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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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❦ - Changing clothes facing away, showing off their back (Ty and Luca)

Luca was under no delusions about what the house he shared with Max and Dash was like. He’d seen enough American movies to know that aside from the incredibly ordered and neat corners of it that Max was responsible for the three of them lived in something akin to a frat house; which honestly was part of the reason Luca liked it so much. But it also gave him just a tiny twinge of… was that shame? Was he even capable of feeling shame? Every time Tybalt Weymouth slept over. While he’d never been invited to the Celestial Sanctuary it was the stuff of myth, a palace hidden inside a mountain befitting the magical royalty that tread its halls, and he was very much aware of how his very messy bedroom; with tarot cards, underwear, and various drugs/alcohol scattered around it, didn’t really stack up next to “living castle”. He’d been awoken by the sensation of Tybalt sliding out of his bed and rolled over, hand automatically going to the deck of worn cards on the windowsill, drawing a single one out and looking at it. He’d thought it subsonic, but apparently his mewl of discontent at being confronted with the High Priestess reversed had caught Tybalt’s ear.

“Not good?”

He turned just in time to see Tybalt slide the t-shirt he’d been wearing off, revealing a broad landscape of back muscles Luca hadn’t even known you could get that toned, and he lived with a professional athlete. Words escaped him for a moment as he felt himself flush and he was suddenly glad he still had the worn quilt that was on his bed covering himself from the stomach down. On a very fundamental level Luca knew he was hot as fuck. His customers told him that, random people on the street told him that, and he told himself that on a daily basis. But he knew for all his tattooed and muscular sex appeal he didn’t hold a candle to his… whatever the fuck Tybalt was. He found the words a suddenly-half-naked Ty had stripped away from him and delivered them with what he hoped was a characteristic level of disinterest.

“Just being yelled at by the Universe for being a bad person. So, you know. Nothing new. Or as you might say.” His voice took on a dramatically affected American accent, “Nothin’ new.”

Ty flipped him off as he slid a collared shirt on, tugging a pair of jeans over muscular legs that Luca was now having a hazy memory of commenting on.

“Did I tell you I wanted to wear your legs like a feather boa last night?”

“You did. Right before I rendered you speechless for awhile.”

Luca gave a little shiver as he looked at the upside down woman giving him a death glare from a small rectangle of cardstock. “I remember. Big fan of that, Weymouth. Big fan.” He could hear the wispy voice of Professor Trelawney in his head as he looked at the High Priestess. She means to tell you you’re not listening to your inner voice Lucas. She never had gotten his name right, When she’s reversed it’s a call to stop and breath and turn inward. What is your mind telling you, your heart telling you, that you’re trying to block out?

He slid the card back into the deck and looked up to see Ty looking down at the sweat-stained t-shirt in his hand, Trelawney still echoing in his head, “Uh I took a bunch of shit to the thrift shop the other day so there’s like… an empty drawer in the dresser if you don’t wanna like bring that to work with you or something.” It violated a pretty fundamental if unspoken tenet in their relationship; impermanence. They had existed in a neutral detente for months, a cycle of ghosting and late night hookups that they had staunchly refused to tie any sort of label too. Tybalt was well aware of what Luca did for work, and while it hadn’t come up in any sort of serious conversation Luca couldn’t image the Weymouth scion settling down in any capacity with a whore.

The look he received was inscrutable and Luca was reminded that he was looking at a man who had been a hair's breadth away from being called Lord. “You just happen to have an empty drawer? I know how Ava shops for you, Santos. I find that hard to believe. I’ll just shove it in my bag and wash it at home tonight. Thanks though.”

Propping himself up on one elbow to watch Tybalt put the shirt in his bag he could see the edge of the High Priestess poking out of the desk, one disapproving eye pinning him to his pillows. You have to listen, Lucas. You listen to the forces of the world very well, nobody in this class can read the cards like you can, but even you need the reminder to listen to yourself. Sometimes the most important messages don’t come from the deck, but from within.

Ty had one hand on the doorknob, and Luca could already hear the knob turning and the hinges creaking when it finally burst out of him, far louder than he had anticipated, loud enough where Dash was sure to bring it up later, but bursting out all at once like a ruptured dam.

“I fucking love you!”

The doorknob stopped in its rotation but Tybalt’s back remained turned, though, if Luca was reading posture correctly, slightly more rigid than it had been previously. There was no response, no indication other than the cessation of movement that Tybalt had heard him at all and Luca swept his legs out of the bed, planting them on cold hardwood and keeping the quilt over his lap.

“I… I love you, okay? I know. I know this breaks all the rules we never talked about but we both know are there but I love you. When I wake up and you’re not here it’s a shitty morning and when I lay down and I’m alone, or really even when I’m not alone but it’s not you I don’t sleep for shit. I know. I know what we are. I know what this is. What this isn’t. But… I fucking love you. Leave the fucking shirt. Leave a bunch of shirts. Leave shirts and boxers and sweatpants and a toothbrush in a stupid cup by the sink and the smell of you on my blankets and the heat of you on my pillows. Just…. Leave something.”

From behind him he could swear he heard the gentlest of laughter and the whisper of card against card as she slid back inside the deck but he was too focused on the stationary man in front of him to check to see. Ty’s hand drifted from the doorknob to his pocket and he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the door and breathing a quiet chuckle, “Is it part of your inherent divinatory magic where you just know exactly what’s going to throw me for a loop? I know you’re a gifted seer. Does this come with it?”

Now it was Luca’s turn to stay silent, head low staring at the floor between his feet. He could tell whatever the outcome this was a turning point for them. Either Tybalt was going to walk out the door for the last time or something bigger was going to happen between them, but whatever forces sometimes gave him a glimpse of a possible future were criminally silent in the moment. It wasn’t until he saw a pair of shoes step between his bare feet and felt a finger tilting his chin up that he felt the blush of hope in his heart.

“I love you too, Luca.”

He watched as Tybalt knelt so they were at eye level, leaning forward to brush a gentle kiss to Luca’s trembling lips, “Breathe. I can hear your heartbeat from here. I’ll leave the shirt. I’ll leave the shirt and the toothbrush and the me. I didn’t know you could say that many words in a row… but I love you too. Fuck the rules. You know how I feel about rules. What rules did to my brother, to me, to our fathers. I don’t give a single fuck what rules we had between us. We’ll write new ones. But the first one is this…” The kiss deepened and they both stood, Luca leaning into the feeling of Tybalt.

“We’re going to start saying stuff out loud. I fucking love you, you dumbass. I just can’t believe you said it first.”

#m: luca #opp: tybalt #allie asks #iomadaidh

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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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[ text ]: I’m not responding to this because I have died. I’m dead. Dead people don’t answer texts. (Fenrir to Raleigh)

[F.G.] You understand the paradox you’re creating, right? By identifying yourself as dead in the response you have disproved your final thesis that dead people don’t answer texts. Since you are dead and also responding to my texts. [F.G] Dead people also don’t get beef wellington, which is about to come out of the oven. [F.G] So weigh your level of dead carefully.

#opp: fenrir #m: raleigh #allie asks #iomadaidh

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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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beat - peter & inanna

In one way or another, it seemed that Peter Pettigrew‘s life was always complicated. At school, at home, and now even after the war, at least that the world saw, had calmed down his own life still remained a tangled tapestry of the threads of those around him. He had taken well to the mantle of spy master when it was offered to him because the kernel of truth at the center of that role was the same as the kernel of truth that lived at the center of his life, mainly one unbreakable ironclad tenet; be ever false. Peter lived most comfortably in lies. Lies to the world, lies to his friends, even lies to himself that he knew were false and still told himself every morning in the mirror because false as they may be they were the rivets that held armor together. The vaulted halls of the cathedral that lived housed in his soul were buttressed not with wood not with marble not even with unyielding iron but instead with falsehood, insecurity, and fear. They were the locks on a vault that he feared was empty but still maintained the illusion of richness because that allowed him a seat at a table he never truly felt he belonged. He was small, he was human, he was half blooded, and despite all of that the masks and lies he robed himself in each day presented a convincing enough illusion that his bearing and status said to the world at large ‘I am not to be ignored. Do so at your own peril.’

But every armor has its weakness, and every lock can be picked, and while it was the very complications he was always surrounded by that allowed him to fly so under-the-radar, they were also the things most conveniently placed to bring the whole house of cards crashing down around his ears; and that’s what seemed about to happen at any given moment.

Mary was back.

This in and of itself was a source of tremendous and sincere joy for Peter. They had only ever spoken infrequently; but Peter had always cherished every moment of silence with her. In a life built so firmly upon falsehood the moments he didn’t have to lie, the times they just sat in the library together, not even together just at the same time were glorious reprieves. Long hours on the roof looking down at the traffic together were sanctuaries that he lived in and loved. That he could once again catch the scent of sage and sea salt in the halls brought him peace, and no small number of tears of happiness had been shed when she had turned up with Inanna at The Gardens one day.

But like everything in his life it was complicated; especially when it came to his current living arrangement. It was no great secret that the absolute love of Sirius’ life was Mary Macdonald. That she was back again would only do good things for Sirius’ transition, slow as it was, from emotionally shattered former prisoner to relatively stable person again. But the fly in the ointment of it all was the fact that he and Peter had been sharing a room, and a bed, for months. There were a slew of different options as to how this could be approached; a vast array of choices for dealing with every possible emotional and intellectual response.

But since Peter was Peter he chose to deal with it in the most Peter way, by doing things when nobody was around to see or talk about it and then immediately going into hiding.

It was a simple enough process to empty out their room. Sirius and Mary were off somewhere, probably the Pack Lands, reconnecting. Which Peter was sure involved far too few words and far too much emphatic eyebrows and eye contact but he of all people wasn’t in any position to critique how other people shared their emotions, having spent a significant portion of his adult life attempting to eradicate his own. Sirius didn’t have many belongings and Peter had always lived relatively sparingly, so gutting the room was the work of less than an hour. He left it as pristine and sterile as it had been before he and Sirius had moved into it, like much of Inanna’s estate a glittering and cold monument to opulence and status. A simple note on the door was the only sign that people had lived there at all.

Pad,

North Wing. Suite of rooms with the statues of Artemis and Apollo outside the doors. You two need a space of your own far from the rest of this madding crowd. Ashworth knows where to send your morning coffee.

-Peter

His own meager belongings moved back to the first set of rooms he’d had when he moved into The Garden; a secret suite hidden behind the shelves of the Grand Library. It was something of a comfort to be back in his own spot, layered in enchantment and spell, truly hidden and able to let his guard down. But he did have to admit he’d miss the sound of another person in his rooms. There was just one last box to move, a miscellany of notebooks and pens and the few framed pictures he kept on his desk and he was done. Every wing of the house connected to the Reception Hall where Inanna held court and Peter was keen to avoid the gazes and questions of the people who’d be there, so he cut through one of the secret passageways instead, exiting into the western greenhouse.

The air was so thick and redolent with the smell of blossoms that for a moment it overrode his other senses, including the one that would have allowed him to hear the record player and perhaps escape before he was noticed. But, the Mistress of The Garden saw all, and saw her spymaster appear in her greenhouse.

“Peter?” He looked over to see her, flawlessly put together as always, silver shears in her hand as she pruned anything less than perfection from one of her many orchids. He could watch in real time as her gaze went from his face, to the box under his arm, and then saw her mind put several pieces together. “Oh. I see.” She set the shears down and pulled off gardening gloves that were somehow still flawlessly clean, “Come dance with me, Peter. Please?”

The fact that there was a please, that it was phrased truly as a request and not an order, made it all the more impossible to refuse. He set the box down and made sure his hands were clean before he took hers, one hand on her back and the other clasping hers tightly.

Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper I love you, birds singing in the sycamore tree; dream a little dream of me

Inanna’s sigh was almost more judgmental than any chiding words she could have said, “Why do you insist on only giving your heart to people who can never truly cherish it the way it should be.”

Peters laugh bounced off the glass of the greenhouse, nearly as brittle as those thin crystalline panes “at least this way I know I will always get it back again”

“But you never get it back whole, Peter. It is too precious a treasure to be so mistreated.”

There was a long moment of silence as they swayed and spun through the plants, gentle music cushioning them from the rest of the world and allowing a moment where they were just two old friends from school, not a Queen and a Spymaster.

Sweet dreams til sunbeams find you, sweet dreams that leave your worries far behind you. But in your dreams whatever they be, dream a little dream of me.

“Do you want me to have him killed? I could do that for you. We can get you another pet. More handsome, kinder, less broken.”

He couldn’t help but laugh as he held her close, remembering a Yule ball, what seemed like several lifetimes ago, when they’d danced as much more carefree children.

But in your dreams whatever they be… dream a little dream of me

“I don’t need you to kill him. Tell Ashworth to stand down. His knives are much better suited for other things than punishing someone for my bad decisions. I don’t need a pet, Inanna.”

“And will you still bejewel your hair the same when you walk the Pack Lands, now that you will have to braid it yourself again?” The comment had some of the familiar bite of Inanna’s that he cherished, a touchstone that things were normal, things were regular. It was a constant he could set his sights on.

Though the song had long ended they continued to twist through the greenhouse in the same rhythm, twirling between plants and planters, “The Aegean Matriarchs reached out to Mihali. They want a sit down. Whatever I wear in the Pack Lands will have to wait, I leave in the morning.”

This caused the dance to stop as Inanna pinned him to the spot with a stare, not needing to raise her voice to be heard over the hissing record player in the corner, “This was your home first, Peter.”

“And it remains my home still. I am simply doing my job.”

It was a decidedly unladylike laugh that split the quiet of the moment, “You are doing the portion of your job that conveniently indulges your penchant for escapism, Spymaster.”

He spun Inanna out of his arms and bowed at the waist, too grandiose for the scene but not for the setting, “It is my penchant for escapism, for making minimal impressions, for being never truly any one place that makes me so good at being your Spymaster, Lady Zabini.”

A slender finger under his chin brought his eyes up to meet her gaze, “You are more to me than a spy master, Peter. Have your meeting, bind them more firmly to our side, but come back to me. The Garden needs your smile.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it softly, “As my queen commands.” As he stood and gathered the box she pressed a cool kiss to his cheek.

“As your friend asks. Thank you for the dance, Peter.”

The bookcase slid back silently, after Peter had pulled the right combination of six books to unlock it, and as it closed again, shutting him in the dim silence of his sanctuary he sat on the edge of the small bed and sighed, fingers running through his hair as he hummed the song they’d danced to under his breath. Maybe he never did get it back whole again, but letting someone else have it was at least confirmation that somewhere, under the armor and scar tissue, Peter Pettigrew still had a heart.

#m: peter pettigrew #opp: inanna #allie asks #iomadaidh

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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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Can't sleep - raster and mal

The title of double agent, Raster Vellic thought, was profoundly misleading. There were more than two masks he wore on a daily basis, and the number of lies each mandated was a heavy burden that he could feel himself starting to wobble under. The idiot son, the covert scientist, the spy, the turncoat, the saboteur, the... lover? Having to remember what affectation, what lynchpin lie, what dancing deceit each one was built upon was a complicated set of maneuvers he felt himself making up the steps for as he went along; and looking out over the star-speckled ocean of Chandrila he wondered if, after taking off mask after mask after mask after mask, there was any kernel of truth buried in the heart of him at all.

On the surface the lie at the center of his reason for being on Chandrila was easy enough. The Interplanetary Sabacc Championships were held there every year, and pretending to have a gambling addiction was a phenomenally easy way to explain why large sums of credits went missing from his Vellic Industries spending account. Far easier, at least, then attempting to explain to an accounting droid that he was spending the money on difficult to acquire parts and smugglers.

The actual reason for their trip here was that Raster was arranging a pickup of refined focusing crystals from a black market agent he’d had dealings with in the past. They’d give the rebellion a range advantage after he outfitted their blasters with them and they truly needed any advantage that they could get. The initial meeting had been accomplished and after some particularly tense negotiations in the steam room; theoretically because it was one of the only places in the hotel that wasn’t bugged but also because it made it easy to see if anyone was wearing a wire, a price had been settled upon. It was exorbitant, but, he needed what he needed and he was willing to pay to make sure the rebellion had the upper hand.

But unfortunately there were several days of downtime between the deal being arranged and the pickup happening which left his calendar wide open; and despite outward appearances Raster Vellic loathed idleness.

There weren’t enough forms of entertainment in the galaxy to calm Raster down when he was deep in the throes of anxiety about a plan coming together. He’d filled half a notebook in tight machine-precise shorthand of plans, contingencies, and emergency plans to be delivered to Rebel leadership whenever Mal made it back to Yavin-4. What to do if he was compromised and needed an extraction from Vellic Prime, what to do if he was compromised and unable to make it off of Vellic Prime and had to implement the dead man’s switch he’d been working on in secret, caches and dead drops he’d left at various places, what they would need to change about tactics and plans if he was discovered… anything he could think of to be helpful in any small way but he’d run out of ideas hours ago and he wasn’t any closer to sleeping than when he’d started. He’d thought about calling Mal. His fingers had been hovered over the codes to open their secure channel a dozen times but had always second guessed and thought better of it.

There wasn’t any easy way to try to quantify or qualify what exactly it was that he and Luck Maloris were; and as a scientist that frustrated the fuck out of him.

He couldn’t even pinpoint when it had turned from animosity to begrudging comrades in arms to whatever romance-adjacent thing they were now. One minute it had been barking in the entry hall of Hawen Vellic’s estate for the pilot not to get grease on his bags, the next it had been sitting in a cockpit watching the radar in an asteroid belt around Polis Massa, elbow to elbow and all he could think about was the searing heat of Mal’s skin burning through the thin fabric of his over shirt, and then the next someone was slamming someone else against a corridor wall, lips hungrily finding any scrap of skin where they could beat a morse code of truth between two consummate liars. Even now Raster thought he could smell the ghost of vanilla and wood smoke on his clothes, a reminder of the silence and safety of hyperspace and what it allowed them to share.

He thought he could see a path of wear in the lush carpet of his suite, having been pacing it like something caged and yearning to stretch for hours. A glance at the clock told him there were still long hours before the sun rose brilliant and carnelian over the gentle waves and in an instant he knew that the night was going to be too long. Raster was halfway to the elevators, still dressed far more casually than he normally appeared in public, before the suite door shut. In the middle of the night he’d hoped that he’d make it to the landing pads unseen, but an overzealous desk clerk clocked him.

“Evening Mr. Vell-”

“Speak to me again and I’ll have you fed to a zoo exhibit.” The harsh tap of the cane against the agate floor punctuated his words as he continued towards the landing pad, not slowing as he looked at the clerk, “Understood?”

To his credit the poor clerk only nodded mutely and Raster gave a razor thin smile, “Good. Glad we’re on the same page. If I walk onto the landing pad and see a single employee I’m going to get my father to use this place as his next testing ground.” He could hear the panicked fumbling with a comm panel as the desk clerk cleared out any staff from view from the landing pad he was about to stride across. He didn’t necessarily need a lot of witnesses to the sight of him sleepless and yearning.

It appeared as if he had properly put the fear of death by experimental weaponry into the poor resort employee because the landing pad was deserted and quiet as he exited the main building, curly hair buffeted slightly by a salty breeze that smelled so much like home. With no ships currently arriving or departing the pad was lit only by basic emergency lights, but one passenger ship still had its lights on, a beacon in the murky darkness of Chandrila’s early morning. Raster knew it wasn’t Mal’s favorite thing to fly, he’d much prefer to be in his on X-Wing but when ‘working’ for Raster he had to at least keep up appearances, which meant he was stuck in the cockpit of the Corona for the duration of their trips. The ramp was still down and Raster strode up it softly, hefting his cane over his shoulder to avoid the ringing announcing his steps. Pausing at the entrance to his ship he could feel a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he looked at the back of his pilot, head half-into an access panel, the sounds of profanity under his breath as he fixed something.

“I like to think I keep my ship in working order.” He spoke loud enough for Mal to hear him but not so loud that his voice inevitably carried out to the employees of the resort hiding just out of sight, “What are you in there breaking now?”

He was rewarded with a profane hand gesture as the Mirialan withdrew from the access panel, wiping his hands on a rag stuffed in one pocket, “Your inertial dampeners are keyed up way too high. Sends your fuel efficiency plummeting. I’m just evening them out.”

“Yes because ruining my careful tuning is exactly what most people do in the middle of the night. Can’t sleep?” Raster crossed the threshold into the ship and closed the hatch behind him, the soft hiss of it sealing the only sound between them for a long moment as he looked over at his pilot. “Did you know this is where my mother was from? Chandrila is where I was born actually.”

“Don’t like sitting around doing nothing.” Mal hadn’t moved to close the distance between them with his response and so Raster did so, stepping into the much shorter man’s space and looking down, gently and gingerly raising a hand to slide a thumb down a gently green jawline, just barely brushing Mal’s lip as he did so. The pilot didn’t respond to the bait of offered history, looking up and into Ras’ dark eyes as he waited him out.

“Most people don’t think of ship maintenance as a substitute for sleep though.” It was so quiet in the ship Raster thought he could hear his own heartbeat echoing off the walls as Mal’s head dipped ever so slightly to press a kiss to the pad of his thumb.

“We’re not most people though. You have to ask, Vellic. I’m not a mind reader.”

The silence deepened and thickened; not the tense brittle silence of unknowing but something that could support and shelter the two men inside of it. Raster’s hand drifted down to Mal’s chest, gently grazing the exposed sliver of flesh from an unbuttoned uniform shirt. His hands spent so much time gripping wires or metal or plastic that it always shocked him how soft and warm another person was. They locked eyes and Raster’s mouth opened and shut several times, the hitch in his breath the only indication that something was lurking in the back of his throat attempting to be said.

“.... Luck.”

Mal’s hand settled on Ras’ hip, a steady support as they stood frozen in their small sanctuary, “Say it, Ras. Just spit it out.”

Bringing his head down Raster nuzzled into the crook of Mal’s neck, a series of small kisses pressing a constellation into warm skin, some celestial map to try to lead him to the comfort he was seeking. “Can I spend the night with you?”

A laugh was the first response, “It’s your ship, Mr. Vellic. Don’t really think it’s my call.”

Pulling back Ras narrowed his eyes and glowered at the mirth in Mal’s eyes, “Not what I mean, Maloris, and you fucking know it.”

Mal’s fingers slowly unbuttoned Raster’s shirt, sliding the thin fabric over and off smooth shoulders as he corralled him back towards the pilot’s quarters, “I don’t know if you’ll fit in the bed, you freak of nature, but we can certainly make a go of it.”

As they careened towards bed, slamming into several walls as their faces were occupied with more than trying to find their way, Raster’s hand managed to find the switch to kill the lights and the ship fell into a dimness illuminated only by emergency running lights. He didn’t need the lights to see his way, though. With the feeling of Mal’s skin against his he knew exactly where he was going.

#m: raster #opp: mal #allie asks #iomadaidh

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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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✥ - Popping a button on their shirt, showing their chest / a bit of cleavage (Hawke & Jake)

Life had a funny way of bringing this back full circle in a way nobody could anticipate. The first time they’d tried to date it had been a game of secrets. The Minister of Magic could never be seen with a member of the Department, let alone a former member of the Department who now waited tables at an Indian restaurant. Hawke’s job had been everything to him, his legacy, his reputation, his mission more important than any level of emotional honesty that he could gift to Jake. Which is why Jake had left him. Submitted a formal letter of resignation as Hawke’s boyfriend and walked out of the Ministry with his head held high. A lot had changed in the years in between leaving Hawke and the night the now-former Minister of Magic had walked into his restaurant and asked for a word with the chef. Jake had been perfectly comfortable making him wait several hours in a booth until dinner service was done and waiters were putting chairs on top of tables in preparation for the end of the night.

“You waited.”

It wasn’t a question when he asked it, but there had been a question behind it, about why Hawke had shown up, ate, and then waited until the restaurant closed down to finally talk to him.

“The food was exquisite. You used to be a great chef… I think you’re something beyond that now.”

“My Michelin Star and James Beard Award agree with you.” He’d sat down on the other side of the table as one of his staff brought him something to eat. “Doesn’t explain why you waited though.”

He’d always been the one who’d been honest between the two of them. It was time for Hawke to shoulder that burden now.

They’d talked late. He’d sent the staff home and they’d sat in that booth, and then in the kitchen as Jake made them a well-past-midnight snack, and just talked. It was the most open he’d ever heard Hawke be and in the moment it was a very sharp reminder of why he’d been so in love with the man in the first place. Hawke seemed to be heading in the direction of them getting back together and so Jake felt it the appropriate time to drop the bomb he’d been sitting on all evening.

“I’ve got a kid, Hawke. I adopted. Elimelech Alistair Conrad. Eli Jr.. If you want back in my life… you’ve gotta be ready to be a dad. Because I’m not doing this if you’re not.”

“You… adopted?”

“I asked everyone not to tell you. I honestly assumed you’d know just because you’ve got your fingers in seventeen different intelligence agency pies, but, yes. Last year. He’s three now. Eli’s mom watches him while I work, because that woman is a bloody saint.”

In Hawke’s defense he hadn’t immediately run out the door, hadn’t bolted the moment he’d heard the word “kid” like some of the other men Jake had tried to date since he’d initially left Hawke, but he didn’t look immediately at ease with the whole concept of being a father. “Well. Congratulations. I think I owe you a baby shower gift then.”

He hadn’t laughed like that in a long time, and just like that they were back on the slow road to whatever it was they were going to become.

A lot had changed in two years. Minister Ashby had become Mr. Conrad, one restaurant had turned into two, to three, and then a cooking show, and despite what reservations he’d had, Hawke had become a truly amazing father. An apartment in muggle London had turned into a penthouse in Diagon, and it was through this penthouse door Jake was walking to be immediately tackled by a slightly more than knee-high cannonball, “Daddy’s home!!”

Hawke rounded a corner shortly after their speedster of a son did, trademark wry smile on his face, “Maybe we let him get more than six inches in the door before we tackle him.”

“Papa took me to see Auntie Emma at work today! Mr. Foster had a puppy!” Leaning down Jake swept Eli Jr. off his feet, kissing him on the forehead and hugging him tightly.

“Oh Papa did, did he?”

He threw a questioning eyebrow in Hawke’s direction as he set Eli Jr. back down again and his husband gave him a gentle smile, “Weymouth had some automaton breakthrough. Wanted to drop one off, show us how it worked. He’s getting closer and closer to figuring it out… which is honestly a little terrifying. Have you ever seen a nine foot tall magitech robot take a spell to the chest and bounce it back? And before you chide me… Samuel had Eli well in another room distracted with what might honestly be the cutest pitbull puppy in all of Christendom.”

“Nana ‘nique said she’s going to take me to the museum tonight!”

Another questioning eyebrow, and another smile, a language they were slowly and methodically rebuilding, “Gramma Monique offered to babysit tonight. She said something about couples needing quality time, how she and Manu had always loved their family but cherished the moments that they had privately. Then she gave me what can only be described as the most scandalous eyebrows I have ever seen on a woman and said she’d be by, well,” he looked at the watch on his wrist that had probably cost more than Jake’s first apartment, “Any minute.”

A gentle knock on the doorframe behind him made Jake’s face split into a lopsided grin as he turned to see the willowy figure of Monique Whetu silhouetted in the light from the hall, “And here she is, as promised Misters Conrad.”

There was very little in his heart that Jacob Conrad loved as dearly and preciously as Monique Whetu. She had seen Jake at his most abject; when veins were still black as night and some days he couldn’t hold a mug for the shaking, and she had loved him ferociously anyway. It was one of Jake’s greatest sorrows that he would never have the chance to meet Manu Whetu, but from the way Monique lived her life, it was evident where Eli got his big heart from. “You didn’t have to do this mom.”

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d started calling Monique mom. There had been a very long time when she had been Lady Whetu, and then Monique, and then somewhere along the line mom. Maybe it had been before he’d knelt before the Manu-possessed Lich body of Aiden and received the blessing of the Lord of Manawa, maybe after, but somewhere along the line she’d joined Madhur and his own mother as one of the army of women he called mom, and it just felt right.

“That’s what makes it fun, Jacob. I know I didn’t have to do this.” With an effortless redirection of momentum she scooped Eli Jr up and propped him up on her hip, “You both work hard, and you deserve these moments.” Leaning in she planted a kiss on Jake’s kiss and he breathed in the smell of flowers and home, “Besides. This handsome man and I have a date with his Uncle Eli and Aunt Millie. You can’t deprive Millie of her Eli Jr time. You know how she gets.”

With another blinding smile and a wave from their son she was gone, and there was silence in the penthouse. “Well, Mr. Conrad.” Jake set his bag down and leaned against the wall, “I guess we have a free evening.”

“For the first time in what… months?” Hawke began loosening his tie, draping it over the back of a nearby chair as he unbuttoned his cuffs and popped the top buttons on the bespoke Thad oxford he was wearing, revealing a sliver of tan skin and carefully groomed chest hair.

“Mmmmm.” Pushing off the wall Jake careened gently into his partner, bringing a hand slowly up and over Hawke’s chest and cupping his cheek, “If you’re going to start a strip tease like that in our front hall you and I are never going to make it to the kitchen to start dinner.”

Hawke’s low chuckle sent shivers down Jake’s spine as he slowly unbuttoned another button, “Oh this is what does it today? Well, Mr. Conrad. You’re the one with a restaurant empire. I am fairly certain with one phone call we can have a four course meal delivered and left outside so we don’t have to put pants on for the rest of the night….”

There was an end to the sentence that Jake refused to give Hawke time to finish; lips crushing the rest of the words in their shells. “You know my love language, that’s for sure.”

Another button and Hawke smoothed a hand under Jake’s shirt and up his stomach, “There’s no rush, my darling. We have all night, Millie and Eli are hosting a sleepover… and I intend to take my time. I think we’ve earned it.”

Jake had to admit as Hawke began removing his clothing with agonizing slowness that his husband was right. They had earned it, and he intended to take full advantage of every remaining minute they had together.

#m: jake #opp: hawke #allie asks #iomadaidh

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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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“Can’t sleep?” Cole/Bas - GIVE ME TENDERNESS

If you had asked Cole d’Leon how he had thought his mid-twenties were going to go, “getting married to a member of the magical aristocracy who made a terrible Faustian bargain with an ancient force of quasi-sentient Sidhe magic and sometimes shared his body with it in exchange for sobriety and freedom from the crippling shackles of addiction to a magical drug” was not anywhere on the list. Top contenders had been: dead from gang violence, killed by his father, ran away somewhere with Laz, or in a dream the impossible dream scenario opened up a shop under a different name and assumed identity far away from his father’s criminal enterprises. But that list had been somewhat upheaved when he had slit his father’s throat before Nate Cavanaugh could, leaving him covered with blood, boots up on his father’s desk, with a rapidly cooling corpse and limited options as Cavanaugh burst through the door.

But it had been somewhat refreshing to have the slate wiped clean as he had given complete control of his father’s empire to Nate. He no longer had a path laid out for him by violence and blood and could instead focus on what it was that he wanted to do… which meant that he actually had to figure out what it was he wanted to do with his life. Edgar d’Leon had scoffed at fate, Your path is written by your own hands boy, in blood and strength, nothing else but what else could have led Sebastian Weymouth to his shop during one meeting with Nate; eyes still the neon-blue of addiction, veins charcoal black on his incredibly pale skin. What else but fate could have led him to a mountain of magic and a workshop of unthinkable imagination. Could have led him to Sebastian’s bed, and then after the bargain, after the year he disappeared, after the return, to an altar in the depths of the Mountain with Laz at his side, swearing his eternal love and fidelity to the mountain lord for as long as he lived.

But loving Sebastian wasn’t all clockwork creations and Nate walking in on them in the Library on one eventful evening. He could remember Bas’ echoing laugh, a sound becoming less and less rare, as they laid in bed and Cole recounted the day, You just have to live with him babe, I see him at work and at home. I had to spend all day hearing about how he never wanted to see his little brother naked and how he never wanted to know which one of us was the top and he was going to bill you for the therapy he had to go through to recover from that sight. He could remember Bas’ warm fingers carding through his hair, golden eyes dim but steady in the dark of their chambers Sometimes, my Prince, I think he forgets that I’m not the scared little boy hiding in his shadow anymore. Some days I am, I’ll admit. But I’m trying not to be.

It was also nights of rolling over to find the other side of the bed cold, sheets disturbed but all body heat from his furnace of a husband long gone. Cole was a thief, and the son of a thief turned king, and could sneak with the absolute best of them, but nobody truly snuck around inside the Celestial Sanctuary, and he’d barely made it ten feet down the hallway before he heard the creaking of an opening door ahead of him, guiding him up a set of darkened stairs towards a workshop he knew would be a hive of activity.

Which it was. Bas sat at his desk, the skeleton of an elaborate automaton open before him on a scarred and burned desk. His golden eyes glowed more brightly than Cole had seen in a long time and he almost thought Bas didn’t see his approach until his husband held up one hand, fingers spread wide for Cole to slow his own into.

“Couldn’t sleep, mountain goat?”

Bas’ laugh was low and frayed around the edges as he leveraged himself up from the worktable, folding himself around and into Cole’s arms. The fire that burned at the core of his heart was something Cole couldn’t quite understand. His family was magic enough. He was the son of a witch and a wizard. He’d been trained by the finest magical tutors money could buy. But that was nothing compared to the way the Weymouths were magic. They were Magic. Place Magic was powerful, and the Celestial Sanctuary was one of the oldest linchpins, second, he thought, only to the salt-soaked cliffs of Dubh Aigeann. Tybalt Weymouth, even as the twin who wasn’t the heir, was one of the most proficient wandless casters that Cole had ever seen, and his magical ability paled in comparison to his brother’s, even before Bas had done the unthinkable. But now… Cole didn’t think he even had a frame of reference to the kind of power that Sebastian held inside of him, or truly the price he had paid for it.

“It’s… demanding tonight.” The voice was barely there, but Cole could feel the words on Bas’ lips as they nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “It wants a body.. To walk and roam and experience. The curiosity of the Sidhe is matched only by their trickery. I can’t… I will not indulge either. This is still my body.” Cole let a hand slide under the thin t-shirt and up Bas’ back.

“It’s mine too, B… the Sanctuary can’t have you”

He was rewarded with a shiver, and a hungry press against his own body, and for a moment indulged both, lips hungrily finding Bas’ before he looked over his shoulder at the automaton on the table, “For the Ministry? To find the Source?”

The mewl of annoyance and need was almost as arousing as the kiss itself had been, but Cole had learned how to navigate these moments. It wasn’t about what Bas’ body needed, but his mind. It needed to stay awake and churning violently enough to keep the encroaching mountain at bay.

“To obliterate the Source. It’s dangerous to send humans. Alistair… Jacob… you know they’re actually well over a century old at this point? Magical time dilation. The long term effects of it aren’t even close to being understood yet. We can’t keep putting them and their comrades in danger to try to find it and end all of this, but, I haven’t gotten the design quite right yet.”

“Well for starters you’ve got that gear exchange in the fifth vertebrae in backwards.”

“I. Beg. Your. Fucking. Pardon.”

“B.” Cole stood on his toes to plant a kiss in the middle of his husband’s forehead, “I love you to the moon and back again but I’m a watchmaker. I know gears. And that, love of my life, is in backwards.”

Cole was very nearly buffeted backwards by the speed at which Bas spun out of his arms and back to the workbench and he followed behind, hipchecking him out of the way to carefully remove the mechanism and slot it in correctly, “You’re going to wear down your rib supports super fast that way. This way they’ll move in conjunction with the spine instead of working against it.”

“Have I told you lately you’re a genius?”

“After sex this morning, but, you can always tell me again.”

This time it was Bas who instigated the kiss, stealing the breath from his lungs as he dipped Cole. “You’re a genius, Cole Weymouth.”

As he tipped Cole back to his feet Bas kissed him again, slowly and softly, “It’s three in the morning, you should go to sleep.”

Extricating himself from Bas’ kiss, Cole pulled a stool up to the workbench and settled in, slinging a towel over his shoulder to wipe greasy fingers on, “Do you remember our vows, B? I stood before your brother, and your niece, and all our friends,” his eyes drifted shut as his hand found Sebastian’s, running fingers over the wedding band he’d forged himself, “I vow to help you find your strength when you think you have none, to hold your heart against mine as the most precious of treasures, and from this day forth love and cherish you until the day I die.”

His eyes opened and he scooted slightly closer to Bas, their knees pressing together gently, “If the Sanctuary wants that body it’s going to have to go through both of us…”

He could feel the smile spreading across his face as they set down to the project at hand, “You’ll never fight alone again.”

#m: cole #m: sebastian #allie asks #iomadaidh

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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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✘, ❤, ♣ - raster and MAAAAAAL

Send ✘ for an unsent text

The Idiot: We could just go. Hide out in some little bungalow on Takodana. Somewhere we could actually have time for once. No rebellion. No empire. No subterfuge and hidden identities and covering our tracks. The Idiot: I’d leave it all behind if you asked me to.

Send ❤ for a lusty/loving/affectionate message

The Idiot: Next trip take the long way round. The Idiot: I figured out a way to tweak the dampeners. We can stay in hyperspace for a little longer. The Idiot: It’ll give us more time together. I need it. The Idiot: I need you.

Send ♣ for a drunk message

The Idiot: This definitely isn’t the elevator to the penthouse The Idiot: I think I’m in a boiler room? The Idiot: Or something gross like that. The Idiot: Send help.

#m: raster #opp: mal #allie asks #iomadaidh

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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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✍, ⌚, ☘, ☘ - RASTER

✍ : What is your muse’s handwriting like? Is it neat? Sloppy? Fancy?

Like much of Raster Vellic’s life his handwriting is a sharp dichotomy between the public lie and the private fervor. Everyone who knows him during the day knows that his handwriting is nearly unintelligible. But that’s why you have staff. Why would he waste his own energy when he pays the help to do that for him. But behind closed, locked, boobytrapped doors a lot changes about the Heir Indolent, including his handwriting. In the dark of night it becomes, much like its owner, militantly fastidious. He has too few hours to do what he needs to do, and so his notes flow in a coded shorthand so precise it looks machine made.

⌚ : Is your muse good with keeping on schedule for meetings, appointments, or events, or are they always late? Or, are they always a bit early?

Again, two sides of a coin. If you want Raster Vellic, playboy and money sinkhole, to show up on time to anything, you tell him it starts an hour and a half earlier than it does. Maybe he’ll only be twenty minutes late then. But Raster Vellic, Codenamed The Scion, has an appointment he’s always on time. Rebellions and turncoats have incredibly tiny windows of opportunity, and he is unwilling to miss a single one.

☘ : Does your muse believe in luck? How about fate?

Luck is for those too stupid to make their own, and Fate for those too scared to change it.

❤ : What are your muse’s thoughts on love? If they are not in a relationship, do they believe that they will ever find a perfect someone for them?

If you ask him he’ll say it’s a waste of time and he’s too busy for it; his father’s sins are numerous and he’ll spend his whole life trying to make up for them. But truthfully, those few stolen moments in every hyperspace run give him a sense of peace and belonging he didn’t think he was worthy of.

#m: raster #allie asks #iomadaidh

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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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quiet boy with the worst brothers in the world and a penchant for falling in love with straight men.

I guessed Edwin Boudreaux first, which was incorrect, but finally got

Peter Pettigrew

#allie asks #iomadaidh

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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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sad homosexual with daddy issues and a penchant for hiding pens

Vladimir Tausgir

#allie asks #iomadaidh

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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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bandage - fenrir & peter

@iomadaidh

The knock that came at the door wasn’t a request, but an announcement. It did not wait for a response, it did not ask for permission, it was the knock of a man who knew that whatever room he was walking into was a room he belonged in and therefore a room he owned. Peter barely had time to stagger to his feet, arm swinging uselessly and painfully at his side before the door opened to reveal the imposing bulk of the Lord of the Packlands.

“Alpha Greyback. How can I be of service?”

Sirius had bolted up next to him as soon as the werewolf had entered the room, “Leave, Black. Ashworth needs help in the kitchens.”

“Bu-”

“That was not a request. Now.”

It was a testament to the incredible depth of their friendship that Sirius, even in the face of a Fenrir’s order, looked at Peter for a moment. “As the Alpha orders. Go help Raleigh. Tell him I want post-mission pancakes and if he sends you back here with the fake-ass maple syrup that’s mostly corn syrup I will gut him with his own knives.”

There was a look, lasting the quickest of heartbeats, where Sirius asked a question and Peter’s only response was the tightening of his jaw and for a moment all Peter could remember was the agonizing sorrow in Sirius’ voice You’re not alone anymore.

I still bleed the same either way.

The door shut quietly and Peter watched Fenrir cock his head slightly, waiting until his preternaturally acute hearing assured him Sirius had actually left the wing. Fenrir Greyback had “imperious” down to a tee. His title was Alpha, because that was how werewolf society functioned, but his bearing was Lord, King, Emperor. Peter had only ever met one being who could actually stand against Inanna’s iron will on even footing and that being was slowly walking towards where he stood, leaking lifeblood onto a rug that cost more than the last three generations of Pettigrews had made in their whole lifetimes.

“Sit down, Peter.”

The desk chair was already pulled out, and Peter lowered himself slowly into it, pulling a notebook and pen towards him, “What can I do for you, Alpha?”

“Well… stop being a fucking idiot to start. Put that away, and look at me.”

Turning slowly to obey Peter finally noticed the small cloth bag slung over the towering werewolf’s shoulder, that he was setting down on the bed and pulling a variety of first aid supplies out of. As he opened his mouth to say something he received a withering look from the other man, coupled with a truly derisive shake of his head, “I don’t even want to hear it. Do you want me to fill in the next part of your dialogue for you? I can already see how it’s going to go. That’s unnecessary, Alpha Greyback, I can fix myself up. Then I make some snide comment about how you haven’t already and then you make some simpering comment about how I needn’t worry myself. Did I hit the nails on the head there?” He had a neat line of the supplies laid out in easy reach as he pulled up a chair close to Peter, closer than Peter thought he’d ever been to the Alpha before.

“... Fenrir.”

“Oh Merlin. You did lose a lot of blood didn’t you, if you’re calling me by my given name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that come out of your mouth.”

“Well…” He winced back slightly as Fenrir wiped some astringent over a deep cut on his unbroken arm, “There’s nobody around to hear the faux pas and if you were going to kill me for it you wouldn’t be disinfecting claw marks.”

“That and you’ve got these rooms so heavily enchanted against scrying and eavesdropping that nobody would hear anyway.” Peter narrowed his eyes and looked sideways as one blood-soaked wipe hit the ground and Fenrir grabbed another one, “Oh don’t give me that look, Spymaster. You’re the most paranoid person on this estate and in this company? That’s truly saying something. We can all practically smell the security on your rooms. But, you’ve more than earned privacy. Even if every wolf in the packlands can smell you’re not using it properly.”

“I am sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Alpha.”

He could feel the eye roll, “Of course you don’t. I know you two are… well I’m going to be just brutally honest with you here, so broken you’re several puzzles worth of pieces packed into what… five and a half feet of man? By the way this is going to really hurt.”

“Five and a half feet?! Just because you’re a goddamn skyscraper doesn’t mean-” The rest of the sentence turned from indignation into a long hiss of pain as one of Fenrir’s claws dug into the wound, scraping along the sides of it.

“Infected flesh, Peter. Can’t keep that shit in there.” he wiped his claw on one of the wipes and started to wrap the arm carefully, “Back to the topic at hand though. His scent’s all over you… why the hell aren’t you two actually banging and just… having slumber parties in your own private wing of this giant estate where nobody can hear you.”

“I say this with the utmost respect for you, as a man and leader, but there is a snowball’s chance in hell I’m having The Talk with you. I will slit my own throat with the fragment of bone sticking out of my arm.”

“I’m not having the talk with you Pettigrew. I assume somewhere along the line hanging out with your merry band of bros you lost your virginity though I also imagine you were the last one to do so.”

“Rude ass.” Peter muttered to himself, rewarded with an extra tight cinching of the bandages that made him wince.

“Wolf hearing. I heard that.”

“We’re not sleeping together because neither one of us wants to. It’s not terribly complicated. He’s straight, I’m not into him. We’re just….. Something. We’re just doing something and I don’t really want to specify or elaborate on what it might be.”

“Uh huh. Something. You know the pups smell you when you walk by and ask when you two are getting married.”

“Well the simple answer- Merlin’s saggy fucking tit Fenrir are you trying to break my other arm?!” The look he received from the other man would have withered crops, but he managed a wincing eye roll, “I’m just human! I might be one of the only humans in this place but I don’t have your super unbreakable bones.”

Fenrir’s hand snapped up to grab Peter’s chin, holding their gazes locked together, “Do not ever let me hear you say you are just human ever again. Your accomplishments and strengths stand on their own merit; they are not dependent on your species. You are not just human, Peter, you are a force of nature. Not many people could have walked into that hall with their back straight, leaving half their blood on the floor, and delivered a report without passing out or acknowledging the fact that one of their arms was about to fall off.”

His hand released Peter’s face and returned to patching him up, and Peter huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, “I’m going to need to get someone to deep clean that marble.”

“I mean your blood isn’t even the grossest thing on there right now. Paveros made it about 30 seconds after you left before he puked. He tried to make it to a window, bless his scaly little heart, but failed by about 30 feet.”

“Oh god. Poor kid. I’ll make sure he’s okay later.”

“Mmmmmm probably not. I’ve got Pasha looking after him, he’s not your priority. Though, he looked like he was going to pass out and it was pretty adorable to see Pasha sling him over one shoulder and cart him off to his rooms” For a brief moment a look of… was that sorrow? Apology? Something else? Crossed Fenrir’s face and he put his hands in his lap, “This… this is going to hurt tremendously, speaking of your human bones. That” He pointed to the ugly wound and protruding bone, “can’t be fixed by magic or mending until it’s back inside your arm, and the fact that you, like an idiot, travelled without setting it means it’s going to hurt even worse.”

“I had a deadline.”

“You had three days left on it. What you had was some seriously unaddressed masochistic tendencies. You know… Alessia, one of my pack, is a licensed therapist. If you wanted I could -”

“Please just do whatever you’re going to do so the pain cuts this conversational branch short.”

“I can knock you out for it, if you’d like.”

Peter could feel the muscles in his jaw clench as he set them firmly in the face of whatever was about to happen, “I’ve always been one to look my pain in the eyes. That will be unnecessary.”

The laugh was short and barked, not mirthful but not fully mocking, “You two are meant for each other. You’re both fucking idiots.” Fenrir moved his chair to the other side and looked at the limp and useless arm, “Again… to be very fucking clear. I will have to pull your arm to slip the bone back into your arm, where it belongs, realign the pieces, and then and only then will I be able to cast something to heal you. You could be unconscious for this undoubtedly agonizing experience but because you live off some heady brew of masochism and I don’t know… self-loathing? You’re choosing to stay awake and suffer. Just want to make sure we’re all on the same page here, Peter.”

Peter didn’t really have a response to being so savagely called out like that, but, no matter what the response might have been he was sure it would have been met with the same implacable stare that was nailing him to the seat. “Hurtful but… yes.”

Fenrir rolled his eyes but again Peter thought he saw something akin to compassion lurking behind the level stare, “Well then. Think happy thoughts. What’s that lullaby you sing to the pups when they can’t sleep? Yes Peter, we can all hear you when you come out to the Packlands because someone texted you that their kid can’t sleep. You’re going to spoil them if Uncle Peter comes out every time they’re assholes about bedtime.”

If he’d had the blood to spare he was sure he’d have blushed but instead he just muttered under his breath, “It’s called Old Churchyard. My dad used to sing it to me. A long time ago.”

“Remind me again how it goes, Peter.”

“I think you know full well how it goes, Mr. Excellent Hearing.”

“That’s Alpha Excellent Hearing to you, Pettigrew.”

“Fenrir.”

“Do it. So you can focus on something else.”

The sigh was low and defeated, because ultimately Peter couldn’t very well ignore an order from the Lord of the Packlands. “But were I at rest 'neath yonder tree, why would you weep, my friends, for me? I'm so weary, so wayworn, why would you retard the peace I seek in the old churchyard?” The pain came entirely without warning, which he was sure had been Fenrir’s plan all along, to not give him time to anticipate and dread, but rather to get it over with in one fell swoop. It was a strange and horrible feeling to feel your bone sliding back into your arm and it was almost enough to turn Peter’s stomach.

“I’m not done yet.” Again, maybe it was blood loss but was there an apology hidden in the back of those words? “Keep going. You’re nearly there”

“Why weep for me for I'm anxious to go to that haven of rest where no tears ever flow. And I fear none my fate when it's time to depart, I will set with the sun in the old churchy-” The crunch of his bones knitting back together cut the song short and he sagged forward in the fog of pain that nearly knocked him out, forehead landing on Fenrir’s shoulder.

“Done. You made it. Congratulations, you made this way more difficult on yourself than you could have.” He sat for a moment until Peter was able to slowly lift his head again, breath shallow and skin sallow.

“Many thanks, Alpha Greyback.”

As he started to put the supplies back into the small bag, leaving a stash of bandages and antiseptic ointment for Peter’s wounds, Fenrir turned for a moment, “I never pegged you as religious though.”

“... What?”

“That lullaby. Your father’s. Clearly about Judeo-Christian ideas of life after death. Never seemed your speed you’re so…..”

“Mechanical? Robotic? Soulless?”

“I was going to say analytical but you do you Peter.”

“It isn’t. But it was his. I’m… as I’m sure you know… half-blooded. He was staunchly religious, a Muggle, my mother was from a Korean wizarding family that emigrated here when she was young. It’s ultimately why he left. A magical child was the work of the devil.”

“That’s the goddamn dumbest shit I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Peter genuinely had no response to that, instead keeping a careful eye on the werewolf as he levered himself out of the chair and headed towards clean clothes.

“If there is a god, Peter, sending you to your family was a blessing, and not the work of some nefarious demon.”

“Well… moot point. He’s dead so, he never got to see how it all turned out. Though…” he looked down at the torn and bloodied clothes he’d have to throw away, “from the looks of it he might not have been that far off.”

“Clothes don’t make the man, wounds don’t make the man, blood doesn’t make the man. Actions, honor, and choices do. He made his and you saw the kind of man he was. Yours paint an entirely different picture. Do not forget that.”

As the door began to shut behind him Fenrir couldn’t resist, it seemed, one more sly barb slung over his shoulder, “I’ll send your boyfriend back in with the pancakes. Please don’t kill Ashworth over syrup. Nobody cooks a rare steak like he does and I’d hate to have to start ordering delivery.”

#m: peter pettigrew #opp: fenrir #allie asks #iomadaidh

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