan’s eyes automatically flick down to the couple, only just long enough to catch a quick glimpse of stark nudity in the center of the arena before his gaze immediately bounces back up again and focuses on the incredibly interesting steel beam currently propping up the Queen’s viewing box, clearing his throat.  “I… did warn you.”

“Well, yeah, I expected them to…”  Your hushed voice trails off and you stay quiet for too long, too long to imply you’re still formulating an end to your thought.  You’re distracted by something, but then you appear to snap back to your senses and immediately clear your throat.  “I just wasn’t expecting… the, uh.  The… positioning.”

He says nothing in response.  It… it doesn’t give him great comfort, wondering how you could possibly know enough about this type of profanity to have expected a different sort of positioning.  The stark contrast between the color of his ceremonial robes and yours still remains completely unspoken, but it quietly pulls at the back of his mind nonetheless.

“What about it?”  Obi-Wan immediately hears himself prompt and oh, no, this is completely inappropriate.  Not only should he not be encouraging this kind of talk with you, but he also shouldn’t feel so… so negative, not about something so personal to you and something that’s certainly none of his business.  Regardless, he… still has this buried, unexplainable desire to know the truth about it.  Regardless of the indirect way he’s attempting to go about it, he wants to know the truth about whether or not you broke your oath, and while he recognizes it’s completely improper of him, the urge is still strong enough to manifest itself using his vocal cords.

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just…  It’s…”  He doesn’t even have a visual reference for what you’re attempting to find the words to describe.  He doesn’t want to.  He just wants to know what you think about it.  “…Bold,” you finally settle on.

Bold.  It’s bold.  Perhaps Obi-Wan wouldn’t be analyzing your verbal responses so closely if he had something more interesting to look at besides the general coliseum-like structure of the large outdoor stadium, but there’s a certain horizon he just won’t let his eyes dip below right now and unfortunately for him, being so high up above the crowd, the upper hemisphere of his visual field remains relatively dull.

“Who would've thought,” he eventually sighs, blinking up at the star-splattered sky now and attempting to see if he can use the Force to break off a piece of a satellite and have it impale him in a tragic accident.  “Considering the s’Ziscari are such a conservative bunch.”

His eyes soon wander back to s’Zerthia, and—Obi-Wan startles to find her staring directly at him with a thin eyebrow dangerously quirked.  She motions two long fingers in a V shape at her eyes and then points down towards the stage, her expression expectant and waiting.

Obi-Wan’s teeth hurt at how hard he clenches them together, his jaw flexing but the thick blanket of his beard doing well to conceal it.  She’s playing with him, he realizes; he can see the hidden smile on her lips all the way from here.

Maker, maybe she’s right.  Maybe he’s—maybe he’s being ridiculous about this.  This is fine.  This is fine.  His stomach feels like it’s all his food might come up at any second, but he’ll do it, he’ll look.  He can at least just look, right?

His gaze slowly begins lowering, trying to take in just a few things at a time so as not to overstimulate himself.  Thousands of s’Ziscari lining the seats of the arena, almost every single one of them dressed in black.  Lower still—the platform leading up to the stage.  A perimeter of blue figures now sitting down in a circle and then, at its center, a… a naked man and woman.

Obi-Wan’s heart pounds as he struggles to comprehend the sight, never having laid eyes on a nude woman before.  She’s on her elbows and knees, forehead lowered and resting against the floor, and the man kneels behind her, one hand holding her hips and the other wrapping around his—

Stars, Obi-Wan wants to end it all.  Right here.  His aim will be true.

But then… oh, no, he’s an idiot.  He’s a complete dullard, because he forgot.  Consumed by his own sheer anxiety and unease, Obi-Wan stupidly forgot an extremely crucial detail of the incredibly little he’s been told about the Sh’inzith.

—the projecting.

All at once, he’s nearly knocked over by the strength of the two Force sensitives at the center of the arena as they deliberately cast their minds out across the entire audience, presenting every sensation and fleeting thought they’re experiencing in all its intensity.  Obi-Wan immediately works to reinforce his mental shields as soon as he feels the shockwave about to hit, but there’s thousands of Force sensitives present—all of them congregated into one relatively small area, all of them tuning into the same two signatures and then suddenly… amplifying them back until it’s impossible for him to shut out.

“Oh, uh—” he just manages to hear you mutter through the whirlwind, just the slightest hint of panic in your voice peaking through the symphony of whispered thoughts and pulsing sensations coming from the stage, “—that isn’t good—”

Obi-Wan abruptly stumbles backwards and gasps at the awful, wretched feeling of something brunt pressing up hard against somewhere elusive, somewhere he’s never felt before towards the lower part of his body, and his mind fights viciously against it as he feels you spin around and reach out for his rapidly retreating figure.

“Wait, no—it’s okay, M-Master, it’s okay, it’s—” your voice cuts off and your hands suddenly fist into the robes at his chest, your forehead dropping to his shoulder against the sharp sting just continuing to push and push and push, “—i-it’s okay, it’s oka—”

He trips over his feet in the chaos and falls back on complete instinct and you’re so tightly attached to him that you’re yanked forwards with the momentum, the two of you plunging to the ground in a clumsy heap of grunts and tangled limbs.  Obi-Wan immediately starts crawling backwards across the floor underneath you, still trying to escape the horrible, inescapable sensation digging into a part of his body that doesn’t seem to exist, but it’s like you’re of the same mind—you’re scrambling forwards in the same direction trying to get away from the same thing, frantically attempting to calm him and simultaneously deal with the agony yourself, and then suddenly—

Oh—oh, Maker—

Suddenly something gives and surges in, and then Obi-Wan gasps—his elbows buckling under him and as the both of you drop down onto the floor because stars, it’s nearly blinding with impression.  Not only the aching, hard fullness stretching sharp and deep somewhere in his lower abdomen—but now a new sensation.  A tight, wet silk he feels swallowing him between his legs, concentrated on a part of his body that… does exist, a body part that’s currently pressed up right between your spread thighs.

“Fuck,” you moan hot against his throat, trying to find somewhere to brace yourself next to his shoulders and push yourself up off him, and he tries—Maker, he tries so hard not to, but his hands shoot out to grab your hips before he even knows what he’s doing and then he’s dragging his lower body up into yours on instinct alone, clamping his eyes shut and groaning out a desperate sound he’s never heard himself make before as his head drops against the floor.

It’s staggering.  It hurts.  He can't even hear your muffled noises anymore, not over the roaring encompassing his mind and body.  All he knows is that your hips quickly jerk back and grind down into his in response, sending Obi-Wan reeling while you bury your twisted cry of pleasure and pain into his neck.

The sound of it breaks through everything else.

Obi-Wan’s hands shake violently as they suddenly release you and then frantically shove at your shoulders, trying to push you off without hurting you.  He can’t think, he can’t see, he needs to leave—

“Get away,” he rasps desperately up at the sky, blinking his eyes wide but somehow not seeing anything in front of him but blackness.  “St-stars, get away from me—”

Suddenly you’re flipping off his body and onto your back next to him, too quick for it to be a mechanical movement alone, and he doesn’t even have the space in his mind nor the processing capacity to figure out if he Force pushed you off him or if it was you who did it to yourself.  He just clambers to his feet and stumbles away in a terrified, graceless retreat, bent in half, limping and gasping and fighting for every step he takes.

***

Your Master was right to leave as soon as possible, you think.  You were wrong to linger here for just a second to try and gain your bearings, because the more you work to grasp and attempt to organize them, the more mindless and disorienting they become.

You eventually have to heave over and drag yourself after him.

The further away you get from the arena, the easier it becomes to block the projection, but Maker, it’s exhausting.  You’re resigned to start out with a crawl—one of those Jedi Core crawls you haven’t had to do since the Academy but this one exponentially slower, forehead dropped down and eyes closed, just focusing on alternating shifting your elbows and your knees forwards and dedicating the rest of your mental energy to just isolating your mind from the debilitating assault.

Consulars don’t usually see much of war—you tend to do absolutely everything in your power to avoid it.  It’s the Guardians who experience the horrors of combat most often, who deal with ambushes and onslaughts from enemies of the Republic.  But Maker above, every merciless thrust into that poor little virgin at the center of the arena is like a blaster shooting directly at you, but then couple it with the thousands of reflections and ricochets in robes lining the bleachers?  You’re in the trenches of a deadly battle you had no idea was even about to break out and you have no weapon of defense besides retreat.

When you finally get far enough away to be able to push yourself upright as much as possible and continue staggering back to the palace on two feet, you have no concept for how long it’s been.  You can still feel the projection vibrating and clawing sharply at the edges of your consciousness, but at least the majority of your thoughts are your own now, and it gradually becomes easier and easier to focus and speed up to a clumsy run.

Though, no matter how successful you eventually are at muffling the vibrant sensations and thoughts of the two Force sensitives behind you—when they cum, you stumble down to your knees again and have to bite the back of your fist to keep from screaming.

Maker, it takes you a minute to recover.  You don’t even cum, you just feel it—the burst of energy from the Force in every direction, the violent explosion from the stadium that feels like it should fracture the ground beneath you.

You’re able to get up after a moment, if only because they decide to take mercy and finally cut off the projection.  You know that it’s a temporary relief, that they’ll likely be at this all night, but you hope the palace will be far enough away from the arena to block out the sensations completely.  You wonder if Master Kenobi felt that through the Force or whether he was too determined to block it out that he was able to simply ignore the nuclear missile that just detonated less than a few miles away from him.

You force yourself forwards and you want to hurry, you do—but strangely, in your wild state of exhaustion, stark reality is almost as debilitating as swimming through that endless madness was.  It’s quiet around you but the noise of still air pulses deafeningly in your eardrums after breaking free from such a thick mental filter separating you from your surroundings.  You still have your lightsaber clutched in your hand, Maker rejoice, and your thin robes are skewed awkwardly across your body, but you eventually find your way to the doors of the palace.

Though, trying to navigate the empty halls back to your Master’s chambers takes you longer than it should.  His signature is cloaked spectacularly, concealed to a mere speck you wouldn’t even know was there if you weren’t so closely acquainted with it for more than a decade.  You follow the flickering pixel of blue light through the obstacle ridden darkness, adjusting the front of your robes with one trembling hand while you wipe your brow with the other, closing your eyes and doing your best to take deep breaths.  He’ll be spiraling right now.  He’ll need a boulder to cling to in this tsunami, solid ground to stand on while the stars are falling out of the sky.

You… find him in your quarters instead.

The door is open and his handsome profile is to you, the thick fabric stretching over his broad shoulders now an agreeable light cream, familiar and telling of his intentions.  His hands are moving.  Setting something down on your bed—your robes, you soon realize.  He’s laying out your Jedi robes neatly for you across the fur blanketing the large mattress.

Master Kenobi begins speaking as soon as you step foot into the room, the tone of his voice very clearly impatient after having waited for you for so long.

“Change out of those ridiculous garments,” he tells you hastily, neatly laying out your leather belt across your dark tunic without even turning his head to look at you properly.  “We must leave.  Quickly.  Also—tell me you didn’t forget your saber at the arena, because if so, I’m afraid it’s lost to us forever now.  Ilum is only three days from here, perhaps we can stop there on the way back to Coruscant to find you another kyber cryst—”

You drop the hilt of your lightsaber on the floor and step forward, cautiously reaching out for his figure as he continues to ramble.  “Master, I—”

Your hand is thrown to the side with a subtle flick of his wrist and you instantly jerk to an abrupt halt, holding your palms out in front of you and keeping completely still while he spins around, his jaw slack and staring at you wide-eyed.  He takes a few steps away from you in shock.

“I’m sorry—” he immediately gasps, reaching out towards you even though the rest of his body is still desperately evading yours.  “Stars, I’m so sorry—that was just… That was excruciating, young one.  Why would anyone ever willingly—?”

“It—it doesn’t always—” you cut yourself off just in time, clamping your jaw shut before you can finish your sentence.

“We must leave,” he says once more as he turns back to your mattress, not appearing to hear you at all and shaking his head, far too frantic to sound like he’s just reminding you alone.  “We can’t do that.  I can’t do that—”

“It doesn’t always have to be—”  Maker, what is wrong with you?  Your heart kicks up in your chest and somehow stutters to a halt at the same time.  It’s the lingering effects of the assault your mind just experienced coupled with your desperate urge to console him that’s making you so utterly careless, you realize, it’s making your tongue loose.

“Stars, what do you mean?”  Master Kenobi finally snaps, and your blood runs ice cold.  “How do you know that?”

It takes the sum of all your years of training to keep the raging hurricane of emotion from showing in any capacity.  You feel like he’s holding his saber to your neck with how dangerously little you’re even allowing yourself to breathe right now, how utterly and completely still you’re holding yourself in front of him.

Lie, a little voice in your mind supplies quietly, the little voice you keep locked inside an impenetrable box of everything you are but have never been allowed to confront, haven’t been allowed to openly think just in case someone is listening too closely.  Lie.  Lie, right now.  Your silence is giving you away.

Only—you can’t.  You shouldn’t.  It’s not fair to keep this from him, not when you’re asking him to do something so structurally compromising to his belief system.  If… if you tell him the truth, perhaps he won’t judge you too harshly.  Perhaps he’ll feel… reassured, knowing he’s certainly not the first Jedi to break a sacred vow when he felt times were desperate enough.

Besides.  This might be the only secret that could potentially get you kicked out of the Order, but… it still isn’t your worst one.

“Because.”  The word is out of your mouth before you can rethink it, barely above a whisper.  “I… know.”

He doesn’t respond, and no.

No, you were wrong.  You were wrong to tell him the truth, and the look on his face immediately shoots panic through your whole body.

He doesn’t look reassured.

He looks… alienated.

“‘It doesn’t always?’”  Your Master eventually repeats back to you, and fuck—the implication is instantly clear.  The implication is made so clear from the sharpness in his tone, the hard edge to it as he rounds out the vowels in the last word that makes your heart twist and throb in your ribcage.  He might as well have just asked you how many times you must’ve violated your code of honor to know the difference.

“It’s not.”  You clear your throat and flick your gaze up to the ceiling, feeling like he’s using the Force to squeeze your chest in on itself.  “That was the absolute worst possible sensation that can be felt during… It’s—it’s not like that.  It won’t… be like that.  Not.”  Are there tears coming to your eyes?  “Not… with me.”

Utter quiet.  So quiet that if you really concentrate, you can hear the distant sounds of the arena continuing on with the Ritual without you.  You bite hard at your lip and wait for him to say something, anything.  Yell at you, tell you how disgusted he is, banish you from the Order.

Instead, Master Kenobi quite suddenly… deflates.  He sighs—not a heavy, exhausted one, but a soft one.  A quiet, accepting sort of sound.

He slowly lowers himself to the edge of the mattress and closes his eyes, running both hands through his hair, and it’s just enough to give you pause.  You glance over at him, trying not to let tears fall beyond the plateau of your lower lids with the frantic downward movement of your eyes, and you’re only just barely successful at it.

“It’s alright,” he says gently.  “It’s… it’s alright, young one.  I… suppose I am in no place to judge.  Quite… quite literally,” he murmurs, gesturing to the space around him with a lazy wave of his hand.  Maker, his figure is too watery and unfocused to make out his facial expressions, but you don’t want to blink to clear your vision just in case a sudden downpour escapes.  “It’s none of my business and I shouldn’t have asked.  You’re… not my Padawan anymore.  I should have no reason to… even care at all, really.”

There’s something that feels… major in that, something monumental yet incredibly well hidden, but you’re still too full of blind panic to interpret it further.  Your breathing is shaky and you wonder, quite stupidly and not for the first time in your life, if it’s somehow possible to use the Force to evaporate the water in your eyes before it turns into tears.

“I am certain it took place in your younger years, a long time ago,” he continues calmly when you don’t immediately say anything.  “You did always have a… a rather unconventional relationship with the rules.” 

Your only response is a quick jerk of a nod.  Yes.

“Yes,” you immediately agree, hoping your tone sounds convincing enough through the lingering tremors.  “It was… a long time ago.  I’ve changed, since then.  Grown up in many ways.”

It’s his turn to nod, and you manage to calm down just slightly.  You’re still breathing too hard and you’re a bit too braced, too much of a stance to truly feel like relief, but your heart rate is beginning to settle back into a somewhat acceptable rhythm.

Master Kenobi looks over at you, and he says absolutely nothing about the traces of water still glistening along your eyelashes.  He just smiles softly and pats the space next to him.

You cautiously make your way over to him after a moment, feeling more unsure now than you’ve felt this entire mission.  You leave at least a half a foot of space separating the two of you once you carefully sit yourself down on the mattress, and you can’t even look in his general direction.  You just focus on the long, draping sleeves of your black robe as you look down at your hands and wait for him to speak first.

“Sometimes,” he eventually sighs.  “Sometimes I… feel like you’re the person I know best in the entire galaxy, you know.  I’ve… I’ve known you far longer than I ever knew my own Master, young one.  I picked you out of thousands, and I’d do it thousands of times again.  Sometimes—especially since the day of your accolade and subsequent absence, I feel like I can know exactly what you’re thinking, even from across an entire star system.  And yet somehow, you… always surprise me.  Even after all these years, I am just.  Consistently surprised by you.”

You don’t know how to take that.  You just sit there in a guilty silence, still unable to turn your head or offer any sort of response.

“I chose you as a Padawan because you surprised me, you know,” he reminds you quietly.  “I had certain expectations for you, and you did not meet those expectations.  Instead, you presented an alternative I’d never before considered, an alternative that forced me to reevaluate you—and by extension, myself—far beyond what I had previously.  That is not a bad thing.  It has never been a bad thing.  As is made blatantly obvious by the fact that I’m the one currently standing in the way of saving lives, and you’re…not.”

Maker, this is thin ice.  You don’t know what to say that’ll express hesitant agreement with his sentiment without making it sound like you’re not apologetic for breaking your oath.  You’re… well, you’re not, not really.  His response itself is causing you to feel far more turmoil than any legitimate regret for your actions.

“It was—” On instinct, you almost say it was a mistake regardless of the conflicts you’re just so happening to encounter on this mission, but something stops you.  You suddenly remember your place here, your goal.  To save the galaxy from the Separatists’ reign.  And, by extension… sleep with your Master.  You can’t call it a mistake if you’re going to ultimately try to convince him to do the same thing.  So instead, you scramble to finish your sentence with a different thought, knowing his full attention is pinned to you right now.  “…A long time ago,” is all your exhausted mind is able to come up with.

“Yes,” he gives you a small, companionable smile.  “It’s alright.  Your prior lapse—or, well… lapses in judgement… will forever be safe with me.”

And still, you don’t feel relief.  Not when Master Kenobi very quickly appears to look uncertain.

“I… apologize,” he offers after a moment, “if.  If I ever made you feel like… like you could not confide in me about any struggles or… or urges you may have been experienc—”

“Maker,” you suddenly interrupt with a frantic wave of your hands, everything cringing inside you, “Maker, we don’t have to do this.  None of it, it’s okay.  Know what?  Let’s just go home—screw the galaxy, I don’t care, just stop talking.”

He snaps his eyes over to you, a sudden bark of laughter escaping him before the rest of his face even seems to register something was funny.

It evolves.  Eventually he’s covering his face and stifling ridiculous little snorts behind his hands, trying to apologize in between the chuckles but laughing even harder.  It’s almost like… just a form of pure stress relief for him.  So far beyond traumatized that it’s revealing itself in a slightly hysterical way, even if what you said wasn’t hysterical at all.

“Now you have a mere glimpse into what my experience has been like today,” he finally tells you with a sparkling grin once he composes himself, lifting his chin as he looks at you and scratching his beard with a quiet flicking sound.  “Shall I keep going?  If this mission has taught me anything, it’s that no matter what, things can always get worse.”

“They don’t have to.”  You say it without thinking, the gentle reprieve caused by his laughter flowing through you in waves and making you throw caution to the wind.  The four words serve to shut him up quite quickly however, even though it was the opposite of your intent, and your smile drops.  Maker, just freely conversing with him about these things is navigating a minefield for his mental state.

“You… you say that, and yet even—” Master Kenobi eventually responds, cutting himself off with a cough.  “Even the things I’ve heard are meant to feel… pleasant, were just.”  He shakes his head and blinks his crystal blue eyes over at you.  “By all accounts.  Agony.”

“I know,” you nod.  “I know.  Projecting that specific situation was… sadistic of them.  A distortion of the truth.  Probably rooted in deep tradition, but also a great scare tactic if I ever saw one, playing with us by presenting the absolute worst of it before anything else.  It won’t hurt.  At all.  I promise.  In fact—I-I can make it feel—”

Maker, you don’t even finish your sentence, but you must think the general idea loud enough for him to understand.  You don’t actually have a specific word in mind—good, great, amazing, euphoric?—and yet, something quiet settles over you two at the silent implication, the mere whisper of the possibility of you pleasuring him.

And him… allowing it.

“Master, I—”

“Don’t,” he quickly tells you.  “Don’t call—You don’t have to… call me that.  Just for right now, it’s.  I don’t—” he takes a breath that sounds shakier than it looks, and then he paints an easy, fake smile on his face following the exhale.  You recognize that smile anywhere, though.  While you’ve never seen him wear it before, it’s the smile that politicians make when they’re about to present a lesser truth to you, a smile shown to you in negotiations all the time that signifies something… hidden.  He’s hiding something, something important, and you have no idea what it could possibly be.  “I don’t feel like I even deserve to be called that right now, young one.  Perhaps you should be the Master, and I the learner.”

“Ah yes, the circle is now complete,” you can’t help but jest in return, wanting to keep the tone light even though the subject matter is heavy.  “Is now when we trade lightsabers?”

“Indeed,” he smiles, this time more sincere, and… you can’t pinpoint when exactly it happened, but it appears you’re physically closer to each other now than you were when you first sat down.

“Do they, uh… actually expect us to…”  You clear your throat and wave a hand around, “…Project the entire time like that?”

Master Kenobi quickly shakes his head.  “No.  s’Zer—Queen s’Zerthia informed me that.  Ah.  For us, projection will only be necessary during the… well, she called it the ‘closing ceremonies.’”

Your eyebrows shoot up and you nod.  “I… see.”

It’s like you can physically feel his body start to break out into a cold sweat next to you at the sudden… realness of it all, the realization that it has to be getting late.  Close to midnight, if you’re not already pushing it.  It’s come time to make a final decision, you both know it.  You want to console him, offer him some kind of solace or reprieve, but stars, you just don’t know how, not when you’re this much of a mess about this, too, but for entirely different reasons.  You don’t have a single clue how to make him feel better about any of this.

“I just,” you rush before you lose the nerve, “I want you to know that—e-even if you feel like you’re somehow alone in this, you’re not.  Okay?  I’m… I’m really nervous, too.  I don’t… I don’t actually know what to do at all right now.  I don’t know whether to respect your apprehension or tell you it’s unfounded.  I don’t know if I should remind you what’s at stake here or whether I should avoid mentioning it at all costs.  I have no idea what position I should take, but I’ll—I’ll take whichever one you want me to.”

And it’s odd, because when you first launched into your confession, Master Kenobi gradually began to look more and more relieved, but at a certain point, something just goes horribly wrong.  You don’t know what you said, but whatever it was, it seems to rocket through your Master and suddenly his breathing stutters.

For a moment, you think he’s going to reach back, yank your neatly folded Jedi robes up from the mattress and push the dark fabric into your hands.  Tell you he’ll meet you at the docking bay posthaste, tell you not to linger, tell you that the mission was a failure.  But then—

“Before,” he suddenly says, the word almost startling you with how abrupt it comes out sounding.  Almost like he wasn’t quite expecting himself to say it either.  “Earlier today, you asked… you asked if there was anything you could do to… make this easier.”

“Yes,” you prompt immediately.  He won’t look at you, and for some reason your heart begins beating faster and the inside of your thighs are getting warm.

“I… I’m not sure I’ll be able to go through with this,” he admits with a whisper, his voice sounding so quietly reluctant, like he doesn’t want to say the words aloud but is forcing himself to.  “But… the Council put you in charge of negotiations.”

Your eyebrows furrow, trying to understand his implication.  What does that have to do with anything?  Is he saying that you’re supposed to be in charge, and therefore he’s defaulting to you?  “I’m not sure I—”

“The Galactic Republic…”  Master Kenobi enunciates very, very pointedly, still unable to look at you, “…put you in charge of negotiations.”

Specifying—or in this case, generalizing—doesn’t help much.  “I’m still not—”

“Maker, for—for the good of the Republic, young one,” he presses under his breath and finally flicks his gaze up to meet yours, sounding urgent and torn in equal parts.  “Negotiate.”

Stars, negotiate with who?  With—with him?  For the good of the…?  Is he asking you to somehow reason with him beyond what you’ve attempted to do already, or persuade him to do what’s right for—?

Maker—Master Kenobi is asking you to seduce him.

Shock paints your expression blank and his eyes instantly evade yours once more.  You have to sit there for just a second and double-check that you’re not dreaming.  None of this seems real.  All of it seems like an incredibly elaborate illusion of the Force, ever since you first laid eyes on him at the start of this mission.  You know you missed him but stars, did you truly miss him this terribly?  Your longing must rival something fierce to unconsciously conjure this wild of a scenario.  Is he actually here right now?  Have you been speaking to a ghost?  Are you actually here right now?  Are you going to wake up any second and remember he’s thousands of lightyears away and has been for years, risking his life on the front lines of galactic war while you’re left to play politics and negotiate treaties behind the scenes?

These thoughts aren’t safe to have in normal interactions with him, but nothing about this situation is normal, and while you know Master Kenobi has years of experience reading your signature, he most likely won’t be able to gauge the specific details of your thoughts when you can sense how intensely he’s focused on guarding his own chaotic mind from you.

So you let yourself think.  If only for a second, you sit next to him and allow yourself to just… think about him.  About how much you care for him, how desperately you ache for him—you let all these improper longings finally have their moment with you.  You let yourself confront it, crack the lid of the hidden box tucked away behind your consciousness and brave it, because if there was ever a moment to do so, it’s right now.

Your heart starts slamming up against your ribcage and your hands feel like they’re tingling.  He wants you to convince him to have sex with you.  He’s asking you to corrupt him.  He wants you to negotiate the galaxy’s survival with the last man standing in the way of its prosperity—a good man with strong, immovable morals, a man who understands the consequences that follow integrity around and won’t be easy to tempt.

“This was a bad idea,” suddenly comes Master Kenobi’s voice, quickly backpedaling after too long of a silence.  “I shouldn’t have said that.  Forget I said that, we should just g—”

“Would you like to meditate?”  You immediately ask him on a complete whim, shuffling back towards the middle of the mattress for the second time today.  You’re careful to make sure he doesn’t see you carelessly flick your neat robes to the floor with the Force, clearing the top of the large mattress.  “Let’s meditate.”

“Stars,” he breathes, shyly his head turning to follow you, “I’d love nothing more, but there truly just isn’t any time—”

You find it easier than you thought it’d be to pull a playful face at him, crossing your legs and straightening your spine.  “Please, you’re a Guardian.  You blue sabers practically invented battle meditation, did you not?”

He looks skeptical for a moment, as he has a valid right to be.  “Is this a battle?”  He eventually asks over his shoulder.

You say nothing in response to that, instead using the Force with a flex of your finger to tug at the loose cream fabric of his robe at his elbow.  “Come on, it’ll do us good.”

He looks conflicted for a second, but then ultimately decides to humor you.  “Alright,” Master Kenobi finally agrees, turning around and crawling towards you on the mattress, and you’re just quick enough to stamp down a flicker of arousal at the mere sight of it.  “It won’t hurt.”

“Of course it won’t,” you agree with just a bit too much air in your voice, but he doesn’t seem to notice it.  He just seats himself directly in front of you, facing you, crossing his legs close enough to yours that your knees barely touch, and—

—Maker, he’s lovely.

You purposefully let yourself think it as his eyes slowly fall closed and he takes a deep breath, beginning to tame the wild tempest of his mind.  You let the word flitter around your thoughts without instantly repressing it like you always do, and just the mere act of allowing yourself to acknowledge the truth is freeing.  He’s lovely.  He’s lovely.  You could scream it.

Your eyes trail down the lines of his ever softening, tranquil expression, not even bothering to pretend to meditate for his benefit this time.  Your gaze roams shamelessly across his face, the way his hair is combed back away from it.  The sandy, masculine beard leading down to the thick column of his throat, the broad lines of his shoulders draped in pale fabric, the way his chest slowly moves as he breathes.  Lovely.  Lovely.

And then you go… lower.

His abdomen is stretched long with how upright he’s sitting, his flawless meditation posture.  His thighs are spread wide in this position, pants stretched tight into an elusive drum over his crotch and preventing you from truly seeing anything—but stars is it a thrill even just letting yourself look. 

Especially knowing that the more his mind works to compose itself, the easier it’ll be for him to hear you.

You keep thinking, growing bolder the more you’re left alone with this box wide open.  You think about how lithe and strong his body is, how it would feel under your hands.  You think about all the different things you want to show him, all the… the mind shattering pleasure you can give him if he’ll allow y—

Master Kenobi says your name without opening his eyes.

It doesn’t sound the way you expect, though you don’t really know what you expected it to sound like.  A sharp, frustrated bark?  An exasperated, pleading attempt to get you to stop?

No—none of those.  It’s a quiet, low growl of a sound, and the clear warning in it absolutely burns a hole through you like he picked up his lightsaber and used it instead.

You take practiced breaths, trying to calm yourself down.  Stars, he just said your name, he’s said it so many times before, and yet hearing it in his mouth with that tone in this context feels like he just strapped rockets to your ankles and told you to stay put.  You’re impatient.  You’re turning yourself on, working yourself up, trying to get to where you can actually make a move on him after dedicating so many years to desperately repressing the longing to do so.  Once he told you to negotiate this deal with him, however, it’s as if every ounce of the impeccable self control you’ve practiced so spectacularly throughout most of your life slowly started to unravel.

Reaching out tentatively so as not to startle him, you wrap both of your palms around the bend of his knees and squeeze gently.  Master Kenobi displays no physical signs of—well, anything really, keeping his body completely rigid under your hands with no noticeable alterations in his breathing pattern.  Biting your lip, you begin to slowly rotate your thumbs, making sure to keep your movements slow and perfectly symmetrical.  Complete relaxation is your ultimate goal here—coaxing your Master into a serene state where physical contact is desired, not obligatory.  He's so uncomfortable with the concept of intimacy in and of itself though, from the way his eyebrows start to furrow and his spine begins gradually tilting back and away from you, it's almost as if your ministrations are dampening rather than fueling.

“Relax,” you murmur, and stars, even though you make it sound quiet and gentle, it’s like the melodic lull of your voice appears to startle him more than if you’d just spoken normally.  Maker—it’s counterintuitive; how are you supposed to turn someone on when the mere state of being turned on turns them off?  “Relax with me, it’s okay—”

“But I just can't, young one,” he suddenly implores, his voice pressed up tight in his throat, his cerulean eyes popping open in frustration and something else—an honest, heartfelt emotion that's strikingly less familiar to you, even after years spent by his side: deep, hot, stomach-wrenching guilt.  You watch your Master’s palms run the length of his thighs; back and forth, back and forth—almost like a nervous tick, you think—and it’s oddly endearing, if not increasingly concerning.  “I just can't, this is all so wrong.  Don't you understand?  E-Even if the Council did provide a—well, a rather admittedly ineluctable blessing for this downright ludicrous endeavor, i-it’s… I don't…”  He takes a deep breath, and visually, it looks like he's attempting to collect his thoughts and composure, but you know your Master all too well.  You know what he's really doing, and at this point, it's almost… frustrating.

“What are you so afraid of?”  You clutch his knees and whisper quietly, interrupting him before he can verbalize whatever perfectly logical reason he's trying to formulate as to why you both should leave the planet immediately, what he's going to say to the Council if they ever inquire as to why negotiations ultimately failed.  He jerks his head up sharply to look at you.

“The Jedi fear nothing,” is his automatic response, though his previously intense gaze strays slightly from yours after a second of too much eye contact.  “Fear is the path to the Dark Side, you know this.”

“And yet you are afraid,” you remark calmly, studying the way he’s turned his face away from you completely now, how you can still see his jaw clench under the thick beard with his profile shown to you like this.  “I—I’m trying to understand, Master, but I—I don’t.  Even if this mission were half as important as it is, your loyalty to the Order would follow you right into an early grave.  But this?”  You remove a palm from his knee to gesture between the two of you, the mattress beneath the both of you, “fulfilling this mission and these terms to save the entire galaxy is too ‘downright ludicrous’ for the Great Negotiator?  I don’t believe it.  Tell me what you’re really afraid of.”

Only, he’s suddenly moving—away from you.  Turning and planting his palms to fur, beginning to climb to the edge of the bed and sweep his legs around under him, and your voice has an unintentional edge to it when you address his back.

“Do you know how many lives over I owe you?”  You ask, and he jerks to an abrupt halt, feet just shy of stepping on the floor.  “Do you have any idea the stockpile of mortal gratitude you’ve amassed from me?  How many times you’ve risked your death to save me from mine over the years—can you count them?  I have.  I know my debt to you, I know the weight of my life piled on top of itself over and over again.  I remember each and every one of them like they happened yesterday, and not once did you hesitate even slightly, let alone the way you’ve hesitated today.”

”And?”  Master Kenobi quite suddenly snaps over his shoulder as he grips the edge of the mattress, sounding sharp but not necessarily directed towards you.  “What is your point?”

“My point is that if you’d so readily trade your death time and time again to prevent that of even one other person, let alone a difficult Padawan who caused the Order nothing but grief for years, then what is it that makes the deaths of trillions—” you nearly say preferable to bedding me before you realize how incredibly harsh that would sound, but something about the way he seems to tense his shoulders and curl inwards implies he was following the general cadence of your agitated signature more than the specific content of your words.

He says absolutely nothing, but he doesn’t move to drop his feet to the floor, either.  If only you could punch a proverbial hole through his practically indestructible mental barriers, you'd see the real reason he's so flustered, why he's purposely attempting to deceive you.  Unfortunately for you though, they feel like they're made of triple-reinforced beskar, a countermeasure gradually increasing in strength the more you try to probe.

But then—all at once, something clicks.  Something… fundamental.  An understanding. 

Your Master is a gifted negotiator, yes.  But more than that.

He wields a blue saber.  Not a green one.

He’s a Guardian.  A warrior.  He fights.  It’s something that has never truly been part of your nature, no matter how much you struggled with it over the years—but it is a part of his, no matter how exceptionally he’s been able to mask it for even longer.

So, all at once, you stop pushing.  Your signature abruptly pulls away from him, gives him room to breathe and simply hovers within your own personal space, unassuming and careful not to disturb him.  You see your Master lift his chin and straighten his spine slightly, immediately noticing your absence and the constant pressure you’d been applying, and you honestly can’t tell if he relaxes or tenses up even more because of it.

Finally, when you feel like it’s been long enough, you slowly reach out and gently place your hand on his arm.  This time, there’s no underlying motivation attached, no inherent desire for him to fulfill any sort of obligation.  Just a warm, companionable gesture to reinforce the simple knowledge that you’re both in this together, for better or worse.

Please tell me, Obi-Wan, you quietly whisper to him through the Force, allowing your tone and energy to transfer through your open palm and into his troubled spirit as softly and gently as you possibly can—a caress more than anything even close to a sentence or inquiry.  Your usage of his first name is entirely unprecedented however, and your Master sucks in a sharp breath in response.

I don't… But then the subconscious, half-formed thought fades away almost as quickly as it’s offered to you from behind the solid, unyielding fortress of his mind.  “W-what are you doing?”

You bite your lip, wondering how honest you should be with him right now.  Though, you suppose, if you truly want him to confide in you, you should at least meet him halfway.

“You’re the locked door,” you finally settle on.  “This is me knocking.”

Obi-Wan turns around and blinks at you, looking for all the stars in this galaxy like that was quite possibly the last thing he expected you to say.  You can see the frantic thoughts pass through his eyes almost as if the clear blue was completely transparent, likely remembering all the times you’ve leaned on him for guidance, listened intently and learned from his wisdom and experience.  And now you’re a fully grown woman patiently offering him your ear, wondering if you’ve earned enough of his trust for him to do the same.

“I’m afraid I’ll form an attachment to you.”  The words tumble from his mouth even though his body all but whips away from you in the process.  “It’s unreasonable for the Council to expect this from me.  From us.  I’m afraid our relationship will forever be tarnished from this, that neither of us will ever be able to go back to the way things were before.  I’m afraid that regardless of whatever decision I make, I won’t be able to carry the guilt on my conscience and continue to call myself a Jedi and Guardian of the Republic.  But mostly, I just—I-I—”

Your heart is pounding as Obi-Wan buries his face into his hands and his muffled voice groans raggedly, “—I’m afraid I’ll like it.  I’m afraid I’ll want it again, and again.  I’m afraid it’ll follow me back to Coruscant, that I’ll save the galaxy but spend the rest of my days aching for something I’ll never be able to keep, and that’s petrifying.  Desire, passion, selfishness, possession; all of them lead to Darkness, and I can—I can feel it right now.  Your soul is so gentle, so peaceful, and yet you… you inspire such Darkness in me, dove.”

Maker, you’re trying so hard.  So hard to keep your legs from clenching together at the utter desperation in his tone, how his breathing has picked up now that the words have ripped themselves out of his throat, like the whole thing was physical agony even just to say.  You have to take a second.  You’ve been so patient this entire time, but stars—this one makes you need a moment.  You’re so glad his eyes are clamped shut behind his fingers right now because yours lose focus trying to mask the absolutely debilitating wave of arousal that sinks down hot through your stomach.

Even when you regain the ability to speak, the ability to form a safe and proper response to the bombshell he just dropped on you completely evades you.

You purposefully don't say that you're already helplessly attached to him, that the colors of the galaxy somehow lost their brilliance the day you graduated to Knight, the day you left his side.  You don't say that you want this so badly you can feel it in your neck, that it would probably break you in half if he said no to this now.  Though it's the honest-to-Maker truth, you know discovering this information will only cause your Master to further distance himself from you, and somehow that thought alone is a million times worse than being denied the opportunity to be this close to him.  Even… even if what you end up sharing is more emotional than physical.

So you take a deep breath to center yourself, and choose your words very carefully.

“A compromise, then.”

Obi-Wan suddenly raises his head, turning around to look at you and blinking twice.  “A what?”

“You told me to negotiate.  What do we do as negotiators, hm?”  You raise an eyebrow, giving him a gentle smile and trying not to curl your fingers into the fur underneath you with how hard it is to conceal your burning arousal.  Do it for him.  Do it for your Master, you’re in l—you… care about him, and you care about the things he cares about, even if doing so feels like it’ll rip you apart.  “We compromise.  Yes?  So, let’s find one.”

He shakes his head.  “I don’t see h—”

“If you were to…”  You cut him off and look down, trying to find the most delicate way to phrase this.  “If you were to… find other means to bring yourself to completion, would you be able to convince anyone listening that I was the one doing it?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t even blink this time.  He just stares at you, holding himself like a statue in front of you.  Finally, he seems to find himself.  “I… I don’t—I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re stronger in the Force than anyone on this planet, Master,” you encourage softly, placing a hand back on his arm and squeezing this time.  “I’ve felt it.”

“N-No,” he practically hiccups.  “No, I mean I-I… I don’t know if… if I can.”

Your eyebrows narrow, a mixture of confusion and concern coloring your expression.  “If you can…?”

He looks back at you almost desperately, his eyes practically begging you to figure it out so he doesn’t have to say it.  Finally, Obi-Wan sighs, seeming to collapse in on himself with its intensity.  “I—I’ve never… purposefully reached completion before,” he admits.  “I’m—I’m not sure how to.”

Your eyes widen, wanting to kick yourself for making assumptions.  Of course.  Of course he’d follow his oath to its strictest interpretation, why would you ever think otherwise?  “Oh, y-yes, of course not,” you stutter, sounding incredibly stupid and perfectly mirroring the embarrassed flush also painting your Master’s cheeks, “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s alright,” he holds up a hand.  “We simply… view such things differently.  So long as you do not pass judgment, then neither shall I.”

You nod and look down at your hands, wondering how else you can attempt to tackle this predicament.  “What if I…”  You blink slowly, almost wanting to keep your eyes closed in case he’s offended by the idea but figuring you should have them open to read his responses.  “What if I… don’t touch you?”

Now he just looks confused.  “I’m sorry?”

You blush and clear your throat, obviously phrasing this wrong.  “If you can modify the context of your projection, then I can… get you there.  Without touching you.”

“How could you accomplish such a thing without tou—” Obi-Wan immediately cuts himself off when you lift your hand and close your eyes.

His thigh.  The right one—you focus on it.  There.  Right above the bend of his knee folding over the edge of the mattress, you concentrate all the energy from your fingertips and reach out, connecting the two together.  And then you take a deep breath and begin to draw your attention slowly upwards.

Your Master’s breath catches in his throat as you use the Force to delicately trail further up his leg, not laying a single hand on him as his muscles start to visibly tighten and quiver.

“Young one, I—”  His breathing stutters when you keep your hand raised but let your head tilt and drop down towards your shoulder with your energy, slinking down the inside of his thigh like water and getting dangerously close to his— “Stars, hang on—”

You blink your eyes open at him and continue concentrating right there, letting your focus melt warm and thick along the muscle and squeeze it—

“Maker—”  Obi-Wan gasps and drops his head back, his legs nearly spasming apart.  “Maker, hang on, I…”

“Do you…” You breathe tightly, flicking your eyes down to the way he’s fisting the fur under his hands and subconsciously flexing his hips up just the slightest bit.  Even though the Force, his body feels good.  Strong, sturdy, and braced tight under your attention.  “Do you want me to keep doing this?  I can… go higher.”

“You can…?  The—the Force isn’t—” Obi-Wan groans, his eyes clamping shut, “—isn’t meant to be used in such… in such… If I’m to break my oath, young one, it needn’t be so… so blasphemous—”

Trying to conceal the hot sparks of arousal deep in your stomach, you simply allow your metaphysical hand to continue resting right at the juncture of his hip and thigh, waiting for a real answer.  You bite your lip and wait for him to tell you to either cut it out or to keep going.  He doesn’t even have to say it out loud if he doesn’t want to—he can just slide it under the impassable door still separating him from you, the door you’re eventually going to get him to unlock himself.

His back is to you, so you can only see a bit of his face from this angle, but you can hear him loud and clear when he opens his mouth and whispers to you, barely louder than a breath.  “Go higher.”

Adrenaline rockets through your veins and slowly, your fingers curl in thin air while your gentle energy wraps itself around his cock.

Both of Obi-Wan’s hands instantly fly up to his face and he releases a tight, longing whimper into his palms, and you feel almost as desperate as he sounds.  You can sense the ghost of his thickness in your hand, and the way he’s already throbbing for it is like pure spice to you.

You can’t stop your crossed legs from shuffling and rotating your body to face his hunched spine more directly, just taking a second and allowing him to adjust to the sensation of you just holding him between his legs like this.  Your fingers rest gently along his pulsing skin while he hides from you, and if only to get a little bit more of a reaction for your own sake, your thumb just barely angles to delicately brush up under his frenulum.  

Obi-Wan shudders and makes a choking noise behind his palms, and oh good Maker, you really want to see his face.  You know it’ll probably never happen unless you take your own initiative, but you also don’t want to overstep and snap him out of this blissful reverie.  Still, something compels you to be so gentle about it that he hopefully won’t even notice. 

You start to slowly work the length of him and squeeze his cock a bit more firmly, but a tendril of your energy slowly slithers upwards, so quiet and full of caution that it hardly even counts.  Very carefully, you start to flatten the lifeforce from your other palm over his stomach and trail it up, gradually urging him to stretch his slouched figure upright and then eventually start to tip backwards, never once letting your focus on his throbbing erection falter.

Your courageous efforts bestow prosperous rewards.  Obi-Wan’s hands drag down the length of his face and he makes it almost too easy to keep pressing him back—back back back until his muscles give up what little fight they were putting up against it and his shoulders are dropping down to the mattress, his head falling into your lap.

“There we go,” you whisper under your breath, just loud enough to softly encourage him if he’s listening but avoiding a break in his focus if he’s not.  “That’s not so bad.”

“It isn’t,” Obi-Wan gasps up at you, his eyes tightly closed but his jaw slack and his handsome features screwed up in rapture.  “Oh, no, it’s… it’s really… rea—good.”

You bite your lip and your cunt flexes hard between your legs without your permission, feeling so empty.  If you’re being honest, only touching him through the Force causes your hand to become increasingly bold, also feeling too empty.  Obi-Wan’s head rolls to the side and he pants hot air against the thin black fabric covering your thighs as you tighten your hold around him just slightly and start to move up and down his cock in earnest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, the dirty word and rasp in his voice contrasting brilliantly with the proper Coruscanti accent and the crisp enunciation behind it.  “Fuck, this feels so good, I—”

His fingers grab at the fur covering the mattress top and pull at it, his adam’s apple bobbing sharp along the arching column of his throat as he groans and twists his head around in your lap.  He confesses it like it’s so wrong, but it can’t be wrong when he fits so perfectly in your hand?  How can this be wrong when it’s the only pleasure you can possibly give him that’s anywhere near close enough to match the way you feel when he’s around?  Even then, it’s but a fraction.

Your gaze flickers briefly from his face to check your progress with his body, and—stars, there’s a startling wet spot staining the front of his pale trousers, his cock tenting up shameless and needy for you to ache and throb just as desperately for in return.  Fuck, he deserves this, he deserves more—

“I can—I can make it better—” you can’t help but gasp, your eyebrows slanting upwards with need.  “Oh fuck, I can make it so much better than this for you, Obi-Wan—”

“You…?”  He blinks his stormy eyes open and sounds like he’s about to explode.  “This can be—” he chokes out, “—better?”

You can’t stop yourself.  Your pussy is clamped up so tight between your legs and Maker, you want to reward him for being so good to you, give him true adoration instead of phantom touches.  You don’t think before you’re moving out from under him and slinking down onto the floor, slipping in between his spread thighs.  You use the Force with a bend of your finger to tug his pants down just enough, just enough to let the swollen tip of his cock peak through the waistband, and then your head is dropping into his lap as you let it slide into your hot mouth.

Obi-Wan lifts his head and snarls at you—and something across the room shatters as you widen your throat for him and slowly sink down his length, curling your finger to stretch his hemline further as you go.  His fingers aren’t gentle when they fist into your hair and neither is the way he immediately twists it sideways, feeling like he’s trying to pull you off and shove you down on him at the same time.

You’re stuck between going as slow as you physically can to drag this out and giving him the best oral you’ve ever given to make him dream about this for the rest of his life.  You want him to want this as badly as you have for so many years.  You want him to fall into this Darkness with you, to crave you and what you can give to him so much that he’ll never want to leave you again.

So you make it wet.  You make it soft and slow and wet, switching between sucking gently at the tip and swirling your tongue around it, and then inching his length down your throat and swallowing around the thick girth of it once you can’t fit anymore in your mouth.  Obi-Wan is just an absolute mess about it—he can’t sit still, he’s tugging uselessly on your hair, whimpering out his bliss into the quiet room while you close your eyes and ignore his squirming, just taking your sweet time enjoying him and the way he feels.

He tastes exquisite.  Maybe it’s just because all your broken, stupid brain can think right now is slightly varying forms of my Master’s cock is in my mouth and it’s fucking leaking while you slowly nurse from it with your tongue, but stars—he tastes exquisite.

He’s swollen.  Throbbing.  Aching for you.  Releasing precum from the tip like his body is producing way too much of it after decades of neglect and just needs to get it all out at once.  Shifting and writhing underneath you but managing to never move his hips or cock a single inch away from the soft attention you’re giving him.  You can feel his smooth skin pulse against your tongue as you continue your lazy pleasuring, finally giving him what you’ve both been denied for so long and steadily swallowing down the spoils of your endeavors.

“—Wait, wait, Maker—stop,” you faintly hear gasped from above you not long after you even begin, and it takes the sum of all your efforts to unlodge his throbbing cock from your throat and pull away from him.

“I’m sorry,” you exhale automatically, trying not to slur your words as a bit of drool slides down your chin.  “I’m s’sorry, Obi, I should’ve asked before I—”

“Something’s… n-not right,” Obi-Wan interrupts you and lifts himself up to his elbows, his abdominal muscles heaving and a wild, frenzied look in his startlingly bright eyes.  “My stomach was—I-I felt—”

Heat blooms through you along with a realization, and your eyelids begin to droop slightly at just how sexy it is—the fact that this man, this fully grown, red-blooded, warrior of a man is currently teetering on the precipice of his very first ever orgasm, and you’re the only one with the power to give it to him.

You shuffle backwards slightly, grabbing hold of his thighs and squeezing to get his attention.  “Hey.  It’s okay, relax.”

Obi-Wan nods his head vigorously down at you, the exact opposite of relaxed.

“Listen to me,” you urge quietly, trying to ignore the sight of his thick, swollen cock twitching restlessly against his abdomen, precum still steadily dribbling at the tip.  Is your mouth watering?  “This is it.  You’ll need to start projecting when you’re ready.  It’ll be tricky, but not impossible.  You’ll just have to imagine you’re inside me when it happens.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head vigorously from side to side, vehemently opposed.

“No, I don’t—” He croaks, “—I don’t know what it’s like, I won’t be able to—”

“Doesn’t my mouth feel similar at least?”  You ask, looking down at his cock once more.

“I-I—” Obi-Wan sputters, “I don’t know, young one—you tell me!”

Okay, well.  He… makes a valid point.

You settle back on your knees even further, gazing at your Master thoughtfully.  His chest continues to rise and fall with heavy breaths, a thin sheen of sweat coating his temples and a mild flush high in his cheeks, but his eyes have regained a bit of their focus.  “You can just try to imagine the, uh,” you try, your cunt nearly convulsing with burning need at the mere sight of him, “the same positioning and sensation from… earlier?”

“Alright, I can…”  Obi-Wan nods, though his hands are shaking.  “I’ll do the best I…”

You can’t help but lean forward to press a soft, encouraging kiss to his thigh, and he jerks under your touch.  You try it again, receiving the same result, and it makes you pause for just a minute longer.

“I’m nervous,” he blurts unceremoniously after a moment of stillness, as if you hadn’t noticed.  “Oh stars, I’m nervous, I—”

“Obi-Wan,” you let your voice lull, your hands squeezing gently around the bend of his knees once more.  “Calm down.  Clear your mind.”

He hiccups and you wait.  You wait with your mouth a few inches away from his cock, waiting for his breathing to slow and for him to follow your lead.

Can you hear me?  You murmur through the Force, and he quickly whimpers and nods.  Focus your thoughts.

You gently kiss at his tensing thighs once again, and he doesn’t flinch away from you this time.  His breathing slows into a calmer, steadier rhythm, letting you trail your lips gently along the curve of his leg.

Will you let me try something?  You ask after a moment, opening your mouth just the slightest bit to brush your tongue out and taste his skin.

“Y-Yes,” Obi-Wan says quietly, his breath stuttering through the word.

And—perhaps you shouldn’t have, but you give him something; a suggestion, more than anything else.  You give him a… visual.  A reference to guide his mind through the Force.

You, still in your black robe, slowly standing up from between his legs.  Widening your stance to straddle his lap, pull you robes up just enough, and then adjust your hips just slightly over the head of his cock.

Obi-Wan inhales sharply at the vision, his eyes clamping tightly shut against it in vain.  He can close his eyes, turn away, hide his face all he wants—he can’t escape the way your body looks as it slowly begins to sink down on his.

At the exact same time, you lower your mouth around his cock once more, and you try to make it as close to the sensation as possible.  You don’t even move your tongue, you simply lift your soft palate and close your lips around his girth, beginning to carefully bob up and down along his length in time to the image you’re conjuring of you riding him.

Only, you already feel his balls tightening up and his body starting to go rigid with tension once again, and you can sense him still wanting to resist his approaching orgasm.  It’s okay, Master, you encourage quietly through the vision, it’s okay, just let it come easy.

“I—I’m not—” he shakes his head back and forth against the bed frantically, his breathing getting shallower and almost immediately picking back up to where it was before you stopped.  “I d-don’t want—”

Stop fighting, you tell him, continuing to mimic the sensation of him thrusting into your aching, neglected cunt with slow and steady movements of your throat.  Don’t run from it, let it take you.

He grits your name tightly in response and subconsciously begins to rock his hips up to match your unhurried pace, his ragged breathing gasping out into the quiet room and gradually increasing in volume and desperation the longer he stubbornly tries to hold out against it.

You know not strong enough to use the Force to coax it out of him.  You can’t alter your technique and break the illusion, either.  So you have to resort to desperate measures.

There’s enough remaining wherewithal to your mind that prevents you from permanently damaging his clothing when you tear his robes open with the Force and allow the metaphysical image of yourself to rip them apart with your hands.  Obi-Wan gasps when both versions of you reach up his bare torso at the same time and dig your nails into his chest.

Master—you demand, taking his cock down your throat as far as you can go and then clawing hard down his stomach—cum.

And thank everything good and right in the universe that he remembers at the very last second to start projecting, because being this close to someone as strong in the Force as Obi-Wan when he finally succumbs to his first taste of the Dark Side is just a fucking atomic missile straight to your nervous system.

It’s all you can do to just remember to keep swallowing.

The projection he casts out through the shockwave is utterly flawless—brilliantly composed, looking and feeling so authentic and overwhelming even from this distance that there should be no issue at all convincing any s’Ziscari in the wide vicinity who are tuning in right now.

Except—then you hear it.  Through the roaring pleasure of his thoughts, a flicker of his subconscious he’s unable to mask through the mind blowing bliss.

Is she…? Maker above, she’s drinking it—

A ragged groan tears through the silence of the room, his cock pulsing spectacularly on your tongue.  He just keeps cumming, and cumming, and so you just have to keep swallowing, and swallowing.  You suppose you should’ve expected this from a fully grown man who lived a life of celibacy, but what would typically be a rather short moment with anyone else subsequently goes on long enough to where Obi-Wan is actually able to lazily raise his head up from the mattress and simply watch you continue to swallow his load, dazed and reverent in his stare, glassy blue eyes trained on the hypnotic movements your jaw and throat make around him.  The remaining traces of whatever visual he attempted to maintain immediately flicker out of existence, replaced instead by the sight of your mouth around his cock, diligently taking down each rope of cum he gives you.

When he finally stops throbbing, you reluctantly let his cock fall from your mouth and slowly stand up as the botched projection fizzles out completely.  His gaze eventually follows the movement like he’s on a five second delay.

“So, uh…”  Your voice is hoarse.  “We… need to have sex.”

“Alright,” he agrees dreamily, his eyes lazily dragging down your body.  “Alright, we can have… I… Wait, what?”

“You, uh.  I know it wasn’t intentional, but you might’ve, uh…”  You  shuffle awkwardly from side to side, wondering why you’ve chosen now of all moments to become shy with him.  You’re literally still savoring the taste of his release in your mouth.  “You might’ve accidentally projected a very specific thought towards the end there and let everyone know that we weren’t actually doing what we’re technically supposed to be doing.”

“What did… what did I think?”  The question would likely be nonsense in literally any other situation, but you understand.  And truthfully, for the life of you, you can’t find it within yourself to feel even a little bit mad about it, not when it means you can continue doing this together.  You can’t even conjure up a single shred of disappointment in his failure, it’d just be a lie.

“Doesn’t matter,” you assure him, your heart continuing to pound.  You know you should make your next move now while he’s still so loopy, the post-orgasm bliss causing his signature to vibrate with pulsing endorphins as he blinks up at you slowly from the bed.  “Though we won’t be able to do it for a little bit, just uh.  Just for general… anatomical reasons.  But that should’ve at least counted for… initiating the Ritual, so I don’t think we have to worry about time anymore.”

Obi-Wan just stares at you, his Force signature feeling more serene and spaced out than you’ve ever sensed before.  Oh Maker, how you wish you felt the same.  You swallow thickly, still tasting his hard orgasm on your tongue, and then try not to clamp your thighs together with how embarrassingly turned on you are.  Anyone with any experience whatsoever would know exactly what you’re going through with just a mere glance—you’re biting your lip with your entire body is subtly crumpled in towards your swollen, neglected pussy—and your Master has been watching you struggle through it this entire time.

“Are you alright?”  He asks dumbly, finally managing to at least push himself upright, still completely unaware or unconcerned at his softening cock on full display for you and your starving libido.  “You’re… shaking.”

“I—won’t die,” is the only serious assurance you can make to both him and yourself right now that’ll ease your suffering the smallest bit.  The last thing you want right now is to come on too strong and snap him back to his senses, bringing everything back to square one.  “Just, uh… r-really worked—worked up.  Trying to just.  C-Cool it?”

Your fingers flex at your sides because no matter what you try, you just can’t stop thinking about his.  They’re right there.  They’re so close, so strong and thick and—

“Aren’t you…”  He trails off, letting his head tilt and then drop to his shoulder with a combination of confusion and exhaustion.  “Aren’t you going to…?”

“To what?”  You prompt shortly, your hands suddenly clenching into fists to deal with another violent wave of arousal at how unbelievably drunk he still looks.  Maker, you did that.  That’s all you.

“s’Zerthia said all—” Obi-Wan murmurs, blinking long lashes lazily up at you, “—all Jedi must… participate.”

Fuck. Just hearing him provide you an excuse to give into the boiling arousal causes you to suddenly break out into a sweat.  You don’t know if he wants you to get yourself off or if he’s indirectly implying he wants to help, but you’re so far beyond desperate that you jump at the chance as soon as he so much as hints at the opportunity.

Very slowly, you move forward and lift one trembling knee to brace next to his thigh on the mattress, and then carefully swing your other leg over his lap, lowering yourself into a straddle in the same exact position he attempted to project earlier.  You’re so unbelievably cautious about his cock, making sure you don’t accidentally touch it and jolt him awake.  Instead of your newfound proximity scaring him away like you feared though, he stays so… docile.  Still so relaxed from his very first orgasm that he even rests his large palms over the thin fabric covering your thighs, letting the loose silk drape and fold over his hands as he drags them up and down.

His eyes follow your trembling fingers as you work at the knot tying the material around your body, your cunt throbbing between your legs at how he’s just… staring.  His eyelids are dipped slightly, breathing so calm and slouched under you, pliant and waiting.

The thin fabric slowly parts only enough to reveal the valley between your bare chest to him, and you watch his eyes fall down the thin strip of skin and catch on the dark line of your panties riding low on your hips.  Maker, you can’t help but remember his terror at even glimpsing the two acolytes taking off their robes earlier—the way his eyes bounced around and how his cheeks lost whatever color they had left to them as soon as he finally made himself look.  Now, though.  Now he can’t seem to drag his eyes away from the soft flesh of your tummy, the way your nipples are still covered by the thin fabric of your slightly parted robe but are impossible to miss while your breasts subtly move with your breathing.

You gently call one of his wrists to your hand with the Force and Obi-Wan is either mentally or physically too weak to resist your will.  He allows you to catch his hand and slowly lead it downwards with both of your smaller ones to the part of your body that’s longed for his attention for years, though now it’s absolutely weeping for it.

You don’t want to scare him.  You don’t want to scare him.  Oh Maker, you need him to be brave for you right now, or at least just continue to be stupefied.  You can work with stupefied, but you cannot work with panic, especially when you feel your own wanting to rise up the more you drag this out.

When the tips of his fingers brush against the waistband of your panties, Obi-Wan’s hand pushes under it without your guidance.

You’re throbbing.  It’s been years in the making.  Unable to stop the way your thighs contract and you lift your hips against his palm as it steadily curves down the slope of your soft curls, the sight of the finish line so within reach makes you reckless and too quick.  You can’t help it.  When he gets hesitant and eventually slows down to a halt right above your slit, you don’t even think before you’re suddenly giving his wrist an abrupt shove with the Force, pulling his hand down before he’s ready and forcing his middle finger deep through the soaking cleft of your pussy.

Your shameless moan of his name comes out sounding so grateful—you pour everything you have into it and sag into Obi-Wan’s chest at the feeling, but he startles and all but rips his hand out of your underwear before you can stop him.  He was a hair’s breadth from touching your clit and the denial of it—the sudden turnaround from your goal is just so massively overwhelming that tears suddenly spring to your eyes.

You can just barely make out the sight of him staring down at his trembling hand between the two of you, your slick shining wet and hot along the length of his finger. 

“Stars,” he rasps, blinking his wide, sapphire gaze up to yours—and then he quite suddenly looks alarmed.  “Did I—Did I hurt you?”  Obi-Wan gasps, his energy beginning to outright seize with distress while you blink rapidly and try not to crumble on his lap.

“No—I’m sorry, it’s just—I’m just… oh, fuck, I n-need it,” you stammer.  “Oh fuck, I need it Master, I’m so sorry—I’m trying to be calm but—”

“What is it, little dove?”  He urges, reaching his hand up to your face and flicking his eyes back and forth between yours, sounding almost as panicked as you do from your desperation.  “What do you need?”

“Oh stars, Obi-Wan, I need you to just—” You can’t fit anything into words, a tear finally making its way down your cheek when you clamp your eyes shut in frustration.  You just need him to understand, to give you what you’ve been craving for so long—but when you blink your eyes back open, his troubled expression has suddenly resolved itself.

Your Master’s hands immediately grab tight to your hips and twist you around, easily tossing you back up onto the mattress.  The jostle of bouncing back into the soft fur startles you, but not nearly as much as when he climbs over your body and braces an elbow next to your head, gently placing the tips of his fingers to your temple.

He pushes carefully but firmly against your natural mental barriers, flexing the energy shields inwards gently enough to not hurt you but with enough force to let you know he’s entirely capable of breaking through should you refuse to let him in.

So you do.  You let him in without a single thought, never mind a second one.  Obi-Wan gasps as your shields all but collapse for him that easily, and then he’s finally breaching the surface of your thoughts.

“Oh—Maker above, little one,” he grits almost immediately, his forehead dropping to your shoulder and his other hand wrapping tight around your arm as he struggles to acclimate to the blinding distress you’re experiencing.  “Collect—” he groans as your cunt clamps down at the rasp of his broken voice, “—collect yourself.  I can’t—can’t think—”

Oh, no, it’s too much.  It’s way too much, even just having him inside your head without being able to read him in return—it’s too much for you.  You start hyperventilating and instead of wanting him out, you just want to drown out the sensation of everything else.  The endlessly pulsing, aching throb between your legs that you’ve been dealing with for so long, the way you can feel his cock dragging against your tummy from this angle and how much you already want it in your mouth again, the way your nipples are so hard right now that even this soft fabric feels so rough and sharp against—

Your robe suddenly rips itself off your chest, and you whimper up at the ceiling as you dig your fingers into thick fur and writhe under him, almost completely naked and just desperate for him to do something, to at least just use his hands or his mouth to make you feel bet—

Obi-Wan’s head drops and his blazing mouth opens hot around your nipple, his tongue rolling soft and slick up under the hard bud.

You choke out the first part of his name and you barely even have a flicker of a thought—a brief flash of a rabid, baser desire you’re not even able to consciously recognize before you feel his jaw opening and his teeth closing gently around it, biting down just hard enough to make you spasm bright and urgent between your legs.  “Oh, fuck—”

As soon as you feel the pleasure and twisting ache spark deep in your core, Obi-Wan flutters his eyes shut and wedges his hand back into your panties, humming low in his throat when your legs jerk apart for him.

This time, your clit is the very first thing he touches.

He zeroes in on it.  The tip of his finger starts to rub it exactly how you’d do it to yourself, exactly the right angle and speed and pressure that your body suddenly feels massively overheated and dizzy from it.  It blindsides you.  It makes sense he’d be able to do this, after all, but for some reason, the whole thing just absolutely blindsides you.

“Maker,” you whimper at the ceiling, soft and pitched high in your throat, eyes rolling back when Obi-Wan gently bites down on your nipple again and continues to work to relieve you even as every muscle in your body feels like it’s tightening up.

“Stars—” he whispers when he pulls away, “This—this feels incredible, Padawan.”

You moan and roll your hips against his hand, on cloud nine at just how he’s slowly allowing himself to become filthier with you, to lower himself in all his righteous beliefs and descend into delicious sin with you, and—

—wait, did he just…?

Your cunt clamps down hard with realization as he continues massaging your clit better than you’ve ever even done it yourself.  Maker, it shouldn’t turn you on so much but it does, hearing that word in this context.  Padawan.  Padawan, holding her legs open while her Master explores her pussy.  Padawan, moaning desperately as her orgasm buzzes deep down inside with a rising, threatening resonance.  Padawan, Padawan, Padawan—

“Oh, you liked that,” Obi-Wan remarks tightly, taking a second to tug on your clit.  You nearly start to cry again, your insides pulling up and going rigid at the sensation.  “I heard it, little one.  You like it when I call you that?”

“Oh I like it when you do f-fucking anything,” you choke out helplessly, your words starting to slur together.  “Oh fuck, you’re so amazing, you’re so good at everything, you’re the best Jedi in the whole entire galaxy Master, you’re so much better th—”

“My, you’re agreeable like this, aren’t you?”  Obi-Wan grits, his touches growing stronger and quicker and rocketing you straight to the edge of madness.  “Shall I take that to heart, my darling little Padawan?  Or did you say such flattering things to the oth—”

“Wait!”  You suddenly exclaim, desperately trying to push his hands away.  “Oh, nonononono—wait, wait, wait, I—I-I’m about to cum—I need to—”

His hand yanks itself out of your underwear once more and you take giant, gasping breaths and try to compose yourself at least somewhat, but then your Master is quickly scrambling down your body and using the Force to rip your panties down your hips—

“Obi-Wan, wait—” you choke out, “that isn’t—you don’t… h-have to…”

He looks up at you, dark brows furrowed in confusion.

“I’ll be able to—y-you don’t—”  You have to take a few gasping breaths and remember how to speak Basic.  “I used my mouth on you before because I… I wanted to.  If—If you don’t want to do that, you don’t have to.  It’s not… oh fucking stars above, it’s not n-necessary.”

“Are you telling me this because you don’t want me to?”  He immediately asks, though you both already clearly know the answer to that considering how exposed your wild thoughts are to him right now.

“Ah, no I, uh… I just.”  You try to clear the thickness from your throat and you feel your body tremble while you focus as much effort as possible into trying to explain.  “I just want to be sure I’m not taking advantage of you, that’s all, I—I want you to know the truth about these things.  It’s not… necessary, b-but.”

“But.”  He repeats the word meaningfully as he glances back down at your weeping cunt, nodding slowly to himself.

And then your Master leans in, flutters his eyes shut, and slides his warm tongue deep into the seam of your pussy with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever.

“Obi—Wan—!?”  You gasp, somewhere between a squeak and a squeal, your entire upper body launching upwards around his head as your clit is immediately enveloped into a slick, dexterous furnace.

Hold still, you hear his voice warn through the Force, sounding so much closer than you’ve ever heard him before.  Whether that can be attributed to the fact that the command came directly from wherever he is inside your head or whether it’s simply because his tongue is now tracing gentle circles around your clit as you whimper pitifully into the quiet of the dimly lit room, you’re not sure.  All you know is that his mouth feels like velvet between your legs and his beard is scraping across your thighs and your fingers have buried themselves in his hair without your conscious permission.

Hold still, young one, he urges once more, but you just close your eyes and moan shamelessly at it this time, opening your legs wider for him.  His voice, it’s… it’s maddening like this, coming directly from your own thoughts.  Deep, precise, somehow sounding so true, so much clearer and full-bodied without your pesky ears in the way.  Your hips are subconsciously rolling slowly against the lower half of his face when Obi-Wan apparently decides he’s had enough.

An invisible energy wraps around each of your individual limbs and snaps them against the mattress without any warning.  You whimper high in your throat, arms and legs held so firmly against the bed with the Force that your internal struggles aren’t able to be translated outwardly; he doesn’t allow your body a single centimeter to move under him, no matter how hard you fight it.  Which means you have to lay there and just take the way Obi-Wan’s hot mouth continues to lick and kiss at your clit slowly, taking all the time in the universe to properly explore you between the legs he’s forced apart.

“Obi—” you croak breathlessly at the ceiling, feeling a familiar heat start to burn hot and tight through your core, “Obi, I—I have to p-project—before I—ah!—before you—before you ma-make me cu—ugh, f-fuck—I have t-to—”

Then project, he encourages simply, gently fluttering his tongue over your clit.  You gasp and he hums, murmuring through the Force once more to you.  We’re not hiding anymore.  They’ll all know I’m using my mouth on you like this.  It’s alright.  Let them know.

You realize you’re going to cum the second you hear your Master’s voice say the words using my mouth on you like this while he slowly sucks on your clit, and you barely have enough wherewithal to gulp in a giant breath and begin projecting your signature as far across the palace and surrounding city as physically possible before your body shatters hot into searing euphoria under him.

Obi-Wan groans deep in his throat and holds you perfectly still under him as you cum with a ragged, hoarse wail of his name, giant waves of white hot bliss beginning to radiate through the Force from you with spectacular power.  The contractions are so much more pronounced when it’s one of the only sets of muscles in your body he’s granted permission to move.  It’s like everything is concentrated and multiplied there because of it.  You can feel each individual spasm your floor muscles make as they convulse against his tongue, how each blazing shot of ecstasy that shatters through your body wrings more and more wetness from your cunt into your Master’s mouth.

Never.  Ever ever ever.  Has anyone done something so mind blowingly sexy to you.  Nobody.  Ever.  He’s a virgin, you frantically remember as Obi-Wan purrs softly into the folds of your pussy while it cums all over him.

Your thoughts, young one, you can just barely make out his voice remind you gently, just as gently as he sucks on your clit through the aftershocks, somehow sounding even more aroused than he did before.

After allowing your projection to flicker out of existence with a putter, you’re completely dazed.  Incapable of moving regardless of the way he keeps you pinned with the Force long after he pulls away, slowly moves back up your body and waits while you work to regain your bearings.  You don’t even want to open your eyes right now, knowing he’s looking down at your peaceful expression while you work to catch your breath.  You’re too stupid with pleasure you almost don’t even process the soft touch of something against your lips.

You’re lovely.

The thought is so quiet you don’t even recognize it isn’t your own.  Not until he keeps pressing his lips to yours so sweetly, not knowing to do anything else when your mind is too fractured with ecstasy to unconsciously act as his compass like before.  Everything is innocent and gentle and not reminiscent of the fact that the robes you’re both wearing are wide open and your mouths tasted of each other even before he kissed you.

Instead of melting into the soft touches, though, they just start to burn you alive, the thick fog of your orgasm clearing more and more with each gentle press of his lips and your need for him steadily growing.  He’s kissing you.  Master Kenobi is kissing you for a few precious, heart stopping seconds at a time before pulling away, pausing to look at your face each time to make sure your eyes are still closed, before leaning down and carefully pressing his lips to yours again.

The only part you can’t stand is that he won’t even let you move your jaw to kiss him back.

Kiss me, Obi-Wan, you urge desperately through the Force, not wanting to interrupt to speak.

“I am, little one,” he replies between kisses, and the sincerity in his tone tells you he’s not purposefully teasing you.  No, this is him kissing you, genuinely, the only way he knows how to.

Let me— you start to struggle in earnest against his hold on you, —please, let me—

The warm breath from his nose puffs softly against your cheek with a quiet little sound from far back in his throat, and then you suddenly gain the ability to move from the neck up.

You immediately part his lips with yours and Obi-Wan pulls back just the slightest bit in response, but your neck lifts up to compensate as you lick deep into his warm mouth.  He gasps at the foreign sensation and loses his concentration for a split second, enough for you to break free of it completely.  Your hands quickly fly up to cradle his face as soon as they can move and your fingers hook around the thick beard blanketing his sharp jawline, urging him back down into you.

Your legs come up to wrap around his lower back and he sags against your strong will with a needy groan, dropping down closer and obediently keeping his mouth open for you to taste.  As soon as he presses his body into yours, his cock strains and drags against your lower stomach, already throbbing hot and leaking precum along the soft hills of your skin.

Maker, you want it but somehow you… you don’t.  You just want to savor tonight as long as you physically can, keep holding him and kissing him like this for another few hours at least before you try to take his cock, but he’s unintentionally grinding it against you while his tongue shyly dances with yours, needy and already raring to go in his own timid way.

Do you want it, Master?  You finally murmur to him, running your fingers through his hair and gently biting his bottom lip, scooting your hips up to let him rub himself against something better than your tummy.  You feel… ready.

The only response you get from him is a shuddering, helpless moan into your mouth and you hold him tighter to you, grinding your still sensitive cunt up against his cock while he pulls hard at the soft fur next to your head.  Your feel your soaking pussy lips part around the solid curve of his length and gradually coat the underside of him in slick with every gentle circle and roll your hips make, and Obi-Wan finally pulls away from your mouth to drop his forehead to your neck.

“Yes, I—” he moans into you skin, “Oh stars, I want it.”

With a gentle wave of your hand, you use the Force to drop his hips down to the proper angle and tilt the head of his cock to line him up perfectly.

And now this is the part you don’t want to rush.  This is when you take Obi-Wan Kenobi’s virginity.  You’ll savor just being able to remember this for the rest of your fucking life.  You’ll see him in Council meetings years from now and be reminded that you’re the only person in the galaxy to know the thickness of him as he rests heavy up against your entrance, the way his voice presses deliciously tight in his throat as he gasps out into the quiet room.  You’re the only one who will know that sound, that sound is yours, that sound belongs to—

“Padawan,” he grits, hips stuttering into you while you wrap your arms around his shoulders, “your thoughts—”

You groan up at the ceiling and your pussy tightens at the reminder that he can still hear you, but your body is just too bold and desperate for it.  Your thoughts begin to flare bright, growing more possessive by the second, and you can’t even wait for him this time.  Every single muscle in Obi-Wan’s body goes rigid when you tighten your grip around him and roll your hips up into his cock, letting it break you open nice and slow.

It stretches you wide with a deliciously sharp fullness and pleasure rips through you as Obi-Wan instinctively tries to lift off you and away from it, but you’re clinging too tightly to him.  Your whole body hovers off the mattress to stay with him. 

“You said—” he gasps, “—it wouldn’t h-hurt—oh—”

“It doesn’t,” you groan, continuing to tighten your legs and hoist yourself up, lifting your hips to take his cock deeper inside you.  “Oh, Maker, it feels so fucking good, Obi—feel it—”

His elbows shake where they’re locked and braced against the mattress but he drops his head and holds strong like this while you work your muscles to take him as far as you can from this shameful angle.  Your body feels like it’s on fire while you desperately cling to him and the length of your robe brushes against the mattress while you just keep trying to get him deeper inside you—

Suddenly something grabs hard at your hips and tries shoves you downwards and off his cock, but you want it too badly.  You summon the hidden strength of your energy and then channel it into your legs where they’re hooked around the curve of his lower back.

Obi-Wan chokes at the unexpected resistance and his elbows buckle, dropping you both down to his forearms with a jolt, but you’re too busy mentally clashing with each other for it.  The result is… well, it’s maddening.

Every time your pussy is able to swallow him more than halfway, you pull back and let his energy shove you down his length—but then dig back in right before you drop completely and use the Force to bend your legs and fight the uphill battle to his cock once more.  Your Master gasps, beads of sweat gathering at his temples while you fight him with every ragged breath in your body to keep fucking him.

Except—he’s the fighter.  And you should’ve known.

You’re no match for the sudden blast of energy from him, easily hinging your legs apart from around his back and then ripping you down off his cock with a wet sound, bouncing back down into the mattress once more.

In order to stop the desperate tears of defeat from coming to your eyes, you immediately clamp them shut and twist your face away from Obi-Wan’s, but he makes a low growl and uses the same ferocious royal blue energy to keep your knees pinned open and wide against the bed. 

And then drops his hips and rocks back into you, giving you those last few precious inches of his thickness you weren’t able to get at before.  It hits sharp nirvana up inside you with his thighs pressed tight to your hips like this.  His name rips itself from your throat while Obi-Wan clenches his jaw and starts to lose himself in the pleasure, holding you down into the bed with the Force while he allows your desperation to guide him to the perfect angle and speed to sate you. 

He’s so gifted, so strong in the Force, he’s able to use your mind as his anchor and give you pleasure beyond anything you’ve ever experienced.  And in return, you want to do the same to him.  You want to read his thoughts, instantly be able to give him everything he never knew he needed—

“You do,” your Master chokes out, “darling, you already—”

Everything inside you surges up at the admission, aching that much harder to hear him, to hear everything the way he can hear you.  The tips of your fingers find his temple, slick with sweat, and you press just hard enough to tell him your intent.

“Let me in,” you whisper, wicked arousal swirling tight in your lower muscles as they start to bear down on his cock.

“I—I can’t—” Obi-Wan gasps breathlessly, “I can’t—”

“Open—open the door, Master,” you beg, “please, open th—”

“Fuck,” he cuts you off, his voice rising in pitch while his his hips snap just a little harder against yours and his rhythm falters, “—It’s too good, Padaw—I’m going t-to—stars, are you—are you r-ready?”

Some terrifying, swirling darkness manifests itself deep in your thoughts.  It rises up, part of the desperate, hidden subconscious that you’re typically capable of stifling.  No, it says, don’t let this be over.  Not yet.  You don’t want to go to sleep alone, wake up and remember you’ll never have this again.  You need there to be a next time, and a time after it.

You try your hardest to push the longing downwards when you recognize it, but your Master is too quick, too talented to deceive when he’s this close to you.  He easily plucks it from your mind and expands it, enlarges the chaotic string of thoughts until you feel them pulsing at the edges of your consciousness.

And then Obi-Wan sees it all, immediately playing out in your memories as you helplessly watch on.  Every desire you buried for him unearthed, every whimper you stifled with the back of your hand when you touched yourself at night and thought of him amplified.  The years of repression, the blind hope that simply ignoring it would make it go away.  How hard you worked to deaden the burst of affection that radiated through the Force when you finally saw him after two years apart.  The circumstances behind the night you lost your virginity—not a long time ago, as he suggested before, but only just last year.  So desperate in your loneliness and longing for his presence that you began routinely sneaking around and fucking other Knights—Guardians with blue sabers whose souls were just marginally close enough to Obi-Wan’s, and you thought of him the whole time.  Every time.

But, perhaps, worst of all.  The… fantasies.

He sees himself dropping to his knees and congratulating you for passing your trials by burying his tongue inside your warmth and telling you how proud of you he is.  He sees you opening his trousers and slowly licking his cock while he meditates, trying to get him to break his concentration.  He watches the two of you fucking in every conceivable position, how incredibly ready you always are to take him when he needs it.  Most importantly, he recognizes your inherent, blazing desire to drag this out as long as physically possible, to permanently brand every moment in your memory to get you through his impending absence.

And then… then Obi-Wan does something unexpected.  Something incredibly uncharacteristic.

You watch as he morphs the fantasies right before your eyes.  He's still on his knees with his head between your legs, but now he’s telling you how proud he is of you for negotiating the mysterious, confidential deal that ended the Clone Wars.  You’re licking his cock as the ship autopilots itself through the week-long journey back to Coruscant from s’Ziscari, letting him slowly cum in your mouth as he sprawls lazily in the captain’s chair.  He’s taking you against the wall of your quarters after a mindless and dull Council meeting; you’re riding him quietly in his bed after lights-out at the temple; he’s rubbing your clit while he sits behind you and advises you on matters concerning your own Padawan you’ll be choosing sometime soon, two fingers deep and squeezing a bared nipple when he whispers in your ear how much he absolutely adores you.

Thoughts that aren’t your own begin to fill the empty spaces of your mind, a lovely pale blue tenor to harmonize gorgeously with the soft green alto of your own consciousness.  The resulting color of your combined energies fills your soul with Light, a stunning turquoise of a color you’ve never loved more, one you wish you could live in for the rest of your life.

For every debased thought of yours he sees, he shows you one even more revealing.  The way he used to dream of you at night, especially after a close battle where many Jedi and Clones fell, and then he’d wake up in a cold sweat with an erection pulsing feverish and so terribly shameful between his legs.  How he tried to shove a pillow down there once to somehow relieve himself of the aching hardness, and then had to rip it away and launch it across the room with the Force when he realized he’d been dragging himself against it and thinking of you.

“I’m gonna—cum—” your voice scrapes across your throat, and you can already sense him throwing his beautiful consciousness out like a net.  You match him with what little mental strength you have remaining, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your ankles around his lower back and pulling him down into you.

Obi-Wan’s energy keeps swirling a brilliant aquamarine with yours, presenting his every subconscious thought to you, one right after another, so quick you can barely keep up.  How he’ll always be with you, no matter what.  How the Maker himself won’t be able to drag him away from you now.  How quiet jealousy still tugs at his heart just thinking about the fact that you broke your oath—before you both could do it together.

Everything swells up inside you and you scream when it finally crashes over, your blended signatures sealing themselves together permanently and then detonating in a debilitating shockwave that ripples the air around you.  You’re blinded and deafened by its vivid energy, powerful and dazzling every shade between blue and green and Light and Dark, all balanced perfectly together.

You lay there in the gentle afterglow afterwards and feel your pussy still clamping tight to him, pulsing in random intervals while Obi-Wan slouches into you and every muscle in his body trembles with the comedown.  Everything is right.  Everything in you sparkles.

“Stars, Obi,” you start chuckling up at the ceiling, the sheer joy overwhelming you and bringing tears to your eyes.  “Stars, did we just—”

“We just won the Clone Wars, my dear,” he slurs into the crook of your neck while his cock still throbs inside you, and you can feel the exhaustion creeping up his spine, every single thought in his mind completely dead at the moment.

“How long do you… do you think it’ll take before it’s over?”  You ask quietly, brushing your fingers through his hair.  Obi-Wan groans and buries his face deeper into your neck.

“Few months, maybe.  Time for s’Ziscari…”

He stays like that for just a second, and you press your nose to him and breathe him in, marveling at how utterly gorgeous his signature is right now.  Clear blue with the lightest touch of teal, rippling like quiet water in a crystal calm riverbed.

Lovely.

You keep softly playing with the hair at his nape, and then quickly wrap your arms around him when he goes to try to brace his forearms next to your shoulders and lift up just the slightest bit.

“Wait, don’t—it’s—”  You bite your lip and feel him sink back down into your body without another word, clearly having only attempted it for appearances.  “This is good, let’s just… stay for a second.” 

He doesn’t respond, he doesn’t even move, and—a few months, you think.  A few months of his absence, of wondering where he is but never being able to ask.  It burdens your heart, but you understand it’s necessary.

The Council may… grant me a position with a more permanent location after this mission, he responds quietly to your dip in the Force after a moment, too tired to even talk anymore and exhaustion weaving his every thought.  On Coruscant.

Your heart pangs with sudden hope, and you know he can feel it.  “They would do that?”

I could ask to oversee the s’Ziscari’s assimilation into our ranks, he offers alongside a stifled yawn into your collarbone.

He’d… request that?  To be closer to you?  But why?

He doesn’t hesitate before offering the words to you simply, not even considering them before they’re the only thought in his mind.  Because I care for you more than there are stars in the sky.  I always have.

Lovely.

No, no, not even, that’s just.  Love.  By itself.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan murmurs softly into your neck, and your soul feels like it grows wings.

You both lay there in silence for a long time after that, and it takes you even longer to realize he hasn’t succumbed to sleep yet, even as the aching fatigue weighs heavy on his back.  He’s resisting it, keeping his eyes purposefully open against your neck while yours are blissfully shut.

“Master,” you eventually whisper up at the ceiling, and his cock twitches inside you.  Oh stars, you’ll have to remember that.  “Go to sleep.”

I have one more confession.  The thoughts are slurred and distorted, barely conscious as he desperately tries to outlast the sleep trying to pull him under.  I didn’t even want to mention it before because I didn’t know how this was all going to go, but…  He blinks slowly against your neck even as his eyes droop, only just a few seconds from passing out with exertion.  The Sh’inzith lasts six days, dove.

Your eyes pop open in shock just as his finally fall shut, and Obi-Wan stops fighting.

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.2)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

*SNEAK PEAK*

Summary: On the worst days, Yoongi is judge, jury, and executioner. But he judges you and finds you worthy of protecting (and loving too). 

Tags: Dead bodies, blood, murder/crime themes, guilt, childhood trauma, drugs (cocaine, heroine), domestic abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse, controlling behavior, implications of omega mistreatment/discrimination, anorexia, blood, graphic depictions of violence, manipulation, talking behind someone's back, morally gray Yoongi, 

W/c: 14.5k

A/N: Honestly this took me way too long to write and edit. I can’t tell if this is my favorite depiction i’ve ever written of falling in love or if I hate it. But yeah- i didn’t want to sit on it for much longer. This part takes place chronologically before the last part, and documents what happened while yoongi was away from the rest of his pack. 

Previous part — Masterlist

-----------------------

CHAPTER 2: THE DON

“She’s just an omega- you know how they are- they need a firm hand to keep them in their place.” Yoongi scoffs thinking of his omegas. Anyone who even dared to think that Seokjin and Jungkook did not wear the pants in their pack had another thing coming to them. 

He watches his older brother cut another line of cocaine. 

The amount of drugs in this Geumjae’s study cost enough to feed a small family for a year. But Yoongi knows better than to partake. He pretends to take a Bump and taps it off when Geumjae tips back a shot."Omegas aren't even fucking worth it if you ask me, brother, you're supposed to give half of yourself away, and for fucking what? A glorified bed warmer?"

Yoongi boils and stays silent, letting Geumjae get himself wasted on drugs and alcohol. He can't tell what distresses him more Geumjae has such little regard for life that he can't recognize that omegas are fucking people- or that he's so freely sharing this with him. 

He knows he’s toeing the line. More pushing might hurt you more, if he provoked aggression from his brother- it would no doubt come back to bite you. Yoongi can’t imagine wanting to hurt someone he loves or speaking with the same callousness that Geumjae speaks. “Don’t you love her?”

Geumjae laughs at Yoongi’s childish question “Oh little brother, don’t you know that love makes you stupid?”

His brother has it all wrong but Yoongi’s powerless to say it. Those threats from the funeral linger. And it's not only your life and Yoongi’s at stake here but the rest of his pack. He has to fool Geumjae into thinking he is on his side. 

“Work with me here- what will the other omegas in the pack think of you if they find out what kind of shit you pull? And they’ll take their concerns straight to their alphas and say you’re unfit to lead. You know I have to listen to the bulk of them regardless of what you want.”

If he can’t appeal to Geumjae’s humanity- he can appeal to Geumjae’s better interest and common sense. His image in the family is arguably the most important thing in geumjae’s mind, and Yoongi can tell by the way that Geumjae stiffens when he says the words that it’s stuck.

Geumjae might have been trained in torture, but Yoongi was trained in manipulation. And he take the bait- hook, line, and sinker. 

After that, he has the good sense to act softer with you in front of the rest of the family at the very least. But he fears he might have done more bad than good when he sees the way you stiffen and fail to meet his eyes more consistently as the days go on. You’re sensitive about eye contact, Yoongi gets it. you don’t have as much control over your facial expression as the rest of these robotic mobsters.  

Group dinners are routine, and while Yoongi could find an excuse to see you during the day, he’s also often pulled in 50 different directions by the expectations of his family.

He finds himself reading for dinner in a hurry most nights, eager or maybe a little panicked to check in with you. You never request his presence, you never text (though he made sure you have his number just in case), and the family dinners are tense between the two of you.

You maintain none of the easy friendship you’d started that day in the rain or that closeness. You avoid him like the plague at dinner, and It’s like that day in the rain never happened. 

Geumjae sticks to your side like glue too. A hand that probably looks protective to anyone else but looks possessive to Yoongi slung around your waist. Yoongi sees the harshness and pain in your body when Geumjae’s hand tightens digging into the swell of your hip. You’re soft in the way that most omegas are a little soft- and it’s as expected as it is distracting.

He manages to corner you during one of the dinners. you're not alone- and you can hear the grannies and omegas prattling to each other in the kitchen. the alphas are outside enjoying a cigar and investigating one of the new rolls royces that one of yoongi’s uncles recently purchased. 

The corset portion of your dress making your chest soft looking, plump and inviting if yoongi was the kind of man to get distracted by something like that. As it is- all he notices is how it’s making your chest heave. Breath uneven, he thinks he can hear the boning in the dress creek. It’s a designer thing, but it looks way too tight on you. he can tell how uncomfortable you are. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, though it's clear you’re not, you dont reply, looking down and away worried. Hand hovering over your stomach, “I won’t get mad whatever it is.”

You bite your lower lip. hand catching yourself on a side table before you teater over, dizzy. Yoongi grabs you before you fall. “He did my corset too tight, it’s hurting my ribs. I feel like im going to pass out.” Yoongi quickly looks around, but there is no one around in the part of the house right now, the garden is a backdrop, speckled with lights. you’re alone. 

Yoongi turns you around quickly, setting his champagne to the side and grabbing yours out of your hand. He undoes the top knot of the dress and you inhale gratefully as he tugs at the strings looser, fingers touching your bare skin. “Is that better?” he has to be quick. This isn’t exactly scandalous- but- its not quite proper. 

You inhale deep and grateful. “So much better, thank you.” you barely have a second to both straighten up, Yoongi's fingers pulling the bow back together. grabbing your champagne and sipping at it a careful distance away from Yoongi. looking for all intents and purposes like you’ve been swathed in uncomfortable silence the entire time they were gone. The picture of propriety as Geumjae and a few other alphas return in a puff of rich smoke. 

“Don’t mention it.” Yoongi says it softly so that only you can hear it.

More than once. Geumjae catches him staring at you during the dinner. you look so much more comfortable now that it’s been loosened. Your hand hovering in front of your dress to conceal your cleavage under the guise of fiddling with your necklace. During those moments, Geumjae rewards Yoongi’s wandering gaze with bold touches. A hand sliding from waist to hip and your sudden straightening in pain. 

Geumjae’s harsh fingers digging into a bad bruise on your hip. you’re so trained, you barely flinch when he does it. And still- Yoongi’s hands tighten in his slacks. Gritting his teeth and biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from making a scene and reaching across the table to stop Geumjae from hurting you.

Many of the other members of the family notice Geumjae’s sudden dogmatic approach to your presence in his life. Confirming what Yoongi suspects. That he’d never given you too much attention at these family meals before Yoongi came with his wandering eyes. He should do better be better not to put you in harm's way.

Yoongi keeps his eyes firmly trained on his plate full of spiced soft-shelled crab as one of the grannies comments on how sweet the two of you seem. Yoongi wants to gag. “You know how new love is. I feel like we’ll be in the honeymoon phase forever. I want her all to myself so bad I think she’s worried I’ll chain her to my bed” he says- feigning drunkenness. You laugh too- trying to play it off but Yoongi can see your barely concealed fear.

Staying silent and letting your husband hurt you is the hardest thing that yoongi’s ever had to do. But there are many more battles, fights and skirmishes to win in this war. Yoongi has to be patient.

He’s a poised snake, ready to strike at the perfect moment.  

COMING WEDNESDAY APRIL 21 @ 6PM EST

[marjansmarwani]

like I was already brave enough to let go

7.2k || Chapter 1/2 || ao3

Enzo understands that leaving New York in the wake of everything is what's best for TK, but that doesn't make it any easier. Watching his stepson pack up all his broken pieces and move across the country hurts him in ways he can't describe, mostly due to the knowledge that there will be a distance between them that has never existed before. So he takes the time to check-in, to keep track of TK. To be there for him, no matter what.

He's just starting to wish that he had picked somewhere other than Austin, because he is quickly discovering he is not built for this level of stress.

After reading @futures-tense’s Enzo fic (that everyone should read, it is phenomenal) I couldn’t get thoughts of him and his relationship with TK out of my head, so naturally I wrote this. It fits into canon evetns and this is only chapter 1 of 2, because while I so have an outline for season 2 events, this was getting long so I figured I’d at least post what I had. 

Massive thanks to @silvarafael and @justaswampdemon for all their help and support with this, you’re both the best!

-----------------

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting when TK opened his apartment door, but the sad shell of the boy Enzo had come to love as his own wasn’t it. 

Or maybe it was, but it hurt all the same. 

“Hey kid,” he said softly, stepping carefully around him and into the apartment. He looked around the small space, taking in all the boxes haphazardly labeled and partially packed. “So, it’s true. Your mom told me but I don’t think I believed her. Never thought I’d see the day TK Strand willingly left New York for Texas, of all places.” 

“Who says it’s willingly,” he said dully as he shut the door behind Enzo. 

Enzo turned and studied him more closely, taking in the downturned eyes and anxious fingers thumbing the seam of his hoodie pocket, “Do you not want to go? Because you can stay here. I’ll talk to your mom, you can stay with us if you…” 

But TK cut him off with a shake of his head, “No,” he said, “I think I need to do this. Dad’s right, I need a fresh start. I can’t...I don’t think I can be here anymore. When I think of staying here, I don’t see a way forward. I think if I stayed here I’d…” he trailed off, but Enzo felt a chill rush through him at the implication of what TK hadn’t said. He tried to meet his eyes but TK looked away, casting his gaze downward and away from Enzo’s sympathetic eyes. 

It hurt him more than he could say to see TK like this. For all his struggles he had always been a happy kid. He had always been someone who found the joy in life where he could and he had always worn his emotions on his sleeve, for better or worse. Seeing him like this and knowing what had happened hurt Enzo in ways he couldn’t fully describe because he didn’t know the right words. All he knew for sure is that this was not the TK he had known and loved for 16 years standing before him. This was a stranger; someone he had only seen once before during a time he had hoped to never revisit. 

He hadn’t asked what happened because he knew enough and he wasn’t about to make the kid revisit it just so he could fill in some blanks. He might not know everything but he knew enough to feel hot anger course through him at the thought of someone breaking that too big heart of his. TK had always been someone who loved fully and completely, and to see that thrown back in his face so spectacularly made Enzo—a typically steady and calm man — strongly consider homicide. 

He had every confidence that Gwyn could get him out of any charges too, but he pushed that thought aside to focus on the scene before him.  

“This isn’t your fault, TK.” 

TK turned away from him, absently picking up some books from the table and dropping them into one of the boxes. “I know I didn’t make Alex cheat,” he says eventually, “but the rest of it? That is completely on me Enzo, no one else.” 

He could sense that the kid had more to say so he let him go, watching from the doorway as he listlessly picked up other odds and ends from around his apartment, tossing them into boxes without any real care as to what the labels on the side said. He knew TK would speak up when he was ready and it was only a few more minutes before he did. 

“Eight years,” he finally said, his rough voice breaking the silence of the half-packed apartment. “Eight fucking years of sobriety, all gone. And that’s all on me. It doesn’t matter what Alex did, I’m the one who made the choice. I am the one who let him have that power over me and…” he broke off, meeting Enzo’s eyes for a moment before looking away and swallowing. “I do need to leave,” he said eventually. “I don’t trust myself to stay here anymore. I don’t know if I’d survive it.” 

Enzo could feel his heart breaking for the kid. He wasn’t a kid anymore — now 26 and an adult — but in Enzo’s eyes sometimes he was still the 10-year-old who met his eyes shyly when Gwyn first introduced them, the 14-year-old who had admitted to him in a terrified whisper that he thought he might like boys, the 19-year-old who had come to him because he wanted to enroll in the fire academy and didn’t know how his mother would take it. The feeling he had now was just like the feelings he had had then. This overwhelming love and desire to protect him from everything bad in the world; from anyone that ever told him he wasn’t enough. 

And just like he had then, he stepped forward, closing the space between them to pull him into a hug. He held him close, pressing his face into his chest and placing a kiss on the top of his head. “You’re making the smart choice then,” he said evenly. “And, as much as I’ll miss you, I’m proud of you for doing what you have to do. You’ve beat this once and you’ll beat it again, I have no doubt about that.” 

He knew he wasn’t imagining it when the body in his arms sagged in relief. It made him clutch him that much tighter as he spoke again, hoping what he was about to say was a given but needing to say it anyway:  “And I will always be here for you, no matter where you live. I’m always just a phone call away, you know that, right?”

TK’s voice was muffled by the material of Enzo’s sweater, but he could still hear the tears in it clear as day, “I do.” 

“Good,” Enzo replied firmly, releasing his grip on TK and stepping back so he could meet his eyes. “Because I will be calling to check-in, that is a promise.” 

---------------

Watching him leave was bittersweet, but he believed TK when he said it was something he needed to do. He took some solace in the fact that he wouldn’t be alone. Enzo and Owen Strand may have had their differences over the years (many, many differences) but if there was one thing Enzo had never doubted it was the other man’s love for his son. He knew that TK was in good hands, but that didn’t make it any easier. 

He got confirmation they had arrived in Austin in the form of a text that included a picture of a shop selling cowboy hats that simply said, “turns out people actually do where these here. Yes, it looks as ridiculous as it sounds.” It is followed by another two days later that noted the crimes Texas has committed against pizza and though Enzo was still filled with worry, he allowed himself to smile and take it as a sign that he was healing, be it ever so slightly. 

He gave it almost a week before he called. He wanted to hear TK’s voice; to have proof that he really was okay, but he also wanted to give him time. His patience was helped by the fact that Gwyn had spoken to her son but eventually, he decided that he needed to hear from him himself.  

TK answered by the third ring, sounding out of breath. He greeted him warmly, and Enzo could hear the commotion of construction in the background. He raised an eyebrow, “What, did you decide to leave the fire department and become a contractor when I wasn’t looking?” 

This pulled a laugh out of TK and Enzo took a moment to savor the familiar sound. It felt like far too long since he’s last heard it. 

“No. Dad decided we should re-do the firehouse, to give everyone a fresh start. I figured I might as well help out. Besides,” he added with a shrug Enzo could almost hear, “demolition is the far healthier method of coping with feelings, right?” 

“When done with permission,” Enzo quipped in response. “How are you doing kid, has the pizza chased you away yet?” 

TK scoffed, “No, but it was a close thing. Honestly, I really haven’t had that much time to dwell. I’ve been helping with the demo and construction, as well as the candidate interviews and paperwork. I haven’t really taken too much time to think about anything.” 

TK said it matter of factly and Enzo almost moved past it. But he knew TK better than most. “You don’t have to punish yourself, kid,” he told him gently. “All you need to do is heal.”

“I’m not punishing myself,” TK objected, “I’m just...trying to keep busy. To distract myself.” 

TK might very well think that, but Enzo was pretty sure it wasn’t true. But he was willing to move past it, for now. 

“Tell me about the new crew,” he said instead, and smiled as TK launched into stories about a daredevil from Miami and a possible psychic from Chicago. He seemed enthusiastic and Enzo didn’t realize how good it felt to hear that until he had. It was like there was a little bit of life back in his voice and though he knew TK still had a long way to go to make this better, he was relieved to see that he was at least on the way. 

------------

For a while, everything seemed to be going great. TK called and texted him from time to time, sharing anecdotes from calls and his new crew, and each time Enzo thinks he can hear just a little bit more of his old self returning to his voice. Sure he complains about one of them, for a while, but that too seems to sort itself out. 

He could tell there is someone new in his life too, even if TK is hedgy about it at best. But Enzo was the first one to know that TK was gay at 14; he knew how to spot the signs. 

“Why won’t you tell me about him?” he asked him one day, voice light and teasing as he stuffed his papers into his bag. “Is there something horribly wrong with him?”

“No,” TK countered emphatically, “there is nothing wrong with him. Absolutely nothing,” he added, almost an unconscious mutter Enzo was not entirely sure he was supposed to hear. 

“So if there is ‘absolutely nothing’ wrong with him, why aren't you going for it?” 

There was silence on the other end as Enzo slid his bag onto his shoulder, patiently waiting the younger man out. 

“You know why,” he eventually said, voice low and sad. Enzo grimaced at how pained his voice sounded and he dropped back into his desk chair with a sigh.

“TK…” he began, but the younger man cut him off firmly. 

“No, Enzo. I...I thought I could. I thought we could have something casual and that I could handle it. But then he wanted more and I hurt him. I don’t want to do that, he doesn’t deserve it. He’s too good to get dragged into my shitshow.” 

“Have you asked him what he wants?” Enzo asked gently. 

The bark of laughter TK gave at that was sharp and harsh, “Yeah, that should go well. Definitely won’t lead to me having to explain to this guy I’ve hooked up with a handful of times all the ways I’m fucked up right now.”

Enzo sighed again, leaning back in his chair, “It won’t always be like this, T. Someday you will be ready to try again, but only if you let yourself consider the possibility. Can you at least promise me that?”

There was silence for a long stretch and Enzo was about to ask him again when TK’s voice finally responded quietly, “Yes.” 

“Good,” Enzo responded firmly, “because no matter what happened, you still deserve happiness. And someday you’ll be ready to let it in again — maybe sooner than you think.” 

The sound of acknowledgment TK made sounded skeptical at best, but Enzo would take it. He knew he was right and he knew that someday TK would realize it too. Maybe even sooner than he thought. 

------------

It’s about a week later when Enzo’s phone rings, nearly making him jump as he is pulled abruptly from his stack of midterms. It took him a few moments of shuffling blue books to even locate his phone and when he did he frowned at both the time and the name displayed on the screen. 

“Hey kid,” he said lightly as he answered the phone, “what’s up?” 

He had hoped he was overreacting, that TK was just calling him late because he was on shift and had lost track of the time. He had hoped that maybe the universe was finally giving the kid a break. 

The despair and fear so clear in TK’s voice quickly prove him wrong.  

“Hey Enzo,” he said softly, “fuck, I know it’s late and I’m sorry to bother you, but I just really needed to talk to someone.” 

“You are never a bother,” Enzo told him firmly, capping his pen and setting it down on his desk. “What’s wrong?” 

“I…” TK began before stopping, taking a deep breath and trying again, “I don’t know for sure yet, but I know something is.”

And Enzo believed him. The fear in his voice is so raw Enzo could feel every ounce of it even from a timezone away. “I’m going to need more than that, kid,” he told him gently, leaning back in his chair as he waited TK out. 

“I found something,” TK said eventually, “that I definitely wasn’t supposed to find. And it means something awful. Something I don’t know if I can handle. But it also means he doesn’t trust me,” TK continued, “and somehow that almost feels worse.”

Enzo frowned, pondering all the non-specific details in his mind. He didn’t know all that much about his stepson’s life in Austin, but he knew enough to know that while he was close to his new crew, he wasn’t close enough to be this upset by an omission from one of them. That left him with two possibilities: the mysterious man he was not seeing, or Owen. 

And Enzo knew which option was more likely and it made his heart sink. TK might not be sharing but Ezno knew both the Strand men better than most. If there was something Owen felt strongly enough to keep from his son that TK was this upset about, it wasn’t good news.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” he said cautiously, “but is it something about your dad?” 

There was a deep, shuddering breath before TK responded, “Yeah.” 

And Enzo shut his eyes, the hurt and fear in TK’s voice telling him all he needed to know. 

“I don’t know what this is about,” he said eventually, “and you don’t have to tell me. But I do know you, and I know whatever it is you are going to want to be there for him, because that’s who you are. Let him know that, and the rest will follow from there.” 

There was silence again, but Enzo waited TK out. He was familiar with this rhythm; when something was bothering TK he often took his time to make sure he had the words right before he spoke. Over the years Enzo had learned to wait him out knowing that he would get to his point when he was ready.  

He did a few moments later, “I do want to be there for him,” TK agreed, “I just know why he didn’t tell me. He doesn’t think I can handle it — and he’s right,” TK confessed softly, “I don’t know if I can.” 

“You can,” Ezno assured him firmly, “you can do anything you set your mind to. You always have.” 

He let his words sink in for a moment before he added, “And I would talk to your dad before you make any assumptions. Let him know he can rely on you, let him know you want to be there.” 

“You make it sound so easy,” TK said dryly, and Enzo huffed a laugh. 

“In a way it is. It’s just words. It’s the actions behind them that are hard.” 

There was silence again before TK spoke, his voice so quiet Enzo almost missed his next words, “I’m scared.” 

“It’s okay to be scared,” Enzo reminded him, “sometimes fear is the appropriate response.” 

But even as he said it, he could feel his heart breaking. He didn’t know what was going on and while he was sure he would find out soon enough, he couldn’t help but hate whatever it was. TK deserved some time to find himself, to heal and simply exist. He didn’t understand why the universe kept throwing such curveballs at him, but he wished with every fiber of his being it would stop. 

“Sometimes it is,” TK agreed in a tone that made Enzo wonder even more what this was all about. But he didn’t ask; TK would tell him when he was ready. For now he would just be here for him. Sometimes that was all he could do. 

--------------

As much as Enzo couldn’t help but worry about the younger man, sometimes the updates were a sign that things were getting better for him, slowly but surely. 

One such time came as he and Gwyn were sitting on the couch together, Enzo making a case for watching Jeopardy with Gwyn adamantly refusing. 

“No,” she said again with a firm shake of her head, “it always ends the same way.” 

He shrugged, “I can’t help that you’re too competitive, or that I’m better at it then you are,” he added, giving her a sly grin. 

“We can’t all have PhDs in history,” she said wryly, “some of us need to work for a living.” 

He opened his mouth to fire back a retort but was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. “Saved by the bell,” he said instead with a shake of his head as he dug his phone out of his pocket. He frowned when he saw the familiar name on the screen and turned it so Gwyn could see. 

“Hey T,” he said cautiously as he answered, “everything good?” 

There was a lot of noise in the background but he could hear TK’s voice clearly as he answered, “Yeah, I just had a question for you. These people don’t believe me so I need your cred as a Columbia history professor to back me up.” 

Enzo raised an eyebrow at Gwyn, who had leaned closer to hear. She bit her lip against a laugh and he shook his head fondly, “I’ll do what I can. What’s the question?” 

“Hang on,” TK said, “I’m going to put you on speaker.” There was the sound of fumbling before the background noise grew louder and TK’s voice returned. “Okay guys,” he was saying, “this is my stepdad Enzo. He’s a history professor at Columbia and if you don’t believe me maybe you’ll believe him. You want to ask him the question, Paul?” 

“Man, you didn’t need to…” 

“No, this is a point of pride now.” TK objected indignantly and Enzo glanced at Gwyn to see that she had fully pressed a hand against her mouth to stop any laughter from slipping out and giving away her eavesdropping. “Ask him,” TK prompted and there was a sigh before a new voice joined the conversation. 

“Sir, we are so sorry to bother you. TK’s just being a sore loser.” 

“Paul, right?” Enzo asked and got a sound of confirmation in return, “You don’t have to tell me that, I helped raise him.” There was an indignant noise in the background, likely from TK, but Enzo ignored it. “What’s the question?” 

“Who invented the first movie camera?” 

“Louis Le Prince,” Enzo replied without hesitation, unable to suppress a chuckle at the sound of TK’s triumphant ha! In the background. “You guys thought it was Edison, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” Paul admitted sheepishly and Enzo chuckled lightly.

“That’s understandable. Edison was the first person to mass market it and the first to get recognized for it, but Le Prince was actually the first. But he mysteriously disappeared in 1890, right before he was set to take a trip to the US to talk about his invention. So he never got a chance to market it.” 

There was silence for a moment before Paul spoke again, “So is there any proof Edison had him killed or…?” 

“No,” Enzo admitted, “but that is one of the theories for sure. Another is his brother did it over the family will. Either way, Edison was not the first.” 

“Huh,” Paul said thoughtfully, “that’s actually fascinating. Dude, I’m sorry for doubting you.” 

“It’s fine,” TK said evenly, “I am more than a pretty face you know.” 

There was a collective snort from the other end of the phone and Enzo glanced at Gwyn to roll his eyes. She shook her head fondly and he returned his attention to the call, “Any other burning history questions or was that it?” 

The background noise lessened as TK took the phone off speaker. “No, that’s it. Thanks, Enzo.” 

“Anytime kid,” he told him, “you know I love to flex my random history facts.” That got another laugh out of TK, but Enzo could still hear the background noise of a group in the background. The sounds of easy comradery set his mind at ease in a way not much else had since TK had left for Texas. “Why don’t you get back to your friends and I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay, thanks again.” 

“Don’t mention it. I love you kid.” 

“Love you too. Say hi to mom for me?” 

“You’ve got it.” 

With that the call was over and Enzo was left back in their silent living room, Gwyn looking at him with a soft smile. 

“He sounds happy,” she said after a moment, her voice warm but thick. He nodded. 

“He does. As much as I do hate to admit it, I think going to Austin may have the best thing for him.” 

“You just hate that Owen was right.” 

“And you don’t?” he asked her with a raised eyebrow. 

“Well that’s a given,” she quipped, leaning closer to him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed them as she rested her head on her shoulder. “I’m just glad he’s doing better,” she said softly after a moment, “I’ve been so worried about him.” 

“Me too,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair. That sat in silence for a few more moments, each lost in their own thoughts before he spoke again. 

“So is that still a no to Jeopardy or…?”

She swatted at him and he grinned, ducking away from the light hit. Things seemed to have returned to their equilibrium, and that was a relief. 

He just hoped it stayed that way. 

-------------------

When he was wrested from sleep by the shrill sound of his phone ringing cutting through the late-night silence of his bedroom, Enzo groaned. He swore under his breath as he fumbled for the device, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he did. But when he managed to grasp his phone and saw the name on the screen, all thoughts of annoyance fled his mind. Owen Strand calling him was rarely a good sign. Owen Strand calling him at 2 am promised nothing short of disaster. 

“Owen?” he said as he answered, skipping any and all attempts at pleasantries. “Is everything okay?”

He could afford to give the universe the benefit of the doubt, he decided; even if only for a moment. 

When Owen’s reply came it was in a voice Enzo didn’t recognize. It was shaky and uncertain in a way that the other man never was. 

“Enzo, hey. I’m sorry to bother you but Gwyn’s not answering her phone and…” he broke off with a shaky breath, “I really need to talk to her.” 

“She’s in Beijing,” Enzo replied, sitting up and switching on the lamp beside him. “And given the time difference, probably in a meeting.”

He heard Owen swear distantly before he felt fear rise up in him. Owen calling him at 2 in the morning looking for Gwyn and out of sorts only added up to one thing, but Enzo so hoped he was wrong. 

“Owen, did something happen to TK?” he forced himself to ask; the stress of not knowing was worse than anything else. 

He could hear Owen take another breath, deep and shaky and filled with something else Enzo couldn’t identify on a phone call from half a country away. 

“There was an...incident,” Owen said softly, voice still unsteady, “on our last call.”

Enzo’s mind was already spinning, stumbling from one horrible possibility from another. 

“There was a man with dementia who broke into his old house and a homeowner who had a cardiac event and TK broke down the door and….he was shot.” 

Enzo heard the words, he knew he did. But he couldn’t have. If he had heard them that would mean that TK had been shot and that was not something that could be true. His stepson was a firefighter. It was a profession that came with enough risks of its own. He had spent countless days worried and fearful at the thought of rescues gone wrong, of untamable flames and unstable buildings. Never once had he even entertained the thought of a bullet being a risk to watch out for. Bullets were supposed to be the problem of other people with other jobs — not his stepson, who already had so many dangers to face. 

But it was true. The fear and pain in Owen’s voice told him it was true. There was an edge of both hysteria and despair in his words and that more than anything scared Enzo more than he could say.

“Where?” was the first coherent thought he could form. 

“Just below his left shoulder” Owen repeated mechanically. “His...his lung collapsed before we were even out of the hallway. Enzo, he couldn’t breathe. He kept trying but he couldn’t and there was so much blood....” Owen trailed off and Enzo could hear the unmistakable sound of a sob in the background even as his own hands trembled and his eyes watered. 

“Is he…” he started, but he couldn’t make himself say the words. He couldn’t speak the awful possibility into existence. 

“He’s headed to surgery,” Owen replied. “I don’t know anything more than that, we only got here about 15 minutes ago. I just...I just hope it was fast enough.” 

There was silence then as the two men allowed the same fear to consume them from opposite ends of the country. Enzo felt a morbid camaraderie with the other man in that moment. In the 16 years they had known each other it was safe to say that they had never exactly gotten along. They had always been polite and cordial for the sake of Gwyn, TK, and family gatherings but they were too different in too many ways that mattered to ever truly be friends. They had only ever agreed on one thing, and now that was the thing that tied them together — loving TK.  

“You got him there as fast as you could Owen,” Enzo assured him without hesitation because there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it wasn’t true. “You did everything you could. Any chance he has is because of you.” 

“I think the credit lays more with the paramedics,” Owen objected, “but I appreciate the effort all the same.” 

Enzo opened his mouth again, not quite sure what he was going to say but feeling the overwhelming need to say something, but he was interrupted before he got the chance to figure it out. 

There was a noise on the other end followed by the sound of shuffling as Owen attended to whatever it was. When his voice returned, it was tight. 

“That’s Gwyn on the other line, I’ve gotta take it. But listen, Enzo…”

But Enzo just shook his head, “Don’t worry about it Owen, talk to her. Just, keep me updated?” 

“Of course,” he replied without hesitation, “as soon as I know anything.” 

Then with another hurried goodbye, the call was over and Enzo was left in the dark and quiet bedroom, alone. It wasn’t long before the tears he had felt threatening began to fall in earnest as he wrapped his mind around this reality and allowed himself to dwell on it. There was a chance — a very real and terrifying chance — that they could lose TK. That Gwyn and Owen could lose the son they had brought into this world and loved for 26 years. That Enzo could lose one of the people he loved the most. The thought of TK not existing anymore was too horrible to dwell on. 

Enzo was a religious man. He had been raised by a small Jewish family in a large community and his faith had been something that he had always had. It had seen him through so much. But now, with this, he had to wonder. It didn’t make sense that TK — his wonderful, caring stepson who had dedicated his life to helping people — should have to suffer so much in such a short time on earth. It went against everything he had ever believed about putting good into the world. Why should TK — who had never done anything to hurt anyone — have to suffer so? Why should he? He didn’t want to know what life without TK looked like. 

More than anything, he hated that he might find out. 

When Gwyn called him a few minutes later he pushed his own tears aside. He murmured soft reassurances as she sobbed in a quiet corner of a Beijing office building, consumed with fear and grief a world away from her child who was slipping further and further from them with every passing moment. He gave her empty platitudes, reassured her the best he could. 

But all the while the fear was drilling a hole straight through his chest. This, he decided, was the worst fear he had ever felt. 

The worst part was there was nothing he could do but wait, and hope desperately for the best. 

----------------

The next several days were some of the longest of Enzo’s life. Each day he woke up and went about the day. Each day he kept his phone volume on, not wanting to miss any news either way. Each day an update came from Owen and each day it was the same: no change. 

He debated going out to Austin — he had been halfway through buying a ticket online half a dozen times — but each time he stopped himself. Logically he knew that being there wouldn’t change anything. He would still be waiting, he’d just be waiting there. He told himself he was needed here, that he couldn’t just pick up and go across the country with no warning. It was the end of the semester and he had students to help to finish the course or their dissertation. He told himself staying was the responsible option, but he knew that it was largely just a distraction. But he would take any distraction he could get and so he pushed the guilt of not being there to the side

He taught his classes, he went through the motions. He fielded calls from Gwyn, still stuck in China and frantic with worry. Each day he reassured her; reminded her that TK was strong, young, and healthy. Above all that, he reminded her, he was stubborn. No bullet or coma was going to take him from them before he was ready. 

Of course there was the private fear, the one he didn’t want to share, that he didn’t want to hang on anyone else. The one he was afraid to say out loud. 

It was the thought that maybe, after everything, that was exactly what he did want. That maybe this was an out and that maybe, he would take it. That maybe he didn’t want to be alive anymore. 

But that was a possibility too horrible to accept. Maybe it was selfish, but Enzo knew that even if that was the case, he wasn’t ready. He doubted he ever would be, but he certainly wasn’t now. He knew both Gwyn and Owen would agree. No time was a good time to lose your child — step or otherwise — but now, after this — after everything — was not the time. 

So he waited, and hoped. 

Time seemed to blend together and before he knew it one day had become two, which had stretched into four. Each moment passed the same way — tensely, with no news. 

He knew he had been distracted too — keeping his ringer on during class and checking in throughout his lectures and office hours. He had apologized to his classes after the second telemarketer had caused him to drop everything and lunge for his phone, citing a family emergency and word had slowly gotten around. Soon it wasn’t just him hoping for the best, but most of the Columbia history department as well. Their well wishes were touching, but nothing short of good news was going to make him feel any better. 

So when his phone did finally ring on a Thursday afternoon, 5 days after the fateful call, he picked it up with trepidation. The name on the screen sent his heart racing and he nearly dropped his phone in his haste to answer it. 

“Owen?” he asked tersely, “Any updates?”   

Because since that night they hadn’t spoken. All updates had come in the form of texts and the thought of Owen finally having something to tell him one way or the other simultaneously thrilled him and nearly froze him with fear. 

But it wasn’t Owen’s voice that answered. 

“Hey Enzo,” TK said, the sound of his voice rushing through Enzo’s body like a current of electricity. He sank back into his seat with a wobbly laugh, feeling nearly a week's worth of tension fall away as he listened to the miraculous sound of TK breathing on the other end of the phone. 

“Hey kid,” he said warmly. “You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice. How are you feeling?” 

“Okay,” he answered, “I really don’t feel too bad at all. A little sore, a little tired, but overall not bad.” 

“I hear getting shot will do that to you,” Enzo retorted drily before sighing and running a weary hand down his face. “You scared the shit out of me, TK,” he admitted. 

“Sorry,” TK replied softly, “I didn’t mean to worry anyone.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Enzo rushed to reassure him, “I know you didn’t ask for this to happen but...shit TK, I am not built for this. Do you think you could avoid getting shot in the future, for my sanity at the very least?” 

“I’ll try,” TK responded with a chuckle, “I don’t remember most of it but I don’t think it’s anything I want to revisit.”  

“No, I’d imagine not,” Enzo retorted wryly. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts and taking comfort from the presence of the other even if it was only over a phone call from half a country away. “So,” he finally said, leaning into normal conversation for the sake of normalcy, “is your dad driving you nuts yet?” 

“Yes,” TK responded emphatically, “he has been hovering non-stop, and he brought a date.” 

Enzo could hear indignant sputtering in the background and Owen muttering something about him not bringing a date, that his date had simply come to visit him to see how he was doing and, maybe because of all the fear and stress of the past week, Enzo could only laugh. 

“That sounds like your dad,” he retorted once he caught his breath, “and I wouldn’t count on that changing anytime soon.” 

“She seemed cool at least,” TK allowed, voice teasing, “I don’t know why he was trying to keep her a secret.”

“Excuse you,” Owen’s voice objected from the background, “I am not the one who had a hot cop sitting by my bedside. You don’t get to talk about keeping secrets.”

“Dad,” TK groaned and Enzo’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Oh, so the mystery man is a cop,” he teased, “and the plot thickens.” 

Now it was TK’s turn to splutter, “Nope, we are not doing this. That is more than enough from both of you,” he declared and Enzo could hear Owen chuckling at his son’s indignation from the background. It was a slice of normal that he had feared he’d never get again. To be sitting here hearing TK’s voice, teasing him about something so simple as the guy he had a crush on seemed like a miracle and Enzo was grateful for it.

Everything was normal again, at long last. 

----------------

Sometimes he thinks that turning on news alerts for Austin was the worst decision he had ever made. 

It seemed practical, at the time. An easy way to stay in the know, to have an idea of what kind of calls TK may have seen on any given day. But now he was frozen in the middle of the hallway after one of his classes staring at a notification about a solar storm that had blasted through Austin, leaving devastation in its wake; regretting every decision that led him to this point. 

He knew TK was still on medical leave. He knew that he should be home and resting after only being released from the hospital two days before. But he also knew his stepson and knew that whenever there was trouble, TK was usually not too far behind. 

It was with that thought in his mind that he stepped out out the middle of the hallway and leaned against the wall as he waited anxiously for the call to connect. The sound of a pleasant robotic voice informing him that his call could not be completed filled him with dread, but he forced himself to take a breath. It didn’t mean anything. The grid was likely overloaded right now; Enzo couldn’t say he knew for sure what kind of damage a solar storm could do but he was willing to guess that it wasn’t great for the electronic infrastructure. 

Left with no other options he went on about his day, the familiar anxiety he had only recently shed slipping back over him like a worn winter coat. He tried calling a few more times, trying to ignore how the dread in his gut grew each and every time the call didn’t go through. He resisted the urge to ask one of his science colleagues to explain the specifics of a solar storm; reasoning that dealing with his own uncertainty would be far kinder than having confirmed facts. At least this way, he decided, he could tell himself he was overreacting. 

It was far too many hours before his phone rang; an unfamiliar number appearing on his lock screen. He frowned at it but swiped to answer. He did list his cell number on all of his course syllabi, but for the most part his students stuck to his campus email, or — in desperate times — text. 

“Dr. Cohen,” he answered, mentally placing bets as to whether it was actually a student or a robot trying to inform him about the extended warranty of the car he didn’t own.

To his immense relief, it was neither. Instead, a familiar voice answered, sending a rush of relief through him at the sound, “Hey, Enzo, it’s me.” 

“TK,” he breathed, setting down the paper he had been reading and closing his eyes as he took a deep breath. “Are you okay?” 

“More or less,” he answered sheepishly and Enzo was about to push for more than that when he caught the distinct sound of a hospital intercom in the background. 

“Tyler Kennedy Strand, are you in the hospital again?” he demanded and he heard a weary sigh from the other end before a quiet “yeah” was muttered. 

“It’s not a big deal though,” TK rushed to explain, “I’m fine. I just pulled my stitches.” 

There was another voice in the background that Enzo didn’t recognize and could barely hear, but what he could hear made it clear that the other voice was not impressed either. 

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” TK demanded, and Enzo was not entirely sure who he was speaking to, “Let her drown in a burning bus?” 

“You just got out of the hospital!” Enzo objected when he could form words again, “What were you doing somewhere where there was a burning bus?!” 

“We just went out for boba,” TK retorted, “I didn’t expect there to be a solar storm that caused a bus accident.” 

And Enzo forced himself to take a deep breath because that was fair, he supposed. There was no way anyone could control anything like that. Still…

“The next time you move we’re going to need to do some research,” he declared. “Because if it is anywhere as chaotic as Austin, I’m going to have to object.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” TK assured him, “I think I’ll be in Austin for a while.” 

There was a smile in his voice and Enzo somehow had the feeling he was intruding on something, even though TK had been the one to call him. 

“What number are you calling me from?” he asked, testing his theory. 

“I borrowed Carlos’s phone,” TK answered in a voice that said he knew what was coming and he hoped it would at least be quick. 

“Oh,” Enzo replied, “and Carlos wouldn’t happen to be the name of a certain ‘hot cop’ your father mentioned, aka the mystery man I have been trying to get you to tell me about for months?”

“Yes.”

“And when you say ‘we’ were trying to get boba…” 

“Enzo…”  

“And he wouldn’t happen to be with you right now, would he?” 

“Are you done?” TK demanded, and Enzo only laughed. 

“Not nearly, kid; I’m just getting started.” 

And despite TK’s muttering, Enzo could tell that he sounded happier than he had heard him sound in ages. He marveled at the fact that somehow, despite everything, TK had managed to find the happiness and peace he had hoped for him ever since he left New York all those months ago. Between the disasters he had managed to take his broken pieces and fit them back together, maybe even stronger than they had been before. 

It was all he had ever wanted for him, and he was relieved beyond belief that he had found it. 

“You know, this means I’m going to have to come down there soon,” he said instead, “I’ve got to meet this mystery man for myself.” 

He could practically hear TK rolling his eyes, but his voice was impossibly warm when he assured him, “You’ll like him, Enzo.” 

“Do you like him?” he asked.

“Yeah,” TK responded without a moment’s hesitation, “I do.” 

“Then I already do,” he assured him. 

If this Carlos had anything to do with the happiness he could finally hear returned to his stepson’s voice, he couldn’t do anything but. 

[howtosingit]

Fic: The Nightmare That I Call Myself

His t-shirt is sweat-soaked and twisted around him, refusing to allow his chest to fully expand the way he desperately needs it to. He tears away at it, trying to get it off, and a sob climbs up his throat and out of his mouth when it starts to feel hopeless. Finally, after an hour or a day or maybe even a year, it comes off. TK throws it across the room with a yell before he wraps his arms around himself, his fingernails digging into his sides.

He just wants to feel something. 

But that’s not really his problem right now. He’s feeling too much, all at once. It’s a stark contrast from the nightmare that he found himself trapped in moments ago; a nightmare where he felt absolutely nothing. Because he was absolutely nothing. 

Because he was dead. 

+

Or, five times TK wakes up disoriented and confused, and one time he wakes up knowing he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Mature | 5.1K | Also on AO3

A/N: Haven’t written a word in two months, got this idea when I woke up this morning and now here we are, 10 hours later. The muse does what the muse wants. Hope you like it!

------

Someone’s screaming.

TK’s eyes fly open, the red and blue lights from his lamp in the corner adding to the confusion that he’s currently feeling. It feels like there’s an elephant sitting on his chest, and when he closes his eyes again to try to make it all disappear, all he sees is smoke and dust and collapsing buildings on fire.

It’s the same thing he’s been seeing on TV for the past few days, even though his mom changes the channel as quickly as possible whenever he’s in the room.

“TK!”

His eyes open again, finally focusing on his mom as rushes into his bedroom, the sudden lights causing him to blink against their harsh brightness. Before he knows it, there are arms wrapped around him, firm hands on his back, and a soft voice in his ear.

“It’s okay, buddy, it’s okay. You’re okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

That’s when he finally realizes that the screams are coming from his own mouth.

He stops instantly, his throat raw, but he can’t quiet the sob rising in his chest. He buries his face in his mom’s shirt, pressing against her, kind of hoping that he can disappear into her, where he knows he’ll be safe. 

He closes his eyes again, and a new image appears behind his eyelids:

His dad. Covered in dirt and dust and blood, his firefighter’s helmet falling from his head, his eyes dark and empty and so different from their normal blue.

“Dad,” he croaks, his voice weak and full of pain. His heart hammers in his chest, thud thud thud. “Mommy, where’s Daddy?”

“Oh, honey, he’s okay,” his mom says, her fingers running through his hair and scratching his scalp gently, a shiver running through him. It helps to pull him out of his head, the fear disappearing at her touch. “He’s just in the other room, he’s okay.”

“Can I go see him?” he cries, the words getting lost in another sob. She understands him, though, like she always does. She’s his mom, so she always understands him.

“Of course, sweetie,” she says, holding him closer. “Let’s calm down a little bit though, before we go see him. We don’t want to scare him, do we?”

TK shakes his head, following along as she shows him how to breathe deeper. He can still feel his heart pounding in his chest, but it doesn’t feel as heavy now. The elephant has been replaced by something smaller. A gorilla, maybe, or something like that. He gets so distracted thinking about all the different animals that he’s seen at the zoo, that he almost doesn’t notice when a different pair of arms find their way around him. 

He does recognize the smell, though. His dad’s soap has a really special smell.

“Daddy,” he cries, more tears finding their way to his eyes as he pulls his head back to see those familiar blue ones. They aren’t as bright as they were before, but they’re more alive than they were in his nightmare. His dad gives him a small smile, pulling him into his arms and against his chest. 

“I got you, buddy. I got you. I’m right here.”

He focuses on the sound of his dad’s heartbeat, hears the way the soft words rumble through his chest. His mom is still there, too, her own fingers crawling up and down his back. 

Eventually, they all lay back down, his body tucked between the two of them. He reaches out, grabbing on to each of them, pulling them even closer. 

He hears them whispering above him, but their voices sound like they’re at the far end of the big, long tunnel, so he doesn’t really know what they’re saying. He watches the lights from his lamp slowly dance across his ceiling, watches as they catch on the corner of the twin-sized firetruck bed that surrounds them on all sides.

The next morning when he wakes up, he tells his dad that he wants to change his room. There’s a sad look in his eyes, but he just gives him a hug and helps him pack some things away.

-----

Someone’s knocking on the door.

TK lets out a groan, his stomach rolling. Even through his eyelids, he can see that the sun is up and pouring in through his bedroom windows, his mother’s sheer curtains doing little to keep the daylight at bay. The air around him is stale, sweaty, and smells like sex and weed. He scrunches his face, trying to stave off the nausea. 

The knocking gets louder, and that’s when he realizes that it’s not at his bedroom door, but further away. Probably on his mom’s front door. Fuck. He’s going to have to get up and answer it before the neighbors complain. He really doesn’t want to have to deal with his mother when she gets home. 

He throws the thin sheet off of himself, the blast of cool air making him aware of his nakedness. The back of his hand comes in contact with something solid to his left and he opens one eye to see tanned skin covered in various back tattoos under a head of shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. His gaze moves lower to take in the bare ass resting on top of his mother’s 800-thread count sheets, the outline of a handprint barely visible on one cheek. With a disgusted scoff, he pushes himself up to sit at the edge of his bed, the stranger now behind him and out of sight.

He instantly realizes his mistake as his stomach somersaults and he barely has time to notice the empty vodka bottle on his nightstand next to a little bag of white pills before he empties it onto his rug-covered floor.

He’s stumbling naked down the hallway towards the bathroom to stand under the water for the next hour or so when his brain refocuses on the knocking on the door. Now that he’s out of his room, he can hear his phone vibrating incessantly from the pocket of his jeans where they lay on the floor by the couch. He can now also hear a familiar voice yelling through the door to accompany the knocking. 

“TK! I know you’re in there, I tracked your phone,” his dad yells, his knocking turning into an intense pounding. “Open the damn door!”

With a “Calm the fuck down, Dad,” TK stomps towards the door, throwing it open. He can’t help the satisfaction that crawls through him at his dad’s shocked face as he takes him in. TK doesn’t know why he’s so surprised; it’s not like this beats the time his dad accidentally walked in on him having sex with his high school boyfriend a few years ago. 

“Jesus Christ, TK,” his dad huffs, pushing him back into the apartment and slamming the door behind him, obviously trying to maintain some sense of privacy. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

TK doesn’t reply, just stands before him with his eyebrows raised and his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Well? You gonna say something?”

“What are you doing here, Dad?” TK scoffs, rolling his eyes. He immediately regrets it, as the action causes a sharp pain to flare up behind his eyes. Remembering his previous goal of drowning himself in the shower, he turns to walk back down the hallway. “Mom’s out of town, you don’t have to pretend like you give a fuck about me. There’s no one around to impress.”

“Yeah, I know your mom’s out of town, that’s why I’m here,” his dad says, and TK can tell from the consistent volume of his voice that he’s following him towards the bathroom. “You obviously can’t be trusted by yourself for more than a day.”

“Oh, fuck off,” TK yells, rounding on him. “I’m right here, aren’t I? It’s not like I’ve gone missing and you’ve found me dead in an alley or something.”

His dad glares at him for a moment. Then, with a raise of his eyebrow, he points a finger at TK’s face. “You’ve got some vomit on your chin.”

TK feels a blush crawl up his neck, but before he can say anything, his dad turns towards his room, pushing open the door and walking in like he’s been invited to do so.

“Dad, wait!” 

It’s too late. His dad has already stepped inside, taking in the scene. TK cringes as the smell of vomit hits his nostrils. 

“This a new boyfriend of yours?” his dad asks, gesturing to the naked guy still passed out in his bed. TK says nothing, having no desire to share that he has no idea who the guy is, or that he can’t even remember his name. 

His dad circles around the bed, his hand coming up to cover his nose as he spies the puddle of puke on the floor. 

“You’re paying to have that rug cleaned,” he says, turning towards the large bay window and throwing it open. 

“Where do you get off telling me what to do? This isn’t your house anymore, Dad,” TK spits out, but it comes out with less fire than he had hoped. The smell is really strong here, and the room has started to spin again. He starts backing away towards the bathroom, knowing he’s going to need the toilet in just a minute.

“Not a boyfriend then,” his dad says, ignoring his question. He’s made it over to the TK’s side table, where the evidence of his drug-induced evening sits. He watches as his dad grabs the bag of Oxy, waving it around before pocketing it. “Your mother is going to kill you when she finds out you brought your drug dealer into her house.”

“That’s mine, I paid for that,” TK says weakly, his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t want to be here right now, he doesn’t want to be anywhere right now. He wants the room to stop spinning, he wants the stranger in his bed - the one he let touch him in ways that make him suddenly feel incredibly unclean - to disappear, and he wants his dad to stop looking at him like he’s regretting the day he was born.

(But hey, TK thinks, the familiar nasty voice in his head taking center stage, at least you finally got his attention.)

His dad is across the room and standing in front of him by the time he mentally checks back into the present moment. Before TK can say another word, he’s shoving a pair of clean boxers into his hands, a look of intense disappointment on his face.

“Take a shower, son. You stink.”

And with that, he steps out of the room, leaving TK to stare at his vomit-soaked carpet, his unwanted hookup, and every other regret he doesn’t have it in him to name.

------

Someone’s pounding on the wall behind his bed.

He comes to with a gasp, lurching forward in his bed. His breathing is out of control and he claws at his chest, trying to get a grip on his lungs, to squeeze them until they burst. It’s not like they’re working correctly anyway, he thinks as he struggles to breathe through an airway that he swears can’t be any wider than a coffee stirrer, so what’s the point of having them at all.

His t-shirt is sweat-soaked and twisted around him, refusing to allow his chest to fully expand the way he desperately needs it to. He tears away at it, trying to get it off, and a sob climbs up his throat and out of his mouth when it starts to feel hopeless. Finally, after an hour or a day or maybe even a year, it comes off. TK throws it across the room with a yell before he wraps his arms around himself, his fingernails digging into his sides.

He just wants to feel something. 

But that’s not really his problem right now. He’s feeling too much, all at once. It’s a stark contrast from the nightmare that he found himself trapped in moments ago; a nightmare where he felt absolutely nothing. Because he was absolutely nothing. 

Because he was dead. 

The image of his prone body on the floor, unmoving, just a mass of useless limbs and wasted potential, flashes through his mind, unbidden. He chokes out another sob, reaching up to fist his hands in his short hair, his nails scratching at his scalp. He recalls a time in his life when his mother would run her fingers through his hair, grounding him with love-laced scratches. How it would settle him, how it would focus him, how it would remind him that he wasn’t alone.

He’s alone now. She’s not here. It’s just him, and the addict screaming and pounding on the wall in the room next door. 

Her face comes to him, the one she wore the last time she saw him, the lines of graceful aging marred by fear and hurt and hopelessness. All for him. All because of him. All because he couldn’t get his shit together. All because he couldn’t handle his cushy, privileged existence, with his middle-to-upper class accepting parents. 

All because he didn’t want to do it anymore. 

Except, he does. He really fucking does. He’s felt that high of life, the one that he can get without the help of pills. He’s loved before, he’s given his all to love, and sure, it didn’t last, but it was good. It was freeing. It was worth it. 

He wants to find that again. Find the people that make it worth it again. Find his purpose. He knows it’s out there, he knows it’s waiting for him to get his shit together. 

He’s twenty years old and he’s nearly killed himself, but he’s not dead yet. He’s not done yet. 

He’s not fucking done yet.

So, yes, he’s here and he’s alone, with only thin walls and an uncomfortable mattress to call his own. But, if this is what he needs, if this is what is going to help him find out where he goes next, then it’s worth it. It’s all going to be worth it. 

He cries himself back to sleep, back into the darkness, back into the moments that will haunt him for the rest of his life. 

This time, though, as he gives himself over to rest, his lungs expand to fill his entire chest, his airways now clear and fulfilling their purpose, reminding him just how alive he is.

------

Someone’s shouting.

There are a lot of voices, but they all sound muddled and confused. There are hands on him, pressing down hard against his chest, and now that he’s noticed them, he also notices the most intense fucking pain that he’s ever felt in his life, right below his collarbone. It hurts so bad that he wants to scream, he even goes as far as opening his mouth to do so, but he’s not sure if anyone hears him; he’s not even sure he hears himself.

His eyes flutter open when he’s suddenly lifted into the air, the pain spiking to new heights. He sees shadows crawling across his vision, shapes that amount to nothing more than blobs of mass. There are so many of them, and they’re all moving so fast. Too fast for him to really pinpoint. 

“TK!”

Those two letters - the two letters he knows better than any others - swim through the molasses to punch him in the eardrum, and he instinctively looks towards the sound. He finds his father there, his face pinched and sweaty and terrified. It’s a familiar face, one he saw just a few months ago actually, one that he never, ever wanted to see again.

Fuck. Another overdose. 

But even that doesn’t explain the sharp pain in his shoulder. He looks around, trying to figure out his surroundings, trying to make sense of all of this. He’s clean, he knows he is. It’s been hard, but he’s in a better place now. He’s with better people now. He’s truly felt like he’s finding himself, finally, after all of these years.

There’s no way he threw that away. There’s no way.

He forces himself to focus, to figure out what the fuck is going on. He turns to see Captain Blake on his left - well, his left, her right, maybe, he doesn’t know. She’s barking orders, and he follows her arms down to find her hands pressed to his chest. He wants to shout at her, tell her that she doesn’t need to push so hard, that she’s really fucking hurting him, but he can’t speak. Just like his scream before, his voice is trapped inside of him.

He looks up to see Marjan above him, lines of tears running down her face. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away, just lets them fall as her bottom lip trembles. He focuses on it, wants to tell her that it’s going to be okay, wants to reach out and rub her shoulder gently. But, as hard as he tries, he can’t seem to do that either. 

He’s stuck in a world where he can’t do a single damn thing.

Suddenly, the blurry ceiling above him gives way to what looks like a wood-covered porch, which quickly gives way to the night sky. It’s all fuzzy, but he swears he can see stars up there; he never really got to see stars before moving to Austin, save for the inconsistent trips he would take outside of the city. 

He likes seeing the stars. He likes the open vastness of it all. It makes him feel equally too large and too small, which is honestly a really freeing, confusing feeling.

There are blue and red lights painting the trees overhead, and he’s reminded of his childhood room, with his firetruck bed and his color-changing lamp that would soothingly move from red to blue, just the way he liked. It feels so long ago, but he remembers it so clearly. It’s the only clear thing he can see right now.

He can tell he’s fading away again, his short reprieve to the land of the living coming to an end. The voices are still both loud and muted, but he no longer cares what they’re saying. The pain is reaching his maximum capacity, the edges of his vision turning white. 

It’s okay, he thinks. It’s all going to be okay.

He feels his head drift to the right, and he swears he sees a familiar face, proud nose and perfect lips under a head of soft brown curls and soulful eyes that have seen deep into the very heart of him. 

He smiles, perfectly content with Carlos being his final thought before he goes. 

------

Someone’s coughing.

It takes him no time at all to realize that it’s him, that he’s the one hacking up a lung. He feels like his chest is on fire and he can’t take a full breath. There’s heat all around him, flames painting his surroundings an unrecognizable, hazy orange. The bed is gone, the dresser is gone. It’s all vanishing, lost to the fire. 

But that’s not what causes him to panic, that’s not what stops his breath. That’s not what threatens to shatter him completely.

Carlos is among the flames.

They’re crawling up his body, latching on to his blue shirt, the one that TK thinks makes him look completely unreal. Well, truly that’s anything he wears, but blue always makes Carlos look soft. 

It makes him look like home. The greatest one that TK has ever known.

And now, TK watches as his home catches on fire, unable to move, to step forward, to pull Carlos to safety. His boyfriend watches him as the flames rise up between them, his eyes wide and full of fear, his chest heaving from the breaths that he just can’t seem to catch. TK wants to yell out, tell Carlos to come to him, that they can get out of this together if they just hurry, but every time he goes to speak, a cough climbs up his throat, burying the words inside of him. 

He knows he’d be crying if he could, but the flames have stolen his tears from him, too. The flames are going to take everything from him. Everything that matters, packaged inside one wonderful, miraculous, unexpected person.

And before he can even blink, Carlos is gone, swallowed whole, no trace of the man that TK chose to give his entire heart to. He’s gone, and TK desperately wants to follow him. 

There’s a creak above him and he has just enough time to look up before the entire ceiling comes down on top of him, granting him his final wish.

He jerks awake, the coughs relentless as he folds himself in half, trying to remove the smoke and ash from his body. It’s dark in the room now, the fire finally extinguished. Except, no, that’s not right, because as he looks around, he sees that everything is intact. Nothing burnt, nothing broken. 

He reaches out blindly, trying to find Carlos in the dark, but he’s met with only air. He turns, taking in the empty space on the mattress beside him, the untouched pillow.

“No,” he gasps, shaking his head, and finally the tears come, no longer frightened of the untamable heat. “No, Carlos, no,” he sobs, pulling at the sheets, hoping that he can find him hiding somewhere in their depths. He claws at them, desperate, unhinged. 

“TK!”

The voice is salvation, the timbre unmatched in its miraculousness. TK whips around, searching and scanning for the source. He lets out a cry when he finds him, standing in the doorway, dressed in nothing but athletic shorts, a bright white towel pressed to his curls, water still trailing down his bare chest.

Whole, untouched, safe. His home.

And TK just loses it.

In seconds, he’s in Carlos’s arms, his firm hands pressed against his back as his shoulders close around him, encasing him. His lips press to the shell of TK’s ear, his voice pouring into him like lava, filling all of his cavities and crevices left behind by the nightmare that took Carlos away from him.

“I’m right here, baby, I’m right here, it’s okay.”

TK sobs, clinging to him, his voice piercing in the quiet of his dad’s guest room. “You were there and you were surrounded by the fire and I couldn’t get to you, I couldn’t move, and I had to watch you, I just had to watch you go and then you weren’t there anymore, and it was like you were never there at all, but I couldn’t do anything, I just--”

“Hey, hey, Ty, breathe,” Carlos says, drowning out his voice with his own, pressing closer. “It was just a nightmare, we both made it out, we’re both here and we’re both okay. We’re both okay.”

“I… I can’t… I just…” 

“Baby, you’re shaking, you’ve gotta calm down, okay.”

“I don’t… I can’t…”

“Here, lay back down,” Carlos says, loosening his grip a bit. TK shrieks, holding tighter. “It’s okay, trust me. TK, I need you to trust me.”

It takes him a moment, but finally TK lets him go. He closes his eyes, feeling the way Carlos lowers him back down onto the mattress. TK can still feel himself shaking, but before he can really start to panic again, he feels a weight on him, one that presses him firmly down, grounding him, holding him steady, from head-to-toe.

His eyes flutter open to take in Carlos above him where his face is pressed into his neck. He breathes, taking stock of their bodies, the way their hips rest against each other, the way Carlos firm thighs bracket his own. He brings his arms up around him, wrapping them around Carlos’s wide back before dragging one hand to the back of his neck and burying them in the soft curls there. 

It’s a position he’s intimately familiar with, though unlike other times there is nothing remotely sexual about this situation. Carlos turns his head just enough to press his lips under TK’s jaw, dragging his nose along the light stubble there. 

All he feels, all he sees, all he hears, is Carlos.

“Just breathe, baby. I’m right here. I’m all around you. I’ll keep you safe. Just like you kept me safe in the fire, just like you kept me grounded, just like you brought me back down when I felt scared and hurt and lost. I’m here for you now. It’s you and me, keeping each other safe, just you and me.”

He nods, letting Carlos drown him in his own form of a sermon, allowing the words to wash over him like a verse. He lets each syllable piece him back together again, remade in the image of the man he’s deemed worthy of loving him. The only man he will ever trust to do so.

He doesn’t need anything else, doesn’t want anything else. This is all he needs. This is all he will ever need.

Just him and Carlos, like this, forever.

-----

Someone’s snoring.

He comes to slowly, letting the world reintroduce itself to him. He hears music first, though it sounds tinny and, if he’s being honest, kind of grating. He shifts his hips a bit, feeling how the movement pulls against some tension in his lower back. He realizes he’s on a very hard surface and not at all on the very expensive mattress that he and Carlos splurged for a few years ago, when his husband started having his own fair share of lower back problems.

He opens his eyes, watching blue and red lights dance across the ceiling from the TV in the corner. A smile pulls at his lips as he shakes his head slightly, amused for no specific reason. Blue and red, he thinks. He’ll never escape them.

He lifts his head just enough to see the children’s TV show currently playing to an audience of none. He remembers when Carlos, fully offended at Netflix asking if he was still watching the same show after a few hours, finally figured out a way to turn that setting off. TK will have to tease him about not turning off the autoplay function tomorrow morning.

He finally focuses on the snoring off to his right, a sound so familiar that he hadn’t really registered it before, his brain just accepting that it was there. He turns his head, his smile growing as he finds his husband asleep next to him, his head resting on TK’s outstretched (and now very painfully numb) arm. 

Carlos’s face is so soft, so serene, his brows slightly furrowed, his crease between his eyes just a little more pronounced. His lips are parted just barely, allowing his shallow breaths to escape and fill the living room around them. TK stares at him, overwhelmed by his beauty, overwhelmed by the feelings that are spreading throughout his chest at the sight of the man before him. 

Even in sleep, Carlos is mesmerizing.

TK glances down, his heart leaping at the sight of their little boy asleep between them, his face buried in Carlos’s shirt, his light brown curls resting against the pillow beneath him. Carlos has an arm draped over him, his fingers grazing TK’s arm. 

A memory flashes in his mind, one from when he was much younger, of his parents surrounding him in much the same way as they all lay together on his firetruck bed. He remembers how safe he felt between them; how between their bodies, he knew he could never be hurt.

He’s surprised to find that he feels that way even now, even as a father himself. He knows it’s because of the man before him; Carlos’s presence has always meant safety to him. He doesn’t see that ever stopping. He wouldn’t ever want it to.

He scoots just a little bit closer, groaning slightly at the numbness in his arm. He holds his breath as his husband shifts, his eyelids fluttering open. Brown eyes meet green, and TK feels the entire world shift into focus in that single moment.

“Hey,” Carlos whispers, dragging his fingers gently along TK’s side.

“We fell asleep on the living room floor,” TK whispers, scrunching his face as he shifts again, feeling the strain on his hips.

“Actually, you fell asleep on the floor, in the middle of Paw Patrol,” Carlos corrects, his hand leaving TK’s side to boop his nose. “We just decided that we would rather stay with you than sleep in our incredibly comfy beds.”

“Your back is going to kill you in the morning, you know that, right?”

“I could say the same thing about your hips,” Carlos replies, raising an eyebrow. TK says nothing, just nods his head and rolls his eyes. 

“Grace is taking him tomorrow night, so we can run a bath, work out each other's kinks.”

“The fact that you are saying that and it’s not about sex makes me feel so incredibly old.”

“I never said it couldn’t be about sex.”

TK feels his jaw drop, watching as Carlos’s eyes twinkle in the blue light from the TV. He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to his husband’s lips. 

“I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Strand-Reyes.”

“I’d be offended if you weren’t, Mr. Strand-Reyes.”

TK drags the tip of his nose along the ridge of Carlos’s before letting out a sigh. “Now that we’re awake, should we move to our beds, save ourselves from total regret and bodily mutilation?”

Carlos hums, looking down at the bundle of limbs between them. “It’s up to you. I just want to sleep next to you, wherever you are.”

TK takes him in for a moment, the way his long lashes brush against his cheeks, the peaceful smile that pulls at his lips as he looks down at their son. It’s a stunning image, powerful in its perfection.

“No, I think we can handle one night,” he says, scooting closer. He does remove his arm from under Carlos’s head, replacing it with the throw pillow laying on the ground next to them. “Besides, I think this is exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

Carlos hums in agreement, wiggling a little closer and smacking his lips softly as he drifts off to sleep.

TK stays awake until Carlos’s soft snores drown out all possible distractions, the feeling of absolute love and certainty filling him with a heaviness that drags him back into the darkness of sleep, all nightmares kept at bay for now.