#reader insert fluff

You both stood like that for a moment. Letting time pass by as Jason held you as tightly as he dared.

Then his voice brushed over your cheek. “Wanna go get something to eat?”

You nodded again and finally stepped out of his embrace to change into something city appropriate while Jason hid away the vigilante gear.

When you emerged in fresh clothes, Jason scooped up his keys - passing you your helmet - and followed you out the door.

In such early hours, silence often follows Jason around like a cloud. Not because he means too, but because it's comfortable. Especially with you.

There's no pressure to talk or any expectations to do anything but be present.

He holds your hand in his - rough palms cradling yours like you're something special.

And to him, you are. It's why he takes the time to check your helmet fits properly and the straps are tight but not constricting. It's why he bumps visors with you, like a kiss, before mounting the bike and guiding you onto the seat behind him.

Jason gives your thigh a squeeze before kicking the bike to life. Filling the quiet streets with the roar of your departure.

Jason doesn't speed through traffic whenever you're on the bike. Even though there's not a single car out at this time - Jason drives only a little over the speed limit.

He's careful with turns and double checks every corner before flying across the intersections. He doesn't even stop at red lights anymore, and you've given up trying to scold him for it.

Your arms rest comfortably around his waist. The gloved fingers occasionally squeezed by his own when Jason doesn't need to concentrate.

Your helmets are connected wirelessly, but not a word needs to be uttered.

I'm good. The brush of his fingers said.

Missed you. Your arms responded when they tightened around his middle. Not a single word was needed - your presence was all he craved at times like this.

Jason brings you to your shared favoured place to eat. Some dark alley 24/7 place that is actually very friendly - just looks a bit sketchy. The owners smile warmly, just as quiet and peaceful as the gentle morning outside. Which you crack a small joke with Jason over.

“Gotham being quiet? Hell has frozen over.” You say in the little dimly lit restaurant.

“You probably just jinxed it.” Jason replied with an easy-going smile. Lazily munching on some appetisers while the cooks whipped up your order.

When your orders are ready, you carry the bags while Jason drives home. But he takes the long route back. Weaving through the streets bordering lush parks. The early morning joggers are just beginning to emerge as the sun starts to paint Gotham in light. Misted by dew from the night's soft rainstorm.

Now that there was a little more traffic, Jason did abide by the law a little more. Stopping between two cars at a set of red lights, his hands resting on your legs as he waits for the color to change.

His fingers draw small patterns on your pants. Palms occasionally squeeze your knee as his helmet turns and dips to watch your surroundings.

He never says it. And you know it's a mixture of habits and the routine of being out in the Gotham streets - but Jason always has your back.

A little nudge here to move you away from the road when you're walking the streets. The subtle reposition of his body so he's in between you and a loud group of strangers. Sometimes you doubt Jason knows he's doing it. But you never feel more secure than when you're with him.

And even on the bike, riding at high speeds or weaving through traffic - he's got you.

You arrive home just as the morning commute begins to congest the streets. Jason carries the bags upstairs, one hand full of food and the other snugly holding yours again.

You take the keys from him and unlock your apartment. Jason nudges the door open and holds it for you to enter first.

But he beats you to the living room. Eyes scanning, shoulders tense - until he places down the food and you relock the door and join him.

The food doesn't last. But it's delicious and filling. A warmth bubbles up in your stomach that makes you sleepy as Gotham starts to come alive with blaring horns and the daily chaos.

Jason is already out. Head rolling back against the couch cushions, an arm circling your shoulders and his mouth ajar slightly with a snore. You lean against his side with your head resting against his chest and enjoy the moment for a little longer.

“Hun, let's get you to bed.” Your voice stirs Jason from a black void of sleep. He jerks a little when he feels you shifting. As if he's about to tug you in against his chest again, but he then realizes where he is…and how much his neck was beginning to hurt.

“Hmm, stay with me?” He asked in a sleep heavy tone. Husked with exhaustion as you took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

“Of course.” You reply softly, not wanting to break the quiet of the room. You close the blackout blinds and Jason begins to remove his clothes for something comfier before climbing into bed.

His head hits the pillow and he's out. Lips pursed with a half-said word to you and his arm reaching out across your side of the bed - waiting for you to climb under the covers and join him.

Even in his sleep, Jason tucks you in against his body when your warmth brushes against his hand.

His lips lethargically kiss your cheek, eyes still closed but precise. And then he's snoring.

Your eyes flutter close and soon the sleep you should have had comes to you in the safety of Jason's arms.

And you had found him.

Or, perhaps - you finally allowed yourselves to notice each other.

That’s how it felt, you thought: like a slow reveal, something waiting under the surface for permission to come up for air.

It wasn’t anything dramatic at first. Just looks across the gym. Passing comments in debriefs that made you laugh - followed by the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smile that looked like it had to breach surface tension just to show itself.

Then it was a brush of your arms when you passed him a mug in the kitchen. A sharp, quiet joke that made him laugh that rough, rusty sound that always seemed to surprise even him, and nudge your arm with his own.

And now... you were something. Not exactly official. Not exactly casual. You weren’t sleeping in his bed every night - but when you were on the couch and he came in, he gravitated toward you like it was gravity.

He flirted - oh, how he flirted - and he was persistence. Present. Available. In a roomful of people, always choosing you.

And today, for the most part, had been like any other over the past several weeks and months.

Until Thor got a little handsy.

It was stupid, really. Some documentary on TV you were only half-watching, some awe-filled comment from Thor, some sly smirk and snappy retort from you, a pillow hitting your shoulder with force, an even-more-violent pillow missile whacking against his head, then a hand around your ankle - yanking you onto your back - and a reminder that he is an older brother.

Two massive hands struck - tickling with quick and careful squeezes beside your hips, and your reaction was instantaneous; you burst into laughter, trying to jerk sideways, trying to kick against his thigh for leverage to escape.

"No fair!" You squeaked, sniffling between laughter and jerking again when one hand slid down to grab at the muscle above your kneecap. "THOR!" You wanted to argue that his unwarranted attack was a violation of Earth's unilateral peace agreement with Asgard, but the words were garbled in laughter until Thor allowed you squirm your way off the couch, and land in a heap on the floor. "Ow," you whined, but didn't really mean it.

Thor chuckled and turned up the volume of the documentary, a smug smile on his face at his victory. You glowered, no malice behind it, and stood, straightening your clothes.

Across the room, you felt his stare before you saw it. Your smile softened as your gaze flicked past Thor’s shoulder - locking with storm-blue eyes that had gone a shade colder.

Bucky was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, face unreadable - but his jaw was tight. Not angry, exactly. But something darker simmered beneath the surface.

You could feel the weight of it. The shift in him.

You brushed your hands on your leggings, crossing the room toward Bucky, and you clocked Sam watching the exchange with a lifted brow - but he, wisely, said nothing.

Bucky didn’t move when you reached him.

He uncrossed his arms slowly as you approached, but his expression didn’t change.

You stopped just in front of him, close enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes. "Hey."

His gaze flicked over your face, and you felt his eyes settle briefly on your mouth before he glanced away.

"Hey," he said shortly.

You cocked your head. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he said. Clipped. Too fast.

You paused, sighed through your nose. Then, you stepped in closer and leaned your shoulder into his chest, folding your arms as if settling in for comfort, but also calling his bluff. You didn’t push, didn’t ask again. You just settled, letting your body speak trust, even if he wasn’t ready to.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then, with a long exhale, he dipped his head and kissed the side of yours.

It was slow. Lingering. Just behind your ear.

Not performative. Not light.

Claiming.

Your breath caught - just a little.

And when he pulled back, you could feel the heat of his stare trailing down your cheek, your neck, the slope of your shoulder. His voice, when he spoke, was low.

"Didn’t know you were so ticklish."

You smiled, soft, eyes half-lidded now, aware of how close your mouth was to his. "You've never tried."

His lips curved - barely. "Maybe I should."

A pause. His fingers skimmed the hem of your sweatshirt, almost idly - but you weren’t fooled. His touch was precise. Curious. Possessive in the way he wasn’t quite letting himself show.

"What's wrong, Buck."

"I just…" he started, then stopped. Swallowed. Your eyes didn't leave him. He studied your face a moment. Then: "It’s stupid."

"Try me."

Another pause. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. "I like being the one makin' you laugh."

Your brows rose in question. In steady challenge.

"I don't mean..." you could see his breath trapped high up in his chest, "not that I've got a problem with you laughing with other people - that's not what I'm saying - but... that feels different." His eyes held yours. "Tickling feels personal." His voice dropped lower. "Intimate."

Your chest ached. Not in a bad way.

Softly. Warmly.

Gods, you adored this man.

He used the silence to wince at his own words, tick his jaw, shake his head, start to over-explain. "Shit. I'm not sayin' any of this right. The last thing I want is for you to feel... controlled or-"

"No, I get it," You smiled gently, leaning a little further into him. "You'd just... prefer if tickling was a you thing."

He tilted his head, eyes not wavering, a small grateful tug at the corner of his lips. "A you and me thing," he clarified.

You smiled, gave a single nod, and slipped your fingers through his metal hand, warm and easy, and you tipped your face up to his. "That's fine by me, Sergeant." You placed a quick kiss on the curve of his jaw. Then whispered: "and just you know for sure... it's a perfectly reasonable ask."

And that earned you a real smile. Small. Lopsided. Relieved, and real.

And even better - it reached his eyes.

You gave a flirtatious little smile and added, "especially since we're 'goin' steady' - isn't that how you said it?"

"Shut up," he murmured, hooking an arm around your shoulders to pull you back in. "Punk," he whispered in that playful way of his, but then smoothed a hand down the centre of your back, and placed a kiss on the top of your head.

Time continued as it usually did - long days, short weeks, even shorter months, and you’d mostly forgotten about that day in the lounge.

New rhythms were forming.

You and Bucky weren’t exactly a textbook couple - you still had separate suites, separate closets, and more trauma between you than one relationship should reasonably have - but fuck, you were good together.

Especially those quiet moments. In the in-between.

The evenings where he let you play with his hair with a distracted hum, or the mornings where he pressed his face into your shoulder, refusing to get up until you whispered something filthy just to make him chuckle.

He was still healing, and it wasn’t linear. Some days were heavier than others. Some nights he held you like he was trying to tether himself to reality. And some days, you gave him space because you knew he needed to figure it out in his own head first.

This day had started like any other.

You’d laced up your boots and headed to the gym. Steve was there, you decided to spar. Bucky came in just after you started, watching with a proud spark and approving nod of your form. Your fierceness.

You were halfway through a round when Steve really got the better of you, and your back hit the mat with a breathless OOF. Steve’s hand planted against your sternum, keeping you down.

You winced. "Jeez, Rogers. Doesn't the serum have an expiration date or something?"

He lifted a brow. "Not that I'm aware of. Guess you'll just have to do better."

You rolled your eyes and muttered something snarky about brittle old-man hips coming for him, and before you could react - Steve’s fingers dug in where they were planted, hitting several ticklish spots on the front of your ribcage.

Your squeak echoed through the gym.

"Shit!" you gasped, laughter bubbling up as you squirmed, curling in on yourself as his hand continued the onslaught for a few torturous seconds. "Cut it out," you wheezed, swatting as he finally pulled his hand away and you started to re-compose yourself.

He smiled and held out a hand. "C'mon. One more round."

You narrowed your eyes playfully, but took his help. "Clean this time."

He nodded once. "Scout's honour."

But as you moved back into your stance to reset the drill, your attention flicked - automatically, instinctively - to the space where Bucky had been standing earlier.

It was empty. And the doors were sliding shut.

You showered and dressed for the rest of the day before seeking Bucky out, deciding to check his room first. You didn’t knock right away - just rested your knuckles against the door and waited a beat. Long enough to hear the subtle sound of a page turning inside.

Then you knocked. In the same rhythm you always did.

"It's open," came Bucky’s voice. A little too calm.

You entered, seeing him freshly showered, legs stretched out on the mattress in front of him, a few pillows between his spine and the headboard, paperback in hand. His hair was messily-tied, loose strands half-dried and curling against his temples.

"Hey," you said softly, closing the door behind you.

He glanced up. His face warmed slightly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Hey."

He looked back at his book.

You flexed your hands and crossed the room, perching on the edge of the bed beside him. Not crowding. Just sitting there, quietly, letting the moment settle around you both.

After some silence, you spoke. "I'm... hoping you’re not upset at me for what happened in the gym today."

Bucky didn’t look up again. "I’m not upset at you."

You studied his profile. The tension in his jaw. The way his eyes wouldn’t meet yours.

"But you are upset."

He closed the book. Sighed. Scrubbed a hand down his face, voice low. "I'm not mad. I don’t blame you for anything. I just..."

"Didn’t like it," you finished gently.

He didn’t answer.

You pressed, voice soft but pointed. "It was Steve, Buck. And I didn't start it."

"I know. I know, it's-"

"Look... I know we agreed tickling would be and you and me thing, but it feels like you just want it off the table completely. I mean, you've never even tried. And if it's something you don't like, that's okay, you just need to-"

His laugh was dry. "What I don't like is wondering if I'd accidentally crack one of your ribs."

Your lips parted.

There it was. The vulnerability behind the sarcasm.

The muscle in his jaw flexed as he looked away. His shoulders had gone stiff, like he was bracing for battle. But a fight wasn’t coming.

You turned your body more fully toward him, knees bending to tuck under you beside his hip. You reached out, fingers curling lightly around his thigh.

"Buck."

He still didn't meet your eye, held up the metal hand with a little shake of his head. "It’s not exactly the most delicate tool in the shed."

You let a beat pass. Then slid your hand over his thigh more firmly - gentle, slow, grounding. "That doesn’t mean it would hurt me." You traced your fingers lightly over the seam of his sweats. "It's never hurt me before, has it?"

He gave a long exhale through his nose and closed his eyes. "'m sorry," he tilted his head back against the headboard. Your thumb brushed his thigh.

"I get where you're coming from. I do. And I don't wanna push you to do things you're not comfortable with, but I... I like a little roughhousing," a wry chuckle burst through your lips. Bucky's neck went upright again, eyes opening and finally finding yours. "I know we're not kids - I know who we are, I know what we do - but we can still... play. That's part of being human. Part of being together. We're supposed to have a little fun."

He let out another breath, and his eyes narrowed. Head tilted. It was an effort - you could see that; he was consciously trying to change his mood. And it was working. You could feel the shift. The warmth seeping back into his eyes.

He let his voice drop to that flirty tease he knew worked wonders against your composure. "Sounds like you're begging for a tickle fight."

You bit back a smile. "No - that’d be boring."

He lifted a brow. "Boring."

You shrugged one shoulder innocently. "It's not really fun to fight when I know I'd win."

His expression twitched. "Y'know, you can be a brat sometimes."

You smirked, whispered. "You’re just mad cause I’m better at it than you."

He blinked. "At what, exactly?"

You lunged at him.

Your hands landed at his ribs, fingers jabbing quickly, finding flesh over muscle - and Bucky jerked, letting out a startled sound that was halfway between a laugh and a scoff.

"Oh-ho," he said, voice dropping an octave. "Okay. That's it."

Before you could react further, his book hit the nightstand, and he twisted, grabbing you around the waist and hauling you over his thighs onto the centre of the bed.

You giggled and scrambled as you landed half-tangled in your own limbs, and Bucky followed. This was a chase. A mess of skin and clothes and laughter, your bodies rolling awkwardly across the mattress, twisting and dodging while he made exaggerated grabs for your sides.

You caught his wrist once, tried to twist, and he used the opening to finally get his fingers against your ribs - eliciting a squeal you barely bit back.

"Oh, sweetheart..." he chuckled, triumphant. "You’re doomed."

"Just you wait," you wheezed, pulling your leg away just as he made a grab for your ankle.

He grinned, ducking your flailing elbow. "You asked for this." His right hand slipped under your hoodie, fingers finding the edge of your hip.

"Wait!" You arched immediately, hands pushing against his wrist, laughter bubbling from your throat, wild and breathless.

"Oh, that’s a good spot," he murmured, delighting in the discovery. "I'm makin' a mental note of this one." He dug in again, making you kick your legs uselessly against the bedspread.

You shoved at his shoulder, half-laughing, half-wrestling. "You call this a tickle fight? This- ugh! This is weak!"

"Weak?"

He went for your ribs this time. You shrieked again, dissolving into laughter, twisting and squirming on the bed as his hands chased you across the mattress.

"Bucky! Wait- okay- let's reset!"

"We haven’t even started."

It turned into a tangle. A full-body scuffle - your limbs thrashing against his as he followed you wherever you rolled, one hand darting in to squeeze the side of your knee, another digging into your waist, drawing all sorts of laughter and flustered sounds from you. He broke your defences with each passing second.

He loved the sound of it all. Loved seeing you lose your cool. Your cheeks warmed, eyes gleaming as you tried to scramble up the bed.

"You're all talk, you know that?" he said, catching your ankle and dragging you back down with one hand. "All mouth."

"You love my mouth." You countered, twisting, trying to push up on your elbows.

"You’re not getting away that easy." He chuckled, catching the place above your knee and yanking you more fully into his reach. You landed on your side with your back to him, and couldn't get away before his arm hooked low around your stomach.

He pressed his thumb against your hip and you bucked, laughing uncontrollably as your hands tried to pry his free. He was laughing too now - the kind of warm, dark sound that made your stomach flip. And you were caught. Really caught. With every passing ticklish second, you lost more fine motor control, more tension seeped out of you, more fight evaporated.

Your mouth though... that kept going.

Kinda.

It tried.

"You- I- I swear I’m gonna-"

"Tell me," he leaned in, smiled against your ear. "Tell me what you're gonna do."

You craned your neck to look at him, giggling, breathless, still defiant. "Careful, old man. You’re sounding winded."

Bucky stilled.

Smiled and- oh, fuck. Not just smiled.

It was that rare grin. Full, and boyish, and wicked.

And suddenly you were flat on your back, his weight braced over you, knees straddling your hips. Your wrists were pulled against your chest, caught tightly between the two of you in one of his hands.

Your breath hitched.

He hadn't been letting you win...

But he had been letting you fight.

And it looked like you'd just lost that privilege.

"Repeat that?" he said, voice husky with mock offence.

You smirked, opened your mouth to do so-

You gasped at the cold as his metal hand slipped under your hoodie. Before you could protest the icy temperature, he dug in.

Right beside your hip, just on the side of your stomach. The spot you didn't even know was there to be found. But he pressed in fast, little circles, cold metal fingers expertly tormenting the exact right place to send you into chaos.

You threw your head back and laughed, deep and loud and hearty, unable to do anything else.

Bucky kept grinning, delighted, wisps of his hair falling forward as he leaned in close, not letting you escape any part of his attention.

"Mmm," he hummed, smug. "There's the goldmine."

He picked up his pace and you started squealing, legs kicking the bed as you bucked under him, laughter tearing out of your throat.

"I'm gonna die-" you gasped.

"No no. You’ll live. I'll make sure of it," he chuckled, hand still tormenting, switching up his rhythm just enough to keep you on edge. "... I'll make sure you feel every second of this."

You were shrieking now, helpless, because any movement sent you right back into him, his hands, his body, his laughter. The cold of his fingers under your shirt.

His touch stayed with you, devilish and steady and clawing at the softest part of your belly. And his grin only widened, his lips ducking to your neck. "You like my metal hand now, sweetheart?" he cooed, lips and stubble grazing the sensitive skin below your ear.

You arched between the bed and his body, crying out in a half-sob of laughter. "NO- NO- not my nnn- not there-!"

"You still wanna tell me what you're gonna do?"

"Oka- OKAY! You proved your point! You WIN!"

Blessedly - he stopped, watching as the air flooded your lungs, chuckling as you squeaked when he pressed a brief kiss to the side of your neck.

His metal hand stayed on your skin but slid to rest on your waist, idle and strong and now docile.

And you? You were completely undone, breathless, runner's high, chest rising fast under his hand still holding your wrists. And your dazed eyes met his.

His face had softened. That teasing glow still lingered behind his smile - but now it came with something gentler. Something warm.

"Y'alright?" he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking to your lips for a brief second.

You took in a big breath. "I think my lungs collapsed."

He snorted. "Yeah. You're fine."

You tried to glare, but there was no sharpness behind it, only relief. Only fun. Only something heating up a little more. So you slipped one hand out of his hold, and hooked a finger around the chain poking out just above the side of his collar.

Thin metal slid against itself, and fabric. Your eyes locked on the shape of it beneath his shirt.

You pulled, gently, and watched the shape move. Up, towards his collar. More chain free. Then, his dog tags peaked out. Tipped free.

They tinked softly as they landed in your open palm.

Then your eyes flicked back up to his, winding the chain once more around your finger. Insistent.

He let you pull him down to meet you.

And he let you kiss him senseless.

And after all that... all of this really became a thing. A part of your rhythm, threading itself into your days like muscle memory.

Because it wasn’t just tickling. Or roughhousing. It was you.

Your laugh. Your joy.

The way he coaxed it free.

The sound of it.

The way your body shook against him when it hit, wild and unrestrained and helpless. The way your smile went crooked when you tried to talk through it. The way you always fought back and never won. The way you let him have that side of you.

All of it. He loved it.

And he got very good at it.

One time, you were curled up on the couch watching something dumb, your legs draped across his lap, tank top riding up slightly from how you'd twisted onto your side. You were deep into some half-witty analysis about the movie when Bucky’s hand slid, slowly and deliberately, beneath the hem of your top.

You barely registered the motion - just a subtle movement along your back, near your ribs, his thumb brushing soft skin.

Then he pinched right under your shoulder blade, and your whole spine jolted like you’d been shocked.

"Hey!"

He smirked, leaned back like the smug bastard he was, and repeated the quick, precise motion.

You tried to grab his hand, but he caught your wrist, chuckling low as you tried to twist away - only for him to push his hand in deeper, fingertips seeking that little pocket just under your back ribs.

"You didn’t tell me about this one," he murmured, with the gall to feign offence.

"I didn’t know!" you wheezed, giggling helpless, kicking at him. "You must've found a- a new spot, you- jerk!"

He hummed with faux-thoughtfulness, easing his touch there, drawing slow and light circles that made you shiver and curl your toes. "Hmm. It's on the list now."

Another time, he caught you in the kitchen, reaching for a bowl in a higher cabinet, stretched out in your sweats and socks, tank top riding up in the back. He came up behind you, bracing your hips between his hands.

You stilled. Warm. Neck heating. You turned your head slightly.

"Well are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna help me reach?"

And then-

He ducked, leaned in, and blew a raspberry against your lower back - right where your spine dipped and your skin was exposed.

You half-yelped, half-laughed, knees buckling, arms shooting down to brace yourself on the counter.

Too quickly, he stood, arms looping around your waist as you tried to stumble away, and he smiled against your neck. "I'll never get tired of that."

"Hmph," you tried, but couldn't feign annoyance. Especially when he reached up and brought the bowl down without another word.

But he didn't always have great timing. Like the one singular time he got you while you were brushing your teeth.

You were standing at the sink in your little black sleep shorts, thin-strapped tank, mouth full of minty foam, groggy, half-awake, and apparently something about you screamed: ah yes - this is the perfect target.

Because Bucky walked up behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, kissed the curve of your shoulder... and then tickled your ribs. Not soft. Not gentle. Ruthless. Firm, deft, digs of his fingers.

Toothpaste foam erupted from your mouth, splattering the sink and mirror, toothbrush clicking against the floor as you doubled over and shrieked and squirmed, whacking your knees against vanity.

That time - you really did scowl at him. And he apologised. Profusely. Through his laughter, through his chuckling as you threw a towel at him to clean the place up.

You only eased your glare ten minutes when he placed a coffee in your hands and kissed you, slow and deep and languid, one hand still on the mug to make sure it didn't spill.

Apart from the one Toothpaste Incident, he was wise about it; he never played when you were upset. When you were anxious, closed off, in pain. When it was clear you only wanted to be touched carefully. Wanted to be grounded.

So it was when you were present. Close enough for him to read you, to feel it was okay. Only when he was sure you’d let yourself go for him.

Because your laughter - your real, wild laughter - wasn’t something everyone got. Not your deep kind. Not your body-shaking, wheezing kind that made your cheeks hurt and your voice go hoarse. Not the kind that made your body weak and vulnerable.

But he got it. Over and over again.

And every time you caught him grinning down at you while you gasped and laughed and shrieked for mercy - his hair falling into his face, eyes gleaming, voice rich with affection...

You could see it that same flash of joy. Like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like this was the sound he’d been waiting to hear on the other side of the ice.

The Slytherin common room was hushed, the dim green lanterns casting ripples of light across the walls as the Black Lake swayed outside. Most students had gone to bed, leaving only a handful of tired seventh-years scattered about with parchment and half-finished essays.

You sat curled up in the farthest corner, your blanket draped around your shoulders like a shield. A pile of books leaned precariously beside you, though you hadn’t touched them in at least an hour. Your eyelids drooped, head bobbing slightly, when a voice broke the quiet.

“You’ll fall asleep there and wake up with ink stains all over your face.”

You blinked, finding Regulus Black standing a few feet away, his arms crossed. His expression, as usual, was carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed a softness that only slipped through when no one else was looking.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” you mumbled, straightening. “I was…resting my eyes.”

He arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth threatening to curl into a smirk. “Resting your eyes with your quill still in your hand? Ingenious.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “What are you doing awake, then? Don’t tell me Regulus Black stays up late to…what, scold people for studying?”

“Hardly,” he said, settling down beside you with the smooth grace he seemed to carry into every movement. His shoulder brushed yours, and the contact sent warmth rushing up your arm despite the chill of the dungeons. “I came to make sure you didn’t work yourself into a collapse. You’ve been at it since dinner.”

You tilted your head at him, amused. “And you’ve been keeping track?”

A pause. His gaze flickered toward the firelight, his jaw tightening ever so slightly before he answered, “I notice things.”

That was Regulus for you. Always careful, always composed, but with these quiet admissions that slipped through in moments when no one else could hear.

“Well,” you said, nudging his knee with yours beneath the blanket, “I suppose it’s very noble of you, watching over me like that.”

For a moment, his lips twitched again like he might actually smile—until instead, he tugged the blanket from your shoulders and draped it over both of you. “You’re freezing,” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” you protested weakly, though your heart hammered against your ribs.

Regulus gave you a look that brooked no argument, one you’d seen him use on underclassmen and professors alike. But then it softened, and he leaned a little closer, lowering his voice as if the words were only for you.

“You push yourself too hard. If you don’t slow down, you’ll burn out.”

You wanted to protest again, to say something light or teasing, but the genuine worry in his tone made your throat tighten. Regulus Black didn’t show concern often. It was rare, like sunlight breaking through clouds, and it always caught you off guard.

“Maybe,” you admitted softly. “But it feels easier when you’re here.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide for just a fraction of a second before his composure returned. He didn’t answer immediately; instead, he reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead with surprising gentleness. His touch lingered, warm and careful, as if you were something fragile.

“I suppose,” he said finally, voice low, “that I can stay a little longer, then.”

The two of you sat there in silence, the blanket cocooning you against the cool dungeon air, the fire crackling quietly across the room. For once, neither of you needed words. His presence was enough—the steady weight of his shoulder against yours, the way his gaze softened when he thought you weren’t looking, the quiet promise that, even in the stillness of the night, you weren’t alone.

And when you finally let your head rest against his shoulder, Regulus didn’t move away. Instead, he shifted just enough to keep you comfortable, his fingers brushing lightly against your hand beneath the blanket until they laced with yours.

Bright morning light peaking through the curtains, John and your dog sleeping soundly next to you.

A little over an hour ago you had woken up before your husband, which was rare. John usually woke at the crack of dawn, it must be because hes been much more domestic as of late.

After a little while of scrolling on your phone you sat up and looked over to admire your sleeping husband. He layed on his chest and the blanket rested by his waist.

The entirety of John's back was shown to you, which was the object of your admiration. Scars differing in size littered his toned back. They were paired with the large tattoos that took up a lot of space.

Before you married, John had told you about his past as a hit man. You came to accept the dark past of the man you loved. But it didnt come up much in conversation, you could tell it was more of a touchy subject for him.

This didnt stop your curiosity, often times you found yourself looking at the tattoos and wondering what they ment.

Absent mindedly one of you hands drifted to John's back, fingers delicately grazing the scared and tattooed skin. The soft caresses lasted a few minutes, you lost in thought, and John getting lulled out of his slumber.

"Goodmorning dear," his deep morning voice spoke gently but raspy from sleep. This brought you out of your trance, hand not stopping its soft caresses. "Hey hunny?"

You ask after humming in acknowledgement. "Yes?" John answers. "What do your tattoos mean?" You asked in the least pressuring way possible, letting him decide if he wanted to talk about it or not.

John took a moment to answer. You sat patently rubbing your hands on his back, his muscles tensing and intending under you. Your dog woke up as well and sat closer to the two of you wagging her tail.

You heard John sigh and then "Its Latin," he started, you hummed, "it translates to "Fortune favors the brave" or some version of that. Could be translated to courageous or strong."

Even though he wasnt looking at you you still smiled and nodded. Before you could ask another question John continued. "They were given to me after I completed my training."

This was new for John, he never really talked about how being a hit man worked. Of course you knew he had to have gone through some sort of training but hearing him say it was different.

You hummed thoughtfully and brought thr hand massaging his back up to his messy morning hair. You ran your fingers through it, this made John sigh in content.

It wasnt long before your dog found her way between you and your husband, nuzzling her face by John to get him to pet her. You laugh and begin to get out of bed, "Guess its that time in the morning."

"Yeah yeah." John says mostly under his breath and he too rolls over onto his back. "Hey John?" You call his name. "Yes sweetie?" John answers in return.

The storm outside was relentless, its fury a dramatic display of nature’s power. Thunder rolled through the night, and lightning illuminated the cityscape in stark, fleeting flashes. Inside Lucifer Morningstar’s penthouse, however, the usual brightness was replaced by a more intimate glow. The power had gone out, leaving only the soft flicker of candles to light the room.

You and Lucifer were in the midst of setting up candles, the dim, warm light casting dancing shadows on the walls. Lucifer, ever the devilishly charming figure, was making a grand affair out of the situation, his voice carrying its usual mix of amusement and allure.

“Well, this is rather delightful, isn’t it?” Lucifer said, his tone dripping with playful sophistication as he arranged the candles on a grand piano. “A little power outage—nature’s way of telling us to slow down and enjoy a bit of romance.”

You placed another candle on the coffee table, trying to ignore the occasional shiver of unease brought on by the storm. “Romance? I suppose if you look at it that way, it’s not so bad. But I can’t say I’m thrilled about the storm.”

Lucifer sauntered over, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Ah, but that’s where you’re mistaken. The storm adds a certain…excitement. And look at us—two people stuck together in the dark, with nothing but candlelight and each other’s company.”

He took your hand and led you to the sofa, where the two of you settled under a soft blanket. The glow of the candles bathed his features in a warm light, making his usual devilish charm seem almost tender.

“Now, let me see,” he said, his voice dropping to a more seductive tone as he leaned closer. “How do we make the most of this delightful predicament?”

You laughed softly, feeling the tension of the storm outside begin to melt away under the influence of Lucifer’s charisma. “I suppose we could enjoy the quiet, have a little conversation, or maybe you could tell me one of your infamous stories.”

Lucifer’s grin widened. “Ah, stories. I’ve got a few that might just pique your interest. But first, let’s ensure we’re properly snuggled. The storm outside does have a certain…romantic quality, after all.”

With that, he drew you closer, his arm wrapping around you in a protective and affectionate embrace. The storm’s roar was a distant thunderous murmur, barely audible over the comforting warmth of his body and the flickering candlelight.

As you nestled into his side, Lucifer began recounting tales of his adventures and escapades, his voice a soothing balm against the storm’s chaos. His stories were a mix of intrigue, mischief, and undeniable charm, each one delivered with a flair that made the darkness feel a little less foreboding.

The storm outside raged on, but inside the penthouse, it was as if time had slowed. The candlelight, the warmth of Lucifer’s embrace, and his captivating stories created a cocoon of comfort and romance.

In that flickering light, with Lucifer’s presence enveloping you, the storm outside became a mere backdrop to a night of unexpected intimacy and connection. As the hours passed, the storm’s fury seemed to diminish, replaced by the gentle, soothing sound of Lucifer’s voice and the warmth of his embrace.

And so, in the heart of the storm, you found a quiet, perfect refuge, with nothing but the flickering candles and Lucifer’s enchanting presence to make the night truly unforgettable.

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Sometimes, being Noctis’ best friend was hard. Of course, not nearly as hard as being the crown prince himself, and Prompto would never even think to compare their problems. The invisible eyes that Prompto felt on him whenever he was out with Noct were likely a mere fraction of what the prince went through on a daily basis, but he could nonetheless, still very much feel them. When he was with Noct, he became The Prince’s Best Friend, The Funny One, The Comic Relief. The modern day equivalent of court jester meant to soothe the sorrows of his betters. He knew that they would deny it until the sun went down, but he knew it to be true. He was content with that, most days.

But today, he simply wanted to be Prompto. Everyone else was tied up with work at The Citadel, leaving him to his own devices. So, thinking that it’d been a while since he’d gone out on a solo excursion, he set his sights on the newly opened botanical gardens with camera in hand and enough money to buy himself the most indulgently greasy diner food he could find on the way home. There was a certain comfort in boarding public transport, blending into the crowd as he made his way from his dinky little apartment towards the artsy side of town. 

The crowds were low, as he’d waited a week or so after opening to make his way here. As he stepped foot onto the paved paths surrounded by bursting floral blooms, he took in a deep breath. Now, this was the kind of nature he could get behind; air conditioned and with no bugs to ruin his good time. He stepped along, taking the occasional picture, but mostly just strolling. The grounds were beautiful, yes, but they weren’t sparking the inspiration he thought they would. 

The possibility of art block brewing on what was supposed his day to truly be himself was enough to cast rain clouds over his once good mood. 

Plopping down gracelessly onto one of the benches placed opposite a particularly bright patch of hydrangea, he crossed his arms and tilted his head, glaring at the blooms as if they would deliver unto him some sort of artistic wisdom he was missing. The flowers, however, remained silent.

He didn’t know how long he’d spent glaring at the greenery, as his search for wisdom quickly trailed off into a venture into his own thoughts, which was never a good thing. Prompto was stopped from inevitable disassociation by a shape stepping into his line of sight. A person, who hadn’t noticed his staring contest with a bunch of flowers, was inspecting the hydrangea with an admiring eye. As Prompto blinked back into full consciousness, he was brought to stark awareness at the site of this person’s appearance.

Now, he prided himself on his aesthetic eye, it’s why photography appealed to him so much. So he could say, with utmost authority, that this person was unreasonably attractive. Honestly, who had the right to be looking so dang cute on a random Wednesday afternoon? No one. There was something about the way they regarded the flower with such quiet excitement, like it was just the prettiest thing they’d ever seen. It was sincere, and sweet in a way that made butterflies flutter in his stomach, as saccharine of a sentiment that was. He fumbled with his camera for a second, eager to capture the moment on film, when it finally occurred to him how insanely creepy of an action that would be without consent. 

Ugh, but what was he gonna do? Ask a random beautiful stranger if he could take their portrait? And for what? Personal reasons, just so he could keep it and look at it like a mega creep? He could feel the anxiety well up in his chest, staring down at his feet while his fingers toyed with his camera nervously. Yeah, that would not go over so well. He resolved to simply sit there in shame until the Pretty Stranger went about their day, and he could just go find something else to take a picture of. 

Letting out a sigh of relief as he heard the sound of moving feet, he glanced up again, only to choke on his spit as the Pretty Stranger sat down on the bench next to him, heaving their own sigh. He couldn’t stop himself from staring like an idiot, even when they looked up and caught his eye. They were even cuter up close, especially when their lips curled up in a self-deprecating smile. 

“This place is gorgeous, but it sure is a lot of walking! Only halfway through, and it feels like I’ve walked about a mile.” They sighed, with a little laugh in their voice, that pleasant tone you take during small talk with strangers. 

Fumbling for words, Prompto blurted out a quick ‘Haha, yeah!’ before clamping his mouth shut tightly. The Pretty Stranger took that as their cue to keep making conversation, gesturing to the camera Prompto was still clutching tightly. 

“Are you taking pictures for something particular, or are you a photographer for fun?’ The Pretty Stranger asked, gentle curiosity in their eyes. A silence stretched awkwardly between them for a second, as Prompto caught up to the fact that yes, the attractive person was speaking to him and he should reply in order to not be rude.

“Oh, n-nothing specific! I just came ‘cause it’s, y’know, a big new attraction and you can’t go wrong with pictures of flowers, right?” He sputtered out quickly, trying to desperately fill the weird silence. The Pretty Stranger nodded as if his word vomit made any sense, looking back out at the hydrangea bush. 

“That’s true”, they chimed, “Flowers are a pretty safe bet if you want something pleasant and pretty. They’ve got them arranged by color too, did you notice that?” 

He had not.

“I’ve been snapping pics with my phone, but I bet they’re nowhere near as fancy as yours.” They flashed that self-deprecating grin again, and this time, Prompto rushed to reply. 

“I haven’t actually taken any pictures yet! The flowers are nice and all, but they just weren’t…enough, y’know? Like, I need something to add a little spice to the composition.” 

Once again, the Pretty Stranger nodded along, that same look of gentle curiosity, prompting him to continue his rambling. “I think Nature shots always need a little something more, like animals or people, because the best scenes are ones that really tell a story. You need living subjects, something to lock eyes with, that you can step into the mind of. That way, it goes beyond just eye-candy, it becomes something worth thinking about. It becomes art, and it sticks with you.” 

Before he could even begin to feel self-conscious about info-dumping about his favorite thing with this random stranger, they were nodding along emphatically with his words, slapping their knee in excitement.

“Oh, dude, I totally get that! It’s like, even if it’s just a static shot, having a person there adds just enough to bring it life!” 

“Yeah, yeah!” He said, too excited that his point had gotten through to even feel embarrassed by how eager he sounded. He and the Pretty Stranger went on that topic of conversation way longer than he’d talked about photography with any sort of willing participant in his life. It was clear that they weren’t a photographer as well, just an excitable patron of the arts. Still, even when he had to explain some concept or aspect of photography that they didn’t understand, he didn’t feel like he was holding them hostage with his interests. It felt like he was being listened to. Like, they were truly interested in what he had to say. 

He was startled out of his blissful excitement by the loud speaker above them announcing that the garden would be closing in 15 minutes. Had they really been talking for that long? Prompto felt a hot flush of shame on his face, he’d really kept this person from enjoying their day, hadn’t he?

As he opened his mouth to apologize, the Pretty Stranger laughed. 

“Oh man! I’m sorry I kept you for so long, man. You’ve got a way with words, though, you should be a photo lecturer or something!” They stood and held out their hand for him to take, which he did, thanking the cooler season for an excuse to wear his gloves so he didn’t ruin the moment with his sweaty hands. The two of them stood there for a second, hands clasped, before Prompto dropped the hold like he’d been burned, shoving his hands in his pocket. 

The Pretty Stranger gestured back the way they came, the closest way out, and Prompto followed along on auto-pilot, eyes trained on the face of the most cute, sincere, angel he’d ever met. He knew he was the type to fall quickly, but this was an all time record. And it felt…different from his other crushes. There was no wall, no insurmountable river of self-doubt that he had to surmount. It was easy to talk to them. And maybe, he was feeling a little high off the fumes of that realization, which was why he blurted out, “Hey, are you doing anything after this?”

They were outside of the entrance now, having stepped out of the way of the doorway, and were idly walking towards the shopping street. The Pretty Stranger, seemingly content to walk beside him, shrugged. 

“Other than to eat? Nope! I didn’t even plan this, to be honest. I just came by because it was new and free.” They laughed, and Prompto, giddy with the opportunity to not have to let them go just yet, laughed with them.

“Well, if you’re interested, I was gonna go get some particularly greasy diner food and I would love a little company.” He flashed them a boy-ish smile, hoping that the little bit of cuteness he knew he had would save him from too harsh a rejection. But, just as they had before, The Pretty Stranger nodded emphatically. 

“That sounds pretty dang good! Lead the way, man.” 

Like a puppy, he took their hand and began leading them towards his burger place of choice, practically reading off the menu to them as they made their way through half empty streets. Then, a thought occurred to him.

         He smiled still, turning to face you, noting that you didn't seem the share his feelings of elation. The two of you stood next to one another, on the hovercraft that was being led through the underground tunnels of Geonosis by armed Geonosians. Both of you had your hands bound behind your back. You looked up at him, your eyes communicating clearly in the low light. Anakin knew you were afraid. He leaned forward, keeping his balance with his hands behind his back, to press a soft kiss to your forehead. You had no need for fear. You were with him. Anakin wouldn't let anything happen to you—not now, not ever.

         Anakin brushed his lips against your temple, and then pulled back, squinting as the hovercraft came out of the darkness and into the light of the day. Anakin felt you intake a deep breath next to him, and he pushed out his thoughts to try to calm you. The two of you had been led into what looked like a colosseum, though its style was more reminiscent of a bee hive. Bugs, Anakin thought darkly, giving one of his captors a sinister look. The colosseum was filled with the winged Geonosians, all of whom, it seemed, had gathered to watch some sort of show. Anakin shifted his feet as he felt the familiar presence, before he looked up and saw him.

         Obi-Wan Kenobi was standing, hands bound behind his back, against a large stone pillar, one of four rising in the center of the colosseum. The Geonosians surrounding him seemed to threaten him with their rods, but Obi-Wan wasn't paying them any attention. He was giving Anakin a familiar, exasperated look—but behind this look, Anakin could see the fear in his eyes. Obi-Wan stared at him, glancing over at you, and then back to him, as if to ask why you'd come. Anakin had to work hard not to roll his eyes. Anakin glanced back at you, seeing that you were looking intently at Master Yuma, who was being bound to the pillar next to Obi-Wan's. The two of you were seemingly having a silent conversation, and Anakin felt something pass back and forth between you and Yuma, in the Force. Anakin didn't understand why everyone looked so worried—he was here. He could get you out of any scrape.

         "Ahh," Anakin let slip, as the Geonosian guard prodded him with the electric rod, ushering him out of the hovercraft. Dolefully, Anakin stepped out, watching as you were led to the stone pillar next to his, furthest from Master Yuma. Anakin allowed the guard to pull his handcuffs up above his head, tying him to the large pillar with a chain.

         "I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten my message," Obi-Wan said dryly, from the pillar next to his, and Anakin turned to see the sarcastic face of his Master, with its sardonic smirk and its raised eyebrows.

         "I transmitted it like you requested, Master," Anakin responded with a pout, his voice feigning subservient respect. "Then we decided to come and rescue you."

         "Good job," Obi-Wan said caustically, gesturing to his bound hands. Anakin breathed deeply. He would not allow Obi-Wan to rattle him. Not today—today, for all its calamity, was Anakin's favorite day. He breathed in his own feeling of triumph, savoring the memory of your words from earlier. He had you. Whatever else the Geonosians might throw at him, it wouldn't matter. You'd finally admitted you loved him, and Anakin felt on top of the galaxy.

         "Just breathe," Obi-Wan instructed, misunderstanding Anakin's sudden burst of feeling. "Let the Force guide you." Only then did Anakin hear the roar. Swallowing quickly, Anakin turned to see four alien beasts being led by the guards in the direction of the stone pillars.

         "Let the executions begin!" Anakin heard a voice ring out through the colosseum, and the sounds of buzzing from the Geonosians in the stands sounded celebratory.

         "What about Y/N?" Anakin asked, turning wildly to look for you, but seeing only the base of the pillar on his other side.

         "She seems to be on top of things," Obi-Wan said, and Anakin heard the smile in his Master's voice as he looked up, seeing you sitting casually on top of your stone pillar, though it had to be at least 30-feet high. Anakin laughed.

         "I don't know if you've noticed," Anakin heard you call, "but we're under attack." Anakin glanced back at the Reek, walking toward him, pushing its front leg back in an aggressive gesture.

         "I think I'll take a lesson out of your book!" Anakin grunted back, launching himself into the air right as the Reek charged. Flipping around, Anakin landed on the back of the beast. As he yanked his chain out of its loop and wrapped it around the Reek's mouth, as a bit, Anakin heard what sounded like sarcastic clapping. He grinned.

         "Still need a few lessons, I think," Anakin heard you call, as you jumped, flying through the air expertly and with the proper amount of force to kick the Nexu attacking you out of the air and onto its back. As both you and beast fell, Anakin saw the Nexu's paw reach out and scratch your back. You gasped as you landed. Anakin's face fell.

         "Quick, flea!" he yelled. "Get on!" You pulled yourself up, running for Anakin as the Nexu charged. Anakin held out his hand just in time, pulling you onto the Reek's back.

         "Next time," you breathed heavily as Anakin used the chain to pull the Reek around to face the Nexu, "I think we should do what the council says." The Reek, at Anakin's command, charged the Nexu, putting it on its back, immobile.

         "As if," Anakin responded, whirling around to see if you were okay. The two of you watched as Obi-Wan pulled Yuma to her feet, their respective beasts lying dead on the ground. Anakin steered the Reek in their direction, pulling both of them onto its back.

         "Now what?" you asked, breathing heavily, as destroyer droids rolled out from each corner of the colosseum, circling you and pointing their blasters directly at your hearts.

You watched as the destroyer droids rolled up to you in a circle, pointing their blasters in unison with a click. You felt Anakin's heart beating in his chest, your arms wrapped tightly around him, holding onto his back. You knew Master Yuma, seated behind you and holding onto you, had intuited the change in your and Anakin's relationship immediately. You hadn't even had a moment to try to hide it from her, and even if you had, Anakin's Force presence betrayed everything. The current passing between the four of you, brothers and sisters in the Force and at the same time parents and children in the Order, was complex. Here you were, in a tigher scrape than you'd ever been in, weaponless, at the hands of the enemy. Anakin was feeling confident, you knew, and cocky—you, his other half in the Force, were careful, cautious, afraid. You looked up into the stands of the colosseum, knowing that somewhere up there Count Dooku stood, watching the scene below. You could feel his presence, from this distance, but it felt like a tiny prick—like a pinch. You worried, though, that he might come closer—that when he tired of his game, he might try to incapacitate you as he had done before. You worried for Anakin, for Master Yuma, for Master Obi-Wan—you worried that they might die, trying to protect you, if you were once again rendered unconscious. And Master Yuma, behind you,  was worrying for your safety. You felt her regarding the change in the current between you and Anakin with both trepidation, and, you could feel, pure joy. And Master Obi-Wan, his fear spiking, was oblivious, it seemed, for the time being, to your change in feelings. He was thinking quickly, worrying for your own safety and for Yuma's, but mostly, you knew, for the safety of his Padawan, the young cocky boy he loved like family. Obi-Wan was taking in his surroundings completely, and you took this cue to do the same. There had to be a way out of this situation that preserved all four of your lives. You were Jedi, after all. You could handle this.

         You breathed deeply, pulling in the current of the Force. You listened carefully to that current, knowing that it would alert you if one of the droids surrounding you was ordered to pull its trigger. Without lightsabers, you were useless to defend yourself against their blasts. Lightsabers...it was odd, but you felt, rather than heard, the hum of a lightsaber. It wasn't a hum, exactly, but a feeling—a feeling you were used to feeling in the Temple, a feeling of Jedi presences making room for each other, communicating in the Force. The feeling got stronger.

         You opened your eyes with a gasp.

         "What is it, Y/N?" Master Yuma breathed quietly in your ear. You smiled.

         "They're here," you whispered, and as if on cue, you felt their presences converging around you. You looked up and saw them, their lightsabers lit, surrounding the destroyer droids.

         "See," Anakin said, turning around to grin at Obi-Wan, "I told you we transmitted your message."

         A disturbance in the Force caused all four of you to look up, and the blasters around you started firing as Mace Windu leapt down into the arena, his purple lightsaber held high.

         "Quick!" you heard someone shout, and behind you, you saw Henry running forward, holding in his hands two lightsabers. He threw one up to you, where you sat on the Reek, and threw the other to Anakin, drawing a third saber from his belt and blocking blasts from the droids now filling the Colosseum. Master Faer followed him, throwing lightsabers to Master Yuma and Master Obi-Wan. All four of you leapt from the back of the Reek, lighting your sabers and joining the battle.

         "Thanks!" you yelled to Henry, blocking blasts from droids as you ran into the fight, Anakin at your side. You felt the buzzing of many whispered presences around you, the emotions at their height, as these Jedi and Padawans fought the influx of battle droids now filling the arena. You saw Seeva levitating one of the droids, turning it around so that it shot at its own compatriots. You saw Yumi ducking and turning to block the blasts from a destroyer droid, her lightsaber held in a backward grip behind her back. You saw Dallum and Eha back to back, fighting off droids in complete harmony, as if in a choreographed dance. You quickly turned to Anakin, watching as he jumped into the air in a circular motion, slicing through battle droids left and right. You followed suit.

         "Anakin," you called to him, and he turned back to you, grinning. "How are we going to get out of this?"

         "Don’t worry, little flea," Anakin called back, pulling you to his side. The two of your sabers glided through the air, blocking the blasts and sending them back at the chests of the battle droids that converged on the two of you.

         "But there are so many of them," you pleaded, the fear spiking in you. It was the same feeling you'd felt when you'd watched Anakin fly into the hurricane on Levangé—it was a feeling unbefitting of a Jedi, a fear deep and paralyzing. It was as if you finally had something important to live for: something that mattered to you so much, that the thought of losing it made you quiver. Your hand shook as you moved your saber back and forth.

         "I won't let anything happen to you," Anakin said firmly, pulling you to him and reaching out his saber to block more blasts. "I won't let anything happen to us."

         But you felt it around you—you didn't have time to look, to stop your fight, but you felt the despair creeping in. You felt that bodies were falling—you felt that Jedi were being slain in this fight, this fight you somehow felt responsible for.

         Y/N, get DOWN!! you felt through the Force, and you didn't think twice—you threw yourself against Anakin with all the force you could muster, pushing him flat against the ground as you felt something heavy fly over you. You looked up to see that the Reek was dead, a few paces away, that it would have rolled right over you had you not heeded the warning. You turned to see Master Yuma's worried face, knowing that the Force command in your head came from her. You blinked, watching as she ran over to pull you up.

         "Are you okay?" Master Yuma asked, quickly using one of her hands to block more blasts with her saber.

         "Yes," you said emphatically, as Anakin jumped to his feet, his saber held up to block the shots from incoming destroyers. "Where's Obi-Wan?"

         "I don't know," Master Yuma said, blocking more blasts with her saber as if trying to shield you from the battle. "I lost him in the battle—"

         But a scream ripped through you in the Force, a scream so terrible you weren't sure if it was coming from outside of you or from somewhere deep inside. You felt as if your eyes clouded over, even though you could see it, beyond Anakin's outstretched arm. It was a sight that made your blood turn cold. You didn't know what you were doing; your lightsaber was slack at your side; you felt the fight around you, but you couldn't do anything to stop your legs from running toward them. But it was too late.

         "Eha!!" you heard him screaming, crying, and your heart was thumping, pushing you faster toward the two figures huddled on the ground in the middle of the fight. You heard Anakin yelling for you, heard Master Yuma's terrified shriek as a blast nearly missed you, but you kept running until you were upon them.

         "No!!" Dallum was screaming, crying, his arms shaking as he held the shoulders of the collapsed figure. "Eha, no!! Eha!!!" His shrieks tore through you as you knelt, reaching out your hands for her, turning her over in Dallum's arms. But the face that stared back at you was not seeing. Her eyes were blank. She was gone.

         The whole world went black.

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OUCH. Love and War, kids. Attack of the Clones CONCLUDES in the next chapter--

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We ❤️ you Eha. I'm sorry 😢

divider credit to @racingairplanes