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the-trash-site · 22 days ago

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The Crimson Pact | Part 1

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, soulbonding without full consent, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, mild stalking, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, non-graphic threats of harm from a third party (Gwi Ma).

Author's notes: Hey guys! My first fic on Tumblr. I've been deep in a hole for Saja boys x Reader fics and have been inspired by all the ones currently out. Thought I'd give it a go and make my own. This is also just me purely projecting my fantasies (lol). But will post more on this story and will make more parts!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

A Sudden Encounter

You’re just… tired.

You work long shifts at a cramped little gallery café in Hongdae. Your boss forgets to pay you on time. Rent’s due. Your roommate’s a ghost (figuratively). Your family doesn’t call.

It’s not tragic. Just quietly heavy. Most days are filled with the same mundane routine. The stress of adulting weighs in on you most nights making you feel more fatigued than you should.

Your art is the only thing that feels like yours—until it doesn’t. Lately, even your sketches look like someone else’s memories. The past few weeks of downtime have been spent sketching images you vaguely recognize from dreams you forgot you even had.

You walk through life like it’s background noise.

Then, one afternoon, on the way to grab milk and instant ramen…you hear music on the street.

Lugging your grocery trolley (because god knows you don’t have the strength to carry a week’s worth of grocery bags on your arms), you spot that a crowd has gathered in the plaza. The atmosphere buzzes with excitement. People are pushing each other to get a view of whatever it was that was making the crowd go nuts.

Curiosity gets the best of you, and next thing you know you’re walking towards the center of the square. Grocery trolley rolling behind you. Someone steps on it, warranting a quick “Sorry” and they scurry to the front. You turn your head forward to see whatever it was they desperately wanted to see.

You stop.

Up on a raised platform, five boys move like a single body—synchronized, supernatural, magnetic. Their colorful outfits shimmer under the lights, a kaleidoscope of sugar-rush perfection. The crowd is screaming, but all you hear is the song—“Soda Pop”—sickeningly sweet and pulsing like thunder in your chest.

You don’t recognize them.

Were they new? A secret debut? A niche group you missed?

And then you see them.

The Saja Boys. Five gorgeous faces, carved out of dreams and danger, singing like they already know you.

Your heart stutters.

Front and center is the one with the jet-black hair and fire behind his smile. His eyes sweep the crowd like he owns it—until they lock on you. And then it’s like the world tips sideways.

You can’t breathe.

Something ancient uncoils in your ribcage—a thread pulling taut, like it’s found its anchor.

The stage beneath them morphs—no, rises—into a giant soda can, and the absurdity nearly makes you laugh, but the pressure in your chest is louder.

The song ends. The crowd erupts. They strike their final poses like gods frozen mid-conquest. And still—he’s looking at you. Right at you.

He lifts a hand, brushes off his shoulder like he’s dusting you into place. “That’s it for now,” he says to the crowd.

His speaking voice slides down your spine like silk dipped in fire. Familiar. Impossible.

“See you tonight on everyone’s favorite variety show…” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Saja Boys love you!”

You don’t know how you’re still standing. The other members turn too—one by one, their expressions shifting. Eyes no longer playful. They’re looking at you like they remember something you haven’t yet.

And then—pink smoke.

They vanish.

You’re left in a sea of people, lungs hollow, skin prickling like it’s just been marked.

You don’t know who they are. You don’t know what just happened. But your hands are shaking on the trolley handle. And you’re sprinting home like something inside you just woke up and started screaming.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

They apparated back into the apartment in a burst of cold smoke.

Jinu collapsed first.

Not into a chair. Not onto the couch. He sank straight to the floor.

Hands tangled in his hair, breath shallow. Like the air couldn’t reach deep enough. Like he’d been holding it for centuries. His voice cracked like something ancient being unearthed.

“It’s her.”

Romance was already pacing the length of the living room, long strides restless, fingers tugging at his shirt collar like it was choking him. “I—I thought I was hallucinating,” he muttered. “Some kind of cruel glamour. A mirage. But the bond—” His voice shook. “The bond snapped tight.”

Abby dropped into the couch, the cushions barely softening the weight of his frame. His knuckles were white, gripping his thighs. “I felt her heartbeat.” He looked up, dazed. Wild. “During the bridge—our hearts matched. I know it was her.”

Mystery hadn’t moved. He stood near the window, face shadowed, fists clenched so tight his nails carved into skin. His lips were moving in a near-silent whisper—over and over like a broken prayer.

“She’s scared… she doesn’t remember… but she felt it. She felt it.”

Baby sat furthest from them all, on the floor beside the armchair. Blood dripped from his palm—he didn’t seem to notice. Eyes wide. Hollow. Haunted.

Like seeing you broke the silence inside him. Like he’d finally found the ghost that’d been crawling under his skin for lifetimes.

No one breathed. The room felt cracked. Like a single touch would shatter it.

Abby ran a hand down his face. “What do we do?” He was still staring at his hands. Still disbelieving. “Is this a trick? Is Gwi Ma playing with us again? Using her face to haunt us?”

Jinu looked up slowly, lashes damp, lips pale. He bit the nail of his thumb, the taste of anxiety sharp on his tongue.

“We wait,” he said softly. “We plan.”

Romance scoffed, but there was no humor in it. He was trembling as he smiled.

“We charm.”

Mystery let out a low snarl. “We go to her. She’s alone. She’s hurting. I can feel her.”

And then—finally—Baby spoke. Just one line.

Quiet. Final. Unshakable.

“We take her back.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You curl up on your couch with a microwaved dinner, phone propped up on a cushion. You don’t normally watch idol shows. But…

You press play.

They’re charming. Playful. Competitive. Too beautiful. Too perfect. You watch them struggle with the hot sauce challenge, lips curling upwards at some of the boys’ faces.

Your chest aches.

You don’t know them. But you can’t look away.

When they joke, you laugh. When they flirt with the camera, your stomach flips. When Baby stares dead into the lens, you freeze.

You watch as Baby wins the spicy challenge, somehow a part of you knew he would. You couldn’t explain why. You watch as Huntrix makes a surprise appearance. You weren’t a crazed fanatic or anything, but you did enjoy their music. When they bowed at each other, a part of your chest ached. You don’t know why, but something didn’t sit well with you seeing the boys interact with the girl group. Why? You had no claim over them. You felt like you were going crazy.

You don’t sleep that night.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Later that night, after filming wraps…

The Saja Boys find themselves ambushed by Huntrix—Rumi, Zoey, and Mira—demon-hunting girls who are too fast, too smart, and too close to the truth.

The boys run, Jinu being caught into a fight with Rumi which leads to him finding out her secret. A Hunter who’s part demon. He gives it some thought as he walks out of the bath house. Then, his thoughts shift to you.

Did you watch the show tonight? What were you doing right now? Did you remember him at all?

Then suddenly he’s pulled into Gwi Ma’s chamber.

Smoke. Fire. Screams locked in stone. The demons are cheering for the boys, now in their demon forms. Gwi Ma sings the chorus of Soda Pop.

“It’s catchy”

He brings up Rumi- the hunter who bears his mark. He tells Jinu he has no control over her. Jinu remains curious, telling him that he can find out her shame and use it against her to bring the Hunters down.

Then, Gwi Ma’s flames rise. The tension in the air thickens as the four other boys on the ground below are brought to stand next to Jinu before the Demon King.

“However, I sense that you’ve lost your focus,” the Demon king hisses. His flames grow —and conjures a mirage image of you, asleep in bed, cheek pressed to your pillow. The boys tense at the sight of you.

Their anger rises. They don’t like that you’re being presented to them like this- in front of all demons to see. Of course- everyone else in the Demon realm had an inkling- an idea of what you were to the five. It was unspoken, a rumor that spread throughout the years - that they had tied their ancient souls to a human hundreds of years ago. But no details of that pact had been known. And now, the boys were livid as every demon knew your face.

Abby grit his teeth, immediately standing and stepping forward. He didn’t want any other demons seeing you, gazing at what was his. “Don’t-!”

Jinu grabbed his shoulder back, willing his friend to calm down, even though he was struggling to contain his own anger.

“That girl... is she going to be a problem? A… distraction?” His voice was teasing. A sickeningly playful tone meant to mock them.

The boys bristle, their jaws clenched as they see the demon king’s image of you. You- who was so precious to them. Jinu steps forward, eyes hard. “She is ours. You made it so. The pact cannot be undone.”

Gwi Ma’s image of you faded and the boys all visibly relaxed, though still tense.

Gwi Ma spoke once again, voice teasing. “You remember, don’t you, Jinu? How you came crawling to me, weeping like a child the moment she died in your arms.”

Jinu’s eyes widened, haunted at the memory.

Gwi Ma continued. “You begged me to bring her back. But I gave you something better.

A deal.

Bind four others to her soul. Trap their power. Anchor her across lifetimes—and I’d let her return.

And you did it.

You found them. Broken little things. Monsters like you. You forced the bond. You made her the center of your madness.

You cursed her to be wanted. Needed. Torn apart by obsession.

All for what?

To share her?

To watch her slip through your fingers again and again?”

The boys visibly grew more tense with every word he uttered. Romance grit his teeth, and Baby’s nails dug so deep into his palms they began to bleed again. They were monsters who desperately clung to the only light they had. Demons who tainted the purest thing they had ever laid eyes on. The guilt. The shame. All weigh heavy on their hearts, but not as heavy as their deep desire for you.

Gwi Ma continued. “No matter how close she gets… she’ll never truly be yours.

But if you succeed—if you finish what I told you to—maybe I’ll give her to you.

All of you.

For good.”

Their heads snapped up at that. Disbelief and false hope gleaming in their yellow demon eyes.

Gwi Ma’s flames shift to a smile as he saw their non-subtle desperation. “Then here’s my offer.”

“Succeed. Harvest the souls before the Honmoon seals, bring down the hunters. Do your job. And I’ll let her live.”

“Fail… and I rip her from the cycle. She’ll never be reborn again.”

The boys snap their heads up. Shock, desperation, and fury ablaze on their faces. He wouldn’t dare. The boys don’t speak. But silent thoughts race through their heads. They wouldn’t have to wait centuries for you? All the endless years of loneliness and suffering… if they succeeded, they’d be gone. And you would be theirs. Fully. No more dying, no more waiting. Theirs, for all eternity.

The offer was weighing heavy in their minds. But it wasn’t even a question. How far would they go to have you? The answer was that there were no limits. No lines they wouldn’t cross. No world they wouldn’t burn to keep you.

They just kneel, a silent agreement.

They’ve waited centuries. They can wait a little longer.

But this time, they won’t just protect you.

They’ll possess you.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The boys apparated back to their apartment in silence.

No music. No lights. Just the faint, cold glow of Seoul’s skyline spilling through the penthouse glass like a wound that never closed.

They didn’t speak. They couldn’t. The memory of Gwi Ma’s offer still echoed like ash in their throats. The price was steep, yes—but the reward?

You. Untouched by his claws. Unwatched. Unmanipulated. Free.

If they could ensure your soul was yours—and theirs—forever… they would pay that price a thousand times over. So they agreed. Without hesitation. Without question. Now they sat in the dark, five demons and the shape of a girl in their hearts.

It was Abby who cracked first. “She looked cold,” he muttered.

His elbows rested on his knees, large hands clenched together so tightly the skin over his knuckles had gone pale. He wasn’t looking at the others. Just the floor. Somewhere past it. Somewhere where you had been.

“She looked cold in that vision. Like she hadn’t been held in years.” He swallowed thickly. “I’d keep her warm. She’d never feel cold again. Not even for a second.” His voice broke near the end.

“She should’ve been with us.” Romance was standing by the tall windows, framed in moonlight, arms crossed tight like he was holding his chest together. “She doesn’t even remember us,” he said softly. “We’re strangers again.”

He tried to sound nonchalant—but his voice cracked on ‘again’.

Baby didn’t move from the couch. His legs were crossed, jaw tight, nails digging crescent moons into his thigh. “Then we make her remember.” He looked up. Eyes black.

“Tie her down if we have to.”

No one told him to take it back. Because all of them had thought it.

From the corner, curled on a throw blanket like a resting animal, Mystery breathed out a long, aching sigh. He was clutching something close to his chest. Your scarf. One from a lifetime ago. The threadbare edges frayed, carrying a scent only he still recognized. He’d stolen it then, kept it hidden through each century. He never let it burn.

“She cried last night,” he whispered. The room went still. “I felt it.”

They turned.

“She misses us,” he said. His voice was too soft for the size of his pain. “Even if she doesn’t know why. Even if her brain doesn’t remember—her soul does. She sees us in dreams. She reaches out.”

No one doubted him. Mystery had always been the tether. The first to feel you across lives. The first to know. He curled tighter around the scarf like it could bring you back. “She reaches,” he whispered. “But we’re not there.”

Silence again.

Then Jinu stood. The weight of four centuries in every breath he took. He moved like a monarch of grief—shoulders squared, spine straight, eyes dark and steady.

“We need a plan,” he said. The words dropped like stone. “No chaos. No claiming. Not yet.” His gaze passed over each of them, firm.

“We woo her. Win her. Make her feel safe.”

Abby let out a bitter snarl. “I don’t want to pretend. I want to take her.”

Jinu’s jaw tensed.

“So do I,” he said. “But not if it means she runs. Not if she thinks we’re monsters.”

“Are we not?” Baby asked coldly. But it wasn’t really a challenge. It was despair.

“We’re hers,” Jinu replied. “That’s all that matters.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was thick with agreement. Each boy looked down. And one by one, they nodded. For now, they’d wait. But not forever.

You would remember.

You would come back.

And when you did— You’d never be allowed to leave again.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You didn’t know why you were out this late.

You told yourself it was for a snack. The cold night air. The glow of convenience store signs. But the truth was burrowed beneath your ribs—tight, restless, and waiting. Something inside you itched, tugged. Like an invisible string pulling you down familiar streets.

You turned the corner and froze.

“Y/N?”

A voice. Soft, velvety, soaked in a sadness you didn’t understand. You looked up.

Jinu.

Standing beneath a flickering streetlight like a secret carved out of the night. Hoodie loose over his frame. Hair tousled, moonlight catching in the strands. His eyes locked with yours.

Your breath caught.

He took a step forward, hands raised slightly—like approaching a wounded animal. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said gently. “I just… recognized you.”

Recognized? Your heart began to pound. Hard. “How do you know my name?” you asked.

Jinu smiled. But it wasn’t cocky or flirty. It was aching. “Because it’s the only name that ever mattered to me.”

And that’s when it happened. A flicker behind your eyes. No—it wasn’t a flicker.

It was a memory. A feeling. A lifetime cracking through your skull like thunder.

You saw him.

Not here. Not in this hoodie, not on this street. But in crimson silk beneath a palace moon. A hanbok embroidered in gold, eyes lined with kohl. He reached for you across a garden of foxglove. Your name spilled from his lips like scripture.

And then—

“Y/N.”

Another voice. Close. Too close. Romance stepped beside you, holding a book. One from your wishlist. The exact one you’d looked at two days ago online and never bought.

You took it in trembling hands. His voice dropped to a murmur. “Because I’ve been whispering it for hundreds of years.”

The world spun.

Another vision. His fingers on yours. A past version of you, crying. Him kissing your knuckles in the candlelight.

“Because I’ve never stopped saying it,” Abby said now, appearing at your side, holding— Your scarf. The one that went missing days ago. “Even when you weren’t alive to hear it.”

FLASH. There was blood on his hands. A blade meant for you. Abby standing between it and your body, screaming your name.

Your knees went weak. You staggered. The breath in your lungs turned jagged.

A gentle touch. Behind you.

Mystery. Quiet. Wide-eyed. Fingertips brushing the sleeve of your coat like he was afraid you’d dissolve.

“I’ve known your name longer than you have,” he whispered.

You blinked—

And you were in the mountains. Your hands small. Younger. A fox curled against your legs. You were humming. He was warm. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

Across the street— Baby. Still. Watching. Eyes black as obsidian. And then—

The fire.

A palace burning. Bodies. You, screaming. Baby dragging corpses away with one hand while shielding you with the other.

You gasped. Your vision blurred. Your hands shook. You didn’t know if you were crying. But you felt like you were breaking.

Romance reached out, arm around your shoulders, steadying your frame.

“She’s remembering,” Mystery said, voice trembling. “She’s starting to remember.”

You didn’t hear them clearly. Your ears rang. Your body pulsed like a struck bell. Romance’s forehead pressed to yours, voice like velvet and ashes. “We missed you,” he breathed. “So much it drove us mad.”

Abby was pacing now, unable to stay still. His eyes burned. “You smell like home,” he choked. “I forgot what that felt like.”

Baby hadn’t moved, but he looked like he might lunge. His fists were clenched. His shoulders tight. His jaw locked.

His eyes were nothing but shadow.

He wanted you.

Jinu stepped forward, palm raised like a commandment. “Stop,” he said. Sharp. Firm. “She’s scared.”

He was right. You were. Tears blurred your eyes. The world spun again. “Who… who are you?” you asked, barely a whisper. “What do you want from me?”

Abby took one step. “We’re yours,” he said, voice low.

Jinu caught his arm. “Abby—”

“You were ours,” Romance added, lips brushing your temple. “You will be again.”

“No—no, this isn’t real—this can’t be—” You backed up. “You’re crazy.”

You looked into their eyes for the first time. And your blood ran cold.

Not human.

They were glowing. Amber. Topaz. Garnet. Glasses of gold and rage and want.

You didn’t think—you ran. Your footsteps slammed into the alleyway pavement. Breath heaving. Vision swimming. You ran like your soul was on fire.

And behind you— They didn’t follow.

They stood, the five of them, like statues in mourning. Longing. Rage. Grief. Hunger.

Mystery whimpered once.

Baby’s fists dripped blood from his own grip.

“We scared her,” Jinu muttered, teeth grit. Shame painting his face. “We were supposed to make her feel safe.” His voice was raw.

“She looked at us like we were monsters.” Abby slammed a fist into the wall. “She didn’t even recognize me.”

Romance still watched the alley’s end where your shadow had vanished. His lips curled into something bittersweet. “Not yet,” he said. “But she will.”

The other boys turned. He smiled wider. Devastating. Determined. “Now?”

His voice dropped.

“We seduce her.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You don’t remember getting home. One moment you were running. The next, your apartment door slammed shut behind you. You locked it. Bolted it. Double-checked it.

Then you fell.

Not gracefully—like a collapse, like a marionette whose strings had been severed. You’re curled on the floor now, your fingers tangled in the hem of your clothes, your back pressed to the side of the bed. Shaking. Silent. Your chest is heaving, but the air doesn’t reach your lungs. You’re not crying because you’re sad.

You’re crying because you’re losing your mind. Every time you close your eyes… they’re there.

Jinu in royal silk, kneeling in the blood-soaked courtyard of a Joseon palace—his eyes hollow, your lifeless hand in his lap.

Romance cradling your head by a lake turned black from poison—screaming into your mouth like he could breathe life back into you.

Abby roaring over a field of corpses—his armor cracked, clutching you as smoke swallowed the sky.

Mystery baring his fangs at priests dragging you away—his form shifting between beast and boy, voice howling your name like a prayer.

And Baby—oh god.

Baby in a burning chamber, crawling toward your corpse through ash. His smile was carved wrong, twitching, shattered—his arms cradling your body like a doll as fire devoured the world around him.

You cover your ears. You curl tighter. Your bones ache. “These aren’t mine,” you whisper. “They aren’t mine—”

But they feel like they are.

The grief. The rage. The longing. The love. Too much love. It presses against your ribs like a dam waiting to crack. And deep—deep—within your chest… something stirs. Something ancient. Something hungry.

You drag yourself under the blankets. Trembling. Numb. You don’t sleep. Sleep claims you.

And you never hear the figures outside your window. Five of them. Silent on the balcony.

Jinu’s hand is on the glass, forehead pressed lightly to the cold. His eyes are shut, breath fogging the surface. He had to see you. Just once more. Even if it killed him.

Romance stands beside him, one hand in his coat pocket, the other pressed to his lips like he might say something—but doesn’t. He just watches. Unblinking.

Abby paces behind them, boots scuffing against concrete. Every noise inside your room makes his head whip toward the door. He wants to kick it down. Drag you into his arms. Keep you warm. Keep you close.

Mystery is curled beside the potted plants. His ears twitch. His claws dig into the concrete. He hears your breathing. He knows when your sleep shifts. He knows you’re dreaming.

And Baby— Baby stands furthest from the glass. He doesn't move.Just stares at your sleeping form through the sheer curtain. His eyes are too wide. His hands are in his pockets, but the blood dripping from them gives him away. He clenches his jaw. He had wanted to go after you. To hold you. To punish anyone who scared you. But Jinu made them promise.

No chaos. Not yet. They all told themselves they were here to make sure you got home safe. But deep down, none of them believed that. They were here because they needed to see you one last time. Because you were in their veins now.

Because the bond was waking.

And soon—you’d be theirs again.

───────── ༺🜃༻ ───────── Author's note: Let me know if you guys enjoyed this? I plan to expand more into the backstories as their relationship develops. I've got characterizations up just for a teaser that I might post tonight. :) With love,Willa x.

#saja boys x reader #saja boys #kpop demon hunters #kpdh x reader #jinu x reader #abby x reader #mystery x reader #romance x reader #baby x reader #yandere #yandere saja boys #kpdh #jinu kpdh #kpdh x you #fic #The Crimson Pact

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the-trash-site · 24 days ago

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the winner takes it all... | date everything x gn!reader

pairing: various x gn!reader

summary: the house became quieter, and the little life you held within you dulled as they moved on with their lives. leaving you to tend your own feelings.

warnings: realized!characters, game ending spoilers, semi-angst, brief mention of abandonment and attachment issues, suggestive comments, friends/lovers not specified, house-poly. grammatical errors, english is not my first language.

a/n: i've read a lot of misunderstandings regarding the game's ending. saying how all of the characters used and left us in the end. i intend to clear that misunderstanding. enjoy!

“Are you sure you'll be okay?”

Spring.

Skylar questions, but in truth, she was uncertain in her Realized form. You have done your job realizing all of your household objects, your bulletin board was filled with their pictures, leaving hers as the last piece of your collage of love.

They have already gone their ways and parted, leaving the house to inspire others in the way you've inspired them in more ways than one. Now, it was her turn to do the same.

“Of course. The house might be less lively but I'll manage.”

The woman who was once your spectacles gazes her eyes to your own, the very part she was allured by you. Your eyes. The very same ones that look at the deepest part of them that were nothing but kind, friendly, and loving.

It was you who gave them purpose, gave them hope and you were also the one who listened, trusted and felt them the most. Your eyes were the ones that made everything for them possible.

“I'm sure you'll make the world a better place, Skylar.”

The world is already a better place because of you.

And to her, your eyes weren't easy to forget.

Parting with Skylar left a sinking feeling within your chest, and you almost felt lost. But the thought of your once household objects became someone they wanted to be left an even deeper feeling, warmth and adoration. You couldn’t thank them enough for keeping up with you all these years.

They were your family, some friends, some lovers, yet you love them all the same. You watched them strive in their own ways and you would always be the first person to know about it. Even if it's through calls, letters, messages or whatnot.

Summer.

Nevertheless, the house feels undeniably empty. There's no one to greet you with their silly yet wholesome antics to catch your attention or come to spend time with you now. Even during the midst of summer. Every corner felt wider, and every object was surprisingly quiet that you can hear a pin drop.

You miss them.

You were uncertain if it's from the feeling that you needed to feel wanted by others in order to function properly, or you just discovered you have the underlying fear of abandonment. Attachment issues could possibly be one of the cards on the table.

You just missed the house being lively. Just like the old days.

However, just as those days passed by in the blink of an eye, your thoughts couldn't help but wander. Wondering what would happen if you decided to keep them as your objects and unintentionally caging them in this birdcage.

Would they still feel content to live with you? Or would they feel entrapped to spend every waking breath with you? Would they deem you as a selfish person if you did? Would they hate you…?

You suddenly felt guilty for thinking that way and shame flooded the pits of your stomach. It was such a selfish thought to think of. It was obvious that they would hate you.

But you loved them too much to keep them. You just couldn't be selfish, not when they have their own dreams to achieve and more emotions to feel on their own accord. You were aware that their emotions and knowledge have its limits, you knew because they served most of their lives as your objects and they were unable to experience the world outside.

You wanted them to experience the real thing. The one thing you couldn't take them away from. Even if it meant you couldn't go out on your own.

In the end, you kept those feelings to yourself.

You got your job back from its limbo state and became the vice president of the human experience in Valdivian. The degree of customer service that you fought and studied so hard for, served its purpose. After a couple of months in the company, you started to advocate for human employment against the technology after almost being replaced by one. AI.

You strived on your own with the passion of your found-family fueling your veins with the world continuing on alongside you.

Leaving your house wasn't easy, but you did it anyway. You've gone to work and spent some of your time in meetings, or at your cubicle. Maybe you can send a request to work from home, that would be a good idea. Just because you have tasted what it's like to meet a lot of people outside the comforts of your home, doesn't mean your social anxiety dissipates that easily.

It became a little cycle of work, especially Tom, your recent manager, would come by your office. Grabbing some coffee, or handing you papers, he even has the confidence to flirt with you during work hours. Although, you brush it off and be professional about his advances. You became on friendly terms with the muscular hunk despite his flirting.

You pressed on with this new aspect of your life, challenging yourself and seeing how far you've reached.

Autumn.

Despite acknowledging the changes for the better, your work and your role in Valdivian has never been an easier job. Similar to the season that brings the coldness to light. Every time you thought that your work would become so easy, it didn't. At least not yet. It was only a hurdle after another.

Finishing documents kept you awake, important calls left you on the brink of starvation, and meetings exhausted you to no end. You were efficient in your work since you love helping others but it seems to drain you mentally for the past few weeks. It won't stop that easily, nor stop any time soon.

And one individual noticed. Mac.

They applied for a job that matched their technological skills for income to support both of you, even though you’ve made it clear that you don't need the money. The company accepted their application and both you and Mac were ecstatic to hear the news when they hired them as an analyst in the crypto-currency industry.

It was all because of your support. They even gawked at your efforts when you decided to expand the office closet for Mac to work in. It was a perfect working space for their wheelchair and the privacy they need, the shadows and the darkness altogether. You just moved the remnants from that lonely place to other available closets. You knew Dorian would be proud.

All was well, Mac thought. You even installed a stair lift for them and they have never felt more seen. Both of you enjoyed your meals together while you both took turns, though it was you who cooked often. Sleeping in the same bed and waking up in each other’s arms. And even taking a bath or a shower together.

However, despite your efforts, Mac noticed that you were being swept by work everyday. They admit their work can be time-consuming and busy as they type in codes or whatnot. But you were even busier than them. To the point you skipped your meals.

“Oh, I'll have to take this call real quick. It might be about the presentation tomorrow. Be right back.”

“Sorry, Mac. I have to run. There's another deadline that came up. Do you want anything that I could get you from the store?”

And then another, then another. Repeat.

You've been burying yourself with work in the past few weeks, deadlines, meetings, emergency calls and whatsoever. It was like a rabbit hole for you to sink through. You go to work every morning with your eyes hollow from the lack of sleep and come back home even more exhausted.

You already missed a reasonable amount of calls from the others who were still updating you even in the tiniest bit. Unread letters, packages that were left unopened, both filling your mailbox entirely. And someone could swim in them any time.

All of them, including Mac, knew that you love helping others until it would reach to a point that you become someone to please others. And also deep down, they knew you missed being wanted, being with all of them. Now, it explains why you were so engrossed at your work.

That's also why Mac immediately contacted their office buddies.

It was another one of those evenings where you got off from work. But this specific night was different and Mac made sure for it to be. They contacted the others, mainly the office residents, to have a fun game night. Of course, Chance and Parker were the experts so they were willing to come.

Jerry and Penelope also came. As for Dasha, they weren't entirely sure due to her busy schedule but she says she'll come straight away after work. All of the food preparations are done, pre-ordered obviously but what can they say? All of them probably can't cook.

“Are the games ready? We have to make this as efficient as possible.” The curly-haired female demanded in a frantic voice. She clearly wants this to be a success. Just for you.

Jerry sweat-dropped. “You've already asked us that a couple of times now.” He couldn't always keep up with Penelope's intensity as she eyed the office desk filled with items of what could be G&G instead of your computer.

Meanwhile, on the other side of your office were Chance and Parker, both in their usual banter. Parker kept being persistent in what games to play, and Chance almost had enough of it.

“We should play… this! Or this? They sure would like… this!”

“Dude. We already agreed on what to play.” Chance sighs. “We’ll resort to your games after we're done with the oneshot.”

“Alright, fine!” The latter groans.

“Hey, I think they're here!” Mac chimed in when all of them fell silent when they heard the front door open. Parker, as enthusiastic as he is, immediately rushed out of the office followed by everyone.

But what they didn't expect was a loud gasp from the game-board addict as they were greeted by a shocking sight. You came home dishevelled and were barely unconscious in the arms of a muscular and dark-skinned hunk, wearing what could be a Valdivian I.D.

The unknown individual was rather surprised to see them, yet unfazed by their shocked expressions.

“Hey, there! I didn't expect anyone in their house at this hour!”

“Who are you, himbo?!” Parker was quick to exclaim.

Penelope wasn't having it either. “A better question… What are you doing with them, huh?”

“I'm Tom! [name]’s recent manager! Nice to meetcha’!” The recent manager seems clueless at the protective gaze being sent his way. He doesn't seem bothered by it. “I take it you guys are…?”

“We're their family.” Mac slightly narrowed their eyes at the man. Guarded by any means necessary while your coworker was still holding you.

When they were objects, they wouldn't be as jealous easily whenever you interact with the other objects around the house. Some already have flings with each other and some treat you as their third or whatever.

But it truly bothered them to see you with another, especially outside the house, to be intimate with. Even though it wasn't your intention to be. Tom looked like he was, though, his hand gripping your waist to steady you with your arm around his neck.

“What happened to them exactly?” Jerry timidly asks.

“Oh, this little champ right here? They took the whole team out for drinks since their first proposal was a success.” Tom shrugged and they were a bit surprised at how far you've already come with your efforts. Despite losing a small bit of yourself.

“I've come to take them home because they're wasted. Should I bring them upstairs or…?”

Chance shook his head. “That's alright. I'll take them.”

Tom handed you in Chance's arms with no question. A few gibberish noise left you when Chance lifted you by the back of your knees and back. You're exhausted and slurred. Your coworker eventually left with the reassurance that you can come to work late for 15 minutes tomorrow.

Chance carried you to bed with the help of others. Cue, Parker's distraught mumbling of you being a ‘cheater’ while poor Jerry was trying to ease both Parker and Penelope's paranoia. This was supposed to be a fun night to let some exhaustion off, but it seems Mac miscalculated.

They played a few board games when Dasha arrived and parted again for the night for work tomorrow.

But it was evident that one certain thing was bothering you.

Winter.

It's been months since autumn, and that particular day. Waking up by Mac's side in the bed and hungover to the bone. They really helped you from your internal loneliness or selfishness and motivated you to enjoy the things you love.

Whether it would be during your hardships or not, they really helped you a lot. You seem quite content with yourself now. Even work felt lighter during these past few months despite constantly following your routine.

As if the storm passed, a storm one of many.

Work hours already ended, and you were amongst the people who walked along the sidewalk to home. Snow piled against every crevice in the city as cars carefully drove by you to seek warmth of their homes.

Evenings were always cold whenever you walked home, hugging your coat and suitcase close to you. Yearning for warmth to cover your shivering neck.

You couldn't help but wonder. You always feel uncannily safe during winter while walking. It didn't just happen once. There’s always someone walking along with you, an unnoticed presence trailing your every move.

That's when you halted your feet midway and pondered for a bit.

“Jon?” You didn't move nor turn around as you heard footsteps of a stealthy individual right behind you. As if they stepped from the shadows.

“I'm not surprised when you know it's me.”

You softly snickered. “You're once my candelabra and it takes a dedicated homeowner to know the objects around the house.”

His voice paused for a moment. “Good point.”

You shook your head with a light atmosphere between you and continued your walk home. But this time, you were accompanied by the mysterious man behind you. Following you in the shadows and you don't dare to look behind you. The tension is both unwavering.

“So you've been following me around, huh?” You stared ahead, hearing the soles of your feet crunch the snow below. It was cold for a quite while, until your shoulders were enveloped by a warm fabric. A scarf. A red scarf gifted by Jon Wick himself.

“I was just passing by. To see how you're doing.” His voice drew close when he tucked the scarf around your neck, and you heard him step back again.

“That's… sweet.” A smile stretched your lips. “I had my ups and downs with my work if that's not obvious. I take it you're doing well with yours?”

There was a sigh. “If you're going to suggest that I adopt a dog again, you know my response never changes.”

“Oh, come on… You never know for sure whether you like them or not!” You let out a snort, imagining him facepalm behind you.

“[name]...” Jon's voice trailed off in exasperation and you took it as a sign to stop.

“Alright, I don't want to pressure you.” You backed off but your next words caused him to let out a sigh. “I'll just have to try next time.”

Silence, and then… “Fine. Maybe I'll consider it."

That was enough. You cheered to yourself when the man finally gave in through your persuasion. Meanwhile, Jon Wick could only roll his eyes as he kept watch on your back at a safe distance.

Eventually, you both arrived at the bottom porch of your house. A sigh of relief escapes you, and you express your gratitude at the man who you still didn't lay your eyes on to satisfy his secrecy. You walked up to the stairs of your porch but halted when an idea came to mind.

“Would you like to come in?” It was an innocent invitation to have him as a guest, but he didn't take it lightly and snickers under his breath.

“As tempting as it is to release some steam with you…” Cue a flush of red growing from the skin of your neck when you realized. “But I'm sure there's a better surprise waiting for you inside. You might want to take a look.”

“Huh..?” Confused, you turned around to face him for an answer but he was gone. There were no traces of his presence anywhere on the front lawn, as if no one stood in it other than you.

You think back to the words he said and glanced at your front door, as your heartbeat suddenly drummed in anticipation. It somehow felt odd to watch the lights inside gleam, it was tempting you with a welcoming presence.

Your keys jingled and you entered.

“Look who's back. Welcome home, love.”

You stared at the familiar bouncer standing beside the doorway with a look of surprise on your face. He stood guard like never before and he sent you a questioning brow because of the dumbfounded expression.

“Surprised?” You nodded at him as you couldn't find the right words to say, and this caused Dorian to snicker.

“D-davi!”

You heard a distressed call and a strong force crashed to your legs, causing you to tumble backward. The floorboards met your bottom as you couldn't comprehend what happened when something wet tickled your cheeks.

“Davi..?” Giggles bubbled out of you when the dog's tongue smothered you with sweet kisses. Mateo watched the view, smiling when you're back from work. Dorian helped you up and you didn't waste anytime as you immediately embraced them one-by-one.

“Matito? What's going on? The house looks lively.” You were right, it does.

You didn't even notice the joyful chatter that bounced off the walls, footsteps echoing from the ceiling, including the cluttering and sizzling in the kitchen that implies someone was cooking... until now.

“We're here to celebrate the holidays with you!” Mateo exclaims and there was a look of shock flashed over your face again. The house did feel heavy, and now you knew it was because of your visitors.

“Mateo? Is [name] back?” You glanced behind Mateo and two lovely women that were once your ceiling and floor appeared. They look perfect with each other, hand in hand.

“Celia, Florence..!” You happily greet the couple in a hug and both squeezed you right back. The two of them were ecstatic to meet you. Mateo chuckled and exited the scene to give you a moment with them but not before taking your suitcase and scarf upstairs.

“Hello, dear. We're so delighted to see you.” Greeted by elegance herself.

The bubbly woman agrees. “I hope you don't mind celebrating with us and for coming by so suddenly!”

“I don't mind at all! It’s just so sudden…!” You sheepishly scratched the back of your neck until something dawned on you. “Oh, gosh… This didn't disturb your work, right?”

“Calm yourself, dear. It's the holidays, and we like to celebrate our first with you. That's all.” Said Celia, and you smiled sweetly. But then, she was deep in thought. “Actually, it was Mac who invited all of us.”

You were surprised. “They did?”

“They would like to propose something.” Celia said and the look in her eyes already told you that they knew what it was about. “They already talked to us about it. However, it needed your approval.”

You hummed in wonder. “I see… shall we go then?”

“I'll go and find them!” Florence exclaims. “Meet us in your office after a few minutes. You can still go ahead and meet the others.”

Celia nods, quite delighted. “She's right, and you don't need to worry about anything since we already handled the task assignments. Most of them are outside to watch Washford and Drysdale perform in the backyard. It eases the weight around the house.”

You chuckled at Celia's comment before they parted ways to look for Mac in this crowded house. It was somewhat a relief that most of them were in the backyard, you couldn't bear to think the house falling apart if all hundred of them were to actually stand inside.

Celia was right, you don't have to worry about anything when they already did the job quite perfectly. Holly was in charge of the decorations, with the help of strong individuals that could carry her on their shoulder or tall ones that could reach the ceiling.

Stefan and most of the kitchen crew were doing kitchen duty, cooking and making enough beverages for everyone. The dining room was filled with it and you could only hope there were tables in the backyard for everyone to dine together.

Everyone greeted you with wide arms and tight hugs. While some planted kisses onto your face. You were left flustered with their gestures and it felt too good to be true. Roaming around the ground floor, you wanted to know if there's anything to do or help. But they reassured you that they'll handle the rest, much to your dismay.

You went upstairs and you immediately noticed your bedroom door closed but the laughter and talking was clearly heard. The voices contain most of the bedroom crew along with the bathroom crew, talking. Sharing all of the fun experiences they had after finding their paths.

Pride swelled within you when they successfully achieved the things where their own path takes them. They were happy and content despite their own struggles. They were just human with dreams after all.

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop but you were certainly engrossed hearing the travels they all made. Some stories were heavily challenging while some of them were delightful as it sounds. Now you find yourself eavesdropping, as you were too engrossed hearing them so happy, you didn't realize you were in the first place.

Your heart ached for some reason, and you didn’t know why. It was thrilling to hear their adventures, how they strived and chose their own paths. But a thought crept from the back of your mind. You should be happy and yet you feel easily discarded. Too easy to earn your trust, too easy to leave.

No, thinking like this felt so wrong. You thought you'd moved on but clearly you weren't. The feeling of abandonment tightened around your chest, fear returned within you. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't speak.

You hastily turned around to leave.

“If it wasn't for [name], I wouldn't be where I am now.”

Those words made you freeze. You recognized Betty's comforting voice and to your surprise, the others inside followed afterwards. The room was filled with nothing but their exclaims of gratitude. Laughter and chatter ensues in the room. Unbeknownst to them, you heard it all.

They expressed the way you helped them all. It started from your approach for the first time, and you have helped them a lot ever since. It was you who motivated them, it was you who believed in them. It was you who wouldn't dare to give up on them. Always has been.

You were the reason why they became from something to someone.

Through Skylar's words: you've brought a whole lot of love in this world.

Your love brought them.

Your throat felt like it had tightened itself. You then caressed your temple in hopes to calm you down. It slightly did. Hearing those words coming out of them was nothing but overwhelming. Now you feel guilty. For them and for Mac who did everything they could.

You didn't even realize your feet walking to who knows where as your hand caressed your head. Until you bumped into someone. The sensation by how your skin jumped snapped you out of it. Finding yourself staring at Volt, and then Eddie who held a tool by the breaker box.

“Are you alright, live wire?” Volt asks out of concern. It looked like you were out of breath, or had seen something you weren't supposed to.

“Yeah. You look out of it.” Now, it was Eddie. Closing the panels shut and he settled one of the tools down before inspecting your face. The both of them suspected something was up.

“Uhm. Fine…” You shakily exhaled, raking your hair back. “I'm fine…”

Eddie didn't seem convinced. “You don't seem like it.”

“Come here and give us a hug, yes?” Volt spreads his arms as wide to invite you in and you don't hesitate. You did as you were told. Your arms found its way to wrap around Volt's back and buried your head on his chest. It didn't take long when another warmth caressed your side. Eddie.

You savored the hug, even for a moment. Although, it didn't last long when you eventually let go. Missing the way Volt’s face fell when the hug was so surprisingly quick. You weren't always one to let go first and hugging is one of the things you love to do.

“Now, what's going on with that pretty head of yours. Hm?” Volt asked and you shrugged like there was nothing. At least you convinced yourself that it was.

You shook your head with your voice hushed. “The house became quieter than I thought it should've after you guys left."

“I hope you realize that you're not that easy to forget, live wire.” Eddie sighs, and you feel conflicted whether it was to offend you or the opposite.

Volt reassured you the opposite. “He's right. Because of your love and your determination, we wouldn't be where we are if it wasn't for the faith you've given us.”

“I guess what I meant to say was...” Eddie trailed off where a noticeable red flushed his neck. His gaze stilled at yours. “Thank you.”

It was a small gesture, but it did reassure you in many ways. A smile made its way to your lips. You didn't say anything and just pulled them both in an embrace. It was longer than before and it was already enough for the three of you before you simultaneously let go.

“It's been great seeing you guys, really.” A lilt of relief entered your tone as Volt held you by the waist, grinning widely.

“As do we, to you, live wire.” He says. With that, you found your face being smothered by their lips so intimately that others might mistake it as a very sexual gesture. It was far more than that. It was comfortable, reassuring.

You laugh. “We'll catch up later. I still need to see Celia about something.”

“Sure.” Eddie nods and pecks a kiss onto your cheek. “Just find us right after your business. We'll be around.”

You absentmindedly kissed each of their cheeks back and deliberately went downstairs feeling a lot lighter than before. Whatever Mac and Celia wants to talk about, you hope everything will be fine. You trudged to your office to meet with them.

“House Homie!”

You were greeted in your office by five men that immediately tackled you in a group hug, squishing you in the middle. The Hanks look as radical as ever and you almost couldn't breathe if it wasn't for Celia demanding them to let you go. These men had so much energy, she couldn't keep up.

She sighs. “The gentlemen have something important to tell you in regards to the house–”

“We’re staying with you!” The Hanks cuts her off. They couldn't contain any excitement and immediately jumped on you in joy. You couldn't process the news when strong hands engulfed you again like a bunch of puppies. They were everywhere, even Hank #4 was clinging onto your leg while Hank #2 had his arms around your waist.

“Wait, really…?” Your voice came out as muffled when a mop of ginger hair amplified your voice. But there was a hint of shakiness to it. You were really surprised.

“Uh, yeah!”

“Imagine going on adventures with you! Pretty rad!”

“Everyday with you will be nothing but fun!”

“And by fun… we mean it, hot stuff.”

“Alright. Thank you, boys.” Celia sighs out of exasperation once more. “You will be excused. You can bother them later."

This time, the five men listened and exited the room as she wished. Closing the door, there was a sigh from Florence and Celia, and you could only give them apologetic looks before Mac chimed in the conversation. They looked rather somber, and their eyes drooped more than normal.

“I know we haven't been interfacing due to my work, and I would like to apologize–”

“Mac.” You call out to them sternly, guilt washing over you. “You don't have to apologize. If anything, I should be the one apologizing for being stupid and treating you so unfairly.”

You approached them, your conscience gnawing at you relentlessly while it reminded you of your nuisances. The air became slightly tense as you went quiet. You didn't even realize that you took their hand over yours. A squeeze from them helped you slightly calm down.

“I was being selfish. Thinking that every single one of you will forget me. It's… terrifying. Even the thought of you all abandoning me, all alone, it's unbearable."

Your voice lowered a volume as you felt your throat tightening.

"I know this doesn't excuse my behavior. I don't want you to feel like you aren't enough, you are. You really are. I'm sorry..."

The three of them fell silent. Your confession caught them by surprise. The office felt tense and weren't sure if it's you or the room itself, but you certainly felt it spinning. You wouldn't dare say a word after your spiral and your head hung itself low to avoid seeing their faces. They could be judging you, and finding you pathetic.

However, despite no words were exchanged, it didn't happen.

Instead, Celia and Florence looped their arms around you, comforting you with nothing but reassurance and the warmth of their presence. In the middle of the silence, you felt loved, treasured. As if words were exchanged into embrace, burying you in it. Then you felt Mac's thumb caress the back of your palm, soothing your thoughts.

Celia leaned her head to your shoulder. "My dearest, we would never forget nor abandon you. You're too important to all of us."

"She's right. We love you all the same, before and after." Florence patted your cheek so soft that she and Celia hugged you again.

You haven't counted the hugs you've received today, and you were certain it was more than usual. But you aren't complaining. You love every single one of it.

“This proposal I am about to make… Would you like to hear about it?” Once the hug ended, Mac immediately went straight to the point. They seemed a bit happier than earlier. The couple soon lets go and yet their warmth lingering.

You nod at them. “Of course.”

You braced yourself for literally anything and yet you didn't expect for them to take out a large blue sheet with white lines printed on it. Florence helped them settle the sheet on your desk, rolling it as widely as it could. The large print was obviously familiar.

“This is… the house's blueprint.” Your voice was laced with uncertainty, you were rather confused as to why they have this.

Celia nods. “Mac proposed that we should expand the house for more rooms."

"Not only for the Hanks, but for others who wanted to stay.” Florence finishes.

You looked at the couple with another wave of shock flashing through your eyes, and your heart immediately swelled. It caused you to wipe any tears that were threatening to fall. It didn't take long when they started pitching for ideas, including you who suggested some of yours to merge your ideas together and come up with a full-proof plan.

It was doing quite well. And you were excited.

Celia and Florence excused themselves once you all finalized the blueprint. They still wanted to enjoy the celebrations. It leaves you and Mac, enjoying the serene silence as muffled bearings can be heard outside the door. Both of you were quiet for a while, until you heard a faint squeak.

An exhale left Mac's lips, they breathed in. “The identities of future tenants, or roommates, other than the Hanks are still unknown… We could only hope that there would be someone interested.”

“Don't worry. We could always make it as guest bedrooms.” You suggested, turning to reassure them. “I won't be lonely anyways knowing that I have… you.”

Your words felt gratifying, while your lovely smile sent shivers down Mac's spine. You are such a wonderful and kind person, and they love you for that. They just hoped that you would see it for yourself.

To see that a lot of them keeps you as someone important in their lives. They wouldn't dare to leave you.

“Are you sure about this? Won't this disrupt your work?” Your tone, growing anxiously, interrupts their thoughts.

“I made sure that it wouldn't. As long as we keep the bed to ourselves, then I have no objections whatsoever.” A snort escapes them. They didn't mean anything behind it. Mac just wanted to have you all by themself once it was time to go to bed to let their disquietude wash away.

Being in your arms at the end of the day was all they wanted.

You smiled. But Mac with their keen eyes saw through it when a faint smirk played at the corner of your lips. “I'll make sure to pay attention to you later after we're done. I wouldn't want you to feel… neglected.”

If Mac was still a computer now, they would comment how you made their CPU overheat and yet they didn't. Too speechless and rather excited to let words come out. Even their own flirtatious comebacks betrayed them. Mac stays silent, they were glad to finally see this spark in you.

The only thing they can do for now is to accompany you outside to enjoy a lot of activities planned by the others. Where a lot of them will be waiting for you. Even Jean Loo, who will be performing tonight despite being the one taking care of your taxes, and this may be the best time to stop him from doing so before you get carried away.

Everything in the house was planned to your enjoyment, a way to express their own gratitude for being there with them.

Either it was away from you, or not, they will hold your name dearly. Even if it is through the hardships they have to face. You always held them close to your heart as the precious individuals that made your life better, and so as they.

If there was one thing they have taught you: Home is really where the heart is.

And to them, you will always be their home.

a/n: my head is so fried because i was writing this for five days, and words are difficult to form when it comes to writing, for me anyways. it's hard when your english is limited. anyways, scandalabra/jon wick mentioned! my pookie <33

#date everything #date everything x gn reader #date everything x reader #mac date everything #date everything game #date everything fanfic #date everything demo #fanfiction #fanfic #x gn reader

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the-trash-site · 24 days ago

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⋆ 𐙚 ̊.𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐘

ᴘᴀʀɪɴɢ: Wheeljack x GN!Human!Reader

᥉ᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Amid the metallic silence of the Ark, two minds collide: brilliant, relentless, and lonely. You were welcomed by the Autobots as an ally, but the real shock came when you fell for Wheeljack, the eccentric genius with a shy smile and incredibly skilled hands. Between codes, algorithms, and a bold shared creation, a connection is born, one as intricate as any alien technology. But when work turns into connection, and connection turns into desire... things might just start heating up in the lab.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: Smut with plot, AFAB Reader (no gender specified), size difference, oral sex, penetrative sex, mutual pining.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 4,7k

❝ Maybe we, can be, be each other's company Let's end each other's lonely nights Be each other's paradise Need a picture for my frame Someone to share my reign Tell me what you wanna drink I'll tell you what I got in mind ❞

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. 𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓

Surrounded by the thick metal walls of the Ark, with no windows or accessible doors to the outside world, it was easy to lose track of time. Hours had already gone by, maybe it was even past midnight, but you were too focused on the numbers and codes flashing on the screen of your small, modified datapad to care. By some twist of fate, your path had crossed with the Autobots’. Of course, running into a conveniently hidden alien species on your planet, who also happened to be caught in the middle of a war, wasn’t exactly what one expected to happen on a random Thursday. But against all logic and common sense, that encounter had completely transformed your life. And in the best way possible.

Being an independent scientist wasn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world. Not that you weren’t intelligent, on the contrary, you were brilliant, but there were always far too many incredible minds and not enough scholarships to go around. Not to mention those who had the right connections in all sorts of universities and managed to secure their spots among the best by pulling a few strings. The lack of support and funding was always discouraging, it felt like a cold bucket of water every time. That’s why you considered yourself lucky to have found the Autobots. You sympathized with their cause and wanted to help. They, in turn, saw in you a worthy ally. It was the perfect deal: access to Cybertronian technology in exchange for your knowledge and skills. Naturally, there were objections about your usefulness and discretion, but you were used to that; the scientific community on Earth had thrown the same doubts your way. What truly mattered was that Optimus Prime trusted you. A vote of confidence you would never forget and would cherish for the rest of your life. Now, not only did you have the means to work, but also a purpose and a lab partner.

“Stuck on those codes?” Wheeljack’s voice sounded a bit tired, pulling your gaze away from the glowing screen in front of you. The mech held a cube of energon in one servo and a ridiculously small blue can in the other. He extended his arm and offered you the can, which you gladly accepted, cracking it open with a click. Lifting it to your lips, you took a generous sip of the hot energy drink, grimaced, then replied, “Not anymore. I think I found the problem.” The wide smile you gave Wheeljack made him smile behind the mask covering part of his faceplate. “We were too focused on the obvious issue and forgot to look around it.” The mech pulled over a chair and sat across from you, leaning over the desk to get a better look at the tiny screen in your lap. You adjusted yourself on the beanbags where you were seated and started pointing animatedly at a stream of ever-scrolling code. Carefully, you explained your discovery in detail, growing more excited by the second.

Wheeljack nodded in agreement and used a single digit to affectionately ruffle your hair “You’re right, sweetspark. You found the solution.” He smiled again, and his mask retracted so he could take a few long sips of energon. While he distractedly drank the glowing liquid, you discreetly admired him. Maybe it was the long hours spent together, or maybe your brain was just fried from work, but you’d been finding the bot attractive for some time now. Of course, in a completely new and alien way, but still attractive. You liked how his blue optics lit up when he talked about his projects, his shy smile whenever he was complimented, his good humor and resilience — even when the two of you literally set his lab on fire. He understood you in a way no human ever had. There was something special in the connection you shared. But you were also aware it would likely never be more than that, a one-sided crush.

You stood up and left your datapad on the beanbag before walking to the edge of the desk and signaling for Wheeljack to come over. He finished his energon cube, set it on the desk, and held out a servo for you to climb onto. You were so used to it by now that you knew exactly where to step and hold. Once you were secure in his cupped servos, he carried you toward the workbench where your newest creation awaited, almost complete. As soon as he set you down on the bench, you ran toward the drone, the object several times larger than you. Its design was modern with a vintage twist, blending your personal tastes perfectly. “Our creation, our baby,” you said in a comically affectionate tone, as if you truly considered the drone your child, which made Wheeljack laugh out loud. The mech liked your playful nature and the lighthearted way you approached things. Maybe it was because you were both scientists, but for the first time in ages, he felt truly accepted. You understood him. Understood when inventions failed and stood by him when they succeeded. You celebrated together, laughed off the failures, and at the end of the day, you were together, usually with you sitting on his chassis, chatting and making silly plans. He was afraid to admit it, but the truth was, you had long since stopped being “just a friend” to him. Still, he often wondered if you could ever see him as something more, as a mech.

The sound of you clearing your throat snapped Wheeljack out of his thoughts, and his vocal indicator fins flickered a light shade of blue as he spoke. “Sorry, what were you saying again?” you giggled and leaned your body against the drone, arms crossed over your chest. “I asked if you’d already uploaded your code into Sparkle’s algorithm.” He looked confused, his optics flicking between you and the drone a few times, barely holding back a laugh. “Since when did you name the drone Sparkle?” You only shrugged and gave him a mischievous look, like a kid caught doing something sneaky “Since earlier today. I thought it needed a name. Don’t you like it?” The mech vented softly, ruffling his hair, and leaned over you and the drone, his massive helm now only inches from your face. “I love it. I just thought, since it’s our sparkling, we should’ve picked the name together. But Sparkle fits perfectly. Look at our baby, it’s the spitting image of you.”

You burst out laughing and moved closer to Wheeljack, resting your forehead against his helm and reaching up to touch one of his vocal indicator fins, which flickered a soft pink “Hm, I think the optics are yours. But we should’ve added your fins, I think they’re very charming. Especially when you’re embarrassed,” you said teasingly. You could hear his engine roar as he abruptly pulled away, suddenly shy. Wheeljack shook his helm and stumbled over his words when answering your original question “I-I finished it earlier today while you were on break. I think yours is the only one missing now. I can help if you want.” You quickly shook your head, pouting in mock offense “No way! We agreed it would be a surprise. We’ll only find out what the other programmed when we activate Sparkle.” He nodded and gently lifted you by the torso as you raised your arms excitedly. He carried you back to the shared desk and carefully set you down on the cold metal surface. The warmth of his servo disappeared all too quickly when he pulled away. You picked up your datapad again and plopped down into the beanbag, letting your full weight sink into it.

Wheeljack sat in the chair and pulled up his own datapad, resuming his work. He knew it wasn’t healthy for you to stare at a screen for so many hours. You should’ve gone to rest long ago. But he also knew it would be pointless to try and convince you otherwise. You’d had that same argument countless times, and he always lost when you gave him your best kicked-puppy look and asked with a sweet little pretty please. All he could do was wait for your body to give in so he could carry you back to your shared quarters, like he did almost every night. And judging by the way your blinks were slowing and your head was starting to droop to the side, it wouldn’t take long.

As predicted, just a few minutes later, you finally drifted off to sleep, your body leaning entirely to the side, nearly falling out of your seat. Wheeljack smiled at the sight and used two digits to pluck your tiny datapad from your hands and set it on the desk. Then, carefully, he cradled your entire body in his servos and brought you close to his chassis. The motion stirred you slightly, but you quickly relaxed again once you felt the mech’s warmth and the familiar rhythm of his spark pulsing. He stood up and carried you out of the lab, heading straight to his habsuite. The halls were completely empty, the only sound was the faint hum of the ventilation system. Most of the bots were already in recharge by now.

When the door to his habsuite slid open, Wheeljack walked straight to his berth, too tired to even think of anything else. He adjusted your sleeping form so he could hold you with one servo and used the other to open a drawer in his nightstand. From it, he pulled out a fresh polishing cloth, the perfect size to serve as a cozy blanket for you. Then, still holding you close to his chassis, he laid down and got comfortable. You stirred a little, yawning and rubbing your cheek against his metal frame, but didn’t wake up. The sight warmed Wheeljack’s spark, and he smiled, completely enchanted by your human fragility. He covered you with the cloth and rested one servo over you like a protective barrier to keep you from rolling off during the night “Goodnight, my little brilliant scientist,” he whispered, gently stroking your spine with his thumb.

-`♡´-

The next morning started off in a whirlwind. You didn’t even bother making breakfast — apparently, you’d had ideas in your dreams about how to improve the drone and needed to put everything into practice before you forgot. The scent of metal and chemical components filled the lab, and you suspected it couldn’t be good for you, especially since your head was spinning slightly, and you coughed every now and then. Still, you refused to stop or leave, even with Wheeljack insisting repeatedly. He’d already made it clear he’d drag you out, one way or another, if he felt things had become too dangerous for you.

While working on the drone’s structure, you stole discreet glances at the mech, who was animatedly working on something on his datapad. Sometimes, you wished you could dive into that mechanical head of his and explore every bit of his processor. You’d always seen Wheeljack as an inspiration, even before you fell for him. You admired his intelligence, his skill, his insight. And most of all, his resilience. Working alongside someone like him was simply a dream come true. It was like a horror fan getting to meet Lovecraft, undeniably a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

You paused for a moment and sat down, wiping the back of your hand across your forehead to catch the sweat that was trickling down. A sigh escaped your lips as you smiled at the drone. It was a huge achievement for you, the project of your life, something you’d never imagined would be possible just a few months ago. And now, there it was. Perfect. And none of it would’ve been possible without Wheeljack. You turned and looked at his back, your eyes full of quiet affection. You felt like you could never thank him enough, not even in a million years. When the Autobots had found you, he was the first to speak on your behalf, explaining to Optimus, point by point, how useful you could be to their cause. And because of that, you made a point of giving your all every single day. Deep down, you also wanted to make him proud, to show him he had made the right call in accepting you.

The bot turned around in his chair and caught you staring, but you didn’t look away. With his mask covering half of his faceplate, it was hard to tell what he was thinking. He leaned over the workbench, resting his chin on his closed fist. “Were you able to make the modifications?” his voice sounded curious. You smiled as you replied, “I did, Jack the Hack. Take a look at Sparkle now.” The mech straightened up and walked over to the drone, analyzing it carefully. After a few moments, he turned to you and raised both thumbs in a positive gesture, the one you’d taught him. “Not bad!” Your laughter echoed through the lab, and Wheeljack nearly melted, completely fascinated by you.

You stood and motioned for him to come closer with one finger. “Alright, back to work. Will you take me to the desk again?” he nodded and extended a servo for you to climb onto. Before long, the two of you were once again immersed in your datapads, too focused on your respective tasks to talk, pausing only now and then to show each other something interesting.

And so the day dragged on like that. You barely stopped to eat, it was only when Ratchet stormed in to scold you both for skipping meals that you realized how long it had been. You checked the watch on your wrist, it was already past midnight. Stretching out on the beanbags, you finally set the datapad aside, stood up, and did a happy little dance as you walked over to Wheeljack. He stopped as well, watching you with tenderness in his optics, and reached out a digit to gently stroke your cheek as you sat down on his forearm. “I can’t believe we’re done… It’s something so magical, so special to me…” your voice cracked slightly, emotions rising at the sight of your creation. The bot retracted his mask and smiled. “It’s special to me too. We worked on this project together, and only blew up the lab three times. I think that’s a personal record.” You burst out laughing at his words, and he turned to glance at the drone resting on the workbench “We can activate it tomorrow.” You stood up and stopped in front of him, holding out a hand “This deserves a celebration, don’t you think?”

Wheeljack moved stealthily through the base, sneaking through the halls to grab a bit of engex for himself and a six-pack of beer for you. When he returned, you were distracted, fiddling with the datapad and trying to adjust the lab’s lighting and queue up some music. He stopped and leaned casually against the closed door, watching you intently. Wheeljack admired every little detail about you, your mannerisms, your smile when you talked about science, the way you gently comforted him when something went wrong. And there you were, so focused on making the atmosphere more pleasant, so perfect without even trying.

When you finally turned and spotted him, a big smile spread across your face “Much better like this, don’t you think?” The lab lights had dimmed, turning warm and cozy, and the speakers began playing Take On Me. He simply smiled and walked over, setting your beer on the desk and settling comfortably into the chair. “The environment is always perfect when you’re in it,” the words slipped from his metal lips before he could stop them. And when he saw the shy smile on your face and the faint blush in your cheeks, he felt embarrassed by the confession, his vocal indicators glowing a vivid shade of pink.

“You’re too kind,” you replied softly and set the datapad aside, moving closer to the beer. You knelt down and began opening the pack. When you pulled out a longneck bottle, you held it out to him “Can you open this for me?” Wheeljack vented dramatically, pretending to be annoyed by the request, but the faint smirk on his faceplate said otherwise. He’d had enough bad experiences crushing beer bottles to know that opening them at his full size wasn’t a good idea. So, resting both servos on the table, he mass shift. Compared to you, he was still a giant, but no longer a towering titan.

He gently stepped forward and took the bottle in one servo, it still looked ridiculously small in his hand. With the other, he reached out and helped you to your feet. The top of your head barely brushed his chassis. In one quick motion, he popped the bottle open and handed it back to you. You took it, brought the rim to your lips, and drank a generous swig, savoring the bitterness of the beer. Wheeljack watched you with affection before turning to his engex resting on the table. The container was now much larger than he was, but he wasn’t about to go through the mass shifting process again just to drink. So, he simply sat down and closed his optics, enjoying the music playing softly in the background.

You walked over and sat beside him with a loud sigh, hugging your beer bottle to your chest like something precious. Your eyes were focused on your feet swinging back and forth to the rhythm of the song, your mind drifting through past memories and hidden desires. Until his voice gently pulled you from your thoughts “What are you thinking about, scientist?” he asked in a low voice, the hum of his internal systems filling you with comfort. You lifted your gaze to meet his glowing blue optics and offered him a shy smile, raising the bottle to your lips for another sip “About you.”

Your words caught him off guard, and he watched your lips glisten with beer, his fans kicking on the moment you ran your tongue across your lower lip. His optics locked with yours, his vocal indicators flashing a soft shade of pink. “And what were you thinking about me?” You tilted your head slightly, calmly analyzing his expression. Then, setting the bottle aside, you scooted closer to him. Maybe it was the effect of the alcohol — even if you’d only had one bottle — or maybe it was the music. Either way, filled with unexpected courage, you decided to finally confess the feelings you'd been keeping to yourself for so long. “I was thinking about how much I like you. About how you make me feel seen, understood. About how sweet and gentle your touch always is. About how you give me butterflies when you compliment me… or when you look at me and think I don't notice. About how you take care of me, and how I can’t sleep properly anymore unless I’m on your chassis, listening to the pulse of your spark.”

Wheeljack stood frozen, processing your words, stunned. He hadn’t expected that from you, he’d never imagined his feelings could be reciprocated. So he’d let himself dream, but never dared take a step forward. But when he saw you pulling away, your face flushed with embarrassment, he quickly reached out and gently caught your arm his servo closing around your wrist carefully, making sure not to hurt you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I made things weird…” you began, avoiding his gaze. But he gently cupped your chin, and in one swift motion, leaned in and sealed your lips with a kiss. It was a calm kiss, unhurried, filled with unmatched tenderness, conveying what words alone could never fully express. And you kissed him back, melting into the moment, surprised by how soft his metal lips were, so unlike what you’d imagined when daydreaming about this.

When the mech finally pulled back and rested his forehelm against your forehead, your breathless gasps blended with the whir of his fans. A blissful smile spread across his faceplate as he stroked your cheek with two digits “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of hearing those words. How much I wished my feelings could be returned,” he whispered. A quiet giggle escaped your lips, and you kissed one of his cheeks, then the other, then his chin, before placing one last peck on his lips. “If I had known, I’d have told you sooner,” you murmured, and he cupped your face with both servos, staring deep into your eyes. “My little scientist… I think you’re the only one who hadn’t noticed just how in love with you I am.”

His confession made your heart race. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down with you as you laid back. He followed eagerly, bracing himself with one servo beside your head while the other stayed gently resting on your cheek. You brushed your lips over his teasingly, and he captured your lower lip between his denta, giving a soft bite, careful not to break your delicate skin. You sighed, eyes fluttering closed as you kissed him again. This time with more intensity, more heat.

He asked for entrance with his glossa, and once you granted it, he explored your mouth slowly. The kiss was deep and unhurried, brimming with desire, a longing long suppressed by both of you. Your muffled moans made Wheeljack’s spike throb behind his modesty plate, begging to be freed. Wheeljack moved his lips to your jawline, nipping at the tender skin, then down to your neck, where he left wet, lingering kisses. One of his servos slipped under your shirt, exploring your warm skin, impatiently trying to remove the fabric. Your hands found his chassis, silently asking him to pull back just enough so you could remove your top.

He paused for only a second to admire the sight before him. Your soft skin, fully exposed, begging to be touched, reacting to every vent of heated air from his frame. His lips trailed down your belly, leaving a line of scorching kisses until he reached your waistband. His servos paused at your hips, silently asking for permission, and help. A quiet laugh escaped you as you unbuttoned your pants and began pushing them down along with your underwear. Wheeljack helped, tugging both garments off and tossing them aside. The sight of your completely nude body pulled a groan from deep within him, and without intending to, his modesty plate slid open, revealing his fully pressurized spike.

You tilted your chin down to get a better look, and the sight of him staring into your eyes as he descended to kiss your folds made you moan, your head hitting the metal tabletop beneath you. Gently, Wheeljack ran his servos along your thighs, caressing up and down before spreading your legs and resting them over his shoulders, one at a time. He kissed your groin softly, then licked from your entrance up to your clit, earning a series of gasps from your lips. Your wet pussy was like a divine feast to him. Taking his time, he closed his lips around your clit and began sucking, savoring both your taste and the sounds you made. When he looked up and saw you biting into your palm, trying to silence yourself, he carefully caught your hand and laced his digits with yours “Please, sweetspark… I’ve waited so long for this, dreamed about this moment for so long. Let me hear you. Let me know how good I’m making you feel,” his voice was full of something deeper, more than just lust.

Then he dove back in, devouring your pussy with fervor. He sucked, licked, and kissed you like a mech starved. His glossa penetrated you deeply, exploring you from the inside out, fucking you with slow, deliberate skill. Your moans and gasps mixed deliciously with the obscene sounds of his tongue working, his frame struggling to regulate its temperature. The lab, normally cold, now felt dangerously hot. Sweat trickled down your body as your back arched from the pleasure. Your hands gripped his vocal indicators tightly. His body was so hot it nearly burned, but maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what you wanted.

Wheeljack rolled his hips against the metal table, grinding his spike, already leaking prefluid, in a desperate attempt for some relief. He felt like he could overload just from eating you, your addictive taste better than anything he'd ever known. “Wheeljack…” You came hard against his lips, moaning his name loudly as your climax hit. He took his time savoring you, optics half-lidded, utterly intoxicated by your pussy. And by the time you came down from the high, he was already on top of you, kissing your neck, pressing his large frame gently against yours.

His heavy spike rubbed against your inner thigh, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, grinding against him, teasing him further. He held himself up with one servo, making sure not to crush you, while the other slipped between your bodies, guiding his spike. When he aligned the thick tip with your entrance, he locked eyes with you, silently asking for permission. It was adorable how much he cared for your comfort and well-being. You answered by tilting your hips toward him, searching for more contact.

Wheeljack began to slide into you slowly, savoring the tight squeeze of your walls around him, groaning softly with optics shut. It had been a while since you’d last had sex, and you were thankful for the care he showed you. The initial stretch burned in the most delicious way, and you threw your arms around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. He was big, there was still a full handspan left to go. He paused for a few seconds, savoring the way your warm, soft pussy clung to his spike. He had never felt anything like it before, no valve had ever come close. It was the most divine sensation he’d ever known.

He started to move slowly, grunting and moaning into your ear, each motion sending waves of pleasure through your core. The wet sounds of his spike fucking your pussy filled the room, and you couldn't hold back the filthy, pleasure-drunk noises escaping your mouth. Your nails lightly scraped across the metal of his back, and when you moaned his name loudly, he picked up the pace. He could feel his overload approaching fast, but he didn’t want to leave you behind. One of his servos traveled down your thigh, then curled under your knee. He lifted your leg gently, pressing it against his chassis to change the angle. The shift made you both moan louder, and your back arched with the new, deeper strokes. You lifted your head just enough to watch his thick spike slide in and out of your soaked pussy.

He rested his forehelm against your forehead, optics glowing with unspoken devotion as he gazed deep into your eyes. A few more hard thrusts and you came again, moaning his name like a prayer, your pussy clenching around him, milking his spike deliciously. The way you tightened around him was all it took. With a deep, shuddering groan, Wheeljack overloaded, spilling hot streams of transfluid inside you. His hips kept rocking, even as his movements became slower and less coordinated, dragging out the last waves of his climax, savoring every second of being inside you.

His optics scanned your sweat-drenched face, your hair stuck to your forehead, your eyes closed as you panted softly. You were beautiful. He wished he could burn that image into his processor forever, the way you looked, perfectly and deliciously fucked. He kissed your chin, your forehead, the tip of your nose, your closed eyelids, and finally, your lips — softly and full of love. “I dreamed of this moment for so long… I still think I might be dreaming,” he whispered. You opened your eyes and looked at him tenderly, brushing your fingers along the side of his helm “You’re not, sweetheart…” you replied, pulling him into a quick kiss “And trust me, there’s still much more to come.”

#transformers #transformers x reader #transformers idw #transformers wheeljack #wheeljack x reader #valveplug

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the-trash-site · 1 month ago

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Scandalabra coming back after being realised

#art #date everything #date everything fanart #scandalabra #jon wick

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the-trash-site · 1 month ago

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Roses Don't Know When They're Dead

Work summary: IRL/Original Verso Dessendre x reader, alternate universe where Verso failed to save Alicia. Reader is part of the Musician family.

Everyone knows about the Dessendre family tragedy...

You maybe more so than others. Clea used to be your close friend and now your family is dealing with their own personal loss.

No one has seen the Dessendre family in years until now, at the annual L'exposition Des Familles in Paris, Verso and Clea Dessendre unveil their first new public painting in over 5 years.

Only it's not the painting you're drawn to, it's the man behind the art, the mysterious and sullen Verso Dessendre.

Chapter 1 - Lent et triste

WC: 4k CW: Death & grief, mourning.

Masterlist - Next AO3

Enjoy <3

Everyone knows about the Dessendre family tragedy.

Maybe you do more than others.

Rumours and gossip would have you believe it was arson, a plot by The Writers. Officially there was never enough evidence to prove it was anything more than a tragic accident.

They rarely ever leave their mansion nowadays, they spend their time grieving the loss of their youngest daughter and sister. Or maybe they grieve the loss of their passion, their drive to create the beautiful art you grew up seeing.

You look through the gates towards their stunning gilded mansion sitting proud at the end of the road. During the day the sunlight bounces off the curved roofs and makes the whole place look like it’s shining. There’s a reason people call it one of the wonders of Paris.

Even now though the place looks barren, empty, a house but not a home. They keep up appearances, tend to the lawns, repair damages but there’s no love anymore. Just a house and a grave, a shell for the grieving to gather and hide from the reality of loss.

At least they have their paintings to escape to, stunning intricate worlds painted by skilled hands. They haven't painted for the public in years, not since the tragedy. You sigh, turning away from the sadness of the mansion and continue down the road to the city hall.

It’s that time of year again, the L'exposition Des Familles , where the powerful families from all over the world gather to show off their skills and swap stories. When you were a kid you used to enjoy it, now it feels like each year it’s just a painful chore.

This year is going to be the hardest. Your father passed away 8 months ago. It was an accident, a stupid tragic accident, you sigh thinking about him. You didn’t have to walk this route to get to the town hall, you could have avoided the Dessendre mansion but you chose to pass it.

Maybe you understand them now, your family has experienced their own tragedy, they lost a daughter and a sister, your family lost a father, the matriarch. When you left your house the halls were unusually silent. All the musical instruments have already been packed up and taken to the town hall.

As you walk out into the main square the place is already filled with activity. There are temporary stalls set up everywhere. They’ll be selling trinkets, things the families have created to sell. Your brother - who has taken over the role of your father - has spent the last few weeks scribing sheet music to sell.

People are dressed in the traditional white and red garments. That’s always the colour of L'exposition; red and white. It’s supposed to represent the purity of the bloodlines and the sacrifice the families make for the country. You always remember the saying;

‘White is for those who came before, red is for those hoping for more.’

You give white flowers to people who’ve died, red flowers are for happy occasions, marriage’s, birth’s, you give them to people who are moving on with their lives. Your home has been filled with white flowers for months.

You’ll be wearing black today, so will the rest of your family. You’re all in mourning, mourning the death of your father. You grip the handle of your bag tighter as you walk through the promenade. It’s early evening but the sky is already a deep orange, the light shines off the golden domes of the town hall.

You walk down the main strip, looking around at the booths. There are people selling copies of the Painters, paintings. There’s booths selling books and poems from the writers and of course booths selling vinyl’s and sheet music made by your family. People are dancing and singing to the music playing from the bands. The smell of fresh crêpe's and rosted meat fills your nose.

The festival lasts for the whole weekend, a time for people to let their hair down and have fun. They can come and see the spectacles and learn more about the families. The Painters used to be the stars of the show, then The Writers, since the Dessendre family stopped attending The Dancers have risen in the popularity ranks.

Your family was lucky, they’re not as recognisable as the other families. Your papa wanted you to have a normal life, or at least as normal as it could be. He didn’t lap up the celebrity that came with his name like the other families did. He wanted a solitude life especially for you and your brother and sister.

It means you can slip through the crowds to the entrance of the town hall without anyone stopping you. You show one of the security people your ID and they let you through to the main hall. The town hall is beautiful and ornate, huge paintings and accents detail the walls. The victorian architecture is stunning, the way the light shines through the massive floor to ceiling windows makes the place look alive, especially with the way it shines on the many statues.

The building used to be part of a palace once-upon-a-time. You climb the stairs up to where the main hall is. It’s just like you remember, the large open space has been sectioned off in some places where families are setting up their booths. You can see the grand piano pressed into the corner of the room with a black cover over it.

You head towards it walking past the other people in the room. You nod and smile at the only other family already here, the Callamand’s. The Writers, their mother is talking to their oldest son. He looks good, sleek brown hair and brown eyes. You’re not in the mood to talk so you walk over to the piano.

You run your hands over the cover, it’s like you can already feel the power building inside of you. Your papa always told you the power came from you and is projected through the instrument. You can still feel the energy though being pulled from deep within you, it just makes you want to sing.

“You’re here!” You turn to see your sister coming towards you, you accept her hug.

“Where’s frère?” You ask. Breaking from the hug, she’s already dressed in her modest black dress, she turned 18 this year.

“With maman, they’re talking with the Callamand’s.” She rolls her eyes for a second. “You have to see though!” She says excitedly gripping your arm and pulling you through a walled section to the main room.

“You’re not going to believe this.” She says as you both stop. You’re not quite sure what you’re supposed to be looking at it’s a blank wall, the usual paintings have been taken down and stacked to the side. You frown but then it clicks, they’re setting up a platform, they’ve taken the old paintings down - they’re making space.

You let out a gasp squeezing your sisters hand

“The Painters. They’re going to be here.” You say, she nods enthusiastically.

“I think it's just Clea but she’s made a new painting.” Rosaly, your sister says. You would like to see Clea again, it has been years since you’ve had proper contact with her. You look up at the grand clock in the room, the doors will be opening soon. The first day is reserved for the elite of Paris, those who can afford VIP tickets.

Tomorrow will be for the general public, until then they will have their own party in the square and the streets.

“You should get changed.” Your sister says. You nod and she leads you through to another room where you can see her clothes and violin.

“Are you playing tonight?” You ask, you don’t have a choice but your sister does. You know for a fact your mother and brother will not play, they’re here to show face and mingle, you’re here to show off.

“I don’t know, It is strange playing without Papa.” She hangs her head, you nod. Rosaly was very close to your father, she hasn’t played in public since, none of you have but she’s taken it particularly hard she didn’t even want to come today.

You let your sister talk and fill the dead air while you change into your black dress. Your mother picked it out for you, it’s long and flowy with lace and caped sleeves so they won’t get in the way when you’re playing.

Your mother comes to see you when the doors start to open to let people in. You’ll have some time to relax and see the other families' contributions before you will play.

“You both look lovely.” She says, her eyes are still raw and red, she’s holding a hanky in her hand. Your brother Emanuel looks good in his black suit and waistcoat. They both already have white flowers pinned on their clothes.

Your mother comes over to you both and kisses you on the cheek. “Don’t stay back here for too long, you’ll miss the painting.” You smile at her and nod, eyeing your brother as she goes over to your sister.

You smile at him, you’re going to play tonight, for your father.

…

There’s one other family wearing black today; the Dessendre’s. Clea looks beautiful in her sleek black strapless dress, it shows off her curves and clings to her hips. The back is open and her long brown hair cascades down. You secretly hope she spots you in the crowd, it’s nice to see her again, she looks healthy but you can see the age on her face, the paint stook in the deep crevices around her eyes.

She’s left some paint on her fingers, she always loves to do that - it’s part of the show.

An announcer walks up next to her and they kiss each other on the cheeks. Clea is always the professional, she puts on a perfect show, you wouldn’t think their family is still deep in mourning. The announcer steps to the side and starts a speech, talking about Clea’s new painting. You look around ignoring what he’s saying as you watch people soaking in his words.

Then you see him - Verso Dessendre. You haven’t seen him in years, almost as long as Clea, she tried to keep in touch for a while but - well - death, it changes people. He looks taller, his hair is longer, jet black and fluffy. Your eyes are drawn to strand of sliver in his hair, the light illuminates it. He stands back in a black suit, his arms crossed watching his sister talk.

You realise he has a glove on one of his hands and a scar down his face that starts from his forehead and even passes over his eye. He has a beard too, you’ve never seen him with a beard before, it makes him look older then he is. You remember he has blue eyes, you can’t see them from where you’re standing. You remember them though, in the dark they look deep like an endless ocean but in the light they’re like crystals.

You find yourself walking around the back of the crowd towards him. He always seemed so quiet even before the death of Alicia. You remember Clea saying they were close, that Verso was injured by the fire as he tried to save Alicia, it must have been horrible.

Clea starts talking, taking the final words and steps to the side as the curtain is pulled off the canvas. You gasp as the painting is revealed, it’s beautiful. There are gasps and mutters around the room, you turn to see a woman sobbing.

It’s dark, deep grays and blues. It’s a painting of a small lake, there’s stones and a tree on a small island. The sky is dark, moody but the layers of blues make it look like it's moving as the light flows over it. The tree is stunning with hanging lights and thick green branches. There’s a large moon creating low light across the painting.

There’s a girl in the painting too, long red hair. She looks sad, her body is turned halfway. Your eyes flick between Clea and Verso. She didn’t paint this, this is too sad for her work. The crowd starts to step closer to look at the intricacies of the painting, you use the opportunity to walk over to Verso.

You think he’ll move, not let you near him but he doesn’t move. You smile at him holding your hands behind your back. Maybe he recognises you, you’re not sure if he will, you spent more time with Clea instead of him.

You feel nervous for some reason. You look up at him and smile but he keeps his eyes on his sister.

“It’s very beautiful.” You say. He doesn’t turn to look at you.

“Clea is very talented.” He says, you smile, humble as ever just how you remember him.

You lean in a little closer to him. “I know that’s not her work.” You say smiling. He looks down at you, his eyes widen he looks worried for a second, like you're about to expose him.

“I used to be good friends with your sister, before..” You trail off, nothing needs to be said there’s a quiet understanding.

“It’s a sad painting.” He says letting out a sigh.

“Does it have a name?” You ask. He hums, maybe it’s private there was no name announced when the painting was revealed - just who painted it and even that’s a lie. You look back at Clea as she accepts people's praises and condolences. This will be the talk of the city tomorrow, the papers will be plastered with catchy headlines ‘The Painters dramatic return’ or something along those lines.

“I like sad things, there’s beauty in the melancholic. My Papa always told me ‘to make beauty out of despair is the purest form of art.’” You sigh, you miss him, Verso turns to you again.

“I’ve heard that before.” He frowns.

You smile. “My Papa was a very popular man.” There’s a soft ding, and you both look out to the grand piano being wheeled into the centre of the room. Peoples attentions switch from the painting and they look on in awe as the lights are adjusted to shine on the magnificently decorated piano.

Your parents always insisted on supplying their own instruments, this piano usually sits proudly in your main living room, it is almost never quiet. Your family is always working. It’s been polished and re-tuned, the white surfaces are almost as blinding as the raised gold and silver decorations covering the edges. The top is open to show off the intricacies of the inside.

You smile and head towards it, Verso seems confused for a second he takes a step to follow you. You turn back to look at him and smile, he follows you to the edge of the crowd, people part letting you through.

You spy your mother in the crowd, a champagne glass in hand dressed in all black. Verso realises what's happening as you step up to the piano and run your fingers over the pristine white keys. As you sit down you look towards him, he has taken his place in the front of the crowd, you see a small smile on his lips.

It makes your heart skip as the announcer steps up next to the piano, your eyes are still fixed on Verso. The strand of silver hair catches the light, you’re not listening to the announcer, you smile back at him before tuning to look at the piano.

It’s like you can already feel the energy flowing through you as you position your hands on the first keys and your foot on the peddle.

“-Lent Et Triste.” The announcer finishes before stepping away into the crowd. There’s soft clapping echoing around the room, you close your eyes letting out a sigh.

Lent Et Triste - For Papa.

As soon as you start playing the piano feels like it’s alive. You open your eyes to a glow, a glow that extends out from you, it always starts in your heart. Wisps of yellow light flow around you, down your arms and across the piano. You hear people gasp, muttering in awe as the light flows to the centre of the piano.

You look up as the golden strands start to form a scene, above the piano. They take the shape of your father, you feel tears form in your eyes and blink them away as you continue to play. The melody is hauntingly sweet, simple and elegant just like your father. Another strand forms you, as a young child reaching up for him.

His arms lock around yours and he spins you around. Gentle laughter fills the hall as you continue to play, your father spins you around before pulling you into his arms. The strands move again changing to a close up of you and your fathers foreheads pressed together.

You smile at the scene, the memory you’re letting people see. You want to look over at your family but instead you focus on the moment, relishing in seeing your father again even if it is just for a brief period of time. You know the song will be ending soon, the last few bars playing out in your head as the song slows.

The wisps start to fizzle, the scene ends and they begin to come back to you. ‘We play to keep the memories alive,' your fathers voice rings in your head. You close your eyes, squeezing out the tears as you play the last few notes letting your fingers rest on the keys for as long as possible.

When clapping and cheering fills the room you open them and look around. Your eyes find Verso first, locking onto him. He’s moved back into the crowd, there’s a sombre look on his face. You stand up and bow, swallowing to get rid of the lump in your throat. When you look back up he’s gone.

You turn looking for your mother, she’s being consoled by your sister. It’s only been 8 months, your mother lost the love of her life. You wonder if you will ever know what that feels like, true unrequited love. You see your mother struggling, she cried at his bedside for hours, and didn't leave her room for days.

Now all the songs she sings are sad, ballads of grief and sorrow, the halls of your mansion are always filled with the sound of tears on the keyboard. You take one last look behind you to see if you can spot Verso, all you can see is his sister. You smile at her, you’ve missed her friendship.

“That was beautiful.” Someone says, you turn to look at the older woman reaching out to grip your hands.

“Thank you.” You say, smiling and squeezing her hands back because that is what you’re supposed to do.

“I was very sorry to hear about your papa.” She says frowning and tipping her head slightly.

“We all were.” You reply and spy your brother in the crowd. She smiles slightly and lets your hands go, you weave through the crowds as you make it over to your brother who has a fist full of white flowers and his hand on your mothers back.

“You did a good job, it was very beautiful, papa would be proud.” He says. He always looks so tired since he took over your fathers roles and responsibilities, he’s the matriarch of the family now and he will be for the rest of his life. He barely plays anymore, you miss his voice filling the halls. He kisses your mother on the head drops his hand gesturning for you to follow him.

“I saw you talking to Verso.” He says once you’re away from the main crowd. You feel heat rushing to your cheeks and you’re not sure why.

“I was complimenting his painting.” You say.

“It was very beautiful.” He hums and stops walking at a window. You look out over the promenade. There are people dancing and musicians playing.

“Did you know they were coming?” You ask him. He shakes his head, you can tell he seems annoyed about that fact. It’s not like your family is extremely close to the Dessendre’s but you would see them for events, they would always host amazing parties. Everything stopped when the accident happened.

“You should stay away from him.” Your brother says suddenly. You look up at him, you can see his deep set eyes with heavy bags. The nervous twitch in his hand, you know he would rather escape for another cigarette. When papa died it was almost like your big brother grew overnight.

“I was just saying hello. It’s been years since we’ve seen them, I just wanted him to know he has a friend.” You say.

“When the time is ready-” He pauses looking back out the window and letting out a sigh.

“Papa always talked about the Callamand family.” You say hanging your head. The Writers, your father always wanted you to be set up with their oldest; Emil. He’s nice you’ve met him a few times before. The Writers live on the other side of Paris you never used to see them as much as the Dessendre’s.

“It would be good to unite our families.” He says.

“What if I fall in love with a commoner?” You say, he sighs.

“Papa loved maman very much-”

“Loves.” You snap, you don't mean to. “He loves her, just like we love her.”

“I kn-”

“Do you? Putain, it's our family.” You raise your voice.

“I’m doing this for the family.” He snaps through gritted teeth, reaching out and gripping your arm. It shocks you, he’s your older brother but he has never spoken to you like this before. You look down at his hand, maybe he can see the shock in your face because he loosens his grip.

He’s never been like this before.

“Papa wanted the best for all of us.” He says letting your arm go.

“Yes, he did.” You reply, you can’t argue with that. You sigh looking up at your brother, your exhausted older brother who would catch you when you fell and be there for you when you needed it. Now he needs you.

“Clea was a good friend. I would like to see her again.” You say. Your brother sighs moving away from the window.

“I can’t stop you from seeing your friend. But stay away from Verso.” He sighs, you nod and rubs the top of your arm.

“You really did well tonight. Will you be coming to the brunch tomorrow?” He asks.

“If I need to.” You say.

"I could use the company." He nods and smiles. He wants you to be there with him, your mother won’t attend, she will stay at home with your sister. He squeezes your arm one more time before walking away and leaving you alone by the window.

You smile watching a group of children in the square dancing in a circle. They remind you of your little sister, one of them has red hair it catches in the light. She’s around the same age Alicia was when the fire happened. It makes you feel sad. You don’t know how you would feel if you lost your younger sister.

You’d probably be more like Verso than you think. Instead of painting your sorrows you’d be singing them instead. You smile thinking of writing a song for Verso, maybe he’ll like that, maybe it will help him heal.

'Stay away from Verso,' your brothers warning rings in your head. You can't help thinking back to the way he looked, the breard, the deep blue eyes and the whisp of silver hair. He's grown, and his painting was beautiful, you wonder what he thought of your music. Maybe you'll ask him, if you see him, you would like to see him again. You look up seeing fireworks pop in the sky, music fills the hall and you turn to see people starting to dance. You should find your family, socialise and thank people for their support over the last few months.

All you can think about is Verso, if there's one thing for sure after tonight - you need to see him again, no matter what anyone says.

Banners by uzmacchiato & cafekitsune

#clair obscur: expedition 33 #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #expedition 33 spoilers #expedition 33 #verso dessendre #verso x reader #verso x you #verso dessendre x reader

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the-trash-site · 2 months ago

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TFA Starscream and his clones x reader art

I drew this with the romantic comedy of the past in mind.

This post is an illustrated version of Starscream x Reader

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the-trash-site · 2 months ago

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i really wish that there were a reader insert (mostly anakin or obi wan) fics that the reader is from our universe and gets throw in the sw universe. i think that would be a good (and funny) dynamic.

also im pretty sure there was a mando one like this but i cant seem to find it.

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the-trash-site · 2 months ago

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Betting on Losing Dogs

pairing: obi wan x gender neutral reader

synopsis: obi wan sees your ship go down and doesn't hesitate to find you, past be damned

word count: ~4.3k

warnings: typical star wars violence and warnings, crashes (ships), smoke inhalation, smoke poisoning (and all of the symptoms related, including veins changing color, vomiting, light headedness, etc.), one (?) mention of blood, angst, obi-wan doesn't know how to manage his feelings and it causes an argument, anakin is also here

masterlist

a/n: happy may the 4th!

might make a part two if provoked, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! :)

i do not use ai in my work, never have, never will. do not steal my work.

gif credit to @merrysithmas

When your ship went down, he couldn't help the guttural cry that left his lips.

He hadn't realized that he had been on a comm channel with Anakin, that he had indeed heard his weep of grief, his tangible anguish.

Obi-wan hadn't realized that he was the first ship to follow after you, Anakin on his tail.

He hadn't realized that at that moment, he thought that he had completely lost you. Because there he was, tumbling into the planet's atmosphere as your ship lit up ahead of him, the explosion rupturing the freshly formed ship-shaped crater.

Honestly, he was surprised he hadn't crashed his ship with the speed with which he touched down. He ejected from the cockpit and didn't hesitate to throw the helmet off his head. Carelessness and Jedi Code begone, his heart was beating so intensely that he wasn't sure it would keep going. Not if he saw you upon the rubble, ashen lay, covered in the licks of fire.

An echo of his voice was lost upon the noise of the crash, your name being cried into the heat. He knew it was unlike him to be acting so rash, so informal in this manner, and he knew Anakin, following not too far behind, would see this and bank it in his memory.

A second explosion serrated any other thoughts of his. He was close enough that the velocity of it temporarily dismantled his own hearing, blurring his sight, but that didn't matter.

What mattered was reaching you, getting to you, because you had to be in there, you had to be in distress.

You had to be alive.

"Obi-wan, you shouldn't have." You had arrived back at the temple much later than anticipated from your mission, and you were sure you might have been the only one awake in the entire building.

That was until Obi-wan scared the ever lasting bantha out of you. You had arrived back in your simple room, only to find him making your bed. "Am I dreaming right now?"

His head rose at the sound of your voice, shoulder slumping. To an outsider, it may have looked like annoyance or defeat, but you knew him better than that. For him, it was a sigh of relief.

"I was wondering when you'd be getting back."

You set down your small sack of go-belongings, strolling to his side. He was tucking in the sheets, fluffing up the pillows. "You knew I was on my way, you were there for my holo, were you not?"

"I was, but when the bells struck eleven I grew weary. You know how I get." And know you did. He had opened one of your windows you noticed, letting the fresh air of Coruscant rush into the room. "Plus, they always seem to give you nicer pillows than they give me, so it only felt fair to even them out. I switched one with one of mine."

Your heart had skipped a beat at the meaning beneath his words. He had missed you. "I'm assuming that you slept better after that?" A lagged chuckle escaped you, the events of the past two weeks settling in. You were exhausted. "I worry you fall ill, Obi-wan, for surely you'd usually be asleep by now?" You dared to reach an arm around his waist.

You two wouldn't dare to show any sign of affection outside of yours or his quarters, and even then it was sparse. A gentle caress here, a sigh of lust there. It was kept small, what was between you two, but it was yours, and that's what mattered. Your time was shortened even more with the addition of his padawan, who was a sprite little thing. He was Obi-wan's shadow, for better or worse.

His touch snapped you from your thoughts, his hands placed on your shoulders, lightly massaging the knots that had formed in them. Your entire being relaxed into his touch.

"Oh, how I missed you."

You brought a hand up to cradle his cheek, his long eyelashes blinking back at you. "Missing would be putting it mildly, my dear."

- -

If the initial fire didn't kill you, the smoke inhalation surely did. Obi-wan knew this because it was starting to get to him now. Once he got to the debris he lost any sense of control, any drop of calmness that could have been left within him. He couldn't focus enough to meditate now anyway if he tried.

He kept reaching out to you through the Force, trying, pleading, for a response, yet nothing came back. Your ship wasn't that big, so there weren't many locations you could be. If you even were.

The problem? It was still actively on fire.

He drew his robe up before diving in head first, searching in every way possible to find you. The fire taunted him, searing him with every step he took, every hunk of metal he moved. It was as if he was someone else entirely at that moment, a version of him that would only exist outside of the Jedi Order.

It took only a few minutes before the smoke inhalation began to get to him. It was making his breath short and veins red. If it got to him this fast, then he was truly doing this in nothing but a futile attempt.

That didn't stop him. He kept reaching out to you, both through the Force and physically. He yelled for you as much as he could, the smoke cutting off any words trying to escape.

You two were not on talking terms at the moment, not after the past couple of months. In fact, nothing but sour sentences were spilled before one another during your most recent argument.

Was this how it ended? Him succumbing to not only the smoke, but to the guilt of never making things right with you?

He started to get nauseous.

- -

"Oh, we are not done with this conversation."

"Yes, we are. There is no more to discuss."

You scoffed in bewilderment. "Are you kidding me? You're willing to throw everything away all because of your--our-- new titles?" You stood across one another, him angled slightly to your person. You understood there was a new level of seriousness that came with being a master Jedi, but how dare he throw away years of each other just like that?

Especially when you knew damn well that these feelings weren't dissipated from either side.

"What we do, what we have done, it's all in the past now. It has to be." He sliced his hand through the air in emphasis. "No matter our personal feelings, we mustn't form attachments to one another."

You scoffed. "Why are you explaining it to me as if this has not been coursing through my ears for cycles? We were both aware of this when we went into it. It doesn't have to change." You felt as if you were fighting an uphill battle with him here, more so now than ever. He was always very steadfast once his mind was stuck on something, an attribute you typically admired. Until it was against you.

You two studied each other, as if memorizing every last detail. "By declaring these terms, you are acting in such a selfish manner that I'm surprised a fellow Jedi Master--" You struck venom into the last words, knowing they'd hit their mark. "would dare exhibit. Is selfishness not against the code?" Low blow, but needed.

All he ever cared about were titles, about being the infamous negotiator. What a great job he was doing as that now.

He seemed to be taken aback for a moment. He glanced at you with sympathy, as the lover you knew. The one who, mere hours ago, woke up with his arms around you, begging for a few more minutes in bed.

"You know you will always have my heart, my love."

"Don't." You practically growled. A flash of hurt flooded his face, making you all the more vexed. "You don't get to spew all of that just to end with a confession." You took a step towards him. "You don't get to throw away what we had, what we have, just because we got promoted. Just because now, we get to sit in those stupid comfy chairs and make decisions for the galaxy."

His midnight eyes landed on you. "This is what we've wanted all of our lives. This--"

"No, Obi-wan. This is what you have wanted all of your life. All I wanted was you."

Something shifted in him then, something unrecognizable to most, something final.

"Your attachment is too strong. It will welcome nothing but the dark side."

And with that, you had lost him.

"Oh, don't you dare bestow this as one-sided. You know that your attachment is of equivalence, if not greater. I am many things, darling, but I am a fellow Jedi master for a reason, and I will not have you treat me like I'm Anakin listening to you chide him for his antics."

He glanced at you, and you knew him well enough to tell when he entered autopilot. There was no getting him back now.

"No attachments. You know this. This is how it has to be."

And with that, he had lost you.

- -

It was Anakin who found him, ready to collapse.

"Master, you have to get out of there, you've inhaled too much smoke, it'll kill you!" The brunette had shouted his concern for his former teacher, but Obi-wan refused to budge.

"They have to be in here! They have to be--" He continued to tear through the rubble with his Force as much as he could will it. He was growing weaker and weaker by the second. His former padawan came into view, doing a quick sweep of his eyes before they landed on the elder.

"You'll die if you stay in there!" His voice was just barely audible to Obi-wan. The groans of metal overcame them both, a part of the ship beginning to fall.

"We have to find them!" His head spun as he attempted to turn back to the flames, scorch marks searing his robes. When Anakin reached him, he had begun to choke on the smoke.

Anakin had to practically carry him out, and though Obi-wan was in no position to protest, he attempted. He could barely breathe, the smoke rattling his every breath, yet he weakly tried to free himself, to get back to finding you.

You were gone. He couldn't feel your Force signature anywhere near here, and though his senses were definitely diluted thanks to the pile of rubble in front of him, he persevered nonetheless. He could not lose you.

"Master, they--"

"Don't--" Obi-wan took a minute to cough. "Don't s-say it." His voice trembled from a mixture of the smoke and his fear, something that he had--needed to get into check.

"Maybe they got out. Every ship built like theirs is built with an ejection seat, they could have just fallen a ways away." Obi-wan shut his eyes. He understood how Anakin handled grief, always skipping directly to bargaining. "Or, what if their plane crashed slightly off course and this is just another one?" Obi-wan took a half shuddered breath. "Or what if they--"

"Anakin." His voice was rough, scratchy, and final.

"No, master. They might--" The sharp screech of metal disassembling took his words. It was as if they were watching in slow motion, the top half of what was left of the ship falling into the rubble at the bottom. Anakin barely had time to move them both further back before the explosion erupted, taking the last of their senses with them.

They both tumbled onto the ground, a heap of dust veiling any sort of visibility left, a hazy orange glow remaining in the ship's wake.

"Master, may I ask you a question?"

"I'm afraid you just did, Anakin."

"That's not what I meant. This is serious." Anakin looked at Obi-wan with a look that usually meant he had been pondering his thoughts for awhile now. "It's about the code." He couldn't have been older than his mid-teens.

"What answers do you seek, my young padawan?"

"Well..." He scrunched his eyebrows, trying to get his words out. It was obvious that something was plaguing him. "Who put it in place?"

"What's got you thinking about this?" Obi-wan was standing at one of the Jedi temple windows, watching the city planet's speeders whiz by, arms crossed.

"I just think it's pretty futile, and one might even say pointless to attempt to establish some of the rules within the code. I mean," Anakin looked around him, searching for any peering ears. "It's inevitable to break it at one time or the other, is it not?"

Obi-wan looked at his surrogate child. "Are you insinuating that you have?" He spoke in a slightly scolding, slightly amusing tone.

He recognized your Force signature before he saw you. You were no more than a couple of corners away, and if he felt you, you definitely felt him.

"Have you not?"

Obi-wan hummed. "I have come close, but the path of the Jedi always kept me on my tracks."

"And that, Anakin, is what we Jedi masters call a lie. Ironic, coming from one of our own." You had strolled up to the duo, standing on the other side of the young one, mirroring Ob-wan's stance. You could practically feel Obi-wan's eye roll.

"Really, Master? What have you done?" His eyes were wide with disbelief. It was comical to you how much Anakin worshipped Obi-wan. He thought of him much more saint-like than anyone you've met, and you knew it fed into Obi-wan's hidden ego.

"Fine, if I must, I had someone near and dear to me once."

"Once?" You sighed a laugh.

"Twice." He turned to the boy. "It makes us human, to feel. But we must recognize it and trek along. Attachments can only lead to obsession, which in turn will lead to the dark side." You knew he could sense your eye roll.

"All attachments?" Obi-wan was a very pedagogical man. If what he said could plant a beneficial seed within Anakin's mind, he'd be elated. He was always looking for a way to teach the young one, to present a lesson.

"All attachments." It was said with a finality that promoted no further conversation regarding the matter.

That didn't stop you. "Not all attachments."

You could feel Obi-wan's sigh from miles away. "Always like Qui Gon, you were, Master." It was always like this these days. You two were civil in public settings, one might even describe it as dislike that flowed between your space. And to a point, well, it was, for you at least. You had this frustration towards him most days, at the hypocrisy in his words. Because here he would be, in a manner similar to this, preaching the Jedi code.

Yet in private?

It didn't seem as though he followed through with his words. More of a 'do what I say, not as I do' scenario. Because there was no way he 'had' an attachment. Unless you would describe the syllables and sighs passed between your chambers as following the code. The confessions, the pleas, the desperation and promise of each other allowing you both to get through each morning.

Even today, you had lain with him as he held you, willing the night to lengthen so you two wouldn't have to separate for the day.

Yes, he frustrated you, and yes, he was too diplomatic for his own good, but there in the confines of each other, you remembered why all the sneaking, all the hiding was worth it.

And you'd be damned if you didn't try to keep that peace.

The only thing grounding Obi-wan at the moment was the presence of another person. Anakin sat coughing at his side, though he could not make out exactly where by his side he was. The dust hadn't fully settled, the orange haze blanketing their surroundings, a fog that promised destruction.

It wasn't until he felt a pressure on his shoulder that he felt minor relief. Anakin had grasped his pauldron, the metal arm not feeling whatever heat emanated from the material. He helped him stand, though Obi-wan had to lean against him. Smoke poisioning, it had to be.

The dust had finally begun to settle, and that shot Obi-wan's nerves even higher. Still no sign of you. Anakin was talking to him, he could tell that much, but the ringing in his ears prevented any understanding.

It hurt to keep his eyes open, but it hurt even more to close them. Closed, he felt as though he were spinning, another wave of nausea rising up. He gasped as he forced his eyelids apart, struggling to breathe. His mind lagged as he glanced at the wreckage. The main fires had begun to simmer into smaller flames, scattered throughout the remains of the ship.

He did a double take at the far end of his field of sight. There, he could see through a hole this last explosion made, were the remnants of an escape pod. Half of it was blown open, and he was pushing one foot in front of the other before he could even process it. Anakin followed not too far behind, keeping him upright.

It took all of his remaining strength to arrive at the estranged escape pod, and Maker why had he run right in before checking the perimeter? Everything was starting to blur together.

That was until he spotted your helmet. Broken, the face shield cracked and partially missing, blood staining the inside. He couldn't tell if it was the smoke or the shock, but he was gasping for air now. The life in his body drained from him as he kneeled at the remainder of you.

And maybe it was against the code. Maybe it was against all that he stood for, his whole life's work, but he didn't care. He released a hoarse cry from his spot, not loud by any means, heard only by him and your ghost.

And with that, Obi-wan wept.

"For why is my presence requested on the council floor, masters?"

The energy in the room was off, unsteady. Anakin and Ahsoka were following suit, but it was you who had been summoned forward. It was odd, seeing your chair near Master Plo Koon empty. It was even more odd to see that Obi-wan wouldn't meet your eyes.

"Received troubling intel, we have." Yoda never beat around the bush, that one. You turned to face him, the tension in the room as thick as the ferns on Endor.

"We have been given proof of an extraneous violation of the Jedi Code, one that you seem to be facing the brunt of." Master Windu adjusted himself in the chair as he spoke.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Masters."

"Lie, you shall not. Attachment to Master Kenobi, this proof holds."

You could feel your emotions battling for control, as you had prepared for a moment such as this. You both have. Deny, deny, deny. That is what you both agreed upon.

"I do see Master Kenobi as a valuable resource, both for information and for companionship. That is all."

"We do not care for the intricacies of what has or has not happened. We care that anything occurred in the first place. Word has come to us of a romantic entanglement between the two of you. One that does not abide by our code."

It was one battle to face the council and hear them speak what you only heard in nightmares, and it was another battle within to settle your emotions. You stole a glance at Obi-wan, who was looking down at his robes. Shame emanated from him.

What was going on?

"Who told you of this, might I question?"

And oh, how anger seeped through the cracks of a withering statue.

"We are under no obligation to reveal the source. However, due to disciplinary action needing to be bestowed to both of you, we're disregarding that."

Yoda folded his hands atop his cane.

"Tell us, Master Kenobi did."

What.

He continued to avoid your gaze. Why? How? Was provoked this? You let the anger you were usually quick to process flood in, drowning your sensibility.

Master Windu spoke of a warning, though you paid no mind. Your eyes never left that of Obi-wan. He was protecting himself by his cowardice.

You were under a spell then, one that controlled your basic movements. You gave an automated response as you walked from the circle. You were surprised that you weren't removed from your seat or the Order, however, you weren't sure that that didn't happen--after that bomb dropped it all faded.

Time escaped you then, the evening slipping from memory as you mediated (or attempted to) the night away. When the door to your room was opened and the man of the hour sheepishly stepped in, the anger you had finally got to simmer down boiled right back up.

"Get out."

"I wish to--"

"I do not care. I will not hear what you have to say for yourself. Get out."

"It wasn't how they made it out to be."

"Get. Out. I will not ask again." He did not move.

"For once I will abide by your method of defiance, I wish to explain myself." The look in his eyes was that of a guilt ridden man, one that knew something cherished was now fractured. You did not respond. He took that as a window.

Unfortunately, Obi-wan was born just after the sunset. From his birth, he was bound to just miss the good in the universe, fated for the bitter aftermath.

Plus, he was never the best at negotiating with you. That's how he practiced, in the beginning, sharpening this skill. You seemed immune to his efforts, so in between the early mornings, before the city light had entered the windows of your rooms, he would murmur new methods to you. He had always been astounded by that ability of yours.

How foolish he was.

"Someone must have seen us. We must not have been careful enough. They went after you, claimed that you held feelings for me, that it was one-sided. They began to undermine your skills. I had to say something, I stepped in--I couldn't idly sit by. They tricked me to confession, into admitting our status. I was caught off guard, I let my heart take control. I--" His words died out.

The silence sat between you two as it simmered, the sounds of speeders filling the gap of voices.

"For once I will abide by your methods of defiance, and explain my view of this." Your fury met his guilt, colliding. "Worse has been said to me, and worse has been put at risk. In your attempt to achieve the lesser of two evils, you have doomed not only our devotion to each other, but also my reliability as a Jedi."

He stood there, akin to a child receiving a lecture from a teacher. The realization made him feel ill.

"Get out."

Obi-wan was ready to succumb to his fate. He had never made things right with you. He would deface himself over and over again in front of the Council if it meant your hand would find his once more. You were his home, his tether, and he had snipped it away.

Now he was paying the price.

He was sure that Anakin would get him to his feet, would aid in their exit, but he did not want to leave you, wherever you were. He couldn't justify it. He was too light-headed to put up a fight though as Anakin dragged him up and out, your helmet falling from Obi-wan's hands as he began to lose feeling in his fingers. He had just made it out of the initial disaster when Anakin suddenly let him collapse, sinking to his knees. His blurry vision allowed him to make out the man running towards a minor heap of rubble that landed away from the mass of destruction.

Obi-wan squinted at the odd formation of the rubble, the fuzzy shapes making it look more like a person. Unless--

Anakin's head shot back towards his Master's before returning to the heap on the ground.

It was you.

Call it adrenaline, call it his last fighting chance, but something made Obi-wan get up. Every one of his muscles and bones tensed in protest, his lungs leading the deterrent in his new mission.

It took much longer than he thought it would, the smoke making his head feel airy and his stomach twist. He could feel the pulse of blood in every step, could feel his breaths quickening.

When he made it to your side, he let his body win and sank down next to your frame. Anakin was pushing at your chest, breathing life back into your lungs, attempting to raise you from your purgatorial sleep.

Obi-wan used the last of his energy to mediate, to call upon those lost to the Force already, begging them to reject you from their world for now.

He swore a silent promise to make it right with you, to take you to Naboo when you both were alright and intertwine your lives. He would spend every last one of his days making you happy if it meant you lived. He would leave the Order, start a new life, marry you, whatever it took to prove his love, his oath to you.

Anakin's pushes grew frantic as the seconds ticked. Obi-wan choked out your name through his smoke-laden larynx.

And then you gasped.

You rolled over to your side, coughing, bleeding, but breathing. His former padawan sank down next to him exhausted as Obi-wan's shaky hands grasped one of your own.

And, somehow, someway, he knew it would smooth out, if he survived this. Because his intertwined fingers gave yours a squeeze.

And yours squeezed back.

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the-trash-site · 2 months ago

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THE GALA - A Clone Dating Sim

You are a Jedi General. The Council has assigned you a very important mission: the infiltration of a Separatist gala on Raxus. But you will not be going alone--you are allowed to bring a date on this adventure. In the heart of enemy territory, who will you count on to watch your back?

PLAY HERE: THE GALA

Ideal play experience is on desktop! (I think you can play on mobile it just looks a lil yuccy)

Clone bbs x Fem!Jedi player FEATURED CLONES: Sergeant Hunter, Tech, Crosshair, Wrecker, Captain Rex, Commander Wolffe, and ARC Twins Fives & Echo

RATING: 18+ MINORS DNI - The paths can be SFW or NSFW depending on your choices (2nd option is always the NSFW one!) - general warning for smut if you make those choices, more specifics below the cut!

Additional (less relevant) info beneath the cut!

HAPPY MAY 4TH! ENJOY MY LOVES~~

COMPREHENSIVE WARNINGS LIST: In general, lots of flirting, innuendo, pet names. Established relationship for all

Hunter: LOTS of flirting (he is a whore), p in v sex

Tech: Oral (f receiving)

Crosshair: Fingering

Wrecker: Not much for him honestly, implied canoodling (p in v), oblivious boy ♥

Captain Rex: dirty talk, praise, oral (m! Receiving)

Commander Wolffe: rough! p in v

Fives & Echo: Multiple clones (no clonec*st), lots of flirting, Echo is self conscious!

-ART ASSETS I drew all of the Clone art! I found the most nakedest screencap I could of any of them (SURPRISINGLY DIFFICULT) and then traced the base, then looked for Star Wars Male Fashion (WAY FUCKING HARDER) to draw on them and dress them up! I think for Hunter and Fives/Echo I just went crazy but for all the rest lmk if u can spot who I stole the outfits from, i deadass dont remember at this point For Background art I found them all on google images - from what I recall, it's mostly concept art and screenshots from games! -ENGINE I made this in Twine, an incredible tool for making text-based games! I highly recommend looking into it. It's really easy to use and there are a ton of tutorials online!

AN: Thank you so much for playing! Please let me know what you think, I had so much fun making this✨✨ it is so phenomenally cringe but I hope you all enjoy ♥ (also if you spot any bugs or typos, please feel free to let me know and I will fix!!)

TELL ME YOUR FAVORITE PATH I like Rex Crosshair Wrecker the best I think

"""taglist""" - @shinyshayminflower @starrylothcat @pb-jellybeans @jediknightjana

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the-trash-site · 3 months ago

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Still love this one so posted it here again 😌

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the-trash-site · 3 months ago

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Verso relationship headcanons

Pairing: g/n reader x painted Verso

Warnings: MDNI, canon setting, mild spoilers for the game, some nsfw smutty headcanons in the last part

Writer's note: i have few ideas and wanna write a few little somethings, so just wanted to define Verso a little bit more for myself before I start doing all this. Support banner by @cafekitsune

Verso doesn’t chase people, but he stays beside you. When he first meets you, he’s watchful, quiet. He listens more than he speaks, and his presence feels calm but unreadable. At first, you think he’s simply reserved. Later, you realize: he’s always looking for someone to hold onto.

He surprises you with how funny he is. Not the loud, outrageous kind of funny. Verso’s humor is dry, clever, and timed just right. He’s the guy who’ll quip softly under his breath at the worst possible time just to get you to laugh in the middle of a crisis.

You were the one who made the first move, or thought you did. In truth, he was quietly encouraging you the whole time. The small glances, the subtle closeness, the soft way he said your name - it was all intentional. He just never wanted to rush you.

Touch is sacred to him. He never takes it for granted. When you hold his hand, his fingers curl around yours so gently, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

He’s not overtly clingy, but if you sit next to him, he’ll gradually lean in until your shoulders are touching. If you lie down beside him, he’ll shift closer until his forehead rests against yours, or you're tucked securely under his chin.

He kisses you slowly, thoughtfully. Like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s not sure he’ll get to do it again. It’s always careful, but never cold.

He holds you in his sleep. Always. Even if he starts on the other side of the bed, he’ll be curled around you by morning. You’ve woken up to find his hand in your hair, his face tucked against your neck, his breath soft and even.

He likes to do things with you. Even if it’s quiet work - making memos, cleaning weapons, preparing rations - he feels more grounded when you’re nearby.

He’s surprisingly good at small, domestic tasks. He braids rope better than anyone in the camp, and he brews tea like it’s a ritual. If you’re injured, he’s the one you want redressing your wounds: he’s gentle, precise, and always murmuring quiet reassurances.

He remembers everything. Your favorite way to eat eggs. Favorite pastry. Which side you sleep on. The fact that you get cold when the wind shifts. He rarely says anything about it, he just adjusts accordingly.

He doesn’t share easily, but he does with you. Not in big confessions, but in moments: a story, a sigh, a half-finished sentence. You learn to read the things he leaves unsaid.

You don’t know why he sometimes stares at the campfire like he’s mourning something. Or why he hesitates before kissing you goodnight. You don’t know what he carries, but you feel it. You’ve told him before: “Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.” He didn’t answer, but he kissed your forehead and held you until morning. NSFW headcanons:

Verso is gentle until he’s not. He starts off slow. Careful. Every touch is like a prayer. But once you’re his, once you ask for more, there’s a darker edge beneath the surface. He holds nothing back. He can’t.

He doesn’t treat sex casually. Whether it’s your first time or your fiftieth, there’s always an air of meaning behind it. You’ll catch him staring at you mid-act like he’s memorizing the way your body arches, the way you say his name.

He always puts you first. You won’t even have to ask, he’s attuned to every breath you take, every small sound, and he reads your reactions like scripture. Your pleasure is his anchor, his obsession. He needs to make you feel good like it’s the only way he can prove he’s real.

He doesn't do dirty talk per se, bu oh does he talk. He’s not loud, but when he speaks? It's all in that low, close voice that feels like it crawls down your spine. “There… that’s it. That’s what I wanted to hear.” “Tell me what you need. I’ll give you anything.” “You’re perfect like this… you know that?”

He wants to hear you. If you’re shy? He’ll tease it out of you slowly, murmuring praise in your ear, coaxing your voice with his touch. If you’re vocal? He drinks in every sound like it’s a gift.

He struggles sometimes with vulnerability afterward. You might see him get a little quiet after, especially if it was intense or loving. He’ll hold you like he’s afraid to let go but won’t always say why. He’ll just ask, “Was that okay?” with more weight behind it than he lets on.

He does have a praise kink -for yours, not his. He needs to be told he’s doing good. That he’s wanted. That he feels real to you. Whispering, “I want you,” or “You’re mine,” will wreck him every time.

Giving oral? An art form. Verso takes his time, devotes himself to it like it’s sacred. Expect strong arms pinning your thighs down while he loses himself between them. He’d do it for hours if you let him. He loves the way you come undone.

He’s into eye contact. Intense, soul-searching, “don’t-look-away-from-me” kind of eye contact. He wants to see you fall apart and wants you to see how much he feels for you when you do.

Loves it when you take initiative. If you climb into his lap, straddle him, or whisper in his ear that you want him? He gets so still. Like his breath catches in his throat. He’ll blink once, then reach for you with shaking hands, like you just gave him the stars.

Loves aftercare. Whether it was sweet or intense, he’s all about holding you close afterward. Pulling the blanket around both of you. Stroking your back. Kissing the top of your head and whispering, “You’re everything to me.”

There’s always something just beneath the surface. A tension, like he’s fighting something, holding back too much emotion or too much truth. But in these moments, it slips out: The way he touches you like you’re a memory he’s terrified of losing.The way he gasps your name like he’s grateful to be saying it.The way he holds you after like he might never get the chance again.

He never says it during sex, not I love you. Not directly. But it’s in every touch, every look. You feel it more than you hear it.

#verso x reader #verso x you #verso expedition 33 #verso dessendre #verso smut #verso headcanons #clair obscur: expedition 33 #clair obscur #clair obscur verso #clair obscur headcanons

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the-trash-site · 3 months ago

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Life imitates art - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: 2.6k words. Jack is sent into a tailspin when the woman he’s been eyeing for months at his amputee support group arrives at the Pitt in a gurney. Based on this request by @seasiren212!

Warnings: canon-typical depiction of wounds and medical situations, cancer in remission, some medical jargon, reader’s history of BKA, Jack’s history of AKA & accident, age gap, angst, etc. The most unrealistic part of this fic is a doctor spending this much time with one patient (live laugh love the U.S. healthcare system).

a/n: ugh I cried a little bit while writing this. I’m so passionate about oncology care mwah. Abbot is working day shift in this fic. Surrender yourself to the plot and pretend he’s covering for Robby if you must. Divider credit!

At 23 years old, your leg was amputated just below the knee. You’d been fighting bone marrow cancer for a while now, and you were running out of treatment options. To mitigate the risk of significant metastasis, your oncologist recommended an amputation.

So it was off with your leg.

Before the amputation, you’d spent months in and out of the hospital. Somehow, despite the fatigue, aches, and genuine existential crisis over whether this reality was a fate better than death, you graduated with your Master's degree in art history after completing most of the program virtually from your hospital bed. You got special permission from the dean of your university’s college of the arts to defend your thesis from the hospital. Your nurses arranged for you to use a conference room on the floor and made sure everything was thoroughly cleaned to prevent the risk of secondary infection.

Your IV was hooked up to some medications you couldn’t pronounce, but by now, you’d learned how to wave your arms around wildly without letting the tubing hinder you. The thesis committee didn’t go easy on you during your defense just because you were sick. Good. You didn’t want them to. You’d researched and studied your ass off, and earned the right to defend your thesis. The one you’d spent countless sleepless nights and nauseating days working on. So what if you were presenting at UPMC’s Cancer Center?

The oncology unit staff were the first to celebrate you as soon as you made it out of the conference room with happy tears in your eyes. In the time you’d been presenting, the halls had been decorated with streamers. Balloons surrounded your hospital room, and you were given an elaborate bouquet of artificial flowers. You did it.

The RN who’d been caring for you the longest was the one to push your wheelchair across the stage during your hooding ceremony. The oncology unit staff lined the front row of the audience and cheered louder than you’d ever heard.

“MA” looked pretty damn good after your name in your email signature. The Master of Arts degree hung proudly on the wall of your apartment, a forever reminder of your resilience through it all.

It took grueling months to find the right prosthetic and get it fitted properly, and even more years of physical therapy to allow you to be here today, giving narrated walking tours through the Carnegie Museum of Art.

Jack met you at his amputee support group.

At first, he assumed you were there as a student. You were quiet. Observant. Some of the local clinical psychology degree programs assigned students to attend open support group meetings. The large, structured tote bag that followed you to every meeting supported his theory. He imagined you had a laptop, a textbook or two, and a can of Red Bull in the bag, if he had to guess.

You didn’t take notes like other students Jack saw in the past, but you didn’t seem like the type that needed to take notes in the moment, anyway. You were a breathtaking wallflower at the meetings, it was hard not to notice you. The floor-length dresses that complemented your body and draped across you in all the right places were delicate and dainty. Jack was dying to know if your personality matched your exterior.

If Abbot had to guess, he’d say the mystery girl at the amputee support group was in her mid-to-late twenties, though she didn’t necessarily dress like it. Your wardrobe was all maxi skirts and long flowy dresses, cardigans and cable knit sweaters, statement earrings and small chain necklaces. Jack overheard one of the younger group members complimenting your clothing style one day, describing it as “serving cottage core meets coastal grandma chic.” Whatever the hell that meant.

At one of the meetings, you barely showed up on time. You were flustered and a bit disheveled, blowing a stray strand of hair out of your face, but still beautiful as ever. An intricately decorated lanyard and your employee badge hung out of the purse’s wide mouth.

Your name, MA. Art Historian, Curator, and Guest Guide. Carnegie Museum of Art.

Hmm. Jack wasn’t really one for the arts. He was most creative when figuring out how to perform complex medical procedures in unconventional situations. He was methodical and analytical in his life. He approached situations and his work with scientific precision, but he could be tempted to give the museum a visit if it meant he might run into you.

The Pitt’s ambulance bay was never empty for long. Gurneys rolled in and out of the ER all day and night. After all his years in emergency medicine, few things surprised Doctor Abbot anymore.

Until you rolled in.

Dana was the first to reach the EMTs, taking report as she guided them to an available room. Doctor Abbot watched from the provider desk, his mouth slightly parted as his eyes tracked you the whole way across the Pitt.

The charge nurse barely made it out of the room and assigned the patient to Abbot before he jumped out of his seat and bee-lined to room five. “On it,” he said, to no one in particular. Dana stood back and observed his uncharacteristic movements for half a second with her hands on her hips before returning to her millions of other tasks.

Doctor Abbot pulled back the exam room curtain to reveal you sitting on the gurney, fidgeting with your museum badge and shaking your exposed shoe back and forth.

“Hi, kid,” he greeted, donning gloves. He took note of the prosthetic leg covered in floral designs resting next to your hip. Not a student. An amputee. Abbot hummed inwardly.

“Oh. Hi, Jack,” you responded, surprise gracing your face. You knew he was a doctor; he mentioned working at the hospital a couple of times during support group meetings, you just didn’t know he was a doctor here. You took him in. Frustratingly, he was handsome as ever in his black scrubs with toned, muscled arms that threatened to burst out of his short sleeves, with a badge that read Dr. Abbot. Attending Emergency Medicine Physician. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Despite the situation, you couldn’t help but notice that his gray curls were a little more mussed than usual, like he’d run his hands through them at least half a dozen times. You yearned to follow suit.

Mateo followed Doctor Abbot into the exam room not long after and glanced between you and the physician a couple of times, trying to decipher the dynamic. It was obvious the two of you knew each other, but he kept quiet and set up the WOW for orders in case Doctor Abbot needed it.

Jack sat down smoothly on a rolling stool and scooted close to your bedside. Maybe closer than was necessary, but no one in the room objected to it.

“What brings you in?” He swept his eyes over you analytically. You looked fine on the surface, sans the removed prosthetic accompanying you against the bed rails.

“Bum leg,” you sighed. This was embarrassing. Even when you leaned back against the gurney, unsuccessfully attempting to relax, you never broke eye contact with Jack.

“Figures. Mind if I take a look?” Abbot replied without missing a beat. He rubbed his chin, eyes darting between your face and the raised slope of your leg underneath your dress.

You hesitantly pulled up your skirt to reveal the angry red skin surrounding what was left of your knee joint. For some reason, exposing your thigh felt intimate, even in the hospital. It didn’t look good, and it admittedly had Jack concerned, but he wouldn’t let you know that. At least not yet. It didn’t look like cellulitis, at least not on the surface. There was no wound weeping or skin dimpling. He’d still run cultures just to be safe.

“Are you resting your leg often? Do you remove the prosthetic?” He ran through a slew of questions. Sure, he knew more about amputations and prosthetics than the average physician, but he wanted to know more about your story.

“Well, I’ve given roughly 8 hours of walking tours through the museum every day for the past week, plus 2 hours today,” you rattled off your schedule. It was strenuous, but this was the life you worked and studied and fought to build for yourself. You had no regrets.

Jack gave you a stern look, and you shrank under his gaze. You almost reminded him that he was being hypocritical, with his 12-hour shifts at the Pitt, but decided against it.

“What else?” He pressed. You sighed.

“I can put my socks and sleeves on, but they’re tighter than normal. The prosthetic will fit on, but it hurts.” The a lot was silent, but you both knew it was there. “I was limping this morning, and I eventually fell while giving a tour,” you continued. Doctor Abbot immediately scanned you for signs of any other fall-related injury. No bruises or bumps as far as he could see. “But a guest caught me. And the museum director insisted that I get checked out. Even though I’m fine,” you finished, exasperated.

“You and I must have different definitions of ‘fine,’ my friend,” Jack exhaled and leaned back, just far enough to not topple off the stool.

A comfortable silence fell between you two while Jack weighed treatment options. This was more of an outpatient specialist matter, but he was glad you came in. He’d learned more about you in the past 15 minutes than he had in the past 3 months of staring longingly at you during the amputee support group meetings.

Mateo felt like he was intruding on a private moment. He cleared his throat and started preemptively entering orders in your chart.

“Cultures? For cellulitis rule-out, Dr. Abbot?” The physician nodded thankfully to the nurse. Jack didn’t miss the flash of fear that crossed your face. Doctor Abbot ordered an ultrasound as well, just to make sure there wasn’t an underlying abscess forming, potentially evidenced by the edema at the end of your limb.

You cleared your throat. “Could you also run a CBC?” you asked, wringing your hands together. Abbot nodded again and stood, dusting his hands on his pants to keep them busy.

“Why?” It wasn’t accusatory. He’d do it anyway if you asked for it; he just wanted to know why.

“I’m in remission. Bone marrow cancer. Doesn’t hurt to check for signs of recurrence when funky things happen,” you shrugged, though you were obviously tense as you gestured to what was left of your left while pulling your dress skirt back down.

The room went silent.

That definitely would’ve been added to your chart’s medical history if you hadn’t come in by ambulance and instead had the pleasure of meeting Lupe at registration.

Up until now, why you attended the support group meetings wasn’t Jack’s business. Now, you were his patient. Your health and history were absolutely his business now.

Doctor Abbot offered a small smile and agreed to the additional test. You didn’t want his sympathy, he knew that better than anyone. He knocked on the door frame on his way out with a promise to be back shortly.

For a minute, Jack pondered what it would’ve been like to know he’d be losing his leg before it happened. When he had his accident, the decision was made for him. The blood loss had been near fatal. He’d long since passed out when the military medics realized they were forced to decide between his life or his limb, the lesser of two evils. He wondered if he had the time to plan a new reality beforehand, if things would be any different. Any better. He didn’t think they would.

He thought you must’ve been young when you were diagnosed with cancer. You were young now, notably younger than him. He wondered when you had the amputation, how old you were—how young you were. The ‘stump’, as you called it, was healed. The multiple incisions left silvery scars on your marred skin. You had lived without the leg for quite a while now.

Mateo drew your blood panel and cultures. He carefully added the bottles and tubes into a stat biohazard lab bag with the promise that an ultrasound tech would be by soon.

“Good news and bad news,” Doctor Abbot strolled back into your exam room with results as soon as he could, true to his word.

“Good news: Blood cultures were negative and the CBC was all within normal limits. And the bad news,” he continued, scrolling through your chart on an iPad before looking up at you. You nodded with a sharp inhale and gripped the gurney’s side rail, prepping for whatever diagnosis he might deliver. His eyes softened.

“Bad news,” he said quieter, “is you’ll need to stay off that leg for a while. At least until some of the inflammation goes down. I’ll leave the specific guidance up to your prosthetist. But for now, doctor’s orders are to cut back on the 8-hour walking tours. You got a wheelchair?” He asked with his arms crossed over his distractingly broad chest. He was solution-oriented, but not convinced you would heed the medical advice. You were strong-willed, that much was evident.

You groaned and threw an arm over your face to cover your eyes. You thought of the wheelchair you’d shoved to the back of your closet years ago. After a few beats of silence, you nod. You’re not happy about the plan of care, but you agree to it nonetheless.

“Do you have someone to take you home?” Jack asked, shuffling your discharge paperwork to keep his hands busy. Otherwise, he might give in to the urge to reach out to you.

Everyone you knew was either working or busy. Internally, you felt like a burden. The people in your life didn’t feel that way, but it didn’t make the guilt go away. You chuckled inwardly. What doesn’t kill you gives you a dark sense of humor.

“I’ll figure it out,” you replied nonchalantly, already opening the rideshare app on your phone. Jack frowned. If he weren’t in the thick of his shift, he’d offer to let you hang around in the lounge and take you home himself, but that wouldn’t be for another 5 hours. At least.

“I’ll come check on you after my shift,” he resigned. It wasn’t a question or an offer.

“You don’t have to do that,” you looked up at him from beneath your lashes, shocked that he would even suggest such a thing.

“I insist. It’ll make me feel better knowing you’re okay,” Jack replied without missing a beat. So he cares about you. Hmm. His hands found his hips, only adding to his inherent sass factor.

“You don’t know where I live,” you retorted. The banter was fun. God forbid a girl take advantage of her amputation to flirt with a silver fox trauma doc.

“I’m literally two taps away from finding your address in your chart,” Abbot smirked. He wasn’t lying. A couple of gestures on the iPad later, he was parroting your address back at you.

“Fine. But you better bring food with you.” It was your turn to leave no room for argument. You eyed him up and down, watching the way he squared his shoulders with confidence.

“It’s a date,” Jack replied easily, without thinking. You couldn’t tell whose cheeks were more flushed, yours or his. He didn’t dare take it back, though. Either way, you agreed.

“It’s a date.”

a/n: At the risk of sounding desperate, I'm begging y'all to leave comments and interact with my work. The likes are so super duper appreciated but I kind of feel like I'm posting into a void when 99% of the engagement is likes with no comments. anyway!! COMMENTS ARE REALLY APPRECIATED!! They keep me motivated to write more <3

Find more of my writing on my master list.

Turn on post notifications @thesewordsxupdates to get notified when I release new fics.

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the-trash-site · 3 months ago

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What's left, after fire

A/N: inspired by this headcanon i made, hope this is good

warnings: same as headcanon, mushy shit, bit of smut at the end, this is... way too long, my apologies, 5500 words ish

The phone rings at 2:37 a.m.

Not your usual alarm.

No, this is the specific ringtone you gave to Kento's phone number.

And that’s how you know it’s bad.

You’re up in seconds, phone halfway to your ear with sleep still clinging to your skin. His name on your screen. But it’s not him on the other line. Of course it isn’t.

It’s Shoko.

You’re already standing when she says: “He’s alive.” You’re grabbing your coat- socks, shoes, when she adds: “Barely.”

Your heart punches into your lungs. You don’t ask for details. Don’t ask if it’s Mahito. Don’t ask how bad. Your body moves, all instinct, all panic, scrambling out of your room and into the dark of the apartment like you’ll find him just standing there, like he’ll be whole and warm and unbroken in the kitchen drinking his terrible black coffee.

He’s not.

He’s not anywhere. And you’re running out the door, hopping, trying to put your fucking shoes on when she says, “We’re doing everything we can.”

*-*

You sprint through empty streets like something’s chasing you.

The air tastes like smoke. Not the kind you can smell. The kind that stays lodged behind your teeth long after something’s burned down.

You don’t remember calling a taxi. You don’t remember slipping on shoes. You don’t remember your tears, until you’re choking on them.

You don’t make it into the treatment room.

Shoko hadn’t sugarcoated anything. She never did. She’d told you — steady, low voice, but not emotionless — that Kento was in critical condition. That he’d been caught in the explosion. That Mahito had gotten to him.

And that you couldn’t see him yet.

Not yet.

Tokyo Jujutsu High’s medical ward is quieter than you expected.

No sirens. No chaos. Just antiseptic, fatigue, and grief bleeding out from every cracked breath.

You’re pacing in the waiting corridor when you see him.

“Yuji—”

He looks like a ghost in a teenager’s skin. Pale. Gaunt. Blood still drying on his temple. There's this heavy, empty look in his eyes, like he hasn't come back all the way yet.

"Sensei... you're here," he mumbles, trying to stand straighter when he sees you.

You pull him into a hug before you even think about it.

He winces.

He tenses like he’s not used to it, then melts. Just for a second.

“Sorry, sorry—shit—are you okay?” you breathe, pulling back and frantically looking him over. You want to ask a thousand things, but none of them are the right words. Not now. Not when the person you love is on the other side of that wall.

“Nanami… he was—he saved us. He shouldn’t have been there anymore. He was done. But he… he stayed. For us. For me.” Yuji's voice cracks around the edges.

That breaks something in your chest.

You lower yourself to sit beside him. “Tell me what happened.”

Yuji nods slowly. But his mouth opens and closes a few times. It’s like the words are too tangled, like they hurt to drag out.

He starts anyway.

“Well, uh—Mahito’s a little bitch. So, that’s one thing. He cornered us near the station, and Nanami-senpai, he was already—he looked like he’d been through hell, you know? Like, literally. Not in a metaphor way. Like, real—burning fire, lava, Dante’s Inferno shit—”

“Yuji,” you whisper, pained, but he’s spiraling.

“—and he was talking weird. Like… not himself. But he still fought. He still stood up. Even when—God, even when his shirt was literally fused to his skin—”

“Stop it.”

Megumi’s voice cuts through the fog like cold steel.

He walks up beside the bench you and Yuji are on, hands in his pockets, bandages up his forearm, bruises around his jaw.

“Stop making it worse.”

Yuji swallows hard and sinks in on himself. “Sorry.”

Megumi sighs, eyes softer when he turns to you:

“He took a hit from Mahito’s Idle Transfiguration head-on. And the explosion that followed—he shielded the others from it.”

Your stomach drops.

“His left side took the brunt of it,” Megumi continues. “We don’t know the full extent yet, but… Shoko’s trying everything. He’s stable now, but he was barely breathing when we found him.”

You want to scream. You want to scream and fight and break something and go back in time and throw yourself into the fire instead of him.

But all you can do is sit there, hands shaking.

So you sit.

You sit.

And wait.

And burn.

*-*

It’s nearly four hours before someone tells you he’s out of surgery.

Shoko’s expression is unreadable when she appears in the doorway. But the fact that she’s standing at all—that she came herself—makes your lungs stop working.

You almost don't want her to speak.

“You can see him now,” she says.

The room is sterile and dim, but all you can see is him.

Nanami.

At first, you barely recognize him.

He’s half-wrapped in gauze, skin blotched with angry, red burns that creep up his neck and jaw. His left arm is splinted, rigid and shaking with every shallow breath. His chest rises under a thin hospital blanket, uneven. Alive, but broken.

You almost crumple.

You grip the edge of his bed and squeeze until your knuckles go white.

And then his one good eye opens. Slowly. Painfully.

It takes him a second to focus.

“…My love,” he rasps.

That’s it. That’s the dam breaker. You’re crying before you even realize it.

“I thought—I thought I lost you,” you whisper, crawling closer, careful not to touch anywhere that might hurt. “I woke up and you were gone. You didn’t even leave a note, you bastard—”

Nanami gives the faintest chuckle. It hurts to hear. Literally—he winces with it. His throat is raw.

“You’re yelling at a man who’s 60% gauze and regret,” he murmurs.

“You asshole,” you croak. “You absolute—fucking—mummy.”

You’re crying when you say it. Your voice is cracking in half. But it bubbles out, all the same.

“You look like you lost a fight with a sarcophagus.” You add.

You laugh. You cry harder. The sound is ugly.

He blinks, slow. The corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not funny.”

You rest your forehead lightly on the side of his mattress, biting back a sob. “I am so funny. And you’re going to be stuck with me making jokes for the rest of your life.”

“Promise?”

His voice is barely audible.

You lift your head. “I promise.”

He nods once.

Then his eye—his right eye—shifts slightly to the left, where the other… isn’t. Not anymore. The socket remains, but the eye itself is clouded over. Foggy. Like ash on glass.

“I can’t see you,” he says, voice so low you barely catch it. “Not completely.”

You reach out gently, brushing your fingers across his good hand—where his palm is blistered, but whole. You wrap your hand around his. Firm. Unflinching.

“You see enough,” you say.

You don’t flinch. You don’t cry harder at the sight. You don’t pull away.

This is still him.

This is your Kento. Little bitch Mahito couldn't take that away from you.

You bring his hand to your lips and kiss the back of it gently, like a promise.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “You’re stuck with me, mummy man.”

*-*

One week post-discharge: your apartment smells like a funeral.

Too many flowers.

Too many damn flowers. Vases overflowing, petals drooping. You love them—truly. But there’s only so much chrysanthemum and hospital-grade apology cards a girl can take before it feels like someone’s pre-mourning a man who’s still breathing in the next room.

There’s cake, too. Because.. why not.

Yuji sent a cake.

A full, tiered, cream-frosted monstrosity with, “GLAD YOU DIDN’T DIE LOL 🎉” written in red icing. You didn’t cry when you saw it. You laughed so hard you nearly choked. Nanami just blinked at it and said:

“That’s not an appropriate message for a convalescent.” But he ate a piece. Quietly.

Megumi’s card is a single line:

“Glad you lived. Do you want the dogs?”

You taped it to the fridge.

But of course, Nanami doesn’t let you help. With anything.

Not with dressing. Not with his bandages. Not even with pouring his meds into a little ceramic dish you bought specifically for ease.

You try not to get mad. You do. You try, so fucking hard.

But holy shit is it frustrating when he hobbles across the room like a stubborn old man refusing a cane, and you’re watching with your heart in your throat thinking, you almost died, you idiot. you stupid, brave, beautiful idiot— LET ME LOVE YOU.

But he won’t.

He won’t let you see the burns. He won’t let you peel the gauze. He won’t let you clean the ointment-sticky skin that’s trying to knit itself back together.

You know it’s not about vanity. It’s shame. Or something close to it.

You catch him once—shirt halfway off in the bathroom, spine twisting like a shadow—and he slams the door so fast the wall shakes.

It’s not about you. You know that. But it feels like it is. Sometimes.

*-*

Nanami doesn’t talk much. Which, to be fair, is kind of his brand. But now it’s… quieter than before.

Before, his silences had weight. Purpose. You could hear them settle between his words like punctuation.

Now, it’s like he’s waiting for the sound of burning.

He’ll start a sentence. Then just… stop. Eyes distant. Jaw tight. Like the words got lost in the wreckage.

You learn to read the stillness. The breath pauses. You fill the silence without speaking. You sit beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Fingers brushing but never locking. You never push.

But God, you want to.

You want to hold him down and scream:

I love you. Let me love you. Let me help you. Let me carry some of this fucking weight before it eats you alive—

But you don’t.

Not until the nurse opens her mouth.

She’s only here for fifteen minutes. Every day. And she’s kind enough, in that stiff, overly-brisk medical way. But today she takes you aside, clipboard tucked under her arm, voice flat like an old school principal.

“You need to start helping him with the back application. That scarring is going to restrict muscle movement if it tightens more. He’s not applying it properly to the left lat—”

You blink.

“I know that,” you snap. “I’ve tried. He won’t let me.”

The nurse arches an eyebrow. “Then make him.”

You stare at her. Blank.

She sighs, already scribbling notes. “He’ll let you, if you push. People don’t want to ask for help, especially after trauma. But if he doesn’t soften the tissue, he’ll never get full mobility back.”

And then she leaves. Like she didn’t just detonate a bomb in the hallway.

*-*

That night, you don’t scream. You don’t yell.

But you’re not quiet, either.

You close the bedroom door behind you and cross your arms, staring at where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt off, back hunched like he’s apologizing to no one in particular.

“You need to let me help,” you say. Calm. But not soft.

Nanami doesn’t look up. “I’m handling it.”

“You’re not.”

He exhales. Tired. “I don’t want you to see it.”

You take a step forward. “Kento.”

His head bows. Still not meeting your eyes. “It’s not just… burns. It’s parts of me that don’t move anymore. Skin that doesn’t stretch the way it should. It’s ruined.”

And it hits you.

That’s what he thinks. That he’s ruined. Not recovering. Not healing.

Ruined.

You kneel in front of him. Hands on your thighs. Eyes level.

“I’m not scared of what’s broken,” you whisper. “I’m scared of losing you.”

Nanami’s jaw clenches. You watch his throat bob. He still doesn’t cry.

“I want you to let me help you,” you say again, softer now. “Not because you need me to. But because I need to. I need to do something other than sit here and watch you hate your body for surviving.”

Silence. Long. Cold.

Then: “Tomorrow,” he says.

The next morning, he’s waiting for you.

No shirt. Just the bandages hanging loose across his torso, the left side of his back exposed like some ancient wound.

You don’t react. Not right away. You breathe. You wash your hands- fucking thoroughly because you'd rather eat glass than give him an infection. You walk slowly.

And when you’re standing behind him, in the morning light, all you can think is:

He’s still here.

That’s all that matters.

The burn scars are brutal. Pink and raw in places, hardened and shiny in others. Stretching from the curve of his shoulder down to the top of his waist. The kind of injury you don’t just get over.

He’s so still you can hear his breath catch when you raise your hand.

You don’t flinch.

You just press your fingers gently—so gently—to the edges of a scar line.

Like it’s not something ruined. Like it’s something sacred.

His back shudders.

He doesn’t cry. But his hands tremble. Just a little. Enough.

You press your forehead to his spine, between the burns, whisper-soft:

“You’re not ruined.”

He exhales. A low, fractured sound.

You pick up the ointment. And you start working it in, tenderly. Slowly. As if every inch of him is precious. Because it is.

You don’t speak. He doesn’t stop you.

And when you’re done, he reaches back—quiet—and lets his fingers brush your arm.

“Thank you,” he says.

And you finally let yourself cry. Just a little. Quietly. Into his skin.

*-*

The scars are no longer angry. They’ve softened with time—flattened in places, pink fading to a muted, fibrous sheen. The kind of pain that doesn’t scream anymore, just hums in the background like bad wiring.

It’s been three months. Maybe four. Time’s a blur now. All days taste the same—faintly metallic and a little bit tired.

Nanami is… back. Back on his feet. Back at Jujutsu High. Back in classrooms and faculty meetings, sipping shitty coffee and letting Yuji talk his ear off about absolutely nothing.

Not like back back, not like field-ready or fire-forged, shoulder-to-shoulder with kids too young to be this familiar with death—but he’s back. Present. Upright. In motion. You watch the slow, stubborn crawl of it every day. The small wins. The almosts. The tiny resurrections.

He teaches now. Theory, mostly. Cursed technique structure. Domain strategy. Battle rhythm. Things that don’t require limbs or line of sight or the ability to survive explosion-level impact.

Things that live in that clever, tired mind of his. Things that don’t need fists. Things that don’t bleed.

He wears glasses again. One lens. Just the right side.

You joked once—called him your “budget cyclops.”

He didn’t laugh. But he let you kiss the edge of the frame while you giggled into his jaw.

(He let you. That’s enough.)

Yuji’s a little shit, lovingly so.

He practically flings himself at Nanami every time they pass in the halls—makes a big deal out of it, throws his arms around him like he’s still trying to prove Nanami’s real, that he exists, that he lived. Nanami always sighs, but he never shrugs him off.

Megumi, on the other hand, offers the divine dogs like they’re some kind of furry SWAT team. “I can have them patrol the classroom. Just in case,” he says with his usual grim little shrug, like this isn’t the most heartfelt thing anyone’s ever offered.

And sometimes, on no schedule and with no explanation, you’ll walk into the school and find two shikigami sprawled at the classroom door. Nanami never comments. But he reaches out—always—and runs a hand over their heads.

As if to say: thank you for guarding what’s left of me.

*-*

He’s better about letting you help now.

Every night, you sit him down on the edge of the bed, tug his shirt off over his head, and rub the ointment in slow, concentric circles over his ribs, down the old burn tracks along his back. The ones the nurse once scolded you about.

He always tenses at first. Still. The muscles twitch. Then he exhales—slow. Measured. Lets his shoulders drop.

It’s ritual now. Like prayer. Sacred.

Sometimes he tells you about his day. Sometimes he doesn’t.

You always listen, either way. Because he comes home exhausted. Not from the work.

From the existing.

He walks through the door, drops his bag, and collapses face-down on the couch like someone pulled the last pin out of his spine.

And you—always—follow. Curl next to him, press soft kisses to the knobs of his vertebrae, whisper some nonsense against his ribs like:

“Rough day, professor?” you whisper.

He hums. Doesn’t move.

You kiss again. “Want me to fail your students for you?”

That gets a smile. A small one. But it’s there.

“Only Yuji,” he murmurs, muffled by the pillow.

“Cruel,” you say, resting your cheek on his back. “Hot.”

*-*

But the nights are hardest.

The nights—fuck. The nights are where the ghosts crawl in.

He doesn’t sleep well. Doesn’t even pretend to. You wake up to the sharp jolt of his body curling in, breath short, chest heaving. He never screams. Never thrashes. Just… folds.

You pretend to wake up second.

Even if you were already staring at the ceiling when he bolted up, chest slick with sweat, that blind eye open and useless in the dark.

You find him in the bathroom sometimes. Lights off. Just the pale blue hum of the moonlight against his bare skin.

Staring at the mirror. Still.

Not horrified. Not disgusted.

Just… gone.

Like he’s trying to remember who he used to be. The man before Mahito. Before the train station. Before fire kissed half his body and made him something else entirely.

You walk in quietly, every time. Wrap your arms around his middle. Press your cheek to his spine.

“You’re still the man I love,” you say. Soft. Like prayer.

He never replies. But his hand always finds yours.

You don’t tell him you notice the way he hesitates before putting on a tie now. You don’t mention how long he spends folding his sleeves just so, like the line of the fabric might distract from the burn that crawls up his bicep.

You just meet him by the front door every morning, press a kiss to the side of his jaw, and say, “You look sharp enough to kill.”

He snorts. Tired. “I think I’m retired from that.”

“You’re still lethal,” you say. “Just with PowerPoint now.”

*-*

Sometimes, you catch him—really catch him—looking at you like he’s mourning something.

As if he’s afraid you’re clinging to a ghost. Like he’s not convinced he’s still worth the weight of your love.

It’s not about vanity. It never has been.

Nanami doesn’t care that he’s scarred. That his left eye is clouded over, glassy and dead. He cares that he can’t find himself inside that body anymore.

He mourns. Quietly. Constantly.

The version of himself that stood on train tracks and didn’t flinch. The man who walked into fire and came back half-burned. The one who fought beside his students and thought, I can do this. I am enough.

Now?

He bumps into the coffee table sometimes. Low cabinets. The edge of the desk. Vision off by an inch or two, left side always shadowed. Depth perception a constant game of Russian roulette.

You started calling it his “Roomba moments.” He scowled the first time. But when you gently guided his hand around the corner and whispered, “Beep beep, obstacle detected,” he bit back a smile.

He doesn’t joke about it. But he lets you.

One night, he says it. Voice small. Not broken, but close.

“I’m not who you fell in love with.”

You’re brushing your teeth. You pause mid-spit, blinking foam out of your eyes.

You turn. “What?”

He’s sitting on the edge of the tub. Shirtless. Pants loose. Scars dark in the overhead light. He looks like a man still crawling out of the wreckage.

You set your toothbrush down. Walk to him. Kneel.

You take his face in your hands.

“You’re not,” you whisper. “You’re better.”

He scoffs. Eyes tight. “I’m barely functional.”

“Then I’m in love with a barely functional, emotionally constipated, half-blind hot disaster, and I wouldn’t trade that man for anything. Not even the perfect one I met in the staff room.”

He doesn’t laugh. But his shoulders drop. He looks at you like you’re something miraculous. Like you’re unreal.

You lean forward and kiss the jagged edge of the scar that cuts along his collarbone.

You whisper, “You don’t have to be whole to be mine.”

And this time, he cries.

And then:

“Still the handsomest bastard I’ve ever seen.”

And for a moment—just a moment—he believes you.

Quietly. With his face pressed into your shoulder, hands in your hair, your name on his lips like it’s the only truth he has left.

*-*

Nanami reads again.

Long-form fiction, mostly. Hard-boiled detective stuff with monochrome covers and titles like Death on 5th Avenue or The Man Who Knew Too Much. Stuff with men in hats and cigarettes, lies drawn like loaded pistols.

He reads them quietly, glasses slipping down his nose, mouth sometimes twitching at the drier quips.

“The dame had legs for days, and morals that vanished when the gin ran out.”

You tease him mercilessly. Say shit like, “Oh, you like dames now? Should I start wearing fishnets and lying to you?”

He deadpans: “You already do.”

"False information!!!"

You laugh. He smiles. Quiet, but real.

One time, you slipped a raunchy romance novel into the stack.

Some old mass-market paperback with a half-naked pirate and a woman dramatically fainting on the cover.

You handed it to him with a straight face.

“It’s literature, Kento. Read it.”

He rolled his eyes. Later that night, you caught him reading it in bed, expression stuck somewhere between baffled and deeply morally offended.

“‘Her heaving bosom glistened under the moonlight…’? Is this medically accurate?"

“It’s smut. Not an anatomy textbook.”

“‘His member throbbed like a war drum’—how is this allowed in print?”

“Babe, let the war drum live.”

You laughed so hard you actually wheezed. He looked at you like you were personally responsible for the degradation of the English language. Still? He read the whole damn thing.

Twice. (for research purposes apparently).

Now, on evenings when the world slows down enough to breathe, you curl into him—legs over his lap, your cheek on his thigh, while he reads aloud.

His voice is low. Measured. Like honey poured over cracked glass.

It makes you shiver. Every damn time.

Sometimes, he pauses mid-sentence, brushes his fingers over your shoulder absently. Like touch has become a habit. One he’s still relearning.

Other times, when the air gets quiet enough, when the lamplight hits his face just so—you crawl into his lap, tilt his chin, and kiss him soft.

“Still my favorite sound,” you whisper. “That voice of yours.”

He hums.

Kisses your temple. Keeps reading like his hands aren’t trembling just slightly on the page.

He doesn’t initiate intimacy much anymore. Not like before.

Not because he doesn’t want it. God, he wants it.

But shame is a thick thing. Clings to him like smoke. Like old blood.

He thinks you don’t notice the way he tenses when you undress him. The way he subtly turns his left side away from the light. The way his fingers fumble at his own buttons like they’re made of barbed wire.

You do. Of course, you do.

You notice everything about him.

The way he shaves less now. The way he sighs when he thinks you’re not listening. The way his left hand shakes just enough that he can’t always pour tea without spilling.

The first time you crawl into his lap, straddle him slow, kiss him with full-mouth softness and whisper, “Let me love you…”—he trembles.

He literally fucking shakes.

You pull back, but his hands grip your hips, bruising. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

“Hey,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over the scar on his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to flinch when I touch you.”

He doesn’t cry. Not right away.

But when you unbutton his shirt, when you press your lips reverently to the jagged line down his ribs—the burn that turned his skin to ruin—he exhales something broken.

Your kisses there aren’t sexual. They’re worship.

Mouth soft. Touch softer.

“This,” you whisper. “This part of you is holy to me.”

His head falls back. One tear rolls down.

Just one.

But it’s enough to unravel something that’s been tightly wound for months.

“I thought I lost this,” he breathes. “I thought I lost you.”

You kiss his jaw. The curve of his throat. The trembling line of his collarbone.

“You’ll never lose me,” you say, fierce. “Not unless you ask me to leave. And even then, I’d probably wait outside with takeout and threaten you with emotional manipulation until you let me back in.”

A wet laugh escapes him. Sharp. Choked.

You lean back just enough to cup his face. The side he tries to hide. The eye that’s fogged over and useless now. The cheek split once, now healed into scar.

“Look at me,” you whisper.

And when he finally does?

You smile.

“You are so fucking beautiful. You know that?”

He doesn’t believe you. Not fully.

But he wants to. And that’s enough—for now.

*-*

He still wears the cracked watch.

The one that got half-melted in the explosion. The glass shattered, hands frozen.

You found it once in the drawer, nestled beside a box of old cufflinks and painkillers. Asked gently:

“Why keep it?”

He didn’t look at you when he answered.

“It’s a reminder.”

“Of what?”

A pause. Then:

“That I lived. Somehow. And that I should make the time worth it.”

You kissed his knuckles. Didn’t say anything else. Just held his hand, silently promising to help him remember that every day he wakes up is already enough.

*-*

He still doesn’t think he’s sexy.

Not with the way his muscles pull wrong now. Not with the ghost tremor in his left arm. Not with the burns that ripple across his hip like melted wax.

Sex, to him, is something that belonged to another life.

One where he was whole. Strong. Desirable.

You’re trying to show him that this life—this version of him—is still worthy of desire. Want. Love.

One night, you curl against him in bed, thigh hooked over his hip, and start tracing slow circles over his scarred chest.

You kiss the edge of his sternum. The dip of his ribs. The ruined flesh around his side.

“You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen,” you murmur. “I’d climb you like a tree if your back could take it.”

He snorts.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re hot. Let me win this one.”

“You already win everything. You’re—” He falters. “…You’re everything.”

You pause. Heart aching in your ribs like it wants to break free.

“You still don’t see it, huh?”

“See what?”

“That I want you. All of you. The broken parts, the bruised parts, the burned ones too. You’re not half a man to me. You’re my whole fucking world.”

His breath catches.

Your hands slide lower. Slow. Gentle. Worship, not greed.

“Let me show you,” you whisper. “Let me remind you what being wanted feels like.”

He doesn’t answer with words. Just pulls you close and kisses you like he’s starving.

*-*

You’re feral for him.

There’s no poetic way to say it. It’s been six months since the incident. Six months since you almost lost him. Six months since he came home wrapped in gauze and silence. And now?

Now he's healing. Scarred, sure. Changed, yes. But alive.

And he’s started going back to the gym again, moving like he trusts his body again. The muscle is coming back slow and thick and solid. And god, it's doing things to you.

He's got this post-war, broad-shouldered, thick-thighed, arms-like-safehouses kind of body. Less soldier, more protector. Bit of softness around the middle.

Dad-bod deluxe.

And your brain? Gone. Melted. Dripping out of your ears every time he walks past shirtless, rubbing a towel over his hair like he's not a fucking walking miracle.

You nibble him. A lot.

The first time was casual. A joke. You were curled up next to him, half on his lap, pressing kisses along his collarbone.

"Mmh," you murmured, lips dragging to his pec, and then—chomp.

Gentle. Teasing. Just enough to feel the heat of him under your teeth.

He blinked at you, stunned. "Did you just bite me?"

You grinned. Feral. "Sure did."

He stared at you like he couldn't decide whether to be scandalized or aroused. You hoped for both.

You started doing it more.

Over breakfast, you’d kiss the back of his neck and give the tiniest nip. After a shower, while he’s shirtless and still damp, you’d sink your teeth softly into the slope of his shoulder. You called them lovebites. He called them a "menace to public decency."

But he never stops you.

*-*

He never used to be vocal. Not during sex. Not even much during intimacy.

Pre-Shibuya Nanami was still. Focused. Always in control. The kind of man who held tension in his back, who kissed you like a promise, who loved you with his body but not often with his voice. And you understood. He was all structure, all integrity. Still waters.

But after Shibuya—

After death came and nearly stole him—

Something cracked.

He holds you now like he’s starving.

Like you might vanish.

Like you’re air in his lungs and blood in his veins and if he doesn’t touch you, he might forget what being alive feels like.

He makes love like a man begging the universe to let him stay.

It’s slow. Deep. Reverent.

He keeps his hand on your face when he’s inside you. His mouth on yours. Whispers your name like it means salvation.

One night, it’s soft. Just you in one of his old button-ups, straddling him in the living room. Soft lamp glow. Rain against the window. He’s shirtless, pants barely pushed down to his thighs, the tension in his shoulders betraying just how wrecked he feels about being desired like this.

You drag your fingers over his stomach, the healed skin, the softness. He tries to hide his face again, and again you speak up:

"Don’t," you whisper. "Don’t look away."

He freezes. You lean in, kiss the scar near his temple.

"I want to see you. All of you."

His voice is hoarse. "I don’t know how you still want me."

"Then let me remind you."

You roll your hips slow. He gasps. His hands clamp to your waist like you’re the only real thing left. And fuck does the stretch sting, just like before, his cock reaching your soft and sensitive cervix- he groans, hips bucking.

You ride him slow. Tender. Every hip movement is a love letter. Every breath a prayer.

When he finally comes, he sobs. Just one broken sound as he buries his face in your neck.

"Thank you," he whispers. Over and over, like a chant. "Thank you. Thank you."

After, he wraps around you like armor. You’re curled together on the couch, limbs tangled, his chest to your back. His hand splays warm and wide over your belly.

You tease him, gentle: "You’re getting soft."

"You’re insatiable," he murmurs. Kisses the curve of your shoulder. "You’re going to kill me."

"Better me than another curse."

He huffs a laugh. Squeezes you closer.

And when you reach back, fingers lacing with his, you whisper:

"You’re still him, you know. Still the man I fell for. I’d bite you when you’re 90."

He kisses your hair. Breathes you in.

He doesn't say it, but you feel it in the way he presses closer.

You brought him back.

And he’ll spend every day trying to be worthy of that.

A/N: cough cough idk if this is worthy, but i hope it was enjoyable for yall.

Masterlist

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