#however much they’d loathe to admit it

[iris-qt]

𝟻 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛

✧ ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

✧ ʙɢ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ: ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ!

✧ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ | 3.1ᴋ

✧ ᴀ/ɴ: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ @girllblogging777 ꜰᴏʀ ᴀꜱᴋɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ'ꜱ ꜰᴀᴠ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛʏ ʙᴏʏ

✧ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ꜱᴛʀɪᴋᴇꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴀ ʙᴇᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɢɪᴠᴇꜱ ʜɪᴍ 5 ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ. ʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀɪᴇꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ꜱᴇᴇᴍꜱ ᴛᴏ ɪɴᴛᴇʀʀᴜᴘᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.

Day 0

If dying of embarrassment were a thing, Mattheo Riddle would be deceased.

“In Potions, I think I saw you actually drooling over her, mate.”

Enzo chuckles at Theodore’s quip, adding, “I knew it was bad, but not that bad.”

Mattheo groans, hiding his face in his hands as the three boys are sat around a table in the Slytherin common room, the flames of the fire dying out at the later hour, gentle rain tapping the low windows that offer an inky view of the Black Lake.

“She answered a question no one knew the answer to. You have to admit, that’s pretty impressive,” Mattheo says desperately, raising his head from the table, hoping for a glimpse of sympathy from his friends.

All it succeeds in doing, however, is inciting further fits of laughter from them.

“With friends like you guys, who needs enemies,” Mattheo lowly mutters, crossing his arms and glaring.

“No, but since when were you into smart girls, Riddle?” Enzo asks in between laughs.

Mattheo sighs, leaning back in his seat. He gazes over at his faint reflection in the low windows, lost in thought. The truth is, Lorenzo made a good point. Mattheo was always into girls that would give him their undying attention and a few nights of fun. Then, he’d move on. It was a mutual understanding between them. He’d never truly play with their emotions, but he’d make his intentions clear. 

Take it or leave it.

And usually they’d take it. 

But you were truly something else. A genius on the pitch and in the classroom. Academic and athletic weapon, not to mention your biting humor that always seemed to make his heart beat faster.

“Tell you what, Matt. Let us help you,” Theodore leans forward, traces of amusement still evident on his face.

Mattheo raises an eyebrow at Theodore’s offer, waiting for him to continue.

“I propose a deadline. You have 5 days to ask her out before the Hogsmeade trip on Saturday.”

Mattheo sighs, his gaze settling suspiciously on the smiling boys.

“And if I fail?”

“You buy us as many sweets from Honeydukes as we desire,” Enzo grins, “and you know how much I love candy..”

Mattheo stands up, choosing to create an air of confidence around him, although he’s panicking about the prospect of confessing to you. 

“You have yourself a deal, boys.”

Day 1

His plan to confess as soon as possible so as not to feel the desperation of losing time reached a roadblock as Mattheo woke up remembering he had a Quidditch game that morning.

Against your house. (sorry slytherin readers forgive me)

He didn’t want you to be in a bad mood from a loss, but he also didn’t want to seem like a loser in your eyes. He would never be one to lose purposefully, as he knew you’d loathe that, so Mattheo resolved to play fair.

The game progressed onwards as his house took the lead, but he had to admit he wasn’t much help despite his efforts. Seeing your hair flowing in the wind against the lush green hills, your determined face, your shining skin…it was distracting to say the least..

Suddenly, you loop upwards, narrowly avoiding a bludger that zooms past you and heads straight towards Mattheo.

He barely avoids it, the bludger chipping away part of his brand new broomstick.

“Shit..”

“Keep your head in the game, Riddle,” you smirk, flying up next to him.

“Hard when those bludgers are attempting to behead me,” he grins back. Talking to his favorite person was his new favorite hobby, even if you could be intending to insult him..

You ended up catching the snitch and winning your house this integral game, shooting your team to the House Cup Finals. You landed on the grass, smiling gleefully, your face glistening with triumph and sweat despite the quite chilly weather.

Mattheo landed on the ground next to you, grinning at your expression. He wholeheartedly thought you deserved this win. He’d seen you practicing at the crack of dawn and the fall of the moon. He knew how hard you worked as captain. He saw you on his morning walks, and from the towers of Hogwarts when he’d smoke over the rail, watching your figure shooting through the air in the velvet darkness.

Lost in the ecstasy of the atmosphere, Mattheo resolved to let his feelings be known right then and there. What greater chance for you to agree to a date when your spirits were raised so high?

He approached you, broom in hand, and you turned around to look at him with an ecstatic grin on your face; one he couldn’t resist to mirror.

“Good game, Riddle,” you stuck your hand out, slightly sympathetic for the boy’s loss despite his oddly bright expression.

“Good game, y/l/n. I actually wanted to ask you something..” he trails off, scratching the back of his neck. Despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins, nerves were slowly eating away at his windpipe, restricting him from choking out the words he’d desired to tell you.

But he had resolved to do it.

And Mattheo Riddle was many things, but not a coward.

You raised your eyebrow at him, waiting for him to speak further.

“I was wondering if you would go with-”

He was interrupted by your surprised yelp and laugh of joy as your teammates lifted you to their shoulders, yelling and cheering your name. 

You put your hands up in victory, the golden snitch still struggling in your grip.

“We’ll talk later, Mattheo!” you shout at him, waving your hands to get his attention. 

Not that you had to.

You had forever stolen his gaze.

Day 2

So, his original strategy had proved to be a failure. The whole of yesterday, your house wouldn’t leave you alone. When you took a quick trip to the hospital wing to patch up some quick little cuts, your housemates followed you, cheering. When you were walking through the halls, you were surrounded by at least 8 congratulating classmates. In the night, you were at the party celebrating your win. Always busy.

Mattheo never got the chance to just confess as soon as possible, but no matter. This was just day 2, and he still had plenty of time. He had put up with more of his friends’ teasing regarding his harbored crush, but he’d be willing to brave the storm of his friends’ jabs if it meant eventually seeing it die away when he finally had you by his side.

If you’d accept him that is..

He groaned as he walked through the busy halls of Hogwarts during a break period. 

Love was too hard.

He walked into the courtyard to find his friends, but his eyes immediately landed on you. You were quickly skimming a Potion’s textbook, no doubt studying for the sudden test that had been sprung on by Slughorn. He can’t imagine you had much time to study due to the match and celebrations. It was unlike you to look so harried and unprepared. 

He knew this couldn’t be the right time, but he had to test the waters. Perhaps you were still in a good mood?

What he didn’t know was that you’d always be happy to see him. Even if you were having a meltdown, you'd grin at the sight of him.

And that’s exactly what happened.

Mattheo walked up to you, smoothly sliding onto the stone bench beside you. He was immediately met with your smiling face as your attention was diverted from the book.

“Y/N unprepared for a test? Never thought I’d see the day,” he nudged your shoulder playfully with his own as you gave him a mock glare.

“I’m hoping I’ll suddenly procure a photographic memory and just capture the words on this textbook in my brain,” you say, putting the book super close to your eyes as you pretend to absorb all the knowledge.

Mattheo laughs, “I wish I could help but I’m not the best person to ask for, well, any school subjects, to be honest.”

You snickered as you regarded him, eyes alight. 

“Oh yeah, what was it you were trying to ask me on the pitch yesterday?”

Well, he couldn’t back down now.

“I was just wondering if you’d like-”

“Y/N!!!” your best friend comes running through the halls toward you, waving a bundle of parchment with hastily written words. “I just took the Potions test and this is what's on it.”

Your eyes widen in delight as you peer over at her parchment. Your attention being completely drawn away, Mattheo gets up with a sigh and stalks off toward his friends, feeling dejected.

He doesn’t notice the sorry glance you throw his way, upset that his words got interrupted once more.

Day 3

You couldn’t sleep that night and you awoke feeling puffy and down. It seemed as if Mattheo Riddle had been avoiding you the rest of yesterday and you knew it was because he had something to say to you but kept getting interrupted. 

Something important to tell you and something that made him nervous.

That couldn’t mean…

Of course not.

But you’ve had feelings for him for a long time, and the prospect that he could feel the same excited you. Perhaps you should cave first and confess because if that’s what the poor boy had been attempting, after being interrupted twice you doubted he had the guts to do it again. Besides, it’d be a weight lifted from your heart. 

You knew he took early morning walks as he’d often retell his experiences to you when you used to sit next to him in class:

“...and then this bigass bird took a fat shit on McLaggen’s head, and that's when I knew it was going to be a glorious day,” he finished proudly, smiling.

“Now, that’s a good omen if I’ve ever heard of one,” you grinned as you both indulged in quiet laughter, hidden at the back of the History of Magic Classroom.

Who knew such a dull class would quickly become your favorite.

He must’ve not taken a walk today because you couldn’t find him. 

Now, cruel fate had moved him as far away as possible in that classroom with no chance to sneak a quick conversation in. He seemed quite upset today in the one class you’d seen him in, keeping his head low and dozing off a few times. Twice you’d seen him steal a glance at you then look away abruptly.

You found him later that day, walking through the dark hallways after dinner. It was quiet and empty as the rest of the students had made their way to their common rooms or the library. He was looking down and was wiping something from his nose with the back of his hand. It looked like…

Blood.

“Riddle?” you called out softly, and his ebony eyes trained on you in a panic.

He had never intended for you to ever see him like this. Dejected and bleeding.

You stand there, hugging yourself amidst the chills of the vast, stone halls, clinging onto your sweater. 

“A fight?”

He nods, not being able to meet your eyes.

You gently grab his arm, beginning to pull him in the direction of the Hospital Wing. Maybe you could confess in there while he was getting patched up, although that may not be the best time for it. 

Perhaps now to lighten the mood of this awkward walk?

If he rejects you, at least teasing you about it would make him more cheerful.

“Hey, Mattheo…I just wanted to let you know that-”

Before you could get very far, however, a bloodied Gryffindor boy strides toward you guys, calling Riddle’s name in an icy tone. 

You both whirl around, and Riddle grits his teeth, upset to see the boy he had just fought with.

“You thought you could just escape?” the boy stops 7 feet away, balling up his fists

“You were out cold, so yeah, I assumed I could.”

“Rematch, Riddle.”

He looks back at you, something glistening in his eyes.

“Go, y/l/n.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes, “You think I’m just gonna leave you here, bleeding?”

“Go.”

You realize there’s no stopping this fight and, frankly, you didn’t want to see Mattheo beating someone up. You walk straight to the nearest professor’s quarters and alert them of the fight, framing it so it sounds like Mattheo was ambushed and simply fought back as self-defense. After doing so, you slip into your room, lying awake, hoping he’s ok.

Day 4

Mattheo was cutting it close, but this week had been a doozy. He hoped today would be an ordinary day in which he could finally, peacefully confess his vibrant feelings for you.

That morning, Mattheo finds you in the library next to a stack of mythology books. He walks up, a smile already forming on his face at the familiar sight of your gorgeous, focused face.

“I wasn’t aware there was a Mythology class at Hogwarts,” he smiles, leaning against your table. His face was covered in cuts and bruises while his nose seemed haphazardly bandaged.

You look up at him disapprovingly, eyes tracing his injuries.

“It's called reading for fun, Mattheo. You should try it sometimes.”

“No, thank you.”

You shot him a sardonic smile, leaning back in your chair.

“Listen, y/n, I wanted to thank you for shifting the blame off of me for the fight but-”

“No problem, I had to do something,” you shrug.

“But…I could’ve handled it myself. You tainted my reputation and it made me seem like I’m weak and scared of authority.”

You raise an eyebrow, a look of disbelief blossoming on your face.

“You’re seriously annoyed with me for helping you NOT get in trouble?” you stand up from your seat staring him in the eye. “Your stupid pride and reputation is worth more than that?”

He furrows his brows, perplexed by your reaction.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he sighs. “My reputation is all I have” is what he meant to share, but vulnerability was not his strong point.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t,” you stand up, grabbing your books, and walk out, not looking back once.

Mattheo watches you go, feeling as if whatever grip he had on you had lessened. He could feel you falling through his fingers.

Day 5 ₊˚ෆ

Mattheo would’ve accepted his defeat if this was any other bet. Confessing to y/n was a harder task than it seemed. 

The thing is, this wasn’t any other bet, and Mattheo Riddle was as adamant as ever to let you know how he felt about you. Being in your presence was a hot bowl of soup on a sick day. It was a warm glass of spiced butterbeer after playing in the snow. It was a blanket after being warmed by the fire. It was a comfort he never allowed himself to indulge in.

He wanted it in a stronger dose. He needed the comfort of a relationship with you. And today, he intended to get it. 

He awoke early as usual since he couldn’t sleep past six: his thoughts always woke him up far too early. Getting dressed and heading outside, he sees you reading your mythology books under a big oak tree, bundled up in a deep grey trench coat. As he approached with his silent steps and hands in his pockets, he realized it was Norse mythology today. Despite him acting clueless, he also enjoyed reading myths for fun.

He stopped a few feet away from you and you looked up unsurprisingly, as if you knew he was approaching the entire time. With a quick glance at the empty spot next to you, you signal Mattheo to join you in the misty morning air. You couldn’t help but feel as if this replicated the foggy morning scene in one of your favorite movies, Pride and Prejudice.

He settled next to you, shoulders touching.

“I hope a bigass bird shits on your head,” you murmur in a playful tone, recalling his tale, looking at him with a fake gleam of scorn in your eyes. Not entirely fake as you were quite annoyed about yesterday night in the library.

He laughs at that, tilting his head to look at you in all your morning glory.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he whispers, looking at you with utter adoration, although you don’t characterize it as such. “I just…I feel as if my reputation is all I have.”

He looks away at that, across the grounds, embarrassed to admit anything so close to his heart.

You nod understandingly, touching his pinky with your own.

“We’re cool, Riddle.”

He takes a deep breath and keeps barreling on, ready to confess to you and pour out his heart. 

“Listen, y/n. I kept getting interrupted but I-”

“RIDDLE!” Draco is making his way towards them, looking frantic. You and Mattheo both stand up, looking concerned at his expression. He wears cloak with the hood up and looks panicked, striding towards them in a half run until he is standing before them, panting.

“What happened, what's wrong?” Mattheo urges, shaking Draco’s shoulders.

Draco yanks off his hood to reveal his baby pink hair and you and Mattheo stare at him for a moment.

And then burst out laughing.

“Do you know who did this?” Draco is fuming, balling his fists as he glares at the both of you.

“No, mate, but you have yourself a nemesis,” Mattheo says, gasping for breath. Draco grabs his arm beginning to pull him away, muttering something about helping him get revenge. You’re not letting Mattheo get away again, so you grab his other arm, engaging in a game of tug-of-war. Mattheo shakes off Draco and shoos him off with a wave of his hand and a small glare as Draco gives in and walks away, sulking.

“Where were we?”

“You were on a vulnerability rampage,” you smirk, releasing your grip much to his displeasure.

He smiles shyly as he looks off into the distance, finding your gaze a burning sensation. 

“I really, really like you, y/n. And I’ve been trying to let you know for a while now.

You smile as you angle your neck to force Mattheo to look into your eyes. 

Oh, how you loved his ebony doe eyes.

“Well, it’s a good thing I really like you too, Mattheo.”

And Mattheo Riddle grinned as he finally had the girl of his dreams, and they both engaged in an all-out rampage of Honeydukes, paid for by Lorenzo and Theodore, of course.

[soaqrudyz]

i am of the firm belief that neither ghost or gaz cared very much for soap when he first joined the 141

gaz had never met him before, all he knew was the guy was just a little bit of a prick. he was incredibly talented, gaz would give him that, and he’d never been outwardly rude to anyone that gaz had heard of, but oftentimes his confidence bled into something just short of arrogance, soap always seemed to be the one ranting and raving about his achievements when everyone else spoke of their mistakes. in layman’s terms: he was full of himself in a way that would surely get him killed.

ghost; however, had met him before. they’d worked together some three times before price recruited soap. ghost knew of his skill, knew that sunny disposition got quieter at night when soap thought he was alone, knew soap would thrive with them; but god, if ghost could shove his thumbs into those all-seeing, all-knowing crystal eyes he’d do so in a heartbeat. he hated the way they seemed to burn straight through the heavy material of his mask, how they could look into his own eyes and hold infinite knowledge of his broken psyche by the time they flick to some other uninteresting member of his former squadron. it was horror, to be understood so wholly.

but then gaz got hurt, four days of medically induced coma hurt, and when he jerked awake at, if the clock on the shitty hospital tv was to be believed, 2 in the morning there was soap. he looked disheveled: hair a tangled mess, dark circles only worsened by the shadows of the mostly unlit room, and covered in scattered butterfly sutures. his head was leaned on his bicep, slumped over the lowered tray connected to gaz’s bed.

under his head were the blood and tear stained pages of his open journal, a gorgeous portrait of gaz sketched onto the yellowed sheets with sleep deprived rantings in the margins on how soap could have saved him if he’d just been quicker. gaz slips it out from under him, only feeling a tiny bit like an ass for flipping through the leather bound soul of his comrade, but soap had stolen his favorite shirt so it stood to reason he should take something back. the entire 141 is scribbled on in the pages, buried between bomb schematics and scenic landscapes and soap’s scrawled insecurities. something shifts as he soaks in the words, months of feeling like an outsider and desperate tries to be as good as his teammates.

it’s different, gaz thinks as he flips back to his own face, being in the mind of john mactavish.

but then ghost is walking past price’s office and soap bursts out, pushing past him with flushed cheeks and hurried apologies, practically sprinting in the direction of his shared room. ghost, loathe to admit it, was worried, afraid that the first real human connection aside from garrick he’d had in years was going to ripped from him before he’d even started putting time into it. he didn’t want to lose something good, not again, so he follows him, rushes to catch him before he slams the door in ghost’s face.

soap’s shoving clothes into his duffle when ghost slips inside his room, noticeably holding back tears as he rambles to himself. for a minute ghost is stuck, unused to such blatantly shown emotion, but then he takes a step, sets a gentle hand on soap’s shoulder and asks what’s going on, heart thudding against his ribcage.

“my ma..” soap croakes, and heavy sobs break up whatever else he was going to say. he doesn’t have to, ghost knows, probably better than anyone else.he does the first thing that comes to mind: he drags soap into his chest, wraps his whole body around him like he can protect soap from the hurt. the sergeant doesn’t deserve to feel that hollowness in his chest. soap crashes into him like a wave to the shore, balling his hands into ghost’s hoodie and hiding his face in ghost’s collarbones. ghost had never been one for physical closeness, but there was something different about being in johnny’s arms.

there was an obvious difference in their demeanor toward him in the weeks to come, but neither really cared about how it happened, just that it did, and now they can seek each other’s warm, pink tinted gaze when soap makes a fool of himself.

[m-for-musings]

Ashes to Ashes

Pt.1

A Baldur's Masquerade (BG3 X VTM) AU, based in the 5th edition of Vampire: The Masquerade TTRPG.

Completely inspired by @ryttu3k

Dividers by @marquisedegramont

Astarion adjusted the lapels of his coat, his reflection in the cracked mirror showing only an elegant void where his features should be. It was a pity; he had always liked looking at himself. The candlelight flickered, casting a ghostly dance of shadows across the worn wooden floor of his quarters. It suited the house of a Hecata — elegant, ancient, and decaying, much like the Szarr family itself.

His thoughts, however, were not on the cracked mirrors or the crumbling walls. They were on Cazador, his sire, who had once again sent him on an errand that seemed beneath even the lowest of the Duskborn. Couldn't he had sent one of the other six thin-blood lackeys he had under his wing? Nonetheless, at least he'd have some time outside of the mansion.

Astarion ran his fingers over the soft, velvet fabric of his coat one more time before turning away from the mirror. No point in mourning what couldn't be changed. The mansion was a labyrinth of dark corridors, lined with dusty portraits of the Szarr family and their many lost heirs. Each step echoed lightly on the cracked marble, the sound hollow in the otherwise silent house. He could hear the distant murmurs of the other thin-bloods, tucked away in their corners, likely plotting their own pitiful schemes. Not that they’d get far. Cazador had them all tightly wrapped around his cold, skeletal fingers.

As he descended the grand staircase, the scent of old parchment, dried blood, and decaying flowers filled his nostrils. It was the familiar smell of home. A home that reeked of death. He passed through the main hall where heavy curtains shrouded the windows in perpetual gloom. Sunlight, if it dared peek through the cracks, was but a distant dream here.

"Off on another errand, Astarion?" came a mocking voice from the shadows. Violet, one of the other Duskborns, lounged lazily in a torn armchair near the hearth, a smirk playing on her lips. Her dark eyes gleamed with amusement as she twirled a lock of hair between her fingers. She always seemed too smug for someone just as chained as the rest of them.

Astarion didn’t break stride. "Jealous, are we? Looks like Cazador trusts me more than the rest of you rabble. Don't worry, perhaps one day you'll graduate to fetching his dry cleaning."

Violet laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "Oh, I’m sure. Enjoy your little freedom, Astarion. We both know it’s only a matter of time until you fuck up and end in the kennels again."

He didn’t dignify her with a response, pushing open the front door of the mansion and stepping into the night. The air outside was refreshingly cold, crisp compared to the stifling rot within. For a moment, he let himself enjoy it, the feel of the night breeze on his face, the distant hum of the city below.

The streets stretched out before him, dimly lit by flickering, half-broken street lamps, casting weak pools of light over crumbling sidewalks. The silence was thick, almost suffocating, broken only by the occasional distant siren or rustle of garbage in the alleys. This neighborhood had once been grand — a place of wealth and opulence — but now it had rotted, decayed into a shadow of its former self, much like the Szarr mansion looming behind him. The city, like Astarion himself, wore two faces — one bright and bustling by day, the other dark and treacherous by night. And it was the latter that he thrived in.

As he walked, his steps light on the cobblestones, Astarion found his thoughts drifting back to Cazador. For all his grievances, there was a twisted sense of pride that flickered in his chest, one he loathed to admit. In the early years of his ‘internship’ under Cazador, Astarion had been the least of them — the most despised, the easiest target for Cazador’s wrath. He endured the harshest punishments, the ones designed to break a person from the inside out. The humiliation was relentless, stripping him of every ounce of dignity. But then, after Amanita — Cazador's favourite — disappeared, something shifted. He couldn’t say why, and the change unsettled him. Suddenly, he wasn’t the lowest anymore. The punishments didn’t lessen, but the hate felt… different. He knew that being the new ‘favoured’ Duskborn was a double-edged sword. Yes, it gave him a slight edge over the others, a fleeting sense of superiority — but it also meant he bore the brunt of Cazador’s cruelty. The expectations were higher, and the leash tighter. Every task, even one as menial as tonight’s errand, was both a privilege and a punishment, a reminder that his ‘favour’ came with a price. It was freedom in the smallest of doses, a bitter taste of what he could never truly have.

Astarion let out a breath he didn't need and straightened his coat again, more out of habit than necessity. The night was his. And if he had to endure a chore or two, so be it. After all, freedom — even in the smallest doses — was something he’d learned to savor.

He paused at the gates of the Toreador Primogen’s haven, a stark contrast to the crumbling slums he had just passed through. Mizora’s estate was nestled deep in the Upper City, a gated sanctuary for the elite, where the streets were spotless and even the air seemed fresher. The mansions here, including hers, were grand and flawless — a world apart from the decay of the Szarr mansion, which stood ironically at the very edge, straddling the line between wealth and ruin, separating the opulence of the Upper City from the slums below.

Mizora. Her name tasted bitter, like poison on his tongue. He would never forget that she had been the one leading the charge, advocating for the eradication of all Duskborn in the city. A Toreador more obsessed with ancient tomes and occult rituals than with the shallow vanity most of her clan indulged in. Her library was legendary, even Tremere scholars whispered about it with envy. If Cazador had sent him here, whatever book he sought had to be important.

The task was simple: retrieve a book. Cazador hadn’t bothered to explain its significance, and Astarion hadn’t asked. He didn’t care. Whatever dark magic his sire was dabbling in, it wasn’t his concern — as long as he could avoid becoming a part of it. He was here to do the job, nothing more.

As the door creaked open, Astarion fully expected a servant to greet him. Instead, it was Mizora’s childer who appeared, Wyll Ravengard. Astarion’s lips twitched into a polite smile, masking his surprise.

Wyll stood in the doorway, tall and effortlessly graceful, his dreadlocks tied back loosely, with a few strands framing his striking features. His skin practically glowed with the Blush of Life he always maintained, even when there were no mortals around. His physique, smooth and flawless, as if sculpted by an artist’s hand, was balanced between strength and elegance — Astarion had always been almost painfully aware of it. 

“Ah, Astarion, good evening. You were expected,” Wyll said, his voice warm and polite, his words laced with a warmness that contrasted sharply with how Duskborns were normally greeted in this city. He stepped aside, gesturing for Astarion to enter. “My sire isn’t home at the moment, but she’s left everything in order for you.”

Wyll’s charm was almost disarming, and as he welcomed Astarion into the mansion, it was clear this hospitality wasn’t an act. “Please, come in and make yourself comfortable in the lounge. I’ll gather what you’ve come for.”

Astarion gave a small nod, hiding his unease behind a faint smile. He stepped inside, following Wyll through the polished floors and lavish décor. The young Toreador moved like he knew exactly how attractive he was, but there was no arrogance in it. It was so blatantly obvious why Mizora Embraced him, the little Mr. Perfect. 

Astarion desired him. Astarion desired to be him. 

Astarion hated him.

Wyll led the way toward the lounge, trying to make a small talk about how busy his sire was lately, but Astarion wasn't interested, answering the banter with curt nods and practically monossilabic affirmations.

Astarion settled into the lounge, his eyes wandering over the room's modern, clean furnishings. The faint smell of smoke lingered in the air, and his gaze drifted to the unlit fireplace. The logs inside were only half-burnt, the embers smoldering softly as if the fire had been extinguished in a hurry. Ash clung to the edges of the hearth, scattered across the floor as though someone had stamped it out hastily.

Curious, he noticed a few scraps of burnt paper near the fireplace. He crouched down, picking one up between his fingers, examining the charred edges. It seemed to be part of a letter. Most of the writing was unreadable, but a few words caught his eye��"sire," "investigate," and "rewarded."

Astarion raised a brow, piecing together what little he could from the fragmented words. It seemed Wyll had received a proposition, and it probably involved investigating his own sire. Astarion's lips curled into a wicked smile. Oh, this was too delicious. He stood, the paper still between his fingers, his eyes gleaming with devilish delight.

The Toreador’s perfect façade wasn’t so flawless after all, it seemed. And now Astarion had something far more valuable than whatever menial task Cazador had sent him for — leverage.

"Well, well, Wyll," he murmured to himself, a twisted satisfaction creeping into his voice. "It seems you’re not as obedient as you appear. How… delightful."

He tucked the burnt scrap into his coat, his grin widening. This little secret could be the key to bending the ever-polite childer to his will if needed. Blackmail was always a game he enjoyed playing, especially when the stakes were so personal.

Wyll came back, every movement as smooth and poised as a courtier, yet as he entered the lounge, his steps faltered ever so slightly. Astarion stood by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel, his gaze too casual, too knowing.

For a brief moment, Wyll’s expression shifted — his uneven eyes flickering to the half-burnt logs and the scattered ash before darting back to Astarion. The unease was barely there, a slight tightening of his jaw, the faintest twitch of his brow. But just as quickly, he composed himself, his face smoothing back into that polite mask he wore so well.

“Astarion,” Wyll greeted, his voice as warm as ever, though a subtle tension lingered beneath it. “I’ve retrieved the book you came for.”

He held it out with both hands, but his gaze lingered on Astarion a moment longer, betraying a flicker of suspicion as the Duskborn reached out, his fingers brushing the leather-bound cover of the book with a deliberate slowness, savoring the moment. His lips curled into a sly grin as he took it from Wyll, practically reveling in the tension radiating off the Toreador.

“Thank you, Wyll,” Astarion purred, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. He tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes as he added, “Tell me — how long have you been plotting against your sire?”

The look on Wyll’s face was priceless. His carefully composed mask didn’t crack completely, but Astarion saw the brief widening of his eyes, the way his grip tightened ever so slightly at his sides. For a split second, there was real panic there — then it was gone, replaced by a calm, practiced smile.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Wyll replied, his tone as steady and polite as ever, but Astarion could hear the faint edge beneath it.

Astarion let out a soft, mocking laugh, leaning in just a little closer, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Oh, darling, no need to play coy. I know a secret when I see one.” He tapped the spine of the book with a single finger.

Astarion turned to leave, the book tucked neatly under his arm, and threw a parting glance over his shoulder, his voice dripping with playful malice. "Don't worry, Wyll, I'll keep quiet… for a price."

He barely made it halfway to the door before Wyll was suddenly in front of him, moving with supernatural speed that caught Astarion completely off guard. One moment he was across the room, the next he was standing mere inches away, his previously composed expression twisted into something darker, less controlled.

“Careful, thin-blood,” Wyll hissed, his voice low, dangerous. “You don’t want to tread this path.”

Astarion’s eyes widened for a heartbeat, alarmed by the sheer suddenness of Wyll’s shift in demeanor. His mind raced, but he quickly reminded himself that Wyll wouldn’t dare strike him. Not here, not now. It would be too suspicious, and even Mizora’s childer wouldn’t risk unnecessary tension between the Camarilla and the Hecata. No, Wyll couldn’t touch him — at least, not physically.

Astarion raised his hands slowly in a mock gesture of surrender, the sly grin returning to his face as he masked his brief moment of panic with his usual nastiness. “Easy now,” he drawled, “I didn’t say that to rat you out.” He paused, his grin widening. “I mean, that would be terribly… inconvenient.”

It was a lie, of course. He had fully intended to blackmail Wyll, but now a new idea wormed its way into his mind. One that might just be more interesting than the first.

“Actually,” Astarion mused, tapping a finger against his chin thoughtfully, “perhaps we could help each other instead.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I want the same thing. Perhaps we could work together… in getting rid of our sires, hm?”

He could see the flicker of uncertainty in Wyll’s eyes, and Astarion's grin widened further. Wyll’s eyes narrowed, studying Astarion for a long, tense moment. Astarion could see the calculation flickering behind that perfectly composed face, the uncertainty hidden beneath layers of Toreador poise. For all his outward grace, Wyll was clearly rattled. His shoulders, usually so relaxed and regal, now held a subtle tension.

“This… is a dangerous game,” Wyll finally said, his voice measured, evasive. He wasn’t giving Astarion anything, not yet.

Astarion’s smile didn’t waver, but inside he felt a flicker of frustration. Of course, Wyll wouldn’t jump at the chance to join forces. He was too cautious for that, too concerned with appearances. But the fact that he hadn’t outright dismissed the offer was telling. There was something there — something Astarion could work with.

Still, it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

"Well, I do like a dangerous game," Astarion replied, his voice light, teasing. "Keeps things interesting, don’t you think?" He tilted his head, watching Wyll closely, trying to gauge whether he was leaning toward caution or intrigue.

Wyll’s face gave little away, but the tension in the air was palpable. He was weighing his options, and Astarion could see the doubt flickering in his eyes, as if he was unsure whether to push Astarion away or pull him into the fold.

Astarion wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily. "Think about it," he said, his tone almost coaxing now. "We both have something to gain, and our sires have far too much control over us, don’t they?" He leaned in just a fraction, his grin widening. "You know as well as I do that power is best kept in your own hands."

Wyll’s gaze flickered, just for a second. There was something there — an opening, however small. Astarion’s smile sharpened. He’d planted the seed. Now all he had to do was wait for it to grow.

Wyll’s eyes narrowed again, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a slight, knowing smile. "It's a bold statement coming from a Duskborn," he said, the words soft but pointed, as if to remind Astarion exactly where he stood in the grand hierarchy of things.

Astarion’s grin froze, fury boiling just beneath the surface. The audacity of it — being looked down on by someone like Wyll, a Diva's lapdog. But Astarion said nothing, forcing the biting retort back down his throat. Wyll didn’t wait for a reply, his expression remaining as poised as ever. "There's a Sabbat envoy named Karlach," he continued smoothly. "Give me her location. Prove you're capable, and perhaps we can discuss working together."

Astarion felt his fists clench at his sides, anger bubbling to the surface. His eyes flared as he snapped, "I was offering you an alliance, Wyll, not volunteering to be your errand boy. If you think I’m going to run around the city at your beck and call, I might as well give your sire what I've found—"

Wyll cut him off with a scoff, his smile now entirely condescending. "And if you think Mizora would believe you over me... well, you're more deluded than I thought." He crossed his arms, his stance firm. "But if you’re so eager to work with me, then these are my terms. Find Karlach."

Astarion’s jaw tightened, his mind racing. Wyll had him backed into a corner, and as much as he hated it, he knew the Toreador had a point. Mizora wouldn’t take a Duskborn’s word over her own childer’s. Even with a proof that Wyll could dismiss as a refused proposition. Astarion berated himself inwardly for his own recklessness — fortune not always favoured the bold, as it seems.

But he needed this. Needed a way out of Cazador’s grip, and if Wyll was the key to that… well, he would play along. For now.

"Fine," Astarion finally spat, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "I’ll find your Karlach. But this had better be worth it."

Part 2

[becca-alexa]

Movie Magic

Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're at Steve's for a movie date - what could go wrong?

Word Count: 1.7K

Content Warnings: fluff, fingering (f receiving), no use of [Y/N]

Author’s Note: bored and overwhelmed with school!and what better way to work off my stress than to keep writing this stuff? feedback and comments appreciated!💗💗

    In any and every situation, Steve Harrington loved to touch you.

    Steve had been starved for affection since his childhood, his parents oftentimes never present enough to give him the love he ached for, the love every child deserves to receive from their family; he’d taught himself to live without such things, believing that their behavior was the norm, and that it was those he considered to be overly-affectionate that were strange. 

    As a teenager budding into young adulthood, he’d finally discovered how wrong his family had been.

    The first form of love he’d found was with Nancy - an eros love, however fleeting their relationship had been. He’d also learned of heartache, which made the love all the more powerful.

    The second form, he’d found with Robin - philia, or ‘platonic with a capital “P”’, as she would so often tell everyone. It was a warm kind of love, a safe love, a nonjudgmental and welcoming love that he basked in whenever they were together.

    The familial love - storge - he’d been searching for, he’d found in the kids - and in Eddie, of all people, although he’d be loath to admit it. Their friendships meant the world to him, and if it meant putting his own life on the line a second time to guarantee they’d all live to see tomorrow, then so be it.

    And the fourth kind of love, pragma… Well, that he found in you.

    Steve had been smitten with you since the first time you’d wandered into Family Video.

    You’d walked up to the counter; Steve, sorting through stacks of cassettes underneath, sprang upright at the sound of your voice, his eyes wide at the sight of you - a new face, a breath of air in the occasional staleness that came with living in a small town. You smiled at him, and he smiled in return; to his surprise, you asked him for directions, still too new to Hawkins to know which way the local Piggly Wiggly was. Steve had done his best explaining things to you, and you had thanked him as you left, giving him a shy wave goodbye through the store window.

    Robin nearly gagged at the way he’d melted after you’d left - and she’d teased him mercilessly for months about it.

    About you.

    You’d gone back the next day, this time actually in search of a video, Steve nearly leaping over the counter in his haste to get to you.

    “Hi.” he breathed, his smile more lopsided than debonair, hair falling over his forehead.

    “Hello again,” you replied, eyes clear and bright as you take a step closer to him, pointing at the rack of recent releases behind him. “Any recommendations?”

    He explained every movie, every plot point, every surprise twist or frightening scare that might deter one from renting a film - and Robin, looking on, arms leaned over the counter as she pretended to flip through a catalog, swore she’d never seen Steve do so much work.

    He pulled a few boxes from the shelf - his favorites, since you’d asked for suggestions. You stared at the boxes in his hands, lip caught between your teeth as you tried to decide which one to pick - and when your hands brushed his, he nearly jumped at the jolt of electricity that shot through him.

    Judging from the look of bewilderment on your face, you’d felt it, too.

    In any and every situation, Steve Harrington loved to touch you.

    Whenever he saw you, he’d long for some sort of contact with you; with your frequent visits to the shop, it was only natural that you’d befriend them, and eventually you just started spending your free time with the pair. It began with a poke; Steve had leaned his hip against the counter, listening to your excited raving about Cyndi Lauper’s newest single, nodding every once so often. He stared at your hand, at your seafoam green nail polish, and he couldn’t help himself.

    He poked your finger.

    You didn’t miss a beat, your conversation continuing on as though nothing had happened. But, much to Steve’s delight, you’d poked him back.

    And, from that point on, you were both inseparable.

    Poking turned to tapping, which turned to grabbing, then holding. As the scalding summer days drawled on, your friendship with Steve deepened - perhaps a bit too quickly to some, but perfect for the two of you. One day, working alone at the store, he had sworn to move things forward - to take the risk, praying you wouldn’t turn tail and run.

    He asked you out.

    You said yes, much to his surprise - and unsurprisingly to everyone else.

    As a friend, Steve Harrington was caring, kind, warm; his comforting aura was what had initially attracted you to him. But, as a boyfriend? 

    In any and every situation, Steve Harrington loved to touch you; to hold you, to brush his hand against yours, to press the softest of kisses onto your hair, your eyes, your cheeks, your lips.

    But, you quickly learned that he especially loved to touch you.

    Seated between his legs atop his couch, you leaned back against his chest, head on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you, the movie you’d picked out playing on the large television. You try to focus on the movie - God knows you try - but the feeling of Steve’s rough hands moving over your thighs dominates your mind, your thoughts. You sneak a look at him, only to find him actually watching the movie; his hands continue to move over you, squeezing your softness, fingers wandering beneath the hem of your skirt, moving higher… Higher…

    “Steve?” Your voice is hoarse, your mouth dry, tongue sticky. “What are you-”

    “Just watch the movie.” His voice is soft against your ear, low and rumbling in a way that vibrates through your chest. You nod, swallowing against the tightness in your throat as his touch burns trails over your skin.

    You feel his fingers brush over your underwear, and he makes a quiet noise to get your attention.

    “Can I?” Steve asks, fingers tugging at the elastic hugging your body; you nod, face aflame as you lift your hips, pulling off the offensive thing in a single motion. And, unsure of where to put it, Steve takes it from you, sliding the lacy things into his pocket - for later, he answers with a kiss to your cheek before turning you back to watch whatever scene was playing out on the screen.

    You feel his hands roam over the inside of your legs, trailing close to your core. With a quiet gasp, your eyes flutter shut as you feel him drag a finger between your folds - up, down, up, down, stopping every few strokes to rub agonizingly slowly over your clit.

    “S-Steve-”

    “Keep watching.”

    Your body thrums in anticipation, and you have no choice but to do as he says.

    He continues on with his teasing - there’s no other way to describe what he’s doing - and you quickly feel yourself melting in his arms. As he kisses the shell of your ear, lips trailing over your flushed skin, his other hand moves to join the first, working in tandem to unravel you. You catch yourself grinding your hips up into his hands, and you barely catch a moan before it slips through your chapped lips.

    He rolls your clit between his fingers, maddening, electrifying, while his other hand presses into you, his fingers coated in your essence. Soon enough, the quiet, wet sounds of his fingers working your pussy fill the room, a sinful backing track to the movie you were supposed to still be watching. Your head rolls back against his shoulder, your breathing heavy, eyes fluttering closed as waves of warmth crash over you.

    “Eyes on the TV, sweetheart.”

    He pumps his finger into you, adding another, and you hear the softest of groans from him at how you squeeze around him, pulling him further into you. The hand at your clit speeds up, slows down, stops altogether before picking up at a dizzying pace - and the feeling drives you nearly to the brink of insanity, the familiar tightness of your release already coiling in your stomach.

    “You like this, don’t you?” Steve huffs against your ear, his own breathing labored as he works you toward your peak. “You like it when I touch you like this? When I get you soaking wet?”

    You nod, your mind a haze of pleasure; you moan aloud as his fingers curl themselves inside of you - and you know you won’t last much longer.

    “S-Steve, fuck…! I-I’m-” You cut yourself off with moan, one loud enough to be heard over the rising action of the film - rather, what you assumed to be the rising action.

    Neither of you were paying attention, anyway.

    You’re panting now, Steve’s name a prayer on your lips as your nails leave crescents in his arms, your eyes clenched shut as you feel yourself begin to come undone; the feeling of him everywhere is too much, too intense, and you let yourself fall into him.

    “C’mon, baby, cum for me. Cum on my fingers.” You feel Steve lick a stripe up your neck, kissing you, his words burning themselves into your flushed skin. “I want to feel you - please, baby…”

    You scream as the thread snaps, your body arching off his, his thick fingers buried deep inside of you, working you through the ecstasy. He presses kisses wherever he can reach, whispering praises into your ear; you can hear the smile in his voice, the pride he reserves only for you.

    “So good to me, baby… So sweet…” Pulling his hand away, he makes quite the show of licking his fingers clean, your flushed face burning impossibly redder, the sight making him smile as he readjusts you against him. He pulls out your panties, offering them back to you - of course, he does so purely out of courtesy, already knowing you’d refuse them. You settle yourself, burying your head in the cozy warmth of his chest.

    “Should I rewind the movie?” Steve asks, sounding almost sheepish as he reaches for the remote - and you laugh, taking the remote and tossing it aside before jumping to your feet, pulling him up with you as you lead him to his bedroom.

    “I’ve got a better idea…”

[cacowhistle]

everything, everything

fandom: hermitcraft/life series smps relationships: grian/scar wc: 2255

written for @salemoleander for the @mcytblrholidayexchange!!

read it on ao3 or below the cut!

Season Nine is ending. It’s a little sad, Scar will admit. He’s grown so used to these surroundings, and the memories within them. He’s familiar—intimate, even—with the way the hills roll and the buildings and monuments rise above the horizon. And right now, familiarity is important. At least, it is for him.

Secret Life ended with a bang, and Scar woke up with his heart pounding and the feeling of blood beneath his fingernails. He woke up safe and secure in bed, like nothing had ever happened. The only sign of it was a few new scars to his name, and the memories burned into the back of his mind. The memories that he had lost, for a while there, before his victory. He threw himself into work, for about a week, but time is running thin and he doesn’t have the time or materials to dedicate to another project, and there’s only so many hermits around, and—

Well, one thing at a time. Scar breathes in deep, grip tightening on his cane. He just needs… something. A distraction, for now.

He’s sorting out the whole death game thing at his own pace. Pearl had messaged him a day after they’d all gotten back to offer him a shoulder to lean on. It sort of stung a bit that Grian didn’t extend a hand, too.

Scar had taken Pearl up on that offer, though. They’d talked. He had a little bit better of an understanding than he’d had before. But now…

Scar shivers, an involuntary thing. Ugh. Distraction. He pulls up his comm with one smooth motion, eyes narrowing as he checks to see who’s online. Quite a few names come up—the last week of the server is upon them, after all—but his attention is caught by one in particular. One he, of course, was going to be drawn to. Grian is online, and Scar knows he doesn’t have many last-minute projects to be working on. Maybe he can wrangle the pesky thing into helping him with something small. It would be nice to at least ease back into talking about regular things again.

Though Grian would loathe to admit it, Scar is certain that he’s missed hanging out. And… well, of course Scar has missed him. They’re still friends. (Maybe more than that.) Mysterious entities beyond his understanding aside, Scar still cares about Grian. Even when Grian… creates a death game to appease some—not godlike, he’s not a god, Pearl had been very adamant about that, but… some kind of. Need, almost? He needs to stop thinking about it, before he gets too confused again. It was hard enough to parse the first time Pearl explained it all to him. Maybe he’ll ask Grian to explain it again, from his own point of view. Not now, of course, it’s far too soon for that, but… maybe once they’ve settled into the next season. For now, Scar flicks open his elytra, typing away on his comm.

> GoodTimeWithScar: Hey G where are you?

> Grian: base

> Grian: whats up

Shoot. He could’ve checked there without asking in chat. Now Grian will be expecting him. What if he’d wanted to prank him? Stupid. Scar checks his inventory for any goat horns, or anything else he can use. He’s got one, but he doesn’t know what sound it’ll make. A few eggs sit beside it. He’s… not sure where those came from. Maybe he can throw them at Grian from above?

Well, now he’s just stalling. Scar throws himself into the air, letting his cane drop into his inventory. The elytra do most of the work for him, carrying him along through the sky. He’s gotten much better at controlling them, though, and the skill shines through as he does a few loops around Scarland, just for himself. He has plans, however, and so he soars over the exit, pitching upwards and landing on one of the boulders that make up Grian’s base. The bird is somewhere around here, Scar thinks as he braces himself against the stone. He just has to find him.

It’s not that hard, all things considered. His feathers stand out, bright and colorful, against the earthy tones of his base.

Scar grins, snatching up an egg from his inventory, holding the goat horn with his other hand. He pushes off from the rock, gliding down toward Grian, who keeps looking down at his comm, none-the-wiser.

It is so, so easy to crack the egg and drop it on Grian’s head. At the same time, Scar blows into the horn, and the sound echoes, reverberates in his bones. Even from here, Scar can see Grian’s feathers all stand on end, and then his shoulders hike up to his ears as the raw egg lands in his hair. He yells—wordless and disgusted, shivering and shaking the egg out of his hair, feathers ruffling with displeasure as Scar cackles, quickening his descent.

“Scar!” Grian shouts up at him, scowling good-naturedly. “What is wrong with you?”

“It wasn’t me!” Scar lands in the grass a few feet away, pulling his cane out of his inventory to balance himself. “It was Poultry Man. You know how his tricks are.”

Grian wipes some more egg off of his shoulder, grimacing as he does so. “You know full well it was not.”

Scar shrugs. “I guess it’ll just be a mystery, then.”

“Right.” Grian flicks the last of the egg from his fingers. “Was that all you wanted to do, then?”

Well, shoot. He didn’t think this far ahead. Scar reaches for any idea, any project he needs help with—and comes up fairly empty. “Uh,” he says, floundering, “well, no, you see, I wanted to—or, well, I thought maybe you could—we could—”

Grian raises his eyebrows, looking more than a little confused.

“—hang out, or something,” Scar finishes lamely.

“Or something,” Grian repeats, frowning. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course!” Scar smiles. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

They both know the answer to that. Scar looks at Grian, all wide-eyed and nervous, and Grian just stares back, eyes flat. Scar fidgets with his cane, finally averting his eyes.

“If this is about the games,” Grian starts, voice gone somber, “I—I understand if you have some words for me. If you’re upset with me.”

Scar looks up, startled. “Why would I be upset with you, G?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Grian echoes, eyes wide. “Scar, I made you and our friends fight to the death for weeks. I’ve done it multiple times. And you—you know all that, now. You remember it all.”

He glances away, tucking his hands into his pockets. His wings fidget against his back. “You remember the win, and the losses, too.”

The sun blazes down and Scar sees sand and red behind his eyes when he closes them. It had hurt, to leave Grian on his own—to give his life and let him win, to abandon any chance of a happy, red life together, just the two of them—domestic and devoted in the desert. He does remember, now, nights shared in the same bed, feathers between his fingers and warmth against his back. It had hurt more when Grian had left him. He hadn’t known why it hurt, at the time, when Last Life began and any hope of companionship died that first night. And then Double Life—

Scar’s grip tightens on his cane. “Yeah,” he says, and it comes out tenser than he’d have liked. “Yeah, I remember. But G—”

“You’re upset,” Grian says, miserably, “it’s okay, Scar. I deserve it.”

“I’m a little upset,” Scar admits, “but I missed you, Grian. I’m not mad at you.”

They stand there for a few moments, quiet settling over them like a heavy, tense shroud. Scar shifts his weight from foot to foot, before clearing his throat. “I’m not, really. I just—I want to understand why.”

Why Grian had done any of it. The games, the desert—why he had stayed by Scar’s side even after he died the first time, when he didn’t have to at all. Why he’d refused to do so afterwards, why he left him in the cold on the mountain by his lonesome. Why he’d been so angry about being tied to him, why he’d fled and made new friends and a new home in the arms of other men—

Okay, he’s a little mad. Maybe. “Why’d you leave?”

Grian seems to freeze, wings stilling against his back. He looks up at Scar with wide eyes. “What?”

“Why,” Scar repeats, slowly, “did you leave, G? I would’ve stayed by you.”

“Well, I’m not you,” Grian retorts, pulling away. “And if you were really in my position I think you would’ve understood why. Just because you finally won doesn’t mean you get it, Scar.”

“Okay, so explain it to me.” Scar spreads his hands out, palms up, fingers outstretched. “What don’t I get? It feels a little bit like I’m being stabbed in the back, here, G. We had something in that desert, and you know it. So why did you abandon it that fast?”

“Because I didn’t want to have to kill you again!”

It comes out sharp and biting, like talons piercing flesh. Scar flinches back from the outburst, Grian’s wings splaying wide, feathers all puffed up. He stares up at Scar, looking more earnest and angry and heartbroken than Scar’s ever seen him. He steps forward, jabbing a finger into Scar’s chest.

“You try being in that position,” he bites out, “having to kill the man you love, and then just act like it never happened. Would you want to just do that all over again? Do all that grief again? I didn’t want to watch you die again, Scar. But yeah, sorry that you missed me, even though we saw each other all the time.”

“Just like you saw Joel and Tim all the time,” Scar mutters.

Grian’s feathers ruffle. “Excuse me?”

He waves a hand. “No, it’s fine. Go on.”

“We aren’t even together, Scar,” Grian says, eyes narrowing. “You cannot hold them against me when we aren’t even in a relationship.”

To be fair, he’s not wrong. Scar isn’t even really upset about that, truth be told. It just—well, he’s just feeling petty, he supposes. He shrugs, leaning in a bit. Grian leans back.

“Well,” Scar says, “do you want to be?”

He says it slow and sly, in that way that makes Grian shiver. He’ll admit: he sort of likes this. Even when they’re arguing, he can still find a way to make Grian speechless, and it seems he’s just hit the bullseye. Grian flounders, mouth opening and closing wordlessly for a moment, before he finally squawks out a response.

“You are ridiculous,” he gasps.

Scar grins, cocking an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a no?”

Grian splutters again, before throwing his hands up. “Yes, I want to be with you, Scar. What is wrong with you?”

He pulls Grian into a hug. Grian tenses, just for a moment, before relaxing into it with a sigh. Scar threads fingers between feathers, resting his chin on top of Grian’s head, staring beyond him at grass and moss and stone. He just holds him, for a minute, closing his eyes.

“I’m not upset,” he says, quietly, “about the death games. I know there’s something more complicated going on, and I don’t really understand it, but there’s a reason you do it. And I trust you, G. And sometimes, it’s actually kinda fun.”

Grian sighs into his shirt, leaning his cheek against Scar’s chest. “But,” Scar continues, “I am upset that you didn’t talk to me. That you didn’t try to keep us going. I—I think I get why you didn’t want to, but now…”

“We both remember,” Grian finishes, quiet. “So it’s less stakes when we get into a game.”

“You can team up with whoever,” Scar says. “I don’t really care about that. It’s good to hang out with other people. I just—want to know, I guess, that under all of that, there’s still us.”

“There’s always gonna be us.” Grian pulls back, looking up at Scar. “I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise. I just—I get scared, Scar, that I’m going to bring you down, or…”

“We kill each other all the time on Hermitcraft.” Scar shrugs. “Sometimes you just have to kill your friends dramatically.”

“I suppose it’s less harrowing when you know you’re just going to wake up on-server again,” Grian muses. Scar grins, letting his arms rest on Grian’s shoulders.

“Exactly,” he says.

“And you want this,” Grian says, running a hand along Scar’s arm. “Like, you really, truly want this. You want…” he swallows, not looking Scar in the eye.

“Whatever you want to give me,” Scar murmurs, low and sultry in Grian’s ear.

He snorts, swatting at Scar’s chest. “Stop that. I’m trying to be serious.”

“That was serious,” he protests.

Grian just giggles, leaning against him again. Scar looks down at him, running fingers through his hair. Grian gazes back at him with wide eyes.

“Can I kiss you?” He blurts, shifting in Scar’s arms.

Scar grins. “God,” he says, “please. I was waiting for you to ask.”

(It’s everything he was hoping it would be and more. When he wakes up the next morning, there’s feathers in his face and warmth pressed against his chest. It’s everything, everything, everything.

And it only gets better from there.)

[use-your-telescope]

When Everything's Made to be Broken - Chapter 8: You're Just Business

Summary: Loki confronts Theo about her avoidance of the other Avengers.

Author's Notes: Fun story/trivia about this song: In an interview with the Grammy Museum, it was revealed that some of the phrases in this first verse resulted from producer Tony Berg’s mishearing of Jon Foreman’s original lyrics: “You come ‘round like a prison ship” was misheard as “pirate ship”, and “You got a fist for a lower lip” was misheard as “fish.”  Ultimately, the band decided to record the song with the mondegreens as the song’s final lyrics. I like to think that Theo was aware of this little tidbit and it led to part of why she chose this particular song.

Side note, would anyone be interested if I shared more of these goofy little trivia bits/non-spoiler reasons that certain songs appear at certain times (and maybe even captions that Theo might have posted with the covers)? I’d share them on tumblr as a little “behind the scenes” sort of thing. 

I’m posting this a day early because tomorrow is the last day of helping my parents move, which also means saying farewell to the house I grew up in; I’m sure I’ll be all up in my feelings and distracted, so rather than risk missing my (self-imposed) deadline, I’m doing something wild and posting early.

If you enjoy, please reblog!! I'm a lil' blog and reblogs really help me out <3

Content Warnings: None?

Word Count: 5,314

Read on AO3 | When Everything's Made to be Broken Masterlist

Song: I need you (to be wrong) - Switchfoot

You come 'round like a pirate ship You're just business You got a fish for a lower lip You're just business You're the parentless, nightmare kid You're just business You don't answer for any of this You're just business

The end of onboarding meant the return of lazy days off.

Other than the sound of a sleety-drizzle outside, it was probably quiet enough in the tower to hear a pin drop. Any reprieve from commotion could best be described as blissful, and not needing to peer around every corner so Theo didn’t run into the Avengers brought a different kind of relief. 

In a normal day, Natasha and Steve were always the first to emerge, since they liked early morning training sessions. With how they timed their workouts, Theo typically had to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn just to have 30 minutes to get into the kitchen, make herself a cup of coffee, and then slink back to her corner of the tower or get the hell out, which meant going down to the hospital to get ready for work.

Then again, when Theo got back to her suite at night and heard the commotion and the raucous laughter echoing from down the hall, something painful twisted in Theo’s chest, making her miss her life before the Avengers. It didn’t help that ever since she visited Mémère, Theo caught herself weighing whether it was worth trying to make friends with anyone while she was here.

She hadn’t planned on staying with the group after her favor was done, so on the one hand she didn’t want to grow attached, then ditch them. On the other hand, now that she couldn’t see her other friends, life had become little more than work, which was a lonely way to live. And though she loathed to admit it, Loki’s visits and Julie’s perspective on the Avengers made Theo wonder if her trepidation was truly warranted.

Then again, the Avengers didn’t know the full extent of her history or her powers. Given the reactions from people who knew her sob story, she didn’t anticipate they’d like her very much if they learned the truth. That meant every social interaction felt like it required Theo to put on a show; every word, every action was a calculated risk. She’d been doing it for so long that it felt like second nature, but it didn’t mean she liked it.  

However, none of her concerns around socializing mattered, at least for the time being. According to the side discussions before the most recent debrief,  all of the Avengers had plans for the weekend which took them away from New York, so she had the entire tower to herself. Wanda and Vision snuck out on a weekend getaway to Maine, Tony and Bruce were presenting at some science conference in Switzerland (and Peter tagged along), the super soldiers agreed to help with an event for the US military down in DC, Natasha and Yelena decided to visit Clint and his family out at their farm, Shuri happened to be in Oakland, and Thor had gone to New Asgard for something. Theo assumed that Loki had gone with him, since he was also an Asgardian prince and all. 

Regardless, Theo’s agenda for the day consisted of one thing: reading. A mountain of SHIELD reports loomed on Theo’s desk ever since she started, consisting of both recent and past missions that would hopefully provide the context she needed to offer her expertise on the shadow creatures. Even if she would have rather been marathoning Queer Eye or visiting Mémère, a rainy Saturday morning without anyone around seemed like just as good of a time as any to check the reports of her never-ending list of things to do. 

But even before she dug into the stack of reports, she needed coffee.

Theo padded through the halls of the tower, relishing the echo of her footsteps and the lack of chatter filling the air. Upon entering the kitchen, Theo decided that rather than work her way through the reports in her suite, she’d indulge in a change of scenery and set up shop at the kitchen island.

After starting the coffee, Theo brought out her laptop and the pile of reports, scattering them across the breakfast bar for easy review. She placed her headphones over her ears, cranked up her music, and became so absorbed in reading about the fallout of Ultron and the Sokovia Accords that she forgot about the coffee brewing… 

… She also failed to observe that she wasn’t the only one home. 

A coffee mug appeared next to her out of seemingly thin air, to which Theo yelped and practically flew out of her seat.

“What the – “ she tore her headphones off and whirled around to find Loki standing there, holding his own cup of coffee. “Jesus, Loki, creep around much?”

“I was in no way creeping. Your decision to wear headphones impeded your ability to hear me.” Loki’s tone remained cool and unaffected as he took a sip of his own coffee, leaning back against the counter. “Perhaps you might demonstrate some gratitude toward me; after all, I prepared your coffee for you.” 

“In my defense, I also didn’t realize I wasn’t the only one home – I thought you went back to New Asgard with Thor.” Theo protested, trying to ignore the searing heat that rose on her cheeks. She palmed the mug of coffee in one hand, glancing briefly at the swirls of steam rising from the ceramic cup.

“I’ve no reason to be in New Asgard at present.” He shrugged, before narrowing his eyes at Theo. “If you believed you were alone, why not use Stark’s audio system to listen to your music? It is not as if you would cause a disruption.” 

“It’s a habit,” Theo shrugged casually, allowing her focus to travel to her new teammate. Unlike Theo, whose heart still pounded in her chest from the surprise, Loki's casual posture and amused expression left him looking cool as a cucumber, because of course he would. “Besides, high quality headphones have better sound quality than any stereo system Tony Stark could build – it’s easier to hear the nuance and little details in the recordings.” 

Loki cocked a skeptical brow at her before sauntering over to the refrigerator. As he bent down to rummage through the contents, Theo took advantage of the opportunity to drink in the full sight of Loki in the mornings. 

Loki’s Saturday morning attire was more relaxed than she had ever seen from him. Black joggers slung low on his hips and followed the line of his slim form, while a gray t-shirt clung to his torso and hinted at the toned muscle beneath. He pulled his black curls back into a loose bun, but left one strand hanging down to frame his face, highlighting a jawline that cut like glass. 

For all the jokes Julie made, she wasn’t kidding about Loki’s attractiveness. But that was like saying the sky was blue - no one would question that a god was objectively attractive.

In comparison, he probably thought Theo looked a bit sloppy in her oversized sweatshirt and yoga pants, her own hair tossed up in what looked less like a bun and more like a rat’s nest…

Channeling her inner gremlin, as Max would say.

Loki turned around and caught Theo studying him. 

“Are you enjoying the view?” He smirked.

“I’ve never seen you in anything remotely casual before,” Theo said, mirroring his expression. “Looks good on you.”

Loki hummed, something devilish twitching on his lips to match the glint in his eye. “I should hope so.” 

Theo rolled her eyes. Of the many traits Loki held, humility did not seem to be high on the list. Then again, Theo knew that if she was that attractive, she wouldn’t be humble about it, so it wasn’t like she could hold that against him.

Instead of feeding Loki’s ego, Theo returned her attention to the Sokovia report. She knew herself well enough to know if she didn’t make substantial progress on the reports that day, she would never catch up.

However, Loki either did not get the hint that Theo wanted to be left to work or he chose to ignore it, positioning himself across the island from Theo. With each passing moment, Theo felt his burning stare intensify.

“Keep looking at me like that and I’ll hit you over the head with a chair.” Theo threatened, not even glancing up from her work.

“Darling, such a temper from you this morning.” Loki practically purred. “I would have expected gratitude - after all, I prepared your morning coffee for you.” 

Theo rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the hint of a smile that quirked up. Of course the prince would make a big deal out of a small gesture. “Well, thank you for the coffee, your highness, now will you leave me alone to work?”

“How are you settling in?”

Ugh. 

He couldn’t have been that dense, right? He must have known Theo did not want to talk to him at that moment. No one became a renowned diplomat if they couldn’t understand basic social cues. 

“Fine,” Theo drawled, “Better if you leave me to read in peace.”

“You never choose to spend time in the common areas like this. Why today?”

A loaded question, delivered with a deceptively light tone, had Theo’s hair standing on the back of her neck. 

No, he wasn’t clueless or dense - Loki wanted something; information, probably.

Something unsettling lurched in Theo’s stomach.

“Because I thought I was going to be alone?” Irritation colored Theo’s response; she gritted her teeth, debating if she should try to divert the conversation or just piss him off so he’d leave her alone.

Her morals leaned towards the former, but her temper leaned towards the latter.

For the moment, she held her tongue.

“Perhaps this will surprise you, but you are allowed to venture into the common areas while others are around to spend your leisure time and… Do whatever it is that you are doing,” Loki casually gestured to the stack of papers scattered between them. “As you previously stated, you are not a princess to be locked away in a tower.”

“Currently, I’m reading reports,” Theo muttered, “And you’re proving to me exactly why I don’t do this in common areas – because you’re distracting me.” 

It took a significant amount of willpower not to slam her computer closed and retreat to her suite; after all, the heavily redacted report about Budapest that was next on her list looked like an enticing read.

“See, that brings me to my next question: why, when you have a beautiful Saturday morning to relax, are you spending your time reading reports and paperwork?” A playful, lighthearted tone graced Loki’s question, but Theo’s patience wore dangerously thin. “If you wish for quality reading material, you only need to ask. I’ve plenty of recommendations.”

“Okay, since apparently you refuse to get the hint, I’m just going to be blunt: I am trying to work. I don’t want to talk right now. Quite frankly, your impromptu interrogation is pissing me off. So for the love of all that is holy, can you leave me alone?” Theo huffed, outright glowering at Loki. 

“You may not be interested in speaking, but I’m certainly interested in answers to my question.” Loki arched a brow at Theo, sipping his coffee as if he could wait all day for a response.

“Because the world isn’t going to save itself and I have a lot of background knowledge to catch up on if I don’t want to fuck up one of these missions and get a bunch of people killed.” Theo’s frustration made its open debut, but amidst her ire she failed to hide the undercurrent of anxiety in her answer. 

Before Theo even finished, Loki’s demeanor shifted from taunting to serious - he must have recognized that he struck a nerve. 

Shit. 

She let her guard down and he latched onto it instantly… Careless mistakes like that could get her killed.

“Are you aware that it is not a requirement to memorize every piece of SHIELD’s history?” Loki leaned in so he could look at Theo over her laptop, face shifting to something unreadable before he continued. “Generally speaking, we have only enough knowledge to complete the individual mission. You need not push yourself to learn everything so that you might recall it at a moment’s notice.”

It wasn’t about knowing everything - it was about assessing the risks. Theo needed to know the history in order to understand the potential risks. If she was in an emergency department, she knew the environment. She knew the variables. She had control over her situation.

But in the field? Knowing anything was a laughable thought.

“It’s not about memorizing, it’s about learning what I got myself into,” Theo flatly replied, hoping to make up for her slip. “I know Fury is fond of leaving out important details in favor of creating a narrative, so I want to make sure I know what he hasn’t told me before I’m sent out into the line of fire.”

“And you believe reports are the way to learn such information?” Skepticism dripped from Loki’s question. 

“I didn’t say I liked it, but this,” Theo gestured to the mess of documents around her, refusing to let her nerves show once more, “is better than letting Fury trot me around like a prize horse or his little puppet.”

It was a half-truth; he didn’t need to know all the details, but perhaps she could spin it to take some of the pressure off.

“I do not believe you’re giving yourself enough credit.” Loki stepped around the island so he stood next to Theo, then shut her laptop so she would look him in the eye. He certainly accomplished the goal, but earned a frustrated groan from Theo in the process. “You’re an immensely sharp and powerful sorcerer – I can feel the magic pouring off you. You easily handle extreme physical duress during training, you effortlessly adapt to any social situation, and it has not escaped my attention that you’re extremely well-studied in a variety of areas.”

Sure, Loki saw Theo spar with Steve, and obviously they’d hung out a few times; they spoke at the party from the first night, and showed up to the soccer game and the bar show…  But a handful of interactions wouldn’t have been enough to draw those conclusions, right?  

Maybe it was a bluff, or an attempt at wooing her with his famed silver tongue so she would give him the information he wanted. 

It wouldn’t be the first time someone lied to her in hopes of gaining her trust. 

“First of all, I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or creeped out that you’ve been watching me so closely,” Theo retorted with a scowl. “Second of all, what’s your point?”

“If you are concerned about your ability to defend yourself on a mission, you need not fret.” Loki sounded cocky, almost arrogant – how would he know what they were up against? “You realize you are not the only one responsible for your safety in the field?”

“You really think that the others, who look at me like I’m a terror, give a shit about my safety?” “They do not believe you are a terror.” 

“Cool, tell that to my grandma when she has to deal with my dead body,” Theo muttered. She attempted to snatch her laptop from Loki, but he held firm.

Loki may have been nicknamed a silvertongue, but the only thing his tongue had done was piss Theo off. 

Enough was enough.

“ I don’t have time for this shit.” With a flick of her wrist, a swirl of shimmering runes encompassed the reports and her laptop, teleporting them back to her quarters. Theo snatched her coffee mug, then offered a final wave and a bratty sneer before transporting herself to her suite.

In the solitude of her suite, Theo let out a sigh.

So much for a peaceful Saturday morning.

I got a body, but I lost my mind I'm just business Placeholder with a bottom line I'm just business Please don't take this personally It's just business

Standing in the kitchen, Loki gaped at the empty seat before him and replayed the events which led to his current predicament.

In some ways, he could have foreseen such an outcome. Initial interactions with Theo had been far more successful than Loki anticipated, to the degree that he almost believed Theo might actually wish to befriend him. Thus, it was inevitable that he would ruin his progress in a truly spectacular manner.

In his defense, walking into the kitchen and finding Theo there had not been something he anticipated. The circumstances practically begged for Loki to engage; when else would he see Theo anywhere besides her workplace or mandatory Avengers engagements? 

Yet, after a handful of occasions spent casually making each other’s acquaintance, Loki expected something with a bit more banter, or at least something more lighthearted. Instead, she met his questions with barbed remarks and vicious glares, culminating in another disappearing act.

The Theo that Loki encountered in the kitchen was vastly different from the Theo he first met, or the one that he spent time with in the research library; that Theo seemed confident and self-assured, sharp-witted and formidable regardless of the circumstances. But when caught off-guard, she became aggressive and downright irascible, to the extent that Loki questioned whether or not it was the same woman who he’d spoken to before.

However, deep within Loki’s chest, something uncomfortable twisted. He recognized the behavior, mostly because he had once acted in such a manner;  if he was entirely honest with himself, he knew exactly what motivated such behavior:

Protecting oneself at all costs.

Seeing Theo in such a state brought to mind his mother’s gardens in Asgard. When flowers were cut and taken from the gardens, they eventually wilted and withered, unable to adapt to their new surroundings. Roses, one of his mother’s favorite flowers, eventually developed thorns all along the stem, which made cutting the blooms a much more challenging task; a defense mechanism that evolved over the course of millennia. 

Like the thorns that protected the roses, Theo’s hostility served as a defense mechanism, an instinct developed to protect herself from something which previously scarred her, something which might have caused her to wither and wilt until nothing more than a shadow of her former self.

In Theo’s behavior, Loki saw himself. There was once a time where he had been so guarded that the other Avengers called him a cactus because of his prickly, sullen demeanor. Though the moniker had become a relic, the instinct remained firmly ingrained upon Loki’s psyche.

Theo was by no means a cactus, but she certainly had some thorns. 

Loki sighed, smoothing calloused fingers over his hair. Ideally, he could remedy the situation with minimal lingering damage to the delicate kinship he struck with Theo; yet the manner in which he could achieve such a feat eluded him.

If he approached too soon, she would only recoil, particularly if she felt cornered. If he waited too long to speak to her, she might suspect his intentions stemmed from less than savory desires - exploitation or a means to an end.

After much dithering, Loki settled upon a plan: if he did not see Theo around lunch, he would knock on her door. If she failed to respond, he would try again at dinner time.

If he still had not heard anything, he would send her a message through his mobile, leaving the onus upon Theo - if she wished to interact she could, however he would not push further.

Any and all confidence Loki held in the plan dwindled when noon came and went with no sign of the silver shadow. Despite the aura of magic radiating from within, Loki’s knocks were met with silence, only dampening his spirits further.

To be on the receiving end of rejection brought a certain discomfort which Loki had not outright encountered in quite some time, and it remained at least as unpleasant as he remembered (if not moreso). Midgardians never outright rejected him - first, they feared him, but over time some came to lust after him. As for the Asgardians, they knew better than to disrespect a crown prince, even if his lineage brought disgrace upon the throne. The more he dwelled on the matter, the clearer it became that he could not remember the last time someone outright turned away from him in such a blatant manner.

Without any sign of Theo in the afternoon, or around the time when the others typically took their evening meal, Loki braced himself for the worst and made the trek down the corridor.

As he approached, the faint sound of music could be heard from inside Theo’s quarters, which combined with her aura confirmed she was present. After pausing for a moment to gather himself, Loki rapped his knuckles upon the door.

Much to his surprise, the music stopped. Footsteps grew louder as Theo approached the door. The noise ceased for a beat, then the lock clicked, and the door swung wide.

Theo stood before him, arms crossed and brows drawn tight as she scrutinized Loki.

“I don’t know if I should be impressed or annoyed by your stubbornness.” Theo skipped any formal greeting, leaning against the doorframe as she gave him a once-over. “Then again, I’m the one that answered the door, so maybe your strategy is effective, or I’m a glutton for punishment. Either way, are you here to continue badgering me about work, or is there something else you want?” 

Loki drew in a deep breath. 

“It seems I struck a nerve,” he observed. “For that, I apologize.”

“Is that all?” Theo eyed Loki warily, as if she knew other matters remained on his conscience.

Loki sighed; it seemed as good of a time as any to address what Midgardians often referred to as ‘the elephant in the room.’

“I noticed you’ve not yet made the acquaintance of the others.”

“I socialize with the other hospital staff,” Theo countered.

Loki scoffed. “I am referring to the other Avengers.”

“I know.” Theo answered as if she had no intention of continuing the conversation. Loki raised his eyebrows at her in a silent question; she rolled her eyes and sighed. “Look, I’m sure they’re fine, but I’m not really interested.”

“Dare I inquire as to why?”

“For one thing, the only reason they’re pretending to be interested in me is because Fury gave them the mission of convincing me to stay on as an Avenger.” Theo cocked an eyebrow at Loki as she slouched further into the doorframe. “So it’s not like they’re really trying to be my friend. And besides, most of them were more than quick to jump to conclusions about who, or what kind of person, I was.”

“If that is so, then why have you not shunned my company?” Loki challenged. “How do you know I am not making your acquaintance to win over the director?”

“I don’t,” she admitted, “but you don’t seem like the type of person to crave Nick Fury’s adoration, or like you’d let him make you his bitch. I suppose I could be wrong, though.” 

“Such rousing praise,” Loki drawled. “Truly, the utmost of faith you place upon me—“

“Okay, fine - you really want to know why I’m willing to talk to you?” Theo interrupted, silencing Loki in the process, “Because in that first meeting, you didn’t automatically assume I was the villain.” 

Something painful twisted in Loki’s stomach. Nowhere in the list of potential responses that Loki developed prior to asking the question was Theo’s answer, yet what she described was an experience he knew all too well. The memory of Barton’s initial reaction to Loki’s presence remained painfully vivid to the Asgardian, which only diminished Loki’s confidence in his argument. 

Still, Theo’s perceptions of the situation were not entirely true. “I was not the only Avenger who made no assumptions about your morality—” 

“Not out loud,” Theo agreed, “But you were the only one who didn’t look at me like I was some kind of terror. You actually looked at me as a person.”

If anyone could empathize with Theo’s experience, it would be Loki. Joining the Avengers, a group who he didn’t truly know or trust, and who didn’t know or trust him… For quite some time, Loki believed wholeheartedly that he made a terrible mistake. 

Months passed from when he first relented to Thor’s pleas to become an Avenger to when Loki partook in a movie night, and that only happened because Thor physically dragged Loki from his quarters. He lost count of the number of times he turned Maximoff down before finally relenting to her constant requests to spend time together. 

In the end, it took over a year for Loki to feel remotely comfortable simply existing in the common areas during the day, going on missions without his brother, or speaking to anyone that was not Thor. Even after so long, he still questioned whether the others valued his contributions to the team, or if they simply tolerated his presence.

“I will admit, the others are not always the most… open-minded, shall we say. Not in the beginning, at least.” Loki chose his words carefully, recognizing the delicate nature of the situation at hand. “However, I truly believe they have moved past the false assumptions, and I would highly recommend you use the opportunity to demonstrate that you are not the terror they assumed you to be.”

“And how do you know that they even want to get to know me?” Theo pressed, piercing blue eyes scrutinizing Loki’s every move.

“Because I was once in a similar position.” The answer slipped out before Loki could stop it. He carefully schooled the surprise from his features; meanwhile, Theo made no effort to hide her skepticism.

“I understand that you may not fully trust me yet – I’m the trickster god, I have a history of manipulating people. Quite frankly, it would be in your best interest not to trust me. But!” Loki admitted, then continued before Theo could get a word in edgewise: “You remind me quite a bit of myself, when I first became an Avenger. I believed the others assumed the worst in me. I held no trust in the others, and in turn they placed no trust in me. It remained as such for quite some time – too long, in hindsight. 

“The change in my relationship with my colleagues came when I finally relented to my brother and Maximoff’s incessant attempts to force me to socialize with the others. If it were not them, I would still remain hidden away in my quarters at all hours. 

“Honestly, at the time I desired nothing more than to kill them in a spectacular manner for their belligerent pestering and sickening optimism. But between you and I, it helped me far beyond simply becoming a part of the Avengers – it helped me move on from the past that used to define me.”

To be so genuinely forthcoming was a bold decision. Had it been anyone else, he would not have dared to reveal such information, particularly someone so new. However, Theo had a knack for drawing the unexpected from Loki, even if it often caught him by surprise. Additionally, the mystery surrounding Theo piqued his curiosity, which only grew with the reluctance to socialize with the others. 

Without taking a risk, there would be no reward.

Theo narrowed her eyes at the God of Mischief, chewing the inside of her cheek as she mulled over his words.

“I remind you of… you?” Distrust clung to every word, only amplified by the doubt written across her expression in big, bold letters.

“Well, yes,” Loki replied coyly. “but you are far more charming and engaging. When I first arrived, I was simply full of spite.” He chuckled, earning a hesitant smile at Theo as a faint hint of pink rose on her cheeks from his compliment. “Had there been no consequence, Stark would have gleefully made a spectacle of launching me off the top of the tower.”

Theo’s shoulders bounced as she chuckled at Loki’s remarks. A sense of relief washed over Loki - perhaps he hadn’t made a mess of things after all.

“The winter soldier, the scarlet witch, myself - at one point or another, we were enemies of various factions of the Avengers. Romanoff is a former black widow, as is Belova. If we can be accepted into the Avengers, I’ve no doubt that you can as well.” Loki assured her, his confidence building with every passing moment. “However, you must be willing to engage.”

Before Theo could roll her eyes and offer a snarky dismissal, Loki held up a finger to silence her.

“At least humor Maximoff once,” he bargained. “I’ve listened to her prattle on endlessly about her excitement at your addition to the Avengers ever since she learned the news, and if I have to endure any more of her moping because you’ve rejected her invitations to socialize, I very well might lose my mind.”

After far too long of a pause, Theo finally answered.

“Okay, fine. I will stop turning down the invites to hang out and I’ll try to ‘play nice’ with the others,” she relented, sounding none too pleased as she straightened up. “For the record, I never agreed to any of this. I am here reluctantly, at best.”

“Yes yes, the reluctant Avenger - you’re not the first one. I wrote the book on it.” Loki ribbed, earning a real laugh from Theo. “Now come, it is far too beautiful of a day to spend it reading such dreary reports. Why not spend your time on something you might enjoy?”

“You know it’s raining outside, right?” Theo pointed to a window behind her, where an onslaught of water undoubtedly pounded against the glass.

“Of course I do;” Loki lightly scoffed. “That’s why it is such a beautiful day - it is perfect for settling in with some literature and forgetting about the tomfoolery the rest of this dreadful realm subjects us to.”

Theo didn’t argue with him, but she continued to peer at him rather suspiciously. 

“You have worked non-stop ever since you started here. What is the phrase that you mortals love? All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy? I fear you might become dreadfully dull if you keep this up.”

“Good thing my name isn’t Jack.” Theo winked, her quick-wit making its blessed return. 

“All work and no play makes for a rather wretched existence.” Loki amended his statement, smirking at Theo. “What you ought to do is put those reports away, find a novel that you actually enjoy, and join me in the sitting room to indulge in some reading. We might even listen to some of your music over the speakers, since you seem to be averse to silence yet easily startled when you wear your headphones.”

“I don’t know, this Budapest report looks like a great mystery to crack.” Theo shrugged, though her tone no longer held any trace of the tension or animosity that had previously dominated her replies.

Loki rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t bite back a smile. 

“Okay,” Theo finally agreed, “let me put this stuff away, and then I’ll come join you.”

As she joined him in the corridor, Loki concluded that one thing was certain: he much preferred Theo’s banter to her thorns. 

I need you to be wrong  (All along wе both were wrong) I need you to be wrong  (All along wе both were wrong)

[vannahfanfics]

All Part of the Charm

Word Count: 2,600

Fluff, Romance, Established Relationship, Post-Time Skip

Summary: Kei and Tetsurō have only been dating a short time now, and they haven't told anyone yet. Who knew that fact would lead to an opportunity for a good prank?

Continuing to work on posting the huge backlog of works that I’ve accumulated over my time in school, here’s the piece that I wrote for the KuroTsuki Summer Solstice Exchange!

“You know, holding hands under the table like this… It makes me feel like a married man having an illicit affair instead of just a regular guy on a date with his boyfriend.” 

Apparently, Kei did not appreciate the comment, for he shot Tetsurō an icy glare from across the café table. 

“I can stop holding it, if that would make you feel better,” Kei deadpanned, which quickly wiped the smirk off of Tetsurō’s face; it was replaced with a sulky pout. Kei huffed, but before he could double down on his threat and yank his hand out of Tetsurō’s, the ravenet quickly tightened his grip. Kei’s sharp gaze could have cut steel, but Tetsurō just met them with pathetic puppy-dog eyes. 

“Noooooooo, don’t do that. It most certainly would not make me feel better,” Tetsurō pleaded, fluttering his lashes for added effect. Not that it had much of an effect on Kei, who was all but immune to Tetsurō’s charms. Well, not entirely immune; they’d worked well enough for Tetsurō to reel Kei into dating him, after all.

It had only been a few weeks. This was their first time on an in-person date; Kei had traveled to Tokyo to accompany Tetsurō to one of his favorite cafés. They hadn’t even made any sort of public declaration or told their friends yet—hence all the cloak-and-dagger on Kei’s part. He was anxious about the possibility (however slim it might be) that they would run into someone they knew. Tetsurō didn’t righteously care about anyone finding out about it, but Kei did, and he respected that enough to let Kei go at his own pace. 

That didn’t mean that he wasn’t gonna give him shit about it. It was part of that charm that had won Kei over, loathe as the blond would be to admit it. 

“Look, all I’m saying is, what are the odds of somebody we know walking in here? Like, really?” 

The little bell attached to the café door tinkled as it swung open, and it was swiftly followed by a delighted yell of, “Hey, hey, hey, look who it is!” 

“What are the odds?” Kei huffed and jerked his hand away as Tetsurō just gazed somewhere past him in a thousand-yard stare. Tetsurō snapped back to reality when Kōtarō pranced up behind him and slammed his hands down on his shoulders, for the shock of it made Tetsurō nearly spring out of his chair. As he sagged down in it, glaring at Kōtarō, Keiji rounded the table on the other side to stand next to Kei with his hands in his pockets. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Tsukki,” he greeted with a cordial smile. “What brings you to Tokyo?” 

“I got weary of studying, and Tetsurō’s been nagging me to visit for a while now, so I figured that I would finally take him up on his offer,” Kei explained breezily. His air of nonchalance might be able to fool Kōtarō and Keiji, but it couldn’t fool Tetsurō; he felt the blond begin to compulsively jump his leg up and down, the movements even jerkier with the way Kei’s body had stiffened up. When Kei’s eyes flicked to him, nervous and full of doubt, Tetsurō offered him a discreet but comforting smile. 

“We were having a nice little coffee date, and then you two knuckleheads had to come and interrupt us,” he sighed and slumped down in the chair, masking his genuine disappointment by feigning dramatics. “I think you should buy us more coffee to make up for it.” 

He knew that the two of them wouldn’t leave anytime soon as they’d be eager to catch up, so now had to misdirect their attention until Kei stopped internally freaking out. Ah, he should have kept his big mouth shut; bad things always happened when he taunted the universe like that. Irony had always had it out for him. 

He nodded his chin to Kei, whose eyes widened slightly. 

“You mentioned right before they got here that you were going to get another drink, so why don’t you go place an order for all of us while I entertain our guests?” 

To the other two, it looked like a mere suggestion, but Kei recognized it for what it really was—an out. 

“Sure. What does everyone want?” Kei asked as he nodded and rose from his chair. 

“I’ll take a coffee black, thanks,” Keiji said while handing him enough yen bills to cover both himself and Kōtarō, who was having an existential crisis trying to decide what he wanted. 

“Uhh… Um… Man, it’s so hard to pick off the top of my head like that!” he frowned while pinching his chin, face screwed up in deep thought. When Kei pushed in his chair, he panicked and cried, “Just surprise me! Oh, but it’s gotta be super sweet, okay? I don’t like that nasty stuff like Keiji drinks.” 

“And that’s the reason that you’re going to the dentist tomorrow to get four cavities filled,” Keiji snorted as he pulled up a chair and sat down. 

“Hey, hey, hey, I can’t help it… Sugar ain’t good for the teeth, but it’s good for the soul, my gramma says…” Kōtarō grumbled while grabbing his own chair. He was hunched over and frowning grumpily as he dragged it up to the table, and when he sat down, it was by sulkily plopping down into it. He crossed his arms and stared angrily at the table as he continued to mutter, “Big mean Keiji, makin’ fun of my cavities…” 

“I’ll be back,” Kei announced. As he walked away, he shot Tetsurō a discreet look of gratitude over Kōtarō and Keiji’s heads. 

“Take your time. We’re just gonna talk about you behind your back while you’re gone,” Tetsurō joked with an impish smirk, to which Kei responded with a roll of his eyes and a dismissive wave.

Once Kei was out of earshot, Keiji leaned forward and asked with a dreadfully serious expression, “So, when the hell are you gonna get off your ass and ask him out?” 

If there was one thing that Kei and Tetsurō shared, it was the ability to appear completely unruffled despite completely panicking on the inside. So, while most of his brain was directing its focus to internal screaming, he looked completely nonchalant as he smirked at Keiji and replied, “When I said that we were going to talk about him behind his back, I meant it as a joke, you know.” 

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t sweat the details!” Kōtarō chimed in, immediately abandoning his sulking now that the conversation had shifted to something that interested him. He was all smiles as he continued brightly, “Keiji may seem like he’s bein’ mean, but he really wants to see the two of you get together, yanno?”

Little does he know, he already has, Tetsurō thought while hiding a widening grin behind his hand. His gaze flickered to Kei, who was standing idly in line and none the wiser to the drama unfolding at the table. That was probably a good thing. The idea of Kōtarō and Keiji meddling in their love life would probably give him an aneurysm. 

“I do, too!” Kōtarō continued cheerfully. “I think you guys would be great together.” 

“Well, thanks,” Tetsurō smiled crookedly at him. It was hard, trying to seem genuinely grateful for a nice compliment while trying not to burst into laughter. He cleared his throat to force down the giggles rising up inside of it, to which Keiji arched a brow ever-so-slightly. Quickly, Tetsurō added, “I just think I need a little bit more time. To find a good way to go about it and all, you know?” 

In Tetsurō’s defense, he honestly thought that would put the matter to rest. How was he supposed to know that the two of them would see it as a silent plea for help? 

“Hey, hey, hey! I got an idea!” Kōtarō cried enthusiastically, and Tetsurō was too curious as to where the situation could go to have the good sense to grow concerned. Kōtarō snickered deviously, as if he were some mad villain concocting his greatest evil scheme of all time, and then leaned in close to whisper excitedly, “Let me and Keiji think up a way for you to confess! Right here, right now!” 

“Look, you guys—” Tetsurō started, waving his hands in a “calm down” motion while smiling uncomfortably. 

“I think it’s a great idea,” Keiji interrupted with a smile as deviously keen as Kōtarō’s own. “I’m just about sick of watching you pine.” 

Tetsurō ran his hands over his face with an exasperated sigh. Oh, he was in for it now; once these two got going, there was no stopping them. However, his own devilish side couldn’t help but relish in the prospect of going along with the shenanigan. He could already imagine the look on Kei’s face as he professed his feelings to him, right there for the world to see—

I shouldn’t. He’s not comfortable with letting anyone know we’re dating yet. This’ll just force things out into the open, the little angel on his shoulder tried to remind him. 

But, as far as these two have to be concerned, we aren’t together. So what does it matter if I go along with the charade? It’s up to Kei on how he reacts, crooned the devil on his other shoulder. 

The little devil had always been a smooth talker, and Tetsurō had always had a hard time resisting its silver tongue—especially when a good prank was involved. In this case, it was a two-for-one deal! How could he resist? 

It puts too much pressure on him to accept your feelings! You’re supposed to go at his pace, remember? the angel begged. 

Maybe this little prank will be just the push he needs to stop keeping your relationship a secret, the devil enticed, and Tetsurō arched a brow at the notion. You act all unbothered, but you really don’t like the fact that you have to hide it, do you? You want the whole world to know just how much you adore him… and deep inside, you’re afraid that he’s secretly ashamed of you…

Nothing like your deepest insecurities to push you to be reckless and stupid. 

“All right, what the hell?” 

And so, the two of them quickly hashed together a plan for Tetsurō to “confess,” while the man himself sat back and basked in his own cunning. Which would be more amusing, he wondered? Kei’s utter confusion? Or Keiji and Bōkutō’s looks of incredulity when they realized they’d been had? Oh, Tetsurō simply couldn’t wait …

He tried to seem nonchalant when Kei came back, but to no avail; Kei simply knew him too well by now. 

“You’ve done something,” the blond accused as he set down the coffees, giving Tetsurō a suspicious glower. “You look far too pleased with yourself.” 

“I have no idea what you mean,” Tetsurō refuted when he knew that he, in fact, did look far too pleased with himself. 

“And you two are in on it.” Kei looked expectantly at Kōtarō and Keiji, who both tried with varying degrees of success to hide their smiles behind their coffees. One could probably guess who was the less successful of the two. 

Eager to get the show on the road, Tetsurō flicked his gaze meaningfully to Kei’s stack of textbooks, then back up to his face. Kei narrowed his eyes, then hastily flipped the top one open to reveal a napkin pressed between the glossy pages. As he read the words penned in beautiful script across its soft surface, a blush slowly began to make a home in the apples of his cheeks. It slowly crawled across his face until it had flooded down his neck and to the tips of his ears. He stared at it in utter disbelief for several seconds, then snapped his head up to frown at Tetsurō. 

“You’re an absolute menace,” he growled, but it wasn’t very convincing when he was clearly trying not to smile like a giddy teenager. “I can’t believe you. I leave you alone for five minutes, and this is what you get up to?”

“It was their idea,” Tetsurō said while holding his hands up in surrender. That was about as convincing as Kei’s feigned irritation, what with the shit-eating grin splayed across his face. 

“You…” Kei shook his head with a sigh. Then, he chuckled softly and let the smile bloom across his face unimpeded. “What am I going to do with you?” 

To be quite honest, Tetsurō had expected Kei to just laugh it off as a silly prank between friends and gripe about it later. But, again, Tetsurō could read Kei like that open textbook; he wasn’t going to laugh it off. It had been a gamble, but it had paid off; the absurdity of Tetsurō’s prank had all but banished Kei’s insecurities. 

Take that, universe. 

“You should have just told them the truth.” 

“Oh? But I thought you weren’t ready for anyone else to know?” 

“It would have been far less embarrassing than this,” Kei huffed and snatched up the napkin to wave it around in emphasis. “Also, you had it memorized?”

“Of course I did,” Tetsurō drawled as he batted his eyes adoringly at him. “Do you know how many times I practiced that little speech in the mirror? I’ll be able to recite it in my sleep for the rest of my life, probably. Who knew it would come in handy again?” 

“I hate you,” Kei grumbled while pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“You’re smiling, so I’d say it’s quite the opposite,” Tetsurō laughed in response. 

“Shut up.” 

“Wait a second. Keiji, what’s happening?” Kōtarō whispered, his eyes wide as he watched the exchange. 

“I think we’ve been played,” came Keiji’s sulky response.

“As a matter of fact, you have,” Kei sighed and dropped the napkin back between the pages of his textbook—a little detail that Tetsurō didn’t miss. “Tetsurō and I are already dating. We have been for almost a month now.” 

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?” Kōtarō gasped and looked at Tetsurō with an expression of utter betrayal. “And we put in all that effort…?” 

“I should have known,” Keiji sighed with a shake of his head. “He agreed way too easily.” 

“Sorry, fellas, I couldn’t resist,” Tetsurō said with an unapologetic smirk and a little shrug. “It was just too good an opportunity to pass up.” 

“Aw, man. And here I thought we were bein’ helpful…” Kōtarō muttered as he morosely wrapped his lips around his straw and sucked down at least a third of his frappuccino in one go. 

“Hmph. Whatever, as long as I don’t have to put up with your lovesick brooding anymore,” Keiji huffed and sipped grumpily at his coffee, betraying how irritated he was with the fact that Tetsurō had gotten one over on him. “I was about ready to confess for you.” 

“Sorry I had to beat you to the punch,” Tetsurō teased, then winked at his boyfriend. 

“A menace,” Kei repeated wearily while shaking his head and finally sitting down in his chair. 

“Ah, but I’m your menace,” Tetsurō bragged. 

Kei’s expression suddenly softened, taking Tetsurō by surprise. What Kei did next did even more so. 

“Heh. I guess you are,” Kei agreed with a little chuckle and reached out to take Tetsurō’s hand. Not hidden under the table like before—right there on top of it, where everyone could see. 

And that was the part of Kei’s charm that had Tetsurō so head-over-heels. 

[angsty-violet]

Run (You know what's coming)

Ghost actually did have work to do. It sometimes seemed, after years of having every minute scheduled with work, that he was doing less. And while that was partially true, it didn’t mean he was doing nothing.

He had the original research to get together. His observations of Clone as well as Alice’s neat records. Years of data to compile and put together.

Which is why it took so long for him to find it.

Clone wasn’t aging the way he was supposed to.

All other cloning attempts had aged fast. Going from young man to old in weeks. Some it was less pronounced but the increased aging was always apparent. That’s why they had been confident when they created Clone. Even if he was dangerous, he’d still be dead before long.

But according to Alice’s observations not only was Clone not aging fast, he wasn’t aging at all. His hair was still jet black. There were no wrinkles around his eyes or weakness in his body. Farming was back breaking work. He should’ve long since begun to feel the effects of its impact.

Ghost’s heartrate skyrocketed.

If they had accidentally made something with a longer lifespan or possibly an immortal lifespan they were not going to be kind to Clone. The likely response would be to dissect him to see if they could pin down what had changed.

Ghost cursed internally. How couldn’t he have noticed? When smile lines framed his mouth and grey had started to streak his hair but Clone was still as fresh faced as the day he was created.

Just as beautiful.

They had gone in for testing three days before. If the scientists noticed, they’d come for him as soon as possible. Ghost could admit, to himself, that he didn’t want to lose Clone. Not after he had spent the last few months with him. Not when he was himself, only slightly changed. How can you enable yourself to be killed?

Ghost understood Alice better now than he ever had. He understood why she helped him escape. But helping Clone run away wasn’t enough. They needed to actually get him to safety. Which mean going as soon as possible. Ghost left everything where it was and tore down the stairs.

Clone’s gift for obedience had come in the form of marigolds. A lovely flower that would help protect his crops from bugs. What a shame they’d have to leave them behind. He was digging the holes, spacing them evenly to allow for the greatest impact when Ghost found him.

Ghost yanked him to his feet and started pushing him toward the house. Clone looked panicked, clearly expecting to be punished but not knowing why.

“Go, right now. Into the house. Pack everything you might want or need. Don’t take too much but don’t leave behind anything you can’t live without. As soon as you have, load it into the back of the car.”

Clone sent him a questioning look and signed, “What’s happening?”

“I’ll tell you once we’re away from here. Don’t dawdle. We need as much of a head start as possible.”

Clone took in his serious expression and then he was running toward the house.

The car was loaded down but not nearly as much as Ghost had expected. He had thought that after two and a half years at the farmhouse, they would’ve accumulated a fair amount of stuff. However, most of Alice’s things were still at their home in the city and Clone didn’t really have many keepsakes. It seemed a shame. After three years of being alive, he should have something to show for it.

The marigolds hadn’t been planted yet so Ghost scooped them up, still in the temporary pots, and set them on the floor in the back seat. Alice had packed fast. It was clear she was expecting something like this. Probably because this hadn’t been the first time they had run. Ghost was loath to return to his roots, but he didn’t see much choice. Not if he was going to hide Clone from them.

The last things in were Alice and Clone. Ghost hurried them. He wanted to put both in the back seats with the tinted windows but that wasn’t an option. Not with their stuff spilling from the back and onto the seat next to them. Best to keep the runaway science experiment out of sight then.

“What is happening?” Alice demanded.

Ghost shook his head. He ducked into the house, did one last run through to make sure they had everything necessary, particularly the indicting research and then he took the drivers seat.

“Have you noticed anything about him?”

Alice looked back and then shrugged.

“What about you, baby? Have you noticed what makes you different from daddy and mommy?”

Ghost caught his shrug in the rearview mirror. “Really? You haven’t noticed that he is physically the exact same as he was three years ago? That he hasn’t age a single day? Because he hasn’t not a wrinkle, not a grey hair, not unusual back pain. He’s as perfect as the day he was born.”

Alice went very pale. “They’ll kill him. They’ll cut him up and pull out everything in him and they’ll do it in the name of science. They won’t care.”

Ghost nodded, annoyed at how long it had taken for her to get that.

“If they get their hands on him, that’s it. No more baby. Just a whole bunch of baby bits. Thus, we’re running away. Again.”

Alice twisted in her seat and took Clone’s hand. “It’s going to be okay. We aren’t going to let that happen.”

Clone gazed back, his face unreadable. He shrugged lightly, seemingly unbothered by his impending vivisection. As he signed, Alice narrated for Ghost.

“Something like that was inevitable. You don’t really think they were just going to let me live out my life. Not when I was the only one to actually function.”

Ghost scowled. He didn’t care, it wasn’t happening.

[dcydrecmings]

"maybe it's not okay right now. maybe it won't be for a while. whichever it is, i won't leave you. (Thomas and odette as they started to tolerate eachother more? 😈)

Odette had never been overly enamoured with her birthday. It was never truly her’s – the day always marked a day of extravagance, not to celebrate her, Clara and Will – but for her to parents to boast about how much they had. They’d have the best parties around – but never a party that was made for them. Very few of their friends were invited, considering the guest list was only their parent’s acquaintances and their children. Then there was the disaster on the day they turned eighteen – the day Will had finally had enough and left home. Birthdays were best avoided in her mind – except for one tradition. Even when Will had been excommunicated from the family, the three of them had always found a way to spend some time together. Some time to be thankful for the other two. Thankful that they’d all been brought into the world together, because they weren’t entirely sure how they’d make it through everything – without the other two.

That year however, Will had been dragged away on vacation by his friends and Clara was in hospital after an accident during rehearsal – leaving Odette entirely alone the day. Ellie tried her best to make the day better, but nothing seemed to lift Odette’s mood. Which is how she found herself standing next on the first floor, looking down at the party below her – loathing the idea that she’d have to go back down at some point. Taking a drink from the bottle she’d grabbed, she stilled when she heard a noise behind her – only letting her guard down a little when she spotted Thomas.

“I’d offer you a drink, but I don’t feel much like sharing.” Holding up the bottle, only to take another large drink from it. For once, she wasn’t trying to antagonise him. She wasn’t purposely acting a way that would push him to act – all she wanted was to feel numb, considering that felt better than feeling entirely alone.

What she didn’t expect was for him to take the space beside her, and nudge her side gently.

"maybe it's not okay right now. maybe it won't be for a while. whichever it is, i won't leave you.”

“And if I want to be left alone?” The quip coming naturally – though it was only met by him raising an eyebrow. If he was trying to play nice, then she reasoned the least she could do was return the favour. “This is what it’s like every year. A party meant to celebrate our parents. A day full of reminders that they only wanted one more child – and two of us were unwanted accidents. A reminder that we should be thankful to them for keeping us around. It sucks, but we all know what act we have to play. I never... Never thought I’d have to face it alone. The three of us came into the world together, and getting a moment just the three of us... it’s the only thing that makes the day worthwhile. But my parents won’t even admit there is three of us – this party is solely for Clara and I, because they refuse to acknowledge Will does in fact still exist. And I should be with Clara, not listening to my parents complain that her being in hospital was tainting their night.” Finally turning to face him better, she offered the closest thing to a genuine smile that she could muster. “Don’t worry, I’ll head back down soon, so that you’re not in too much trouble. I... I need a minute to hate everything, before I can wear my fake ass smile again.”

@batshtmuses

[krillissue]

15. a kiss to regret - hornwood

I decided to kick off Mwahrch with a prompt I chose myself! I've been meaning to write a little drabble about Vampwood and Midvalley for @dastardlydandy so I hope you enjoy this little snack! This takes place before he meets Vash and the events of In Sanguine, Veritas.

includes: blood drinking, vampire bite, sloppy make outs in dark alleys (my specialty)

Nicholas D. Wolfwood was a man of many talents but listening to jazz without pulling a sour face wasn’t one of them. As much as he appreciated his co-worker’s effectiveness in combat, that shouldn’t mean he had to suffer through the jazz concert before they actually got to work. He wanted to claw his ears at the pretentious jackass playing up on stage, Midvalley the Hornfreak. 

The guy had his little band, his ridiculous purple suit, his infuriating smirk. Sure, he sympathized with his distrust in Knives and his disillusionment with the Eye, but that was where their similarities ended. They got assigned for a job together but this was just a quick pit stop to get Wolfwood fed. 

He couldn’t focus on the patrons however, his thoughts drowned out by the aggravating tooting. Not even his cheap whiskey could make this sound less like nails on a chalkboard. He knew Hornfreak was a talented musician, that this was damn good jazz, but that didn’t mean he liked it. How they’d even found a jazz club was beyond him, the sparse clientele politely clapping for him. 

There was a pretty redhead near the bar that had caught his eye but she was too enraptured by Midvalley to notice him. He couldn’t blame her, honestly. Compared to the saxophonist, he looked downright disheveled. His dark grey button-up was half done up, his ill-fitting black slacks a far-cry from the stuffy suits so many of these folks were wearing. 

Midvalley was a siren, he could capture the attention of any audience. It just didn’t work on him, vampires having a natural affinity for resisting charms. But why he chose jazz of all things to lure in his prey was beyond him. 

Wolfwood finally got fed-up with his smooth jazz and went to the bathroom to just get some peace and quiet. Except the concert was being piped in over a speaker. In frustration he left completely, smoking out back with the trash. Hopefully Midvalley left without him and he’d be spared the guy’s company any longer. He pissed him off, that was just a fact. 

“What are you doing out here, Punisher?” Midvalley’s smooth voice cut through his thoughts about punching that handsome face of his. “Didn’t like the show?” 

“You know I didn’t,” He sighed, flicking his cigarette away. Midvalley always complained the smoke was bad for his lungs. So he lit up a fresh one just to blow it in his face. 

“Did you at least get something to drink?” He frowned and stepped in closer, setting down his saxophone case. “Because we need to get going rather soon.” 

“You’re the one who wanted to stop here!” Wolfwood shoved him in the chest, getting up in his face. He was hungry, almost starving, and the Hornfreak smelled good as much as he was loath to admit it. 

“What are we to do, then?” He plucked the cigarette from Nicholas’s lips and examined it, a sour look on his face. “You need to eat something.” He closed the distance, leaning on his arm to cage him in. Wolfwood bared his fangs, resisting the urge to bite the hand that cupped his jaw. 

He wanted to get fed, he hated this guy’s guts. 

But that was pretty hot. 

“You think I wanna drink from you?” Wolfwood looked at the exposed neck next to his open lavender shirt, swallowing thickly. 

“I think so, yeah. It doesn’t have to mean anything, Punisher. I’m just helping you out.” 

“Do you have to be a dick about it or is that just for fun?” 

Midvalley rolled his eyes and huffed out the dryest laugh he’d ever heard. Wolfwood inched closer, nosing along his throat. It was normally foolish to drink from here but he didn’t really care if Midvalley got hurt and it would be over quicker. His hand was in his hair, something Nicholas was trying not to think about. But when his lips brushed that soft skin, Midvalley grunted approvingly. 

Maybe he’d been reading things wrong. 

Wolfwood sank his fangs into his throat, drinking from him messily. Blood splattered on his crisp tailored suit and would undoubtedly stain, something that filled him with smug satisfaction. He deserved it, being brought low like all the other sinners he pretended to be so above. Just like that insufferable Bluesummers. He yanked him closer to drink deeper, his blood singing through his veins. Midvalley tasted different from a human, something distinctly wistful and alluring. He tasted like freedom. He grabbed Wolfwood’s hip to bring him in closer in turn, pressing him back against the wall. 

Nicholas licked the wounds clean before sucking his bloody fingers into his mouth. He really had made a mess of both of them. But Midvalley wasn’t satisfied, not yet. He crashed their mouths together with tongue and teeth, his wandering hand pressing sensitive keys along Wolfwood’s spine. He played him like his saxophone, stealing his breath. When he’d had his fill, he put the cigarette back between his lips and straightened out his jacket with a wink. 

“I’ll bill you for my dry cleaning. See you around, Punisher.” 

saw this on twitter and i wanna do it 🥺 send me numbers and a ship and i’ll write drabbles

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

Harry trying to do CJs hair.

(I think this is such a cute head canon)

It is very cute headcanon, I agree! I hope I did it justice-

Harry is trying to do CJ’s hair. Key word trying. Not because he can’t do people’s hair, but because she won’t sit still. And his crew isn’t helping.

I’m not entirely happy with this, but I’m not sure how to make it better, and there are some pretty fun moments, so, I hope you enjoy this!

They are in his cabin on Lost Revenge and Harry is trying to do his sister's hair. Key word trying, because unfortunately, yet unsurprisingly, said little sister isn't cooperating at all.

„Sit still, CJ,“ he complains, „Can't you sit still?“

She rather wildly motions around with her hands and almost hits him, which he takes as an answer.

No, of course she can't sit still.

Snickers sound from behind the doors and he surely recognises the voices of his crewmates:

„Is he really asking CJ to sit still?

„I mean, that's a pretty crazy request.“

„Are you really calling our first mate crazy?“

Harry tugs at CJ's hair to get it to behave, if nothing else will, and grumbles towards the door: „I'll hook all you all, you port-rats, if you don't shut up at once.“

He can't even turn around and flash his favourite weapon at them, which would make the threat more frightening, because he'd need to let go of CJ's hair for that and there is no way she'd sit for another round of brushing. She'd probably just bolt. Or mess up her hair, purely out of spite.

They do shut up, but still linger; CJ giggles and finally, he hears footsteps heading away. He is fairly certain it was CJ's laugh and not his threat that set them off, but fair is fair. 

His sister's giggles are never a good sign.

„What's so funny, you little scallywag?“ he asks her, and extends his hand so she'd give him some hairpins.

„Nothing.“

Yeah, sure.

She doesn't give him the hairpins – he shakes his empty palm to remind her that he is still, in fact, doing her hair.

„What do you want?“ she asks instead, annoyed, as if she had any right to be annoyed in this situation.

„Hairpins. So your hair would, you know, stay in place.“

„…I don't have those.“

He's gonna kill her. Right after he sends Desiree and Jonas to walk the plank – they are spying on them, again. Have they nothing else to do?!

Nothing to entertain themselves with?! 

Cards? Loaded dice games? Betting on anything and everything? Sparing? Keeping look-out?

Wait, no. Gonzo is on the look out right now.

But they could always be scrubbing the decks.

He huffs and lets go of CJ's hair.

„Go get some, then. And look into your bag and pockets first.“

Maybe Harriet gave her some and she just forgot? That would be like CJ, honestly. But even if she really has none, she could always steal some.

And he can discipline his crew in the meantime.

Before he leaves the room, he grabs his hook. Just because.

Dealing with the crew goes as good as expected, meaning they quickly pretend to have some work as soon as they see him walking around. And like the reasonable first mate he is, he assigns them to repair the nets instead of scrubbing the deck or, you know, feeding them to sharks.

When he gets back to his cabin, CJ has exactly zero (0) hairpins, three (3) daggers (nothing new, really), and one (1) book, which she didn't have before and which she did not take from his cabin, he is sure.

„What do you have, Calista?“ he asks.

„A book?“ she answers, hiding the book behind her back.

„And where did you get it…?“

She scrunches up her nose, obviously thinking hard of an acceptable lie, and she needs to work on that, really.

„CJ.“

„Yeah?“

„Tell me you didn't take the book from Uma's cabin.“

She doesn't answer, which means she did. She couldn't have taken it anywhere else, as there are no other books on the ship, anyway, and Uma is in Chip Shoppe right now. She won’t come home for an hour at least, either. He quickly reaches out and grabs the book to get a look at it.

It is the book Uma borrowed from Harriet a few weeks ago.

„But it's Hettie's anyway!“ protests CJ.

„Irrelevant,“ he scolds his little sister, „You have no business going to the Captain's cabin.“

He continues with few mild death threats when she makes a long face at him.

„And didn’t Harriet forbid you to read her books anyway?“

„…Well, yes, but she isn’t there to see, is she?“

Harry just facepalms. But, well, if it keeps her still…

„You can keep it while I do your hair. You WILL put it back before you leave the ship, or I will make you a snack for the sea gulls. Savvy?“

She nods and Harry nudges her to ask Desi, Marya or Bonny for some of their accessories (read: subtle lock-picking tools), under supervision, of course. CJ proceeds to threaten them if they do not obey, and the girls surrender to her threats under his glare. CJ needs to work on her death threats a bit.

They settle on the floor, so he can finish her hairdo. Finally.

CJ sets the book in her lap and starts reading out loud – Harry will have you know that he did not need to hear his baby sister read his older sister’s scarlet library out loud, thank you very much.

He is nearly done when CJ suddenly jerks away from his hands and bolts to her bag: She fishes some kind of ribbon or shawl out of it and hands it to him.

„Can you add this into my hairdo, please?“ she says.

„…Is that a garotte?“

„Yes,“ she says, jumping up and down with excitement, „Can you add it to my hairdo?“

He most certainly isn’t doing that. Well, he could, but… He isn’t feeling like it.

„Unrealistic,“ he decides, „Just tie it to your belt like the rest of us.“

She deflates and falls down to the floor again, playing idly with the weapon. Well, at least that means he will not need to listen to another passage of that, ehm, writing.

He manages to finish her hair in peace, which is quite the miracle, but he is happy with the few braids and bun he made her. People won’t be able to easily grab her hair like that and it won’t be flying everywhere in the wharf winds.

He hauls her up her feet and practically drags her from his broken mirror, as she’d surely nick his eyeliner were she allowed to linger. He knows her tricks. Absolutely not because he uses the same ones when visiting Harriet, mind you.

They exit his cabin and before CJ can bolt away with the book, he pushes the dull loop of his hook into her back.

„Keep your sticky fingers for yourself, while you are on my ship,“ he advises her: She sights melodramatically, but heads towards Uma’s cabin and drops the book there without further ado. He then makes her empty her pockets, just in case.

Harry sees her out, and as soon as he disappears, he finds a good deal of his crew gathered behind him. And all of them are asking him to do their hair, too.

The bloody traitors.

„Please?“ Gil makes puppy eyes at him over the various ruckus the pirates are making.

Et tu, Brute? Harry thinks, and instead grumbles: „Should have hooked you lot when I had the chance…“

If he did it now, Uma would be angry.

He does end up doing their hair.

[ejunkiet]

you’re trouble, you know that?

aka the imperium!asher au I’ve been working on for the last few weeks. >:3

part one of three, at least. rating will go up in later chapters.

redacted asmr: imperium!asher/babe. some mature themes (violence)

READ ON AO3

Steal the papers. Save the world. It was that simple. Right?

AKA how a whistleblower falls for the alpha of a wolf pack.

--

part one: trouble

“You’re trouble, you know that?”

The first time the wolf - Asher -  had said it, the words had been critical. A comment on how they’d found themself in a situation so far over their head, they couldn’t see the start of it.

Since then, however, it’s become a greeting. Their call sign. Trouble. They don’t mind it. Afterall, it wasn’t untrue. They’ve been a lot of things lately, but trouble always seemed to turn up at the top of the list. 

And after everything they’ve been through since joining up with his pack, they’d say he’s earned the right to call them out on it. There was a career to be made breaking into Departmental offices, after all; and they were the one with an inside lead.

(Steal the papers. Save the world. As much as they loathe quoting Imperium propaganda, they have to admit - the slogan was catchy.)

Besides, he liked trouble. Liked it enough to keep them around, at least.

They’re in his - den, for lack of a better word. It’s the place where he sleeps, and holds pack meetings - Asher has an apartment in the city, they've learned, but he doesn’t go there. From the whispers of his pack, murmured in undertones that they shouldn't have been able to hear (they haven’t figured them out yet as a lip reader), he hasn’t been back there in over a year.

Not since the death of his friend. The previous alpha.

(The pack don’t talk about him much, especially not when Asher is around, but they’ve heard enough to put the pieces together. To see the shape of him in the hole that was left in the rest of their lives; see the impact his death has had on all of them.)

For their stay here, they’ve been given a room - little more than a cupboard, really. It’s not much, windowless and fitting barely more than a futon - but it’s private, and it’s a lot more than they had been expecting. And, if they’re being honest, it’s better than an interrogation cell, and the pack knows it.

It’s adjacent to Asher’s own room, by design, all the better for him to ‘keep an eye on them’. It was as much for their own protection as for the pack’s security, they’d learned early on - the wolf named Chrissy had already made a move to turn them into the department.

Turns out that some of the pack did not take as kindly to trouble. 

Asher hadn’t taken kindly to the insubordination.

(His hand squeezes tight around the other wolf’s neck, Asher had snarled the words into his face. “Go behind my back like that again, and I will tear your fucking throat out.”)

After what happened with Chrissy, he doesn’t trust them alone with the rest of the pack. They’ve learned that he doesn’t trust much in the way of anything, except for his second.

But they could care less for pack politics. They don’t have the time for it.

They don’t think they have much time left at all.   

At first, their role is to just provide the intel, the connection. The freelancer - their inside lead - had proven to be just as loyal and trustworthy as they’d hoped they’d be. Someone with a similar drive, a similar goal. 

But that’s not all they can bring to the table. Years of working in Department bureaucracy means that they’re adept with paperwork, especially paperwork connected with the Imperium. And after the first few drops, there’s more than enough of it to work with.

In the end, they come to an agreement. Their assistance, in return for their freedom.

It’s a fair deal.

–

Over the next few weeks, they find themselves spending a lot of time with the pack leader. 

It makes sense. With the sensitivity of the information coming in, and with his pack beta coordinating patrols, there’s no one else he can trust enough with the task. He’s smart, a quick study, and it doesn’t take long until he can match them, an impressive feat in and of itself.

And the longer they spend time with him, the more questions they have. 

Asher is an enigma. 

He should be intimidating. Unapproachable. But they’ve spent most of their life learning how to read people, and they just don’t see that with him. It’s in the way the members of the pack act around him, the care there. The beta and his mate, especially.

He isn’t as hardened as he first appears.

There’s a softness there. In the curve of his eyes, the curl of his cropped hair, the way he acts with those of the pack he is close too. The touches he can’t seem to hold back, despite himself.

And as they get to know him, they can’t help noticing other things too. 

They’d walked in on him in the communal showers in the early hours of the morning.

He has a leanness to him, almost a hunger. A strength that lies just below the surface, evident in every movement. He’s a predator, and he’s marked like one, scars littering his skin, his chest, his back.

But the one they can’t stop staring at is the one that bisects his chest, from the jut of his collarbone to his hip.

“You’re staring.”

They’re not going to deny it. 

“I was trying to figure out how someone could survive something like that.”

The water turns off, and he twists to grab a towel from the rack next to the shower head, running it through his hair once before fixing it around his waist. Then, and only then, does he turn and meet their gaze. 

They don’t expect an answer, and they’re surprised when they get one.

“Stealth.” His lips twist downwards in a grimace. “It wasn’t pretty.”

Now that he’s facing them, they can see it fully. It’s a wicked scar, long and jagged, cutting across the lean lines of his torso, its raised edges catching the water that drips from his hair onto his skin.

“It was a parting gift. Quinn. A lucky hit, just before we ripped the bastard apart.”

Quinn. The name is only ever whispered, and not in general company. The vampire that killed his best friend. They can understand the loss. It took them over a decade to get over their own.

He takes a step towards them, and then another. Their grip tightens on their handful of shower supplies - the same brand that the rest of the pack uses, odourless, efficient. His eyes are dark: unreadable, intent.

A shiver passes through them, but it’s not an unpleasant one.

His shoulder brushes against theirs as he passes. “You should wash quickly. The next patrol will be back soon.”

They take his advice, scrubbing themselves down in half the time they’d usually spend, before retreating back to the relative safety of their own room.

Then, and only then, do they admit to themselves what they’d just realised.

They’re attracted to him. The alpha of the wolf pack.

Fuck.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

How would you rank the Cullens based on who is the most disconnected from reality and who is the least?

Oh, oh man, excellent question, anon. And it's sad that we have such good contenders for this. Let's get to it.

1) Esme

"Disconnected From Reality" is Esme's middle name. This is one deeply, weird, vampire who at all times seems to be on a completely different planet trapped in the 1950's. Remarkably odd as Esme herself is not from the 1950's, she just somehow sucked in that era and has remained there to this modern day.

At any given moment in the series she says something completely at odds with the given situation, something purely from Planet Esme, and everyone just stares.

Such as the time in Eclipse when the family discusses who the unknown vampire in Bella's room could be. Edward, of course, blames the Volturi (he gives no sane reason of why they would lurk in her bedroom unseen and then simply leave).

Esme thinks it might be a nice vampire who wanted to become Bella's friend.

No one says a word. Bella notes that Carlisle grimaces, but can't say anything, he just can't.

2) Bella

Bella's closely tied to Esme by the end of Breaking Dawn, actually. She's Esme's second coming. She's prancing through the woods in Chanel to eat mountain lions, has a five-year-old three-month-old daughter, has a sex cabin with Edward. Bella's life is peak surreal and she does not seem to be recovering well from that. "WHEEEE, LIFE IS PERFECT," Bella screams as she frolics about.

Bella has no understanding of what vampires are, what she now is, what life in general is. Bella has left the planet. Goodbye, Bella, we'll miss you.

3) Edward

Edward lives in an Edward dimension that, while not quite as disconnected from reality as Esme's and Bella's, still isn't the planet Earth we all know and love.

In Edward's world, Bella is a saint whose middle name is Carlisle. Carlisle turned Rosalie for the purpose of making a Bride of Frankenstein for Edward (his favoritest person in the whole world), Carlisle and Esme's relationship is the greatest on the planet and one he should emulate, Edward is a protector of the coven and without his fighting prowess and mind reading abilities they'd all be doomed, the Volturi are the most evil thing to ever grace the planet, pimping out Bella to Jacob Black is not only an acceptable solution but an admirable one, pimping out Renesmee to Jacob Black is not only an acceptable solution but an admirable one that gains him a new son-in-law that a few weeks ago he loathed entirely...

The list goes on. I'm not going to even bother with links for this, just look up anything with Edward in this blog and you will find some damning evidence.

Edward at least seems to have some awareness of what's happening in the real world. Of course, his mind makes up its own facts about what's happening and especially about who people are, but he still at least seems to be somewhat present on our plane of existence.

4) Alice

Alice, per her gift mainly, sees reality very differently than we do but she does at least glimpse it. It just makes her think in such a way that the people around her are pawns instead of people, Alice has very little in the way of empathy.

However, she does accept her visions, doesn't rail against reality entirely, she just sees the world in a very different manner than the rest of us that lends itself to... interesting choices.

5) Carlisle

Carlisle's a fairly well-grounded guy except when it comes to his family. The amount of denial and doublethink that Carlisle engages in just to convince himself he's not that dog in a house on fire is impressive.

He so desperately wants to believe they're good people, that they understand the worth of human life, that he overlooks a lot. A lot. And what he doesn't overlook he convinces himself is a) in favor of human life b) not that terrible. Even when he also makes his family go to their victims funeral so that they might learn something.

They learn nothing.

6) Rosalie

Rosalie's pretty well grounded with a very large exception. Rosalie has a very rose colored view of not only the past she might have had but also humanity in general. Rosalie's beef with Bella boils down to the choices she thinks Bella's throwing away (in truth, Bella had little to no choice as the series progressed).

Rosalie sees the human life she could have lived as perfect, and not one very likely given her human life thus far. In Rosalie's mind, she wouldn't have married Royce, would never have been the victim of sexual violence, would have married a good honest man, had beautiful children, and a simple wonderful life away from the social climbing she'd done all her life.

Rosalie is not a stage where she can admit this probably wasn't the life she would have lived. More, that humanity is not a fix-all for everything and that life still very much would have been life.

7) Jasper

Jasper's also a fairly well-grounded guy with a large exception. He desperately wants his and Alice's relationship to work. He's so mired in misery and self hatred that he puts up with a lot, a lot, of garbage in that relationship and convinces himself that it's working. It's not working.

8) Emmett

Emmett's by far the most down to earth of all of them. He sees things pretty clearly, is very with it, and he might not care but he does seem to see things as they are. He notes multiple times in Midnight Sun that Edward's lost his marbles, is aware of Rosalie's emotional mess, and always manages to keep his perspective.

Emmett fully lives on our planet.

[peterpparkrr]

Is there any chance you could do the bee scene from the viscount who loved me book but making it clear that it's tv show anthony and kate instead of book kanthony? Sorry that's really specific but I don't wanna read the book since I love tv kate so much T-T

A/N: The bee scene in the book - at least the aftermath is absolutely hilarious PLUS Kate and Anthony’s chemistry on the show is INSANE so this is me trying to combine the two and also writing a happy ending because goddamnit these two deserve it. I couldn’t help myself!

Pairing: Kate Sharma x Anthony Bridgerton

Word Count: 2k

Summary: What if Season 2’s bee scene ended like it does in the book?

Bee Stings and Betrothals

Kate had a habit of going on an early morning ride whenever she needed to think. 

And she had been going for a lot of rides ever since she’d arrived in England. 

The wind helped her clear out her frazzled mind and the endless expanse of sky helped her calm her nerves. The Bridgerton estate in Kent, as loathe as she would be to ever admit it aloud, was so beautiful that it was the first time since they’d arrived on British shores that Kate felt any semblance of home. 

As she trotted her borrowed horseback to the house Kate felt calmer than she had in days. She knew that things were far from resolved when it came to Lord Bridgerton and his interest in Edwina, but she had been overcome with a certain sense of acceptance after the events of their family’s shared dinner last night. That things would work out the way that they were meant to, even if she let her guard down and accepted the reality in front of her. And ignored whatever it was that she was beginning to feel for Anthony Bridgerton.

That calmness, however, was short-lived when she rode into the gardens and saw a familiar figure walking along one of the paths. 

Kate dismounted her horse and made her way up to Lord Bridgerton.

“My Lord?” She called, alerting the Viscount to her presence as she walked towards him.

“Miss Sharma,” Anthony greeted her as he turned to face her. 

He looked at her with an expression that Kate would be tempted to describe as sheepish, an expression that she was quite sure he rarely ever wore. 

“Is your sister…?” He asked hesitantly.

“She is in her room,” Kate replied. “She is not feeling her best,” She adds. Kate knows it’s unnecessary, but she can’t help but remind him of her sister’s embarrassment. Not when she was the one to quell her sister’s doubt, the one to wipe the tears that had fallen onto Edwina’s cheeks. Tears that were his fault.

“I did not mean to disappoint her,” Anthony replied. “When I did not declare myself.” 

Kate sighs but nods. She knows she shouldn’t be admonishing Anthony, not where she didn’t want him to court Edwina in the first place. Not when she still doesn’t want the pair to marry. Not when she knows, deep down, that they won’t suit, not the way- no. This was solely about Edwina, and the fact that she deserved to be with someone who loved her, who truly loved her, not for her reputation, or her status, or her beauty, but for who she is in her soul. 

“I should thank you-”

“She shall not be disappointed for long, you must assure her that I still intend to propose,” Anthony adds quickly, cutting her off.

Kate stares at him, opening and then closing her mouth again when she can not form a coherent response.

“Last night was a lark at best, my brothers were up to no good and everyone sitting there, staring back at me, well,” Anthony sighs. “My feelings would not allow me to speak.”

“So your feelings are too strong for you now?” Kate asks with disbelief. Did he truly think her a fool? He had never once declared true feelings for Edwina. He had openly admitted to her again and again that his search for a wife would have nothing to do with love.

If he thought that she would just sit by and allow her sister to accept a loveless marriage…

“Miss Sharma,” Anthony sighs.

“No, no! All you are doing is toying with the emotions of an impressionable young lady,” Kate hisses.

“Miss Edwina is perfectly capable of forming her own impressions, perhaps if you took notice of that-” Anthony argues.

“So now you claim to know my own sister better than me?” Kate scoffs.

“I know that your sister wishes to be happy,” Anthony asserts with a challenging look in his eyes.

“This is precisely what I wish for her, and I can assure you that happiness is not your strength. Exasperation, perhaps vexation, most definitely,” Kate replies with a scoff. “The only feeling that you are capable of engendering, my lord, is that of discontent!”

Kate had been so enraged that she hadn’t even noticed Anthony’s boring stare flit down from her face to her chest.

“Stop that! Stand still,” Anthony commanded suddenly.

“Do not tell me what to do!” Kate shouts back as she stepped back from him, her chest still heaving with emotion.

“No no no, do not do that,” Anthony said quickly, his eyes still trained on her collarbone as he grabbed her by the tops of her arms, holding her in place as they both looked down, and Kate finally saw the bee crawling along the collar of her dress.

Kate pushed him off her once she had remembered herself.  

“It is only a bee- Ow!” She hisses as it stung her, pursing her lips and hissing out a breath as she continued to try to push away from Anthony. 

“Are you hurt? Can you breathe?” Anthony asks, his voice suddenly desperate. 

Kate stared at him with bewilderment as she realized just how fearful Anthony sounded.

Not again. He couldn't do this again. Anthony did not know what he’d done in a past life, or in this current life to deserve this hell, to have to go through this not once, but twice. To see one’s father die was one thing, one awful, unforgettable nightmare, but this couldn’t happen again, not again. 

Not Kate. 

“What?” Kate asks in complete confusion.

“Oh my god,” Anthony breathed out as his gaze flittered rapidly between Kate’s face and the sting. She wasn't swelling not the way that- But it would only be a matter of time, moments.

Kate was going to die. And he had to stop it. He hadn’t known what to do when his father had been stung. He had been useless. But now he needed to act. At that moment all Anthony could think of was Kate, and how if he let her die he would never recover. He had to save her.

Before Kate could do anything Anthony grabbed her by the shoulder with one hand, and ripped at the bodice of her gown with the other, pulling the velvet material down to expose the wound better. 

“My Lord! Stop it!” Kate hisses as the top of her breast was suddenly exposed. What on earth did he think he was doing?

He said nothing, his breath was ragged as began to press against her bosom forcefully pressing a finger against her chest on either side of the sting.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, stop that at once-” Kate continued to protest as she pushed at Anthony’s shoulders in vain. Though he was undeterred.

“Stay still!” Anthony hisses.

“I’m expressing the venom,” He explains quietly as he continues to press against her, his breathing still erratic. 

“Is there venom?” Kate asked. She certainly wasn’t going to claim to be an expert in entomology, but that didn’t exactly sound correct to her.

“There must be, something is killing you,” Anthony replies, his eyes wide as he looks up at Kate with pure panic.

“My lord,” Kate starts, “Anthony,” She tried again, wishing desperately to calm him down from whatever sort of state he was in.

“I have to get it all out,” Anthony says as he shakes his head.

And Anthony brought his face closer to Kate’s, closing the distance between them even more, something Kate did not even realize was possible. His face moved towards her as if he were about to kiss her. 

And then before she could even realize what was happening, his lips were pressing to the top of her breast.

Kate gasped.

“Anthony! You can’t-” She shrieked, though she was unable to finish that sentence, as she lifted her head to see three women staring back at her from across the garden. 

Mary. 

Lady Bridgerton. 

And Lady Featherington, who must have just arrived with the rest of the guests whose carriages she’d seen along the road on her ride back to the house.

“Kate!”

At the sound of Mary’s shock Kate finally found the strength to fully push Anthony off of her.

“He wasn’t, I wasn’t-” Kate floundered. “I was stung by a bee!”

“He was kissing your breast!” Mrs. Featherington protested as she looked on in shock, clearly already bursting at the seams to shout from the rooftops what she had just caught them doing.

Anthony merely stood and stared at the three women in front of him. Uncharacteristically silent.

“Well, you’ve compromised the woman, you must marry her,” Lady Featherington continued.

“Anthony,” Lady Bridgerton began.

“Of course I will, Of course I will marry Miss Sharma,” Anthony suddenly replied as he finally snapped out of his daze. 

“We will announce our engagement at the ball tonight,” He continued with a nod to the three women. “So there will be no need to speak of what you have seen.”

“My lord, you do not need to-” Kate began to protest.

“We will marry,” Anthony repeated, this time looking directly at Kate.

Kate stared back at him.

“If I might have a moment alone with my fiancée?” He asked the three women who all merely nodded. Too shocked to say much else. Anthony trusted that his mother would ensure that Lady Featherington kept this incident to herself.  “To speak with her,” He added. Assumedly more for their mother’s benefit than anything else.

Kate dragged Anthony further into the gardens, not stopping until she was confident that they were out of earshot of the mothers.

“You do not need to marry me,” Kate began to protest.

“If we do not marry Lady Featherington will tell the entirety of London what she saw,” Anthony replied with a dismissive shake of her head. “It would not only ruin you, Miss Sharma, but your sister, and mine.”

“We will marry, there will not be a chance for gossip.”

“But Edwina-” Kate began.

“Edwina will marry someone else, she has plenty of options to choose from,” Anthony replies. “You never wanted her to marry me, remember? She can marry someone who truly cares for her.”

“And you suppose I want to marry you?”

“I know this cannot be what you want,” Anthony tells her with his head hung. “But Kate,” Anthony sighs.

“Kate, I am in love with you,” He admits as he looks up at her. “And I do not need you to say anything, or to do anything, but… My father died of a bee sting when I was seventeen. I was with him when it happened and I…I couldn’t do anything to save him.”

“Kate, the thought of you dying. And the thought of you dying in the exact same way? I couldn’t not have borne it. So please, please marry me. If not for your family, then marry me because I love you and I will do whatever it takes to make you happy and to keep you safe.”

“There is nothing for me to say,” Kate replies, shaking her head slightly. “Except that I love you too,” She says as she laughs in disbelief. 

If Anthony could bottle that sound he would. And he can’t help himself as he grins back at her and brings his hands to her cheeks. Relishing in the chance to truly touch her. 

“We’ve been caught in a scandalous position, Lord Anthony Bridgerton,” Kate points out with a mischievous grin. “I suspect you shall have to kiss me at least once before the wedding if we are to live up to the rumors.”

“Gladly, Miss Kathani Sharma,” Anthony replied. “Gladly.”

[heyyyharry]

Drivers License

(inspired by drivers license by Olivia Rodrigo)

Word count: 2.5k

And you're probably with that blonde girl Who always made me doubt She's so much older than me She's everything I'm insecure about

This song is so sad and it made me cry so I had to write something about it 🤧

.

.

.

“I love the song.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Y/N chewed on her bottom lip, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “But?” she asked her producer, who was on the phone. “You don’t sound like you love it.”

“Of course I love it, Y/N. It’s just–” Came a pause. “Do you really want this to be the next single?”

“What do you mean? You love it but it’s not good enough to be a single?”

“It’s too good, Y/N,” her producer said. “It’s very...personal.”

“That’s why I want to put it out, Gray. It means a lot to me.”

Gray was quiet for another moment. “The media and his fans are going to come for you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Alright. I’ll call you back.” Gray sounded defeated but she could still sense a smile as he told her, “Good job, kid,” before hanging up.

Y/N put her phone away, tossed her head back and heaved a sigh. She was well aware of the trouble she’d cause by releasing this song. It’d be like showing the whole world her diary. She’d written plenty of songs on her previous albums about her relationships, too. There had been witch hunts simply because the men she’d written songs about had fans who worshipped them and refused to see them as anything less than perfect. She wasn’t perfect, either. If she were perfect, she wouldn’t have written a song about an ‘almost’ relationship. She’d know her worth and not have chased someone who didn’t and would never want her. She knew that now. So this song would be the last thing she’d give this person. The last goodbye that she never got to say.

.

.

.

“What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing.”

“Let me see,” Y/N giggled and tried to grab his phone as he pretended to fight her off.

“Alright, alright.” He laughed, reached out to turn the music in his car down and handed her the phone. “It’s the memes your fans made about you not being able to drive,” he said, suppressing a grin.

Her jaw dropped. “I hate you!”

“I’m sorry. It slipped out,” he said, laughing again. She could listen to his laugh on replay. She loved his music, but his laugh had to be her most favourite melody. “To be fair, you talked a lot of shit about me in that interview, too.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” she scoffed at the smug look he was wearing. “At least I didn’t tell the whole world about your imaginary friend that you had until you were thirteen. You spilt my secret.”

“Not a secret anymore.”

She playfully smacked him on the arm. “My lawyer will hear about this.”

He pouted, pretending to be upset. “Guess we’ll never work together anymore.”

“Acting is not for me anyway.”

Y/N gave Harry back his phone. He took it but didn’t break eye contact as his brows knitted. “Stop saying that. You were great in the movie.”

She rolled her eyes sarcastically. “Oh please, have you been on the internet?”

“You mean my fans’ reactions, right? Just ignore them.” He breathed. “I mean, I love my fans, but they could be too much sometimes. Just look at all my previous relationships. I can’t even breathe around a female without them sending her death threats.”

“Yeah,” Y/N let out a nervous laugh, hands folded together resting on her knees. “Speaking of relationships,” she ventured, “are you talking to someone new?”

She wasn’t looking at him yet she could feel the heat from his gaze as he told her, “No. I already told you, Y/N. Right now there’s just you.”

Harry turned, putting both hands on his steering wheel. Was he nervous as well? Had she ruined the moment by bringing this up?

He took a deep breath, confirming her assumption. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just not ready for a relationship.”

It was the same line he’d told her times and times again, and she wished she could just tell him how much she loathed it. And since she couldn’t say anything, she just nodded and focused on the rings on her fingers.

“I do care a lot about you, though,” he added, his voice heavy with emotions.

Her friends had told her that men would say things like this, and most of the time they barely meant half of it. However, she’d known Harry for years. Their relationship had only changed since they’d been cast for the same movie earlier this year. She was confident that she knew him better than her friends or anyone else. Surely, he’d meant all the things he’d said to her. The problem was, he just wasn’t ready for a relationship.

“And I don’t want to lose you, Y/N,” he said, now looking at her again.

She turned slowly and met his thoughtful green eyes. She offered a single smile as a way to tell him she wasn’t upset, even though she was, a little bit. “I don’t want to lose you, either,” she admitted.

His dimples reappeared. “I feel like it’s rare for people like us to find a connection like this, and I’ve never opened up to anyone the way I have to you. But I think now isn’t the time for us to take the risk of ruining this. Right now we’re still trying to figure out our own lives, you know?”

She nodded again, not knowing what to say.

They sat quietly for another moment, and it was he who broke the silence. “How come you never learn to drive?”

She could feel her cheeks glowing red. “I never had to drive myself.”

She’d been famous since she was fourteen, so she’d always had people driving her places. Whenever she told anyone that reason, they’d either call her spoiled to her face or give her a judgemental look that made her feel self-conscious. She didn’t have a dad or siblings, her mum didn’t know how to drive, either, and she was too afraid to ask anyone to teach her for she feared they’d judged her.

“I could teach you.”

Y/N whipped her head up and blinked blankly at him. “Really?”

“Of course,” he chuckled. “I have a cousin who didn’t learn to drive when he was young because of his anxiety and I taught him. I could teach you.”

Trying to hide her excitement, Y/N smiled. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” His grin widened even though he was the one doing her a favour. It was moments like this that reassured her that he wasn’t like the other guys who’d broken her heart. “When you got your driver license,” he said, “you can drive up to my house on your own.”

“We can even go on road trips,” she said happily, already imagining the many scenarios in her head.

He seemed equally elated, which made her heart swell. “Yeah! Wanna do it now or–”

“Let’s do it now.”

“Yeah, okay.” Quickly, he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. She climbed into the driver seat and watched him settle into the passenger side. That afternoon was the first time she’d learned how to drive. She would always remember that.

.

.

“Y/N, you’re up next,” said one member of the backstage staff who handed Y/N her mic and ran off to check on the backing vocalist.

Y/N felt her heart thumping in her chest as she clutched the microphone to her chest and sucked in a deep breath. She looked to her right, peering at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She looked beautiful. The makeup team and her stylist had spent three hours on this look and made sure that she was flawless.

Would he be watching the show tonight?

Had he even listened to the song?

It got to number one on the iTunes chart today. He must have listened to it. If not, he must have heard it on the radio or someone must have sent it to him. The whole world knew the song was for him, and everyone was talking about it. So even though he didn’t care anymore, even though he was happy with his new girlfriend, he must be wondering. Because when she’d heard that he’d written a song about her, she’d been so excited to listen to it. So could it be that he was wondering as well?

“This is Y/N performing her latest single DRIVERS LICENSE!”

Y/N took a deep breath as she got a nod from the stage director. She stepped out, soaked in the stage lights while the audience applauded and cheered for her. She stood at the centre of the stage as the band started playing and the noise in the audience died down. As a habit, she searched the front rows for his face despite knowing with every fibre in her body that this would be the last place he’d be tonight.

I got my driver's license last week

Just like we always talked about

'Cause you were so excited for me

To finally drive up to your house

But today I drove through the suburbs

Crying 'cause you weren't around

She could see it even now. Them driving through the quiet night. From her house to his and back. Just the two of them. The kisses they’d share at stoplights when there was no one else around. The way he’d place his hand on her thigh just because he wanted to. In retrospect, she should have realised that he wouldn’t ever do that to her in public. Their relationship, if she could call it that, had been almost nonexistent. Maybe that was why it’d been so easy for him to move on. You couldn’t feel remorse leaving behind something that didn’t exist. How unfortunate. It’d been real to her.

And you're probably with that blonde girl

Who always made me doubt

She's so much older than me

She's everything I'm insecure about

Yeah, today I drove through the suburbs

'Cause how could I ever love someone else?

She’d thought to herself that if he could write a song about someone he’d never dated, it was worth staying with him despite not actually being with him. She could not expect that a few months after that song had come out, he would be seen driving around with another girl. The girl he’d told her was only a good friend. This girl was older and perfect in every way. Y/N wouldn’t choose herself either if the choices were between her and that girl. But she couldn’t bring herself to hate the girl. It wasn’t the girl’s fault that Harry had chosen her. And it wasn’t Harry’s fault that Y/N refused to see the red flags through her rose-coloured glasses.

And I know we weren't perfect

But I've never felt this way for no one

And I just can't imagine

How you could be so okay now that I'm gone?

Guess you didn't mean what you wrote in that song about me

'Cause you said forever, now I drive alone past your street

Y/N wrote this song a week after she’d got her drivers license. She’d blast sad music in her car and cried as she drove past his house, wondering if he was still up and thinking of her whenever he saw headlights passing his street. The heartbreak had been confusing to her as they weren’t even together. It was funny how the whole world had believed in them, except for him. He’d told her he loved her, so why weren’t they together now? He’d said he wasn’t ready, so why was he holding hands with someone else on the street? Was it because of her? Was it something that she’d done? Was there something wrong with her? Why couldn’t he choose her? Y/N had pondered over those questions for months until she came to accept that there didn’t have to be a reason for someone to leave you. They simply lost feelings or found someone else. No one owed you an explanation.

Red lights, stop signs

I still see your face in the white cars, front yards

Can't drive past the places we used to go to

'Cause I still fuckin' love you, babe

For months, he'd been a ghost living rent-free in her head. She saw him in every face and every crowd, and she could even, in this moment, hear the sound of his laugh somewhere in the audience. She could hear him telling her he was proud of her, that everything would be okay. And the worst part was that, without her, he was still doing fine. He wouldn’t see her everywhere he went. He wouldn’t think about her when he was lying in bed and couldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t wonder if she missed him. Because he didn’t miss her. And he would be saying the same things he’d said to her to his new girl.

Sidewalks we crossed

I still hear your voice in the traffic, we're laughing

Over all the noise

God, I'm so blue, know we're through

But I still fuckin' love you, babe (Ooh, ooh)

There on the stage, she received sympathetic looks from the people in the front row as she cried her heart out to the lyrics. He might be at home this moment, watching the show with his new girlfriend, and seeing her cry on live television. Would they laugh at her together? Would he turn to his girlfriend and say he was sorry for how he’d treated Y/N and promised to never hurt his girlfriend the same way? The most heartbreaking thing, Y/N thought, wasn’t him leaving, but seeing him treat someone the way she’d wanted to be treated and realising that he’d been capable of doing it all this time, just not with her.

I know we weren't perfect

But I've never felt this way for no one

And I just can't imagine

How you could be so okay now that I'm gone?

Guess you didn't mean what you wrote in that song about me

'Cause you said forever, now I drive alone past your street

Putting all her feelings into this song had made everything seem so much simpler and clearer. And at the end of the day, Y/N believed that the whole purpose of songwriting was to get closure. Perhaps, one day, when she listened to this song again, she wouldn’t be sad anymore.

Yeah, you said forever, now I drive alone past your street

.

.

.

“Good job, Y/N.”

“Thank you.”

“Love the song! You’re amazing.”

“Thank you.”

Y/N faked a few more smiles then shut the door of her dressing room and slumped into her chair in front of the vanity.

All alone, she looked right at her reflection and took a deep breath.

Her phone buzzed and lit up with a new text message.

Harry: Congratulations on your no 1 :) xx

She pondered over the words, picked up her phone, and deleted his contact.

[he-who-ignites]

Daring Trysts

regretismyconstantcompanion​:

Gellerts reassurances set Albus slightly at ease, even though the blush across his cheeks only blossomed deeper at the wicked smirk Gellert was offering him. Oh yes, he could never forget any of the wicked and wild things they had gotten up to during their summer together. Not just the endless letters they’d send to one another any time they were apart, but sneaking out at all hours, Gellert staying over in his room on two occasions and Albus staying over in Gellerts room once too. They hadn’t had the chance often to indulge but it had been enough for Albus to know that he still loathed waking up alone. “No, I haven’t forgotten.” Albus admitted, for he hadn’t forgotten a single moment of the few blissful months they’d shared together that summer. Those weeks still filled his dreams and daytime fantasies often, somehow providing both comfort and torture at the same time. How often did he fall asleep in front of the Mirror of Erised, longing for a future that couldn’t be or a return to those few months where he had been genuinely happy for the only time in his life? “But I still wouldn’t wish to burden you unnecessarily, especially when I have very little news to share.” The mention of the crow had softly smiling. He was already quite taken with him. “Remaclus is getting all the affection and love and treats that Fawkes gets so I can assure you that I’m coddling him too much as far as you’re concerned.” Albus knew he doted on his own familiar and he had quickly adapted the same behaviour to their new guest. He was Gellerts crow afterall and Remaclus had become quite settled in already, sharing Fawkes perch most nights already. He was quite enjoying watching the two become closer and they’d taken to cleaning each others feathers when they thought they didn’t have an audience. Gellerts outstretched hand had Albus freezing on the spot for a moment, eyes widening slightly. He hadn’t been expecting such an affectionate and familiar gesture, despite their reunion a few days earlier. The kiss between them still made him smile whenever he thought of it, which was likely far more than he should. He reached out before he could stop himself, taking Gellerts hand for a moment as he approached him. Why did he suddenly feel like he was 17 again and they were meeting out in the meadow away from prying eyes? “Not much has changed since you visited at Hogwarts. Harry is ….impatient to move things along. He’s anxious to return home, worried at what he might find waiting for him. He’s not a fan of listening or taking suggestions and he’s already escaped on more than a few occasions. He’s avoided Tom so far, which is a small mercy but he has interacted with at least one other member of the faculty and two visiting officials from the Ministry.” Albus had been extremely displeased, wondering if he should tie a magical leash around the boy. How had his future self dealt with him? “I didn’t know they were even at the school before Harry went missing. Slughorn had invited them so his favourite students could liaise with them and make contacts.” Albus couldn’t watch the boy around the clock, even though he was trying to. He had his own classes to teach and commitments that he could only get out of so often without raising suspicion.

The blush spreading across Albus’ features was delectable, an exquisite treat Gellert would once savor to the point of over-indulgence.

It was Albus’ admission, however, that pleased Gellert immensely, more, perhaps, than he ought to allow.

Had his Occlumency shields been formidable in his adolescence already, he had nigh-perfected them at this stage – enough to maintain an impenetrable wall of sturdy steel between his rationale and the phantom of a reckless youth.

A summer of exhilaration and madness it had been indeed, its culmination all the more ruinous due to the scorching, all-encompassing adoration preceding the instant Albus had betrayed him.

And yet, who could have fathomed that the future of them both would remain entangled in threads spun decades in the past? That any blood they spilled with their wands pointed at one another’s throat would only advance the schemes of a common tyrant?

At least on that front, the visions prompted by the time-traveler’s arrival left precious little room for interpretation.

Albus’ hand was warm and smooth and deceptively delicate as he heeded his invitation as though in a nostalgic daze, tempting Gellert to succumb to the spell he himself had cast upon his former lover.

But now was not the time, not when the stakes were by far higher than his pride, than his ability – and willingness – to place his trust in an individual rather than the potential of a collective.

Albus’ account had him clicking his tongue in mild disapproval.

“Stubborn boy,” Gellert tutted. “I take it you’ve resolved whatever misunderstandings his antics may have sparked among those present? For now, that should suffice.”

It was far from a permanent solution, however, and he thus made a mental note to speed up his own plans for reining in their volatile asset.

“Tell me about Tom’s behavior,” he prompted. “Has he displayed any… interest in our time-traveler?”