#listen he hasn’t read the books i’m meeting him on his level

[jeyneofpoole]

fathers and their lesbian asoiafdaughters have such a special bond

[lili-of-the-wildfire]

okay fine, u all forced my hand in this one. these are MY azzie headcanons, mostly based on what’s canon in the books but i’m nothing if not a woman who would have been forcefully lobotomized so there’s also some delusion sprinkled in. enjoy 😙 (not proof read or correctly punctuated or even coherently arranged, we die like men on this blog)

* he may be a bit quiet in some situations, especially when meeting people who’s intentions he hasn’t quite figured out yet, but if he does nothing else, he’ll offer up a small smile in greeting. he’s not just going to sit there aloof in a corner, sans introduction.

* he’s a total vibe reader tho, his line of work has made sure of that. like he just knows when something is off about someone even if there is evidence saying otherwise. and he’s right every time, damn him.

* he tucks his hands behind his back out of habit, not necessarily shame. he used to be far more insecure, but as the centuries dragged on, he’s become less and less ashamed of what was done to him as a defenseless child.

* that’s not to say he’s fully healed and moved forward, just that time has given him some perspective and wisdom.

* (btw he loves hand massages with your lavender and lemon verbena lotion and he is not afraid to admit it)

* when he gets himself into trouble he tries to slink off into the shadows slowly, instead of disappearing all at once. nobody has a problem calling him out on it, but sometimes he honestly does get away with it.

* he has TASTE! he took one look at cassian and feyre’s gods awful decorating and didn’t even remove his outside clothes before he was fixing it.

* he and his mate’s house would look like something out of a Williams Sonoma holiday catalog.

* the two of you would put up lebron numbers on a joint pinterest account in a modern au.

* he’s quick as a whip with his dry humor and comebacks, and while cassian may be his main target, the two of them combined?? Mr. your mother and Mr. two hundred years at least TOGETHER? jesus it’s a wonder rhys came out of Illyria with the ego that he did.

* he differs from his brothers in that PDA is not his jam. he’s not getting blowjobs at the dining room table or fucking in tents while people die outside. he’s definitely not fingering you for the first time in a shabby inn, either. he’s more publicly reserved than that because he favors romance more.

* you know how rhys/feyre and cassian/nesta fucked before they were in any sort of relationship? azzie’s not doing that with someone he genuinely wants to pursue a relationship with.

* consider the following: does a man who’s spent centuries pining after the same woman come off as anything other than a romantic? no, lovely reader, not in the slightest.

* he’s got the softest heart, i just know it. while he’s kind, he has his reserved exterior, but i think once you get past that as a relationship develops, he’s so tender and thoughtful.

* his gift to nesta was so personal and thoughtful despite their superficial relationship, and he expected nothing in return. imagine what he could come up with for someone he knew on a more personal and intimate level!!

* his gifts may not be as over-the-top extravagant as Rhys would prefer, but they’re so well-planned and personal because he actually listens to you! and he watches you! and he takes the time to actually think about what would be useful and meaningful for you (Mor could NEVER, luv u tho baby)

* while he’s not overtly sexual, Azriel is a FLIRT! a shameless flirt! he doesn’t need to resort to poetry because when you exasperatedly tell him “stop trying to distract me, I’m busy!” he just arches a thick brow, looks you up and down and says “make me.”

* BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

* And your cheeks heat a bit because he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what you’d taste like and he’s starving for it and then he just laughs and you realize you’re a fly that got stuck in those honey-trap eyes again

* So you huff and roll your eyes, turning to leave the room but a hand on your wrist tugs your momentum backwards and suddenly there’s another hand cupping your cheek, thumb stroking along your jawline.

* A deep hum rumbles from the back of his throat, his gaze dragging from your mouth up to your eyes, “Do that again, I like watching your eyes roll back for me.”

* ladies/theydies i am PROFUSELY sweating !!!!!!!!!

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

I'm sorry if this was a hassle

This is for the BG3 match-up,

I want to say that my best attributes are that i'm a generically nice person. I'm quite kind and patient and quite understanding. Although I'm quite sensitive and quiet and can be stubborn at times. I can anxious when there is a crowd or I meet someone new. I think my hobbies would be reading (I love reading so much), dancing by myself but i wouldn't mind a partner. I love the rain and misty mornings, quiet times through-out the day. Not sure if this is strange or not but I enjoy listening to people talk, I usually don't care what they're talking about but I like listening to them.

I prefer males/masc people and I would rather have one person, or monogomous. Hopefully this'll be enough? Thank you for your time

A/N: This is totally enough! Not a hassle either, you got it submitted in time. Thank you for your submission! 

So for you, @hugthedragon (LOVE your username btw), because you said you’d prefer a masc monogamous partner, I’m thinking you’d be best matched with…  Wyll!

Wyll is a great guy for you! He’s kind and quiet and very honorable. He always tries to do the right thing, and to do right by the people he loves. He may be quick to judge in some scenarios, like in a battle or fight, but he is generally level-headed and very willing to see reason. Even though he had orders from Mizora to kill Karlach, he listened to the party’s opinions and ultimately sided with them. Even though he was punished with horns for it, he still has pride in doing what he believes to be the right thing. 

I think he’d get along great with you because you’re so nice and patient. Wyll also would do well with someone who’s understanding because it can be a bit tricky to explain how it is you’re a hero yet working under a demon. So he’s so appreciative that you give him the time of day, and don’t judge him for his unwanted servitude to Mizora. He’s also a touch stubborn himself, but he can be made to listen. So he doesn’t get mad when you refuse to budge on things. Instead, he listens carefully to your side and then tries to work out a compromise. 

Wyll makes a point to try and protect you when in crowds or large groups of people. He remembers from living with his Father in Baldur’s Gate how uncomfortable all that attention can be. He’ll try to keep a hand on your waist, or entwined with yours as he leads you, weaving through the crowds to get you to a more quiet space. He prefers smaller groups as well if he’s being honest. Although he may take you to a formal ball or soiree or too, since returning to the city, but he makes sure to check in with you through the night, asking if you’re overstimulated and the two of you need to leave soon. 

Wyll loves how you enjoy stories so much. He hasn’t had too much time as an adult to read any good books, so he asks you to read them for him and give him a summary. He loves listening to you excitedly talk about all the new worlds and characters you’ve discovered over the years.  And oh boy, does Wyll love dancing! As a matter of fact, one of the first things he does to try and flirt with you is ask you to dance with him. He loves it when the two of you are in sync, as well as when you’re just happily sort of bouncing around without rhythm or rhyme. He thinks it’s so romantic, and he is an old romantic at heart. 

Wyll would love nothing more than to spend quiet rainy days inside with you. The two of you curled up in each other’s embrace, each reading a book of your choosing. That sounds like a perfect day to him. Or perhaps, if you prefer, he’ll read aloud to you, since you love listening to him talk. His voice is so reassuring and smooth, it makes all the troubles of the future melt away. He’ll read or talk about his adventures as the Blade of Frointers, being sure to really amp up all the exciting bits just for your entertainment. 

He cares about you so much. And he’s touched that you care about him. He’s spent years taking care of everyone else’s needs, but never his own. He feels so blessed to have a partner to love, and to love him in return for all your days to come. 

…

I hope you enjoyed it!

If you did, please consider Liking and REBLOG!!! 

[holdinbacksecrets]

neighbors with seventeen

seungcheol: your balconies are side by side. at first, you simply acknowledged each other before sharing surface level conversation that evolved into pouring him a glass of your favorite wine over the railing— missed droplets met the pavement like rain. last night, he laughed after spending hours talking, wondering why you’re still meeting this way. he’d prefer having you closer

jeonghan: not only are you coworkers, but you’re also neighbors, and the people you work with have enjoyed creating their own stories as to why you arrive at every faculty dinner and party together. he’s aware. he’s heard their whispers in the office kitchen, but you have absolutely no idea. you’re too distracted by the feelings growing for him and the embarrassment you felt at the last meeting when you were caught staring by your supervisor

joshua: he signed you up for a couples pottery class, and your heart beats like crazy whenever he knocks on your front door to pick you up. you never asked why he chose pottery, but he had a plan and made you a set of tea cups and a matching tea kettle. you settled for a couple of popcorn bowls and a dish to set keys or jewelry in. he uses the popcorn bowl you gave him on a regular basis and sends pictures of the various foods it’s perfect for

jun: he’s so beautiful, and you find yourself looking through your peephole to avoid running into him because he makes you nervous. a man hasn’t made you this nervous since your third year at university, but this is so much worse. this feels so domestic. he writes his grocery list in the elevator. he hums in the hallway. he takes pictures at the park you frequent when the weather is perfect. he helped you with the massive flower pot you were struggling to get inside your apartment. he invited you over for dinner when a snowstorm kept you housebound through the weekend. he leaves your packages outside your door with funny notes taped to their cardboard… if you see him one more time you’ll fall in love

soonyoung: he got sick at your birthday party and had to leave early. he felt absolutely terrible about it and spent weeks organizing a plan to make it up to you. the very first day you met, you had a busan keychain. he asked about it. you hadn’t been for years, but you think about the trip every day— miss the ocean and its scent in the breeze. finally, when his plan was finished, he asks if you’ll be home that evening. he hands you an envelope. inside is a keychain of a plane. a second envelope contains another keychain of ocean waves. the final envelope holds a plane ticket with a note from the ocean “my breeze misses you, and i can’t wait to see you again. i’m so excited, i’ll stick to your skin”

wonwoo: he reads in the courtyard with an americano. one morning, you came down with an extra slice of banana bread. he asked you to join him after shared gratitude. you wrote down the title of his book and read it cover to cover that night. the next time you see him, you have pumpkin bread and wide eyes, excited to share your thoughts on the novel. you leave with a list of recommendations and his number

jihoon: his music is too loud, and you can’t fall asleep. you’re close to knocking on his door before realizing it’s actually him. he’s singing. he’s playing the guitar, and you forget about your long day and the craved sleep. you listen to him until the sun rises and the melody ends

seokmin: you wonder if he shows his exhaustion to anyone else but you, along with the tears and dissatisfaction. he’s so hard on himself, but you’re so damn proud. you feel lucky to know his sincerity and witness his laughter when the moon is high. he rests his head on your shoulder when the movie ends. he tilts his head from across the table while you sip tea and share dreams you’ve suppressed and described as tiny, intangible streams of thought. he told you otherwise, that they’re like shooting stars craving your nurturing and deserving of your efforts. you support one another. you love each other. there’s an intimacy existing here that has never been known by you before him

mingyu: when your parents come to visit, your mother catches a glimpse of him across the hallway. he looks at you first and smiles before greeting them respectfully. your mother immediately says “once you break up with that boyfriend of yours, go for a handsome man like him with kindness in his eyes. do you know my daughter? she’s quite stubborn and far too romantic— a dangerous combination. keep an eye on her for me, hmm?” you quickly usher your parents into your apartment, cheeks hot and blossomed. he bites his lip to keep from laughing because this all could’ve been avoided if you had told your parents that boyfriend of yours hasn’t been yours for months, and you’re entirely smitten with the kind, handsome neighbor

minghao: the walls are so thin, and he’s heard you cry yourself to sleep four nights in a row. on the fifth night, he knocks. you stop immediately, covering your mouth with your hands and apologizing. he tells you he was about to start a movie (he wasn’t) and would love some company (only yours)

seungkwan: he’s slept over and made breakfast in the morning. he vacuumed and did your laundry when you broke your foot. he helped in any way he could. he sent your parents updates via text. he kissed the tears on your cheeks when you were overwhelmed and everything hurt, when you felt a silly kind of worthlessness. but it wasn’t silly, and he told you so

hansol: you’ve watched his cat when he goes away for weeks because of work. the majority of your texting conversations are about his cat until an accidental text is received showing him with friends at the ghibli museum. you respond with ghibli reaction memes, and he brings you back a paper bag of goodies. you tell him you might fall in love with him, and he blushes even though you were mostly joking

chan: he’s been your neighbor for three years, and he’s become your favorite person. it’s starting to freak you out— how you’ve finally grasped a richer understanding of the desire for marriage, for a life partner. he’s the only person you can imagine beside you— intertwined with your journey and holding your hand, but you’re terrified to tell him so

[blueicequeen19]

went on a spree of a nine hour drive of reading just your blogs. what about dark!rafe x dark!jj x bestfriend kook!fem reader. where she’s best friends with rafe, jj hates her with a passion after she rejected him two years ago. she’s a virgin and one night where she’s home after the hurricane rafe is over to keep her company & jj was hired to clean up the mess. when he catches sight of rafe and reader laughing and being lovey towards one another he snaps. he waits until she’s alone and takes her (just teasing. he hasn’t actually taken her virginity yet). rafe comes & watches, calling her all kind of degrading names. both take her, you can decide who takes her actual virginity and who takes her anal virginity. (CNC , fingering, oral (m & f receiving) , cockwarming (in her throat), spanking, and degrading.)

You flatter me ❤️ thank you! I hope I do your dream justice 😏

Lead You On

Trigger Warning: NON-CON, CNC, MMF, swords crossing - read with caution!

It’s been a few days since the latest hurricane and clean up crews are still all over the property. Needing some fresh air and sunshine, I grab my sketch pad and pencils before heading outside to sit next to pool. This area has already been cleaned up and the pool is back to its beautiful clear blue color.

Movement further in the yard draws my attention to someone wearing a neon yellow shirt, indicating he is part of the storm clean up crew. I can’t help the way my body immediately heats in the cool spring air as I check out his body from behind. The muscles in his back bulged with each movement as he dragged tree limbs to a large pile to be hauled off.

It’s not until he turns around and I tear my eyes away from his massive biceps that I realize who I’ve been gawking at. His blonde locks are concealed by his ball cap and I almost feel sick realizing what I’d done.

It’s JJ. JJ Maybank.

The ruthless, impulsive, greedy Pogue who is known for having sticky fingers when it comes to valuables. I make a mental note to not let him inside the house. He eyes me with the same level of disgust I feel for him now that I can see his face. A face that is still handsome but no less belonging to a Pogue. I turn away, crossing my legs and letting my mind tell me what to draw.

I get lost in my sketch after turning on pandora, settling on some 90s pop to try and tune everything else out. I jump when my phone is suddenly snatched up off the table and JJ stands there fuming.

“If I’m going to be here all day cleaning up your fucking yard, I’m not going to do it listening to your shitty taste in music.” He silences my phone before tossing it into the yard.

“What the fuck is your problem?” I jump to my feet but he shakes his head with a snarl, turning away from me as I hear the back door shut. I turn to see Rafe walk over like he owns the place, casting a shitty look JJ’s way as he sits down at the table.

“What was that about?” Rafe asks, turning my sketch pad to examine my work. I march over to the yard and snatch up my phone, looking eyes with JJ as I sit back down next to Rafe.

“I don’t know what his problem is.” I grumble, yanking my sketch book away from Rafe and shutting it. I hated when people looked at my work.

“I think he’s got a thing for you.” Rafe shrugs, scrolling through his phone. My mind flashes back two years ago when I went to my first party and JJ was there. He was sweet and funny whereas I was awkward and shy. He’d been my first kiss and when he’d slipped his hand down my shorts, I’d panicked. I pushed him away and he’d been a dick ever since.

“He’s a Pogue.” I murmured in disgust. Rafe chuckled, meeting my eyes in agreement.

“Pogues know how to fuck. I’ve been around a few Pogue girls before.” Rafe shrugs and I bust out laughing at how vulgar he is.

“Jesus Rafe.” I mumble, glancing over to see JJ glaring at us like we were the ones who didn’t belong.

“Come on, Y/N. Live a little. Do you want to die a virgin?” Rafe smirks, wiggling his brows at me.

“No but I want to lose it to someone who’s not JJ Maybank.” I counter but Rafe only laughs with a shake of his head. Like he had more to say but he kept his mouth shut.

A few hours go by and Rafe leaves, leaving me alone with the angry Pogue. Part of me wanted to demand to know what his problem was. We didn’t even hardly know each other but he was shitty towards me every chance he got. I felt like he was one of those people that wore a mask. He had everyone fooled into thinking he was this great, charming guy when really, he was just as fucked up as everyone else.

The yard was starting to come back together and I could see the sweat dripping down JJ’s face. Part of me wanted to offer him a bottle of water. The other part hoped he’d die of a heat stroke. The nicer part of me wins and I go inside to the fridge. I shut the fridge and bite back a scream, finding JJ standing there angry as ever. He grabs me by the throat, slamming me into the counter and slapping the bottle out of my hands.

“You stupid little cunt.” JJ grabs the front of my dress and rips it down the middle. I push him but he spins me around, bending me over the island. I look up to see Rafe walk in. I thought he’d left?

He takes in my tattered clothes but doesn’t say anything. Just leans against the fridge like I’m not being assaulted.

“Her parents are gone for the day.” Rafe says to JJ, dread creeping in. Rafe played me. I throw my elbow back, connecting with something of JJ’s. He howls in pain and I know I’ve drawn blood but Rafe jumps in, grabbing my arms and holding me in place stretched over the counter.

“Fucking bitch.” I hear JJ groan as I kick and thrash. Rafe quickly removes his belt, JJ helping him secure my hands behind my back. Then JJ removes the rest of my clothes as I fight to calm my racing heart.

“What the fuck is going on?” I spat, tensing when I feel JJ’s fingers slide between my legs. I can’t help but moan when he finds my clit, forcing my legs open wider as he trades his fingers for his tongue.

“I owe JJ money so I agreed to help him teach you a lesson.” Rafe says casually, forcing two of his fingers in my mouth before I can argue. What the fuck did that mean? Teach me a lesson?

“Someone has to knock you off your high horse.” Rafe smirks, forcing his fingers down my throat until I gag then withdrawing just a enough so I don’t vomit. His thumb presses down under my tongue when I have the idea to bite his fingers off and it immobilizes me. Like a damn dog.

“She tastes like heaven.” I hear JJ groan between my thighs, one of his fingers slipping inside me. I whine around Rafe’s hold, my body growing hotter than I’d ever felt before.

“Not stuck up bitch?” Rafe chuckles, earning a glare from me. JJ laughs too, his fingers pumping inside me harder until I feel like I’m going to explode. I can’t stop the choked moans that leave my mouth, the tears running down my face and all the while I’m thinking.. more.. please.. I need more.

I flinch when JJ’s bare body comes down on mine, his mouth finding every inch of my skin and he turns my face from Rafe, capturing my lips in a hard kiss. He bites my lips hard enough to draw blood and I cry out, spotting what’s leftover of his bloody nose.

“Aren’t you going to beg?” JJ asks, reaching between us and I suddenly feel his dick pressing against my opening.

“For what?” I growl, spitting my blood in his face but he only smiles, not even blinking.

“For me to stop.” JJ presses inside me and I bite back a scream as I feel like I’m split in two. The pain is excruciating as he breaks my virgin walls.

He doesn’t waste anytime slamming inside me as Rafe jerks my chin up, pressing his dick to my lips.

“You bite me and it goes in your ass.” Rafe warns before shoving in past my teeth. I gag as he forces his way down my throat, holding me there as JJ takes what he wants. I can’t help it. I feel myself reach my high over and over again. I can’t stop cumming. I can’t control how wet I am. And I can’t get over the feeling of being absolutely used like I’m not but a set of holes. My body loves it. While the rest of me hates myself.

Droll is dripping down my chin and the corners of my mouth as Rafe forces me to warm his cock, the counter top digging into my hips with every hard thrust from JJ as he fucked me like a man possessed. Like he’d die if he didn’t.

Just when I think I can’t take anymore, JJ stills with a loud moan making me involuntarily clench around him because it was the hottest thing I’d ever heard in my life. Both boys pull out at the same time and I sob for the terrible ache of being.. empty.

“Let me go.” I whisper, unable to pull myself off the counter.

“I have an idea.” Rafe says, rubbing my cheeks like he’s trying to take the soreness out. I can’t see JJ but I assume he agrees because they both maneuver me on top of the counter, securing my legs against my chest using smooth rope. Where did that even come from?

I was bent in half like a pretzel, giving them access to everything they wanted. I’m turned on my side and brought to the edge of the counter. I look up to see JJ and he wipes my hair off my face, plucking my sore lip with his thumb as he smiles down at me like a hungry animal. I feel his cock press against me again then he’s slipping inside. I moan loudly, the angle felt weird but it was still amazing. A soreness I’d never experienced before plagued my whole body.

“Don’t tense up.” JJ says and I look up at him in confusion. I suddenly feel something probing my.. other hole and I quickly try to move away as Rafe slaps my ass with a laugh. I hear Rafe spit, lubing me up.

“Come on, it’ll feel good. Eventually.” Rafe presses inside me, knocking the wind from my lungs as they both fill me completely. God, it burns. I thought I was being split open before but now.. even my stomach hurt.

“I-It.. JJ.. please.” I can’t form a single sentence as they start to move, one in and one out, setting a quick rhythm that wrecks me so hard I swear my soul leaves my body. They take turns slapping my ass as they use me like a sex toy, pounding into me without remorse, overwhelming me with pleasure until tears stream down my face.

“Fuck, she feels so good. I’m gonna cum.” Rafe chants, their motions quickening as they chased their highs. My body had turned to mush. I could no longer tell where I ended and they began as I fought to keep my eyes open. Rafe groans as he cums, slipping from my ass a moment later and JJ quickly follows.

“Such a nasty little slut. Letting us fuck all your holes. I’d think you were lying about being a virgin if I hadn’t seen you bleed.” JJ sneers, pulling free of me as Rafe unties me. I groan as the feeling quickly returns to my limbs. I think they’re done but Rafe rolls me onto my back, burying his face in my pussy, lapping up the cum that drips from me.

“No, no, Rafe. Please.” I cry, trying to fist his hair but he quickly secured my wrists in one of his hands. I lift my head off the counter when I see JJ move behind Rafe, thrusting his dick into Rafe’s ass with no warning. Rafe moans loudly into my flesh and I choke on a sob. I’d never seen two guys fuck before - even if my only experience was porn but it was hot. Seeing an alpha male like Rafe let JJ use him in such an animalistic way.

“You like this? Like watching me fuck his ass?” JJ growls, pushing Rafe’s head harder into my pussy. “You tell anybody and I’ll make you regret it.” JJ snarls, his movements growing harder as Rafe grew louder. I dropped back down on the counter as another powerful orgasm hit me like a freight train.

“Jerk your cock. I know you can cum again.” I hear JJ say and Rafe answers with a moan. I try to scoot away but Rafe doesn’t let me. JJ moans loudly, releasing inside of Rafe and quickly pulling away. Rafe straightens, jerking his cock hard and fast until it shoots out all over my stomach. My eyes fall closed just as JJ fists Rafe’s hair and brings him in for a hard kiss as my world turns black.

My eyes slowly open as I try to find my bearings. My body felt like it’d been hit by a bus as I try to wake myself up. Where was I? This wasn’t my bed? Movement to my left has me glancing over, finding Rafe face down in the bed as JJ hovers over him, slamming into his ass over and over again.

“There she is.” JJ grunts and Rafe shoots his hand out, grabbing my breast harshly as he pants. I can’t help the wave of need that washes over me as I watch them. I watch them until they’re both cumming, my body feeling like a live wire as arousal pools between my thighs.

JJ slips off Rafe, allowing Rafe to scoot over to me and kiss me passionately, his lips much softer than JJ’s. My toes curl as his hand slips between my thighs.

“Careful. We might start to think you want this.” Rafe says against my sore lips, toying with my clit. I feel my legs being spread then a mouth closes around my clit, sucking harshly as Rafe swallows my sounds. I turn away from him as I try to catch my breath meanwhile JJ is fucking me with his tongue.

“Rafe.. I thought we were friends.” I murmur, my body ready to explode as JJ tastes me so expertly. Rafe smiles, running his hands up and down my body and pinching my nipples.

“We are friends. Best friends, actually. Why do you think I’m taking such good care of you?” Rafe jerks my head back to kiss me again as JJ slips two fingers inside my abused hole. “You wouldn’t want anyone else to claim your virginity, would you?” I can’t answer as JJ curls his fingers, forcing an orgasm from me so rapidly.

“It’s funny, really. JJ has been pining after you for years. Meanwhile all you did was lead him on, never giving him the time of day.” JJ suddenly flips me over onto my stomach, pressing his cock against my other hole without warning. It slips in and I cry out into the blanket as Rafe tries to soothe me with gentle touches.

“I never led him on.” I bite out, the sound of JJ’s pleasured grunts having me close again already.

“Yea? You didn’t kiss him, making him think you wanted him just to turn around and kick him to the curb? You didn’t use your friendship with me to try and make him jealous? You didn’t give him fuck-me eyes every time you saw him? I’ve seen the way you look at him.” Rafe taunts, forcing his hand between me and the bed to stroke my clit. I bite back a scream as I cum violently, JJ’s skin slapping against mine faster and harder.

I’m suddenly flipped over and JJ shoots white hot cum all over my stomach, his face scrunched in a snarl as he looks at me, jerking his cock hard, getting every last drop. Rafe runs his hand through JJ’s spunk, rubbing it into my skin like lotion all the way up to my neck.

“So that’s what your problem is? Your ego couldn’t handle rejection?” I spat at JJ, slapping him in the chest as he stays straddling my waist.

“I had that first taste of you after you pushed my hand away and I’ve been obsessed since. Even after you treated me like garbage.” JJ growls, leaning down so we’re almost nose to nose. I felt like I was being cornered by two hungry lions. There was no escape.

“And now that I’ve had you, I’m never letting you go.”

Tag list: @lovedetlost @hoebx @strokesofstokes @alizabethcs @carnisidi @famousdestinygarden @i-always-come-back-xoxo @pankowforlife @my-baexht-ls @onmykneesforrafe @slutforsmutsstuff @bethoconnor @hellosexxxysalvatore @mrsjakeseresin @belcalis9503 @maybanks-luver @i-always-come-back-xoxo @adventuresinobx @hopebaker @drewbooooo @itsmytimetoodream @houseofperfecttaste @harlowsgirl @wh0reforstefansalvatore @urmommas Let me know if I missed anyone! 💕

[appalamutte]

you chose 🔴! ship: zimbits, word: road

“You on the run or somethin’?” The guy’s no taller than Jack’s car and is eyeing Jack down with something resembling…intrigue, maybe. Skepticism, more likely. His wayfarers make it hard for Jack to read him, but he hasn’t kicked Jack in the groin and run off with his keys yet, so he’s no more of a threat than the signage saying the next gas station isn’t for another fifty miles. “No,” Jack says, carefully, crossing his arms in some lame attempt to come off threatening himself. He flexes them in the process once or twice, and from the way the guy's eyes linger before skirting away, it must work. “Just going for a drive, is all.” “A drive, huh.” The guy clasps his hands behind his back and leans against the pump, no longer looking at Jack, instead staring off across the prairies to where the looming mountains break the horizon. “Headed anywhere in particular?” Jack peers at him for a long moment, wondering why he’s here, why he’s in the middle of Montana talking to a gas station clerk when he should be in Montreal shaking hands with the Aces’ GM, before he tears his gaze away as well. “No,” he eventually says, again. “Billings was the plan, but now I’m just following the open road. I guess I’ll know it when I get there.” It’s nearing evening, the dying light washing the pavement in a warm orange. A lone truck sputters along the highway, coming and going, and in its echo the guy asks, “Aren’t we all?” It’s a subdued question, really, a far-off voice caught fluttering in diesel smoke and wind. Jack doesn’t give an answer.

Or – Jack doesn’t overdose. Instead, he packs a bag and grabs his keys and starts driving, thinking that if he could just get away for a bit, he’ll be able to come back and handle the pressure, the press, the somewhat damning reality of being Bob Zimmermann’s son. He doesn’t anticipate reaching Detroit, crossing the border, driving past the lakes and across the plains. He doesn’t anticipate shucking his phone into a trash can in Wisconsin after it rings for the three-hundredth time.

He just drives and drives, listening to whatever local radio station he can find and thinking about all the ways he officially, royally fucked up.

Somewhere in Montana, he stops for gas and meets Dicky (read: Eric Richard “Bitty–that ain’t a play on my size, y’know” Bittle). He’s a low-lying, gaudy gas station clerk with big eyes and the tendency to talk with his hands, who drawls his vowels out like he’s supposed to be much further south than where Jack finds him, who grates on every one of Jack’s nerves, who somehow just gets Jack on a fundamental level that no one has ever done before.

On a whim, the two end up driving together to Billings, in part because Dicky has been needing to go to the city and mostly because Jack’s just tired of driving alone. Dicky fills the car with nonsensical chatter, pries into why Jack is taking a cross-country trip outside of his country ("Hon, your accent ain't foolin' no one"), and maybe Jack slowly finds himself wanting to lean over the center console to kiss the toothy grins right off Dicky's face as he gushes over lemon meringue pie.

He doesn't, but he wants to, and that's enough for him to book separate rooms in the tacky motel they stop at that night.

They don’t know it yet, but they need each other, moreso than Jack needs the NHL and Dicky needs…whatever the hell it is he needs in the city (read: a plane ticket home that he can’t afford). It’d be a clichéd fic chronicling their story of acceptance and healing and “finding love on the open road” and whatnot, and if I had the willpower to write it in its entirety, I’d do so in a heartbeat.

[aurorablue22]

Scarface - Young!Remus Lupin x Reader

Summary: Somebody decides to mess with Moony. 

(A/N): This can be interpreted as a platonic or romantic relationship between Remus and the reader, it hasn’t been specified! Also, as far as I know, I have created the names and characters of Michael Bershire and his crowd. 

Warnings: violence, blood, mention of scars, heavy swearing. If you are sensitive to these things, please do not continue below the “keep reading” line. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a typical Sunday night for Remus Lupin. As per usual, he had picked up prefect duties for this evening, and wandered throughout the corridors of the castle. 

Midnight was fast approaching, and Remus paused for a moment. Due to him being a werewolf, his senses were amplified, meaning that one of his abilities was superb hearing. 

Lupin cocked his head towards the dungeon staircase, where he heard a bit of commotion. He didn’t even have a moment to approach the noise before the cause was revealed. 

Michael Bershire and his Slytherin gang. 

Remus forced himself not to roll his eyes. Of course, they just had to be out while he was on prefect rounds. 

It seemed that the five lads didn’t notice Remus until he cleared his throat. They quickly snapped their heads in his direction.

“Lupin, ol’ chap! What’re you doing out so late? Haven’t you got a book to read?” Michael Bershire held his head up high, an annoyingly perfect grin plastered on his face. His gelled auburn hair reflected so strongly the candlelight in the halls. 

Remus had to refrain from rolling his eyes as Bershire took a few steps forward. “Gentlemen, it’s approaching midnight. I’ll have to ask you to return to your dormitories.”

“Oh and that we will do! It’s just, we’re a bit preoccupied at the moment. Isn’t that right, lads?” Bershire looked back at his companions, who nodded fervently. 

Remus was taller than Bershire, but because of his horrible posture, they seemed to be on the same level. He bit back a grimace when Bershire’s painfully minty breath stung his eyes. 

“Now if you’ll excuse us, we have business to attend to.” Bershire dramatically turned, his house robes swishing behind him. 

“Well then,” Remus says, “I’m afraid I’ll have to report you to your head of house, and I don’t believe you’d want that to happen. So if you don’t mind-”

And just as dramatically, the Slytherin boy whipped around again. 

“What was that, Scarface?” 

Before Remus could even form words, Bershire was stalking towards him. 

“How dare you speak to me in such an authoritative tone? After all, you’re... well you’ve got mud in your veins!” 

“And blood on his face.” one of the boys behind him added. Remus recognized him to be Adam Percival, the greasiest boy he knew. 

“You’re right Perce, he does have blood on his face. What, was ol’ Minnie upset you didn’t grade her papers for her? Or was it-”

“Shut it, Bershire.” Remus tried his best to compose himself, but couldn’t seem to look away from his shuffling feet. The full moon was only a few days ago, and he’d been left with a couple scrapes around his jaw and cheeks. 

Michael Bershire was baffled. That is, until he came up with another one of his clever ideas. 

“Boys, I’d say we teach Lupin a little lesson. After all, he should know - given his crowd - that snitches are frowned upon.” The 5 Slytherins slowly stalked towards Remus. “And you know what they say-”

“Snitches get stitches.” 

It was then that Remus was swiftly grabbed by two of the boys, and his arms were held behind him as Bershire swung at his stomach. Once they’d decided he’d had enough, Remus’ arms were dropped and his knees buckled under their forceful kicks. 

They pushed him onto the ground where they continued to harm him; kicking and hitting with all their might. It seemed like ages before they let up. 

Slowly, they backed away, but not before Michael could kneel before Remus’ shaking form. 

“Remember what I said, Lupin.”

And with that, he stood up and hurried away, while Remus was left alone in the dark corridor. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sirius’ head perked up as Remus entered the common room portrait hole. 

“Moony you’re back! Merlin we thought you got lost-”

“Where ya been, mate?” James cut him off. “We had to play three extra rounds of exploding snap waitin’ for you!”

Peter sat up from his position in front of the fireplace. “Alright Moony? You seem kinda quiet-”

“Good Godric Remus, you look awful!” Sirius shouted when Lupin faced them. 

“Yeah, and I feel just as great.” he said, taking a seat on the worn out couch. 

James came to sit on the armrest beside him. “What happened Moons?”

After Remus came to explain the series of events, the rest of the Marauders were fuming. 

“Oh I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him!” Sirius shouted as he kicked over a coffee table.

“Sirius please, not now!” Remus groaned, covering his ears. “All I want right now, is to go to my room, and get a good night’s rest. Alright? I’ll deal with this bullshit in the morning.” 

“Here, we’ll help you up.” James offered his arm, to which Remus took politely. Just as they were lifting the lycanthrope off the couch, they heard giggles coming from the staircase leading to the girls dormitories. 

“Who’s there?” Peter whisper shouted, receiving a “You bloody idiot!” and a slap from Sirius. 

“It’s just us!” Marlene whisper shouted back, as she, followed by you and Lily, entered the common room. 

“What the hell are you doing up?”

“Nice to see you too, Black.” Marlene raised an eyebrow. 

“If you really wanted to know, we were hungry, and figured the house elves might have some snacks for us. What’s your excuse?” Lily said, crossing her arms over her pajama top. 

“Remus just got back from prefect duties, figured we would-”

“Sweet Merlin Remus, what happened to you?” you suddenly exclaimed, making Peter jump. 

You rushed over to him, taking hold of his face, forcing him to look at you. 

“It’s nothing (Y/N), really. My transformation was a little rough, that’s all-”

“Remus, your transformation was three days ago. What the bloody hell is all this?!”

“Bershire beat him up.” James confessed. 

Remus turned to face Potter, shooting imaginary daggers at him. 

“She was bound to find out anyway! Besides, look what he’s bloody done!”

“Michael Bershire did this to you? That bastard-” 

Remus gently removed your hands from his face. “Listen, I appreciate your concern, but I really don’t want to deal with this right now. Can somebody please just help me to my room?” 

The boys swooped in and half carried Remus to their dormitories, while you and your girls quietly said goodnight. 

“Can you fucking believe that?!”

“Marlene, hush.”

“That fucking twat. Oh, I can’t wait to see what the boys have in store for him. I bet-”

“Marlene, please! Remus said he didn’t want to deal with this right now, so we’re dropping the subject. I say we go back to our rooms and get some rest.”

“But I’m hungry!”

“Swallow your spit. Now c’mon.” Lily ushered Marlene back up the stairs, before turning back and taking your hand. 

“You alright, (Y/N/N)?” she gave you a knowing look. 

“I’m with Marlene. I can’t wait to see what’s in store for him.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lily was the earliest riser in your dorm. That being said, she took it upon herself to wake the rest of you up in the morning. You’d had a half decent sleep, and as you rubbed your eyes awake, you heard the playful banter of Marlene and Alice.

“Marls, get a move on!! You know what we said about those Hollywood showers!”

“It’s Americano, Ally!”

“I don’t give a damn what it is! Get out!”

You and Lily were ready before the rest of the girls, so you walked arm in arm down to the Great Hall. It wasn’t until the Marauders sat at your table you recalled everything that happened last night. 

“Alright (Y/N/N)? That vein in your forehead looks like its’ bout to burst.” Sirius said while grabbing a stack of pancakes. 

“Do you have an bloody clue what you’re going to do about this?! Remus, you can’t let Bershire off this easy.” you turned your head towards your favorite (and slightly bruised) lycanthrope. 

“I swear, I’m fine. And besides, the boys will work up something eventually.”

“Yea, eventually.” James exclaimed through forkfuls of food. “Moony made us promise to not even look at Bershire for a week!”

“A week?!”

James nodded enthusiastically, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk. 

“Since when do you defend bullies, Remus?!” you practically yelled, clenching the cutlery you were holding. 

“It’s not that (Y/N), it’s just-”

“It’s because he’s afraid of him.” Peter blurted out, making everyone’s heads turn. His hands shot over his mouth in realization. 

“Why is it the only time you open your mouth it’s to say something stupid?” Sirius said, hanging onto a glare. 

“You’re afraid of Michael Bershire?! Remus that’s not healthy! That’s- that’s horrible! Sweet Merlin Rem, I’ll show him what to be afraid of-” Remus cut you off.

“I’ve told you already, please don’t make me repeat myself again.” Remus placed his hand over yours. “The boys will handle this eventually. If you really love me, stay out of it.”

You settled down then, but still scanned the Hall for any signs of Remus’ attacker. The rest of breakfast carried on as usual, the rest of your friends joining you for the meal. 

Sirius walked you and Mary to class, giving you each a courteous bow. 

“Shall I pick you up after your lesson, my fair ladies?” he said in a deep bow, with a rigid posh accent. “The gentlemen and I were planning on.. err.. skipping our courses.” 

You giggled at Sirius’ poor attempt of finding a replacement word for “skip”.

“Yeah, why not. See ya then, Black!” Mary turned towards the door.

“I bid you farewell my lovelies!” he then proceeded to bound down the hallway to Astronomy, which was on the complete opposite side of the castle. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your class, Defense Against the Dark Arts, passed fairly quickly. And just as he had promised, Sirius came to pick you up, now with James and Marlene in tow. 

Marlene beamed at the sight of you and Mary. 

“Thank Godric you’re here! I was getting tired of these two.”

James gave her a light shove. “We’ll be meeting Moony and Wormtail towards the east end.”

“Couldn’t convince Lily to come along?”

James looked like he was about to protest, but sighed in defeat. You and your friends continued down the corridor, eventually meeting Remus and Peter after their rigorous Astronomy note-taking. You soon found yourself squished between James and Remus, marching down the main hallway.

“Hey, I thought we were sticking to the east end?”

“Silly (Y/N), we were meeting in the east end.” Sirius explained, as if he were speaking to a child. “Now, we’re on our way to the west end.”

“Ah right, and it makes perfect sense to take the busiest corridor in the school.” Mary quipped, and Marlene giggled.

The walk was pleasant, and filled with greetings from fellow classmates. Every now and then, James and Sirius would snicker about something, or mutter jokes to the group. It was then, that you saw him.

Michael Bershire, proud and tall, lead his pack of nuisances opposite you down the bright hallway. Most students ducked out of the way to avoid him, and a few first years were visibly shaking at the sight of him.  

Your vision went red as you locked eyes on your target. It was time.

“James,” you slipped your bag off and passed it to your left, “mind holding this f’me?”

“Uh, yeah su- (Y/N)!!”

In the blink of an eye, you had left your friends’ sides and found yourself hurtling towards Bershire. Although you were smaller than him, the sheer impact of your collision with him knocked the two of you off your feet. You landed on top on him. 

He knocked his head off the stone floor, and for a moment you thought he’d lost consciousness. But the bewildered look in his eyes told you otherwise. It was now or never. 

“YOU BLOODY BASTARD!” you screamed, letting hell rain down on Michael Bershire. You swung left and right, pummeling his once perfectly sculpted face. You could feel the bruises forming on your knuckles already. “HOW DARE YOU TOUCH REMUS LUPIN?! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU BLITHERING FUCK!”

Somehow, Bershire had managed to wrap his legs around your waist, pulling you towards him and flipping your bodies so that you were beneath him. He pinned your wrists beside your head, and you felt the concrete sting your hands. 

‘No, how dare you, you muddy little bitch?!”

And that’s what set you off. You produced a sound that could only be described as a battle cry, and flung your forehead up and into his. Distracted by the headbutt, Bershire’s tense core loosened the slightest bit. It was enough for you crunch up and bring your knees into his groin, causing him to cry out in pain. 

Using his own momentum against him, you successfully flipped around again, resuming your position above his quivering form. Your hands found themselves around his throat, and without realizing it, you were bashing his head in the ground. 

thunk, thunk, thunk.

It was only Professor McGonagall’s shrill cry of fear that brought you back to reality. 

“MISS (L/N), GET OFF OF THAT BOY!”

You felt strong hands wrap around your arms and shoulders, whipping around to see that it was the four Marauders pulling you away from Bershire. The Slytherin gang was dragging said boy’s writhing and groaning form onto a cot from the hospital wing. 

You only stopped your kicking and resistance when McGonagall approached you, pointing her finger in your face, looking more angry than you’d ever seen her. 

“My office. Now.” she spoke, in such a tone that visible shivers went down your spine. The boys had yet to let go of your arms, and half carried you down the hallway of gawking and goggling students. 

Once arriving to her office, McGonagall stood in the doorway. She looked expectant and impatient all wrapped into one. You were finally let go of, and slowly turned to the four boys behind you. 

James and Peter still looked a bit shocked, and you found little comfort in the proud look Sirius was trying to hide. But Remus’ face is what hurt you the most.

“Rem, I-” you croaked. He wouldn’t even look at you. “I’m so sorry, I don’t-”

McGonagall cleared her throat bitterly behind you, cutting you off. You whispered another, barely audible “I’m sorry”, before following the Professor into her office. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hello my lovelies!! Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. Let me know if I should follow up with this fic! 

Also, a reminder that requests are open!! <3

~Aurora

[phoenixyfriend]

ok. karin vs anakin's genome being 50% the Force. go

Jesus fuck, okay. Uh, fair warning, I know very little about this subject, so it’s 90% bullshit. I am in no way qualified to talk about biology past the high school level.

Anakin's sixteen. He's part of a set of Jedi assigned to a weird mission regarding making contact with an isolated planet of near-humans with superpowers but no space travel. He doesn’t really have a Job here and now, he’s just there as Obi-Wan’s plus-one. There's an underlying plot about Sidious trying to acquire people from Ninja Land, but none of the Jedi are fully aware of it. Mostly they're distracted by all the ninjas and their bitching.

They call it the Shinobi Planet, because nobody can agree on a name for the planet when they ask and the last major international alliance was named after the shinobi profession, right? Good enough, you can change it later when you idiots can agree on literally anything, oh my god. The Samurai are very offended and it's a whole thing.

Anakin wanders a lot. He runs into various strange people and is mostly polite because, listen, half his friends are distinctly not human. When your immediate circle includes nautolans and besalisks and twi’leks and whatever the fuck Yoda is, you’re not gonna blink at a Hoshigaki or... uh... okay that kid just turned into a giant fox, is anybody gonna--no? That’s normal? Just him? Cool, cool, cool.

There’s a kage summit involved in the negotiations going on. IDK what’s being negotiated, probably something to get the ninjas to set up a singular spaceport so there’s somewhere to land WITHOUT ships being regularly shot down by village defense systems powered by that massive flaming purple skeleton warrior or the girl who punched down a mountain or the.. the literal desert? There’s a guy that can control the desert? Is there any way of keeping him away from Anakin?

(Gaara’s tickled pink that the reason someone wants to stay away from him has nothing to do with fear or respect for authority, and everything to do with ‘he is also from the desert and fucking hates it, so he’s staying away from the sand powers,’ because it’s very novel and kind of funny.)

ANYWAY where was I. Uh. Right, kage summit, lots of villages, they invite smaller villages to pitch in, but nobody ever ever ever wants Orochimaru anywhere near this situation, for hopefully obvious reasons, so Otogakure sends Karin.

Really, who else was it gonna be? Suigetsu? You want Suigetsu representing you on an interstellar political field? You want Juugo before he’s stabilized? You want Sasuke, master of ruining kage summits? You want these idiots representing you at the big kids’ table?

They send Karin. She’s a bitch with a temper, but at least she’s not as big of a political risk as... literally anyone else from the snakepit.

Anyway, Anakin wanders around, meeting people, trying foods, showing off when asked for demonstrations. He doesn’t have an Entire Protocol Droid, but he did cobble together a little floating helper that can do translations for him. Assume all translations are accurate and being done by the little helper bot. Bot’s name is G1-0T. Anakin calls it Glot.

He runs into Karin at one point, who’s not super into the whole situation, but at least Anakin’s interesting. She’s not interested in him, because he’s sixteen and she’s like... mid-twenties. And his hair is stupid. But! All these force-sensitive people feel weird to her, because sensor stuff, and it’s not chakra but it’s... something. Anakin is, of course, the weirdest.

(There are non-sensitives in the envoy, so she knows it’s not just a space thing.)

She strikes up a conversation about it, because hey, she hasn’t made it this far to not lean into... you know, being the kind of person who barges ahead with Weird Questions that might lead into fun science stuff.

Anakin is like. Well. This woman’s very strange, but it’s not like there’s anything against talking about midichlorians to random people. It’s easy enough to look up in the core. Not everyone knows about them, but it’s not a secret or anything.

“Wow,” Karin says, though not in so many words, “that sounds incredibly strange, and actually a lot like it functions completely differently from chakra, though maybe it intersects with nature chakra somehow. Can I take a blood sample?”

Anakin doesn’t want to give a blood sample to a stranger. Karin isn’t stupid enough to try to steal one. She’s seen what this Force Stuff can do, and this kid’s got a lot of it. She hasn’t got enough information on hand about it to know if he’d notice.

“How about I let you look at the blood of a guy that can turn into water?” Karin asks, because she’s not going to let him look at her blood. “I’ve got it with me.”

“...why?” Anakin asks, reasonably disturbed.

“He owes me,” she says, and does not elaborate.

“What, there’s nothing weird about your blood to share?” Anakin demands, like the ornery little bastard he is.

“People took my blood against my will for over a decade,” Karin says, with the kind of smile that threatens a stabbing. This is not secret information. Her healing factor is in the bingo book. Plenty of people still want her dead. “Nobody gets my blood except me.”

Anakin has no idea what to do with that answer. Most people wouldn’t know what to do with that answer. It’s not exactly a standard answer.

“So there is something weird about your--e chu ta what the fuck are those scars?”

Karin looks at her arm. She looks back at him. She raises an eyebrow.

“What do you think they are?”

He stares a little longer, and then very carefully does not say anything as she pushes her sleeve back down.

“So can I look at your blood?” she asks again.

“Uh--”

“You can look at mine under a microscope,” she wheedles. “You can’t take any, though.”

Anakin... does eventually agree. Eventually.

-----------

There is a very angry redhead yelling at a machine, and Anakin does not know what to do.

“Is something wr--”

“What the fuck is your blood?” she demands. “It’s glowing in ultraviolet. It burned the dye up. I tried to sequence your genome--”

“Woah, I did not agree to that.”

“--and look at this. Look at this!”

“I don’t know how to read your graphs. None of this is a language I know.”

“It’s garbage,” she hisses at him. Glot takes a few moments to process it. “Look at this. This is supposed to--fuck, where’s the Jiraiya file, he’s standard--this is what it’s supposed to look like for most humans with chakra. And this is a civilian, and a few bloodline users--”

“Do you just carry these around with you?”

“Shut up, you don’t exist. You have--you have more in common with summons than people. I ran a blood test on one of your human diplomats, the ones that aren’t monks--”

“When did they agree to that?”

“They didn’t, I’m just sneaky.”

“I should tell Obi-W--”

“STAY THERE, I’M NOT DONE YELLING YET. Do you see this? Do you see this shit? This is the one and only time I’ve managed to perform any kind of analysis on a bijuu. They don’t usually have blood. Shukaku is sand. Matatabi is literally just fire. This was almost impossible to make happen, but I did it because I’m a dedicated biomedical resea--”

“Because you’re unhinged.”

“--rcher, and you know what? You know what I’ve found?”

“What?”

“Your blood looks like you’re half demon,” she says, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking, a little wild-eyed and clearly pissed at him. “Half of it’s human! Half of it looks like the non-physical chakra manifestations that were torn-apart remnants of a godlike demon. The fuckers can’t die. They also can’t breed. They don’t have reproductive organs! This isn’t just demon-tainted like a jinchuuriki, I’ve got that analyzed--”

“Why?”

“Because my cousin’s a moron, don’t change the subject. You--you shouldn’t exist. Your blood is stupid. Fuck, is this what I’d find if I analyzed the Sage of the Six Paths?”

“The what?”

She ignores him, frowning at papers. “Is--I need to call Haruno, she might still have some of Kaguya’s blood dried on her old gloves from the war, I know she kept those as a souvenir from the whole ‘punched a god’ thing.”

“I’m sorry, the what?”

“There was a thing a few years back, godlike alien demon princess who got sealed into a moon by her sons a thousand years ago, but her immortal sentient goo child brought her back with a giant tree that consumed all the tailed beasts-the flaming fox you saw earlier is one of them--and then used a giant eyeball to reflect off the moon to put everyone in a hallucination at the same time so she could eat our life-forces,” Karin dismisses. “It’s not important.”

“There is--what?”

Jedi see many things. Many of those things are very strange.

This is a little much even for Anakin.

“It’s over, if you want the actual details, talk to my idiot cousin,” she huffs. “But now I need to run comparisons between the actual nonsense that is your entire existence and the actual nonsense that is my cousin’s existence, and maybe Sasuke’s... fuck this is going to be a mess, I’m going to have to cross-reference all the clans with bloodlines we know are derived from Kaguya, she’s the only angle we have on gods like that, unless... maybe there’s still some black Zetsu goo somewhere... Orochimaru must have kept a sample...”

“Uh, can I--can I go? I’m not comfortable here.”

“I need to find Naruto so he can call the Sage of the Six Paths out of the afterlife so I can see if I can get blood from a ghost to compare to yours.”

[yourstruly-caycay]

Can you write Poseidon being in love and confessing his love to a small reader HC please 😣..

Of course! Thanks for requesting.

~~~~~

Poseidon, the God of Sea, falling in love with you, a short and weak deity? Impossible!

Well, you’re not actually weak, at least your strength isn’t in the level of strong gods. Instead, you’ve been praise to have an intelligent mind by lots of god and goddess. You’re skill in making strategy and smart in academic even though you’re physically weak.

Well the meeting is all start from Zeus who’s asking your help with some of his works, then during Zeus’s party, you meet Poseidon who just sitting throughout the parties. You see Zeus teasing Poseidon while Zeus’s eyes looking at you, Poseidon just ignore his brother’s teasing while it looks like a funny family to you. You finally ignore them and talk with the other gods. Not knowing that Poseidon slowly open his eyes to observe you, making sure that Zeus doesn’t know that he stare at you.

Day by day, you meet Poseidon several times when helping Hermes with Zeus’s work. 

You and Hermes are actually a good friend, so you get to hang out with Hermes some other times, however Hermes try to not be physically close to you cause he can feel Poseidon stare at them (specifically Hermes) with a cold dagger eyes as if telling Hermes to not flirt with her.

Poseidon himself want to believe that he’s just being delusional for falling in love with you, because he think that it’s ridiculous and unnecessary for a perfect god like him to need a partner. He doesn’t even know the reason why he would be fall for you.

When he once again meet you when you’re in your free time, you greet him politely — knowing how scary Poseidon is from what other gods describe him and you don’t want to anger him, Poseidon just stare at you for a moment and go away. He might still have his usual stoic face, but when he’s finally in his room, he close his eyes in annoyance because he can feel his heartbeat faster. The thought of how short you are compare to him is just make him want to hold you into his big arm, it’s seriously annoying to him.

Zeus think that it’s interesting to see his brother first time struggle to be beside you, well Poseidon might look like his usual self, but the little detail that Zeus pick it up from the way Poseidon eyes take a glance at you each few times, always let out a heavy yet fade breath as if it suffer him just from by your side, and ocean eyes seems soft every time you smile. No one notice this beside Zeus and Hermes too.

Actually, Poseidon prefer to keep this quiet, he hasn’t plan to confess you after it’s been a few months ever since he had fall for you. It make Zeus and few deities in anxious, because of Poseidon’s “I-do-not-fall-for-that-filth” situation with you. The worst part is that you’re dense as hell which is your weakness, the person have to be direct to you if they want to said something, or else you wouldn’t really understand it.

And of course, that means you don't even know that he's in love, you're like too blind to see the small detail in Poseidon. No matter how many time he softly look at you or usually approaching you, you wouldn't think any romantic thought, and think suspiciously of his behaviour instead.

Rather than disappointed of your dense, he's kind of glad you didn't notice any of this at first, but slowly, Poseidon will frown just how you're too dense.

He still have his stoic face when seeing you talk with another god, but his presence will always be unwelcoming that it make the god go away. 

Zeus will ask him when he’ll confess to you, but Poseidon only tell him to mind his own business. Zeus just chuckle as always, and instead making it worst by teasing him that you’ll be taken by someone soon enough. But Poseidon scoff and ignore his nonsense, no way that you’ll be taken, right?

Not really, usually there are some deities who once ever confess to you, but they’re being reject by you. 

Poseidon getting impatient by himself, should he confess to you or no? Is it necessary or no? This is nothing but a headache to him, but the thought of you with someone else is even more bothering him. Should he ask his brother for help? Oh hell no, Poseidon doesn’t want any help, he can just confess to you casually, right?... right?

He has enough with deities flirting with you, hell, he even always glare at the other deities for that — he’ll not lose his chance.

You’ve been send off to go into the Greek pantheon and collect some books in the library, as you’re picking up some books, you’re about to grab the last one on the high shelve which sadly your hand can’t reach the book. 

Suddenly a hand reach to the book that you wanted as you turn around to meet Poseidon behind you, it’s a surprising time and awkward since the two of you are a bit too close right now.

Poseidon somehow doesn't said anything as he just stare at the book you wanted, he doesn't move at all. You really want to get out from this awkward position and get the book from his hand already.

"Are you gonna read that, Lord Poseidon?" You try your best not to stutter, Poseidon's eyes finally gaze at yours.

To the deities, Poseidon may not be too tall nor short. But to you, you already consider him as one of the tall god, probably because your size is like an average human and the fact that you are only as tall as his chest.

Annoyed by the silent, you continue to speak up again. "If you don't want to read that book, may I have it?"

"Why would I pick this book if I didn't want to read it?"

Well, you can just observe the book without having to be too close to me, you thought. No answer come from you, Poseidon just scoff as he still trap you. To make it worst for you, his face is an inch closer to you.

"What did you do to me?" He ask, he knows that he fall for you, but what makes him fall for you? Everything about you just make him fall for you the more he look at you; your smile, beauty, skill, and more!

You're in confusion, you remember that your relationship with him is nothing more but professional. Yes, you meet him many times, but barely make any conversation with him even though he always approach you or by your side. "What did I even do to you?"

“Everything you do just make me crazy."

"What?" You observe Poseidon's face who's dead serious, you're unsure what it is, but your heartbeat is racing from how the two of you are too close.

"Listen carefully," he continue, "I think I'm in love with you, y/n."

The end~

[etoilesombre]

Fetch wants friendship so badly, and he is so willfully terrible at recognizing it. 

I’ve been thinking about three of Fetch’s relationships in the first book: Hendricks, Pete and Simms 

Fetch says of Eliah Hendricks, when first talking about their relationship, “[He] had been my friend too. No soul in the world had ever treated me so well, and I never treated anyone worse.” Hendricks is the archetypal Friend in Fetch’s mind. But the thing is, whatever we think about that relationship, it was not equal and reciprocal. That is not to say there wasn’t love an affection on both sides; obviously it is incredibly complicated and one of the central questions of the books is how you interpret what was going on there. But I think that if a word had been used for it that did not imply some level of equality, but instead acknowledged the different level of responsibility conferred by Hendricks’s enormously greater power wealth and life experience, probably everyone would have been better served. 

Then we have Pete. Fetch says Pete “Isn’t a friend exactly” and he was “never sure if Pete secretly hated me and just put up with me for my boss’s sake.” Pete’s only redeeming quality is that he was connected to Hendricks. Things he says to Fetch immediately upon meeting him again: “You always did like a freak show didn’t you, delivery boy?” “I believe there might be more dog in you than me,” and “Why don’t you buy an old friend a drink?” Fetch knows. He knows and names what he is doing with the guilt and the connection. AND YET. At the end, when he sends Pete away it has become “I kept my eyes on his face full of hatred, and picked up the kid’s knife from the gutter. I pointed the blade at my friend.” Pete sure as fuck hasn’t done anything good in their first and last encounters to get upgraded to “friend.” I’m afraid what it is is that in his mind, “friend” is someone he betrays and disappoints. I am betraying and disappointing this person, ergo friend. 

Now Simms. Fetch tells us Detective Simms hates him. And I believe him that she has kicked him around, that she is rough on him and skeptical of humans. But nothing we see her do in the book reads to me as hatred. Its very typical PI and Cop Frenemies. We see that right away. Fine, still not a real *friend* perhaps though I’d take her over Pete any day. But then. Then then we see them work together to save people in a flood, no questions, and help each other after. We get this passage: 

We passed jibes and dry jokes and the occasional veiled compliment over the climbing pile of empty pint glasses, but mostly we sat in silence. For soldiers, it’s a familiar ritual. You have to be there for each other in those terrible times, after the adrenaline drains away and hard questions slide in to fill the space. Nobody should be alone when those questions come calling. Did I do the right thing? Did I give enough of myself? Would somebody else still be alive if I’d done things differently? When you’re stuck asking yourself those kinds of things, company is key.

Fetch, buddy, listen to yourself. And then she makes sure the police medic stiches his head up as well as seeing to her. They are in similar professions. They value he same things. They work together and come on, clearly have some fondness. Like. More than fucking Pete. But he refuses to conceptualize it as friendship. 

Bonus: Richie Kites. He would be a friend if Fetch just put any effort in. Which probably says more about what is actually going on here than anything else. 

[itwoodbeprefect]

Inge! sorry I'm a little late to the party, but do you still take prompts? if yes, I'd like to request a friendship piece for either Rodney&Teyla or Rodney&Ronon (w/ or w/out a dash of McShep is good for me) pretty please? thanks! <3

Not that late at all, and what a lovely warm prompt! Thank you. :D

I went with Rodney & Ronon, but also kind of Rodney & Teyla and maybe Ronon & Teyla, and also John is around, and it’s almost teamfic? Also, Jeannie.

---

The door to John’s quarters slides open exactly like his own would, which he expects, but he stops cold after two hasty steps into the room anyway. He turns back to the door to check, and in the process has to look past the Johnny Cash poster above the bed and the surfboard leaning against the wall and the giant brick of a Tolstoy book on the nightstand, so yeah, he decides in the end, without stepping out to doublecheck - these are John’s quarters. There’s not a single thing out of place, except, well, the obvious.

“McKay,” Ronon grumbles. It sounds like a greeting. Like Ronon, sitting fully clothed on the edge of John’s made bed, is saying hi.

“What are you doing here?” Rodney asks, by way of saying hi back.

“Meeting Sheppard.” Ronon grins, in a way that looks a little dangerous. That’s a good sign with Ronon, who has no problem looking a lot dangerous, if he wants. “Unless you want to spar with me.”

Rodney does not. Rodney thinks that’s a little too predictable for him to say out loud; quite honestly, he thinks John is crazy for endangering his life that way voluntarily every week.

Rodney looks back at the door again, which has slid closed, and in front of which the person he’s been looking for has not suddenly materialized in the last ten seconds. “Where is John?”

“Not here.”

Rodney’s nerves make him skip the snappy comeback. “Any idea where he might be?”

“Why?” Ronon asks.

Which is more than enough to make Rodney spill his guts. He was barely holding it in, anyway. “I think Jeannie’s mad at me, and I’m not sure why.” He frowns and starts to pace back and forth and rub his hands together. He’s a multitasker. “I don’t think I did or said anything rude lately, but her emails are shorter than usual, and she didn’t even sign the last one. It’s really not like me to overthink these kinds of things, because I don’t care what people think of me anyway-” That’s a lie, he’s come to realize in recent years, but it’s a comforting one to repeat out loud, sometimes. “But, you know, I think I was the bad guy for not contacting Jeannie all those years and we’ve only just started being brother and sister again, so I’ve been trying to put in the effort, and now I think she’s mad at me.” He stops marching and gives the too long, didn’t read version. “So I need someone to tell me what I did wrong, so I can fix it.”

Ronon levels a look at him. “And you need John for this.”

The look says more than the words, and it has a point, of course. John’s not known for his exceptional social grace and skill. Rodney wags his head a little, considering how to justify his choice. John is his best friend, but he’d feel a little pathetic saying that to Ronon, who he’s pretty sure is also John’s best friend. “He had some surprisingly clever insights about my relationship with Jeannie last time she was here,” is what Rodney lands on, reluctantly. He spots John’s golf stuff in the corner, and wistfully thinks back to being able to just ramble at John without Ronon sitting there, judging him.

Ronon leans back, planting his hands behind him on the mattress. “I could help,” he offers, out of the blue.

Some deep, deep blue. Blue enough to make Rodney stare, hands stilling mid-wring. “You?” Rodney’s not trying to be offensively puzzled, but he thinks he’s allowed a little surprise. If John is dubious in his social grace, Ronon is a tripping hazard. “You could help?”

Ronon stares back like a challenge. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Rodney says. He waits and looks at Ronon expectantly, but nothing happens. Ronon just looks back at him mutely. “Please?”

“What would Teyla do?”

“Huh?” She’s not here, either - if Ronon’s help is just sending him to chase someone else around the city, that’s not very helpful at all.

“Ask yourself,” Ronon says. “What would Teyla do? And then do that thing.”

Rodney is right back to baffled. He’s not sure he ever left - he’s talking to Ronon Dex about feelings. “Is that how you handle a problem?”

“No.” Ronon leaves a pause there. Rodney finds himself unexpectedly distracted by the question if Ronon talks so little because he really just doesn’t have much to say, or because finding words takes effort. “I glare at it until it goes away.”

Rodney huffs a laugh out of pure surprise, because that almost sounds like a joke. It may not have been, but either way Ronon doesn’t glare at him, which Rodney takes as a sign that he hasn’t just become a problem.

“And if that doesn’t work-” Ronon continues, which Rodney feels is surprisingly talkative of him, until he lets that sentence hang unfinished.

But Rodney can do that, now. Finish Ronon’s sentence. “What would Teyla do?”

Ronon nods. He looks a little smug, like there’s a dead Wraith around here somewhere. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” Rodney says, both because he would have guessed that Ronon’s backup plan would involve a lot more knives (though it could, potentially, still involve knives sometimes - Teyla’s very good with those) and because that’s actually good advice. If there’s one person who would know how to get someone to tell them what’s wrong, it’s Teyla.

And if Teyla thought somebody she loved might be mad at her, but she wasn’t sure why, she would... ask. She wouldn’t go into a tailspin and try to guess at the answer while assuming it had to be her fault, she would ask why and listen and then talk it out.

“Oh my God,” Rodney says, feeling like a whole new world just opened up to him. “Words.”

Ronon pulls a face. It looks a little like a sympathy wince.

Rodney flings a hand out at him. “Thank you!”

“Thank Teyla,” Ronon says, which Rodney thinks is a little weirdly modest for the galaxy’s greatest Runner who just counseled him through a family emergency, but they can work on Ronon’s ability to accept gratitude later, over lunch or something.

For now, Rodney sweeps out of the room, because he needs his computer so he can type so he can get Jeannie to tell him what’s bothering her so he can be a good brother, and apologize only once he knows what he’s apologizing for. God, Teyla’s smart.

As luck would have it, John is just stepping out of the transporter when Rodney storms towards it. “Hey,” he says, slowing to a stop when Rodney doesn’t. “What are you doing here?”

“Asking you for help.” Rodney brushes right past him with a pat to his arm; no time.

“You’re going the wrong way,” John calls after him.

“I’m fine! Ronon helped me by making Teyla help me help myself with Jeannie.”

“What?”

The last thing Rodney sees before he steps into the transporter is John’s bewildered face. It’s clear John is left with some questions, but Rodney doesn’t need to hang around for that. Ronon can take over; that’s what Teyla would do.

Or, Rodney thinks, what a friend would do.

(Turns out, in the end, that Jeannie was never even mad at him to begin with - her next email is much longer, and details all the mundane little circumstances that piled up and left her very stressed last month but that she didn’t think Rodney had wanted to hear about (it involves a flu and lice and a car that wouldn’t start and visiting in-laws and school play preparations and a lost teddy bear and half a dozen other little things Rodney is glad he doesn’t have to deal with in Pegasus), and then she calls him very attentive for picking up on her mood and sweet for thinking to ask if everything is okay.

The next day Rodney bribes one of the botanists to cut a bouquet for him and gives it to Teyla, and he hoards one of the last pieces of pie at dinner until Ronon shows up. “What’s happening?” John asks, suspicious. Maybe Ronon’s explanation wasn’t all that comprehensive after all.

“Emotional intelligence,” Ronon says around a full mouth, spewing little pieces of pie across the table, and Rodney nods solemnly.

That’s not what Teyla would do, because she’s smiling at them both, but close enough.)

[mha-platonic-yanderes]

Settling In: Family Dinner

Inspired by @i-cant-sing

If there was any word to describe the past week, you would choose quiet.  A schedule was set for your time spent here and rarely it would deviate. Rei would wake you up to watch the sunrise with you and  you’d get ready for the day with her. The outfit she chooses always sits on the bed waiting for you while she does your hair. Mornings are spent in either the sun room or the library, with Rei always watching. Though, she leaves to cook. She always left you to cook. If nobody else was home, that means you’d be left alone. Fuyumi would come by for dinner some nights and take your afternoons. Enji wasn’t home during the day, but joined you all for dinner every night before you could retire to your new room. Even if the schedule is slightly smothering, it’s easy to keep up with.

There were no chores or responsibilities for you to do, unlike your old homes. It was relaxing—too relaxing. There was no stress, so you created some. Tonight, instead of Rei, Enji, and maybe Fuyumi, the other two Todoroki children were coming over. You don't know what to expect, so you stress over it.

Fuyumi warned you that they weren’t as accepting as she was, that they weren’t as involved with the family as she was. You don’t want to make a terrible first impression. You don’t want your new siblings to hate you.

Fuyumi comes home earlier than her siblings, coming immediately home from work. Meetings, she says, that’s why she couldn’t have come sooner. You remember that she’s a school teacher. It’s easy to imagine what those meetings are about. Though, she doesn’t give you time to daydream about her, as she’s asking you questions.

“So Y/N, you’ve been here a week? Have you been enjoying your time here?” Fuyumi does your hair, extremely careful not to hurt you. She’s taken this responsibility from Rei for today. Rei’s been busy at the store and in the kitchen all day, leaving you with Fuyumi. You don’t mind that; she’s nice.

“It’s quiet.” You don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing, but it’s the truth.

Fuyumi takes it well, “That’s good. Mom picked out some good books for you, did she?”

The library in the Todoroki estate may be massive, but most of those books Rei says are too mature for you. She’s regulated you to books below your reading level. They’re for children younger than you. But she doesn’t like to watch television and the laptop they’ve provided has only been gathering dust.

“If I’m honest, they’re a little boring.”

Fuyumi chuckles, “She’s a little out of touch from reality at times. I’ll grab you some books you’ll probably like better. I used to do a lot of reading when I was your age.”

“What’d you read?”

“Romance, mostly.” Fuyumi admits, “occasionally fantasy. I wasn’t trying to read anything too dark and neither should you.”

Too dark. Too mature. You wonder where that threshold is for them. You suspect it’s a lot higher than most people’s standards. You don’t dwell on this thought too much longer. Finding faults in your caretaker’s lifestyle isn’t the best way to stay in their good graces. 

“How was school this past year?” She rests both hands on your shoulders. She’s done with your hair, but she isn't letting you go. You could probably move her to get out, but there’s no need. Fuyumi is nice and interested in what you have to say. Why would you leave her?

“Alright.” You reply. Even if it isn’t the truth, you wouldn’t speak it, “Don’t know where I’m heading now, though. We’re too far from my old school.”

“Father mentioned Somei and Mom talked about homeschooling.” Fuyumi replies, “We’ll have to see which one concedes first.”

You can’t imagine Rei fighting Enji on anything, especially something as trivial as where to take you to school. Though, you’d prefer if she concedes. Homeschooling seems like a nightmare.

“Oh, alright.” You respond. There’s nothing else to say on the matter and you hope Fuyumi lets up soon because you don’t know what to talk about anymore. Almost like a savior, a knock is placed on your door. It isn’t as strong as Enji’s—Fuyumi and Rei don’t knock at all—so, you assume it’s one of the brothers.

Fuyumi calls out to the person on the other side for you, “Hold on!” She finally lets up to open the door. You fiddle with the edge of your dress. The tulle is a bit itchy, but the smooth, holographic hearts covering the entire dress provide a nice change of texture. 

You look up to see a tall, white haired guy. He’s broad, built like Enji as opposed to Rei. Though, the rest of his features seem to come from her. He stands in the doorway looking at you, then back at Fuyumi—who’s back to holding you on your shoulders again, causing you to continue to sit still in the vanity’s stool.

He takes another look at you and your fingers fiddle with the dress more. He’s unnerving and hasn’t said a thing he walked in. You start to speak, but he looks up at Fuyumi and asks, “What kind of quirk bullshit has justified this?”

That’s not what you expected. 

You think to object, no quirk stuff has happened here—at least, that you know of. Though, Fuyumi immediately comes to your defense, “Natsuo! You can’t just ask something like that! Have some respect.” 

“Do you really expect there isn’t an ulterior motive behind this.” Natsuo replies, “You know how he is with quirks.”

“He’s gotten better!”

“Prove it.”

“Uhhh, Natsuo, sir.” You break up the siblings' argument, “No quirk stuff has happened, really.”

He grabs a hold of your arm, looking at it thoroughly before heading to the next one. You don’t know what he’s looking for. Bruises? Burns? Scars? You have none of them from your time here. 

You wouldn’t have anything quirk related anyways—you’re quirkless.

“Is this the lie he’s told you to say?” Natsuo asks, “You aren’t going to be able to lie. I see through his bullshit.”

“Natsuo!”

You want this conversation to end. Natsuo’s and Fuyumi’s hands are both icy cold and you don’t like the attention. Plus their argument is painful to listen too, especially considering it’s about you.

“Natsuo, sir…” You say, “there’s no quirk… anything. Really! I don’t have a... quirk.”

He lets go of your arm and it drops to your side. He stands up again. Fuyumi lets your shoulders go, moving to your side.

“Hey, chin up kiddo!” Fuyumi replies, smiling her everbright smile, “there’s nothing wrong with that!”

You didn’t even realize you were staring at the ground, but your feet soon come into view through watery eyes. Fuyumi’s fingers wipe away the tear that slips through.

“Hey, sorry kid.” Natsuo’s hands are in the pocket of his jeans and his shoulders are raised, “I have the habit of assuming the worst.”

“It’s fine.” You reply, laughing through the soft tears, “I should be over it by now, anyways.”

“Let’s head out of here.” Fuyumi takes your hand, leading you out of your room, “Father should be bringing Sho home soon. He’ll just love you, he won't be able not to."

Despite the ominous nature of Fuyumi’s statement, you let yourself willingly be led to the living room. Besides, where else would you go, anyways?

___

Gratefully, the three of you leave your room. The room was getting tense between the sibling pair. You don’t want to be the reason they fight, do you? They always look so close in the photos on the wall—even if nobody looks happy in those photos.

Natsuo leads the way. He walks with his shoulders back and his head held high. He has confidence, something you’ve started to lack now that you’re around all these powerful quirk users. You feel the cool air radiating from in between him and Fuyumi. She walks right behind you. If you stopped, she’d crash right into her. 

But you don’t stop. You walk down the hallway and head towards the living room. There, two figures step in through the door. The first is the boy with half red hair, half white hair. The photos on the wall show him to be significantly younger and without the bright red scar covering one eye. He wears U.A.’s school uniform. One of the old children in your last home went there as well. The other person is Enji. He’s in his hero uniform still—flames and all.

Before anyone can say anything, Natsuo speaks up, “Father’s not using her. I already asked. She’s quirkless.”

He doesn’t say it in a negative way, but him bringing it up at all stings. You’re inadequate compared to them. They all scream of powerful quirks, but you don’t even have a quirk to begin with.

And now, you’re getting the suspicion that quirks are what this family truly cares about. Which leaves you in a terrible position—quirkless, surrounded by powerhouses.

“Alright.” Shoto deadpans, then slips his shoes and coat off. A cool wind blows in from outside, but it’s no different than standing between the cold Todoroki children.

Enji asks his sons, “Do you really think so low of me?”

“Yes.” Natsuo and Shoto reply instantly.

Luckily, Rei comes to your rescue, guiding you to a seat at the kitchen table. Whilst they talked, she set everyone’s plates wordlessly. She cooked this meal for everyone and you feel a slight pang of guilt, knowing that six mouths is a lot to cook for. You had smaller homes than that, which sometimes saw it too tiring to cook for their size. And Rei cooked a lot—much more than she’s cooked for the other meals you’ve had here. 

Your plate is filled. You can’t imagine that you’ll eat all of this, but you’ll eat as much as you can. You wouldn’t want to make Rei sad, now would you?

“Thank you Rei, for dinner.” You reply, before taking a bite. As you sigh in pleasure, Rei’s other children echo their thanks. The food is so good that you block out all sound in order to focus upon it.

“Y/N, are you there?” Fuyumi jokes from her seat beside you.

“Oh! Uh, yeah.” You exclaim, then ask, “Did you need something?”

“Father just asked how your day was.” Fuyumi replies.

You tell him, “It was good.” He sits at the head of the table, just like last time. You don’t sit next to him, Fuyumi does. You sit directly one seat to the left than the seat you’ve been sitting in. You don’t mind, especially because to the other side of you is the one brother you’ve barely heard speak: Shoto. 

He looks at you—he’s watching you. You can see him do it out of the corner of your eye. It’s unnerving to say the least. But you put your head down and continue eating, making sure to pay attention. Luckily, they don’t ask you too many questions. Most of the attention is on Shoto and Natsuo. They’ve returned home—the family all together, Rei calls it. You don’t ask about the other boy in the photos. He’s obviously not a part of the family anymore.

“May I be excused?” You ask as soon as you're finished eating, not keen to just sit there and listen to their conversations.

Enji doesn’t hold you back this time, giving you a silent nod. You take your plate to the kitchen and then head to your room, making sure not to bother them anymore. You don’t want to be seen as a bother anymore than you already are, do you?

[ohmygoodnessgraciouss]

Reality Check - Chapter 2

Oh my Odin!  I can not thank you all enough for the love you gave Reality Check’s first chapter.  Each and every comment has brought a smile to my face.  Thank you so much.  Seriously.  And I can’t wait for you all to see where this goes.  We’re only going up from here on out, so buckle up. 

Summary: Y/N and Wanda were very close after returning in 2023.  The two bonded over the loss of their partners.  It wasn’t enough to keep Wanda grounded after she found Vision’s body though, and Wanda wants the best for her friend.  Unfortunately for Y/N, this means she’s going to be thrown into a reality she wasn’t expecting.

Taglist (Let me know if you want to be a part of it!): @dpaccione

Missed the first part?  Read it here! 

Running through the eternal palace halls to hide from the God of Mischief seemed like an impossible task.  You had to find a hiding spot soon.  Unfortunately, the halls were open wide.  The golden pillars were large, and wider than three men, so maybe you had a chance behind them.  You could give it a try since you had nothing to lose.  

With the book gripped tightly in your hands you ran behind the pillar, leaning your back against it.  It wouldn’t be much longer until you could hear his footsteps approaching.  As long as you run around the pillar at the right time you should be able to escape him.  

His footsteps came rushing towards you and then stopped suddenly.  You held in a breath, fearful that he could hear even the slightest noise right now.  If there’s one thing you could remember at the palace halls, it’s that a pin dropping could echo through them.  You tried it once.  

You started to look to the left, taking a glance around the pillar.  You didn’t even hear him approaching you from behind.  His hands quickly stole the book from your hands as you jumped, turning around faster than lightning to look at him.  He was smirking at you.  “If you’re going to steal my book, at least don’t get caught walking out the door.” 

“Well maybe I wanted to get caught.  If I hadn’t, perhaps you would never come out of that library.”  You huffed, causing him to laugh.  

“Oh come now, I’ve only been in there for a few days.  It hasn’t been that long at all.” 

“Only a few days?  Loki, you’ve been in there for a week.  There are three hundred thousand books in that library and I guarantee if anyone has read every single one, it’s you.  What are you doing in there?” 

“Reading, isn’t it obvious?” You rolled your eyes at the response.  

“Why are you shutting everyone out and simply reading all day every day?” 

He hesitated before answering you.  You knew him well enough by now, after several decades together being each other’s confidant.  “It’s nothing.” 

“If it were nothing you wouldn’t seem so determined to return to that library as soon as possible.  Is it about the coronation?”

“In a way, yes.” He couldn’t lie about the situation to you.  If anyone deserved to know the truth it would have been you.  “Don’t worry about it, love.  There’s nothing that can be done about it now anyway.”  He said it almost as if he was trying to convince himself that it had no effect either.  

“Do you promise there’s nothing on your mind?” 

“I promise.” 

______

“Are you sure you’re alright, Loki?  I’m worried you’re going to make your fingers bleed at this rate,” You said, watching him practice a song on the guitar for the hundredth time in a row.  

“I’m 100% sure that I will be fine once I’m able to perfect this song.” You raised an eyebrow at his statement as he tried to restart the song again, this time ending up with a broken string.  The canned laughter you heard in the back of your head was (for once) hidden by your own stifled laughter.  Loki glared playfully at you. 

“This is just a talent show, you know.  You don’t have to be incredible.  The fact that you’re willing to do this at all is admirable.” You smiled.  

“If I’m going to do it I may as well be the best one in it, darling.” 

“It’s just a talent show for the children!” You exclaimed, laughing at his ability to make anything a competition.  

“And the children deserve only the best.” 

“Yes, well I doubt the children will care if you mess up a single note.  Your wife, however, will care if you manage to hurt yourself by the end of this.” You walked up to him, slowly taking the guitar out of his hands.  “How about this?  I’ll go down to the store to pick up some new guitar strings for you while you focus on… Anything else.” 

He pretended to contemplate it momentarily while you grew impatient.  “Well considering I can’t exactly play with a missing string I suppose this will have to do.” 

“Alright, Hank Williams, go work on the car or something.  I’ll be back before you know it.” You kissed his cheek and walked out of the house.  You spun around quickly to see Loki smiling softly at you as you closed the door.  Despite the fluttery feeling you had in your chest by his reaction, a sense of dread was quickly replacing it.  

You began to walk across your lawn, taking a glance at the neighborhood.  It seemed slightly different than yesterday.  Newer cars?  New designs for your homes?  You couldn’t tell exactly, but it was just enough for you to wonder.  Maybe you weren’t the most observant person in the world, but you assumed you would be able to take note of someone getting an upgrade on their house.  

As you started making your way down the street and to the store, you spotted Agnes across the street with Wanda.  It looked like the two were politely chit chatting about something before you saw Dottie walking closer to them.  You internally groaned at the idea of having to talk to Dottie.  She always seemed pompous and uptight to you.  You’ve never had to deal with her face-to-face thankfully, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t hear about her from neighbors who knew her.  

You decided to walk past them, waving to both Wanda and Agnes.  Agnes smiled brightly towards you and it almost froze you in place.  Agnes out of everyone here frightened you the most.  She was too nice, too neighborly.  It seemed like all she ever did was try to butt in to everyone’s lives.  There was something off about the look in her eyes.  She looked at Wanda with an almost kind of sadness when she said something.  Wanda seemed to be amused by whatever she had said, so why did Agnes seem so disheartened? 

Perhaps it wasn’t your place to ask.  You had to get to the store.  Talking to Wanda and Agnes could wait.  

--

You walked into the store and were greeted by no one.  At least the world was working in your favor for that one, you didn’t have to dodge people left and right just to grab a few things.  

As you walked down the seemingly endless aisles of the store you could find a couple people every once in a while.  They seemed to be stuck though.  They would just stare at a single item as if it was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.  It sent chills down your spine as you passed by them, not a single word being spoken.  You don’t even know who these people were.  None of them looked like they wanted to be there. 

Fortunately, there was no one in the music section of the store.  The section had countless musical instruments including guitars, flutes, and drums.  Each one was uniquely designed, with price tags on every single one of them.  When you tried to read them, you couldn’t figure out what they were saying.  The numbers were blurred and blended in with one another.  

Maybe they were removing the tags because there was a sale going on?  You looked around for any indication of that and found nothing.  Maybe water got on to the tags and the ink leaked, but there was no damage or any sign of a leak anywhere around the store.  

That’s when you noticed the bright red guitar pick on a shelf.  It was an electric red, far brighter than anything else in the room.  You walked towards it, confused by the color.  When you picked it up, it slowly lost its color.  The red that seemed to radiate off the pick faded until it was a dull grey.  

“Excuse me, miss-” 

You jumped at the sound of someone’s voice.  You turned towards the man, noticing that he was the one you bumped into only yesterday.  Once again his green eyes were what caught your attention.  He was dressed in a suit, his hair slicked back.  “Oh!  I’m so sorry, you startled me.” You laughed breathlessly.  

He smiled politely.  “No, I apologize.  I didn’t mean to frighten you.  I was just wondering if I could ask you a question or two.” 

“Of course you can!  Although I believe a proper introduction may be needed beforehand, especially after I ran into you.  I’m Y/N,” You held your hand out and smiled. 

“I’m-” He stopped himself for a moment before shaking your hand, “I’m Scott.” 

“A pleasure to meet you Scott!” You smiled.  “It’s nice to know more people around here.  Are you new here?” 

“Well, it seems like it.  I don’t really know if you could call me new to the town though.  I just know that I feel out of place here.  They all seem to cast me out before I can even have a chance to introduce myself,” He chuckled.  

“Yeah, I understand that feeling.  Right now it seems like something’s changing around here.  I can hardly keep up with it!” 

“It’s nice to know I’m not alone then,” He smiled.  

“Agreed.”  A brief moment of silence was shared before you remembered he wanted to ask something.  “So, you said you had a couple questions?” 

“Oh yes, but I would prefer if we talked about it outside.  The walls have ears around here, you know.” He said it with such a serious tone that you were almost afraid to question him.  His eyes held a level of somber that you hadn’t seen in anyone in years.  Whatever he wanted to discuss, it had to be something that you wouldn’t forget.  

“Who’s going to want to listen to our conversations?” You laughed, attempting to lighten the mood a little. 

“You may not want to know.” 

[yuraimi-lee-bunny]

Gray’s Character Analysis Part II. Empathy vs Ambition

Hello! Sorry if it took me a while to show the next part of my Gray’s analysis, but this part was a bit difficult for me especially in what order I should give it. You'll see what I mean as soon as you read. This part is going to be a little longer than the previous one and will explain some issues not only about Gray, but also about Carmen and VILE in general.

Thank you very much for the support of the previous analysis and I hope you like this too! Here we go!

As we already know, Gray is an orphan. And yes, it’s important to understand certain behaviors and ways of thinking about him. First, I want to explain a small detail of Black Sheep/Carmen so that Gray's decisions are understood in greater depth once he’s in VILE and his ease of trying to go far (and even the position of almost all VILE agents would also be understood usually)

Why does Carmen think and feel different compared to all VILE and especially Gray?

Simple: Empathy.

Now, it doesn't mean that Carmen is the only one who has empathy and others don't. Rather, Carmen's level of empathy is greater, deeper and broader. What caused it? Living in VILE was the first.

Yes, surprisingly it was that, VILE created her own "enemy" since they decided to give her a home on the former Island of VILE when she was a pretty baby. From the first episode, Carmen relates how stealing was a game for her and VILE Faculty was like her family in some way, especially Coach Brunt because her relationship was "mother/daughter." The other members of the faculty treated her well, they taught her the culture of thier countries and around the world, they gave her food and clothing, a large home, basic education and also living with many VILE students. But Black Sheep only knew the "basics" about VILE, because she lived with the belief that they only taught to steal all over the world, just a "the game of cat and mouse" but it didn't harm anyone, or so she believed.

Another very important factor helped Black Sheep's empathy to expand: Player. That's right, our little favorite hacker was very influential on her. First, because he was the first person she met, empathized and talked about her life outside of VILE. Black Sheep always wanted to know the world outside the island, and Player was his first contact outside the world, and a white hat hacker, his abilities used for good. Black Sheep never saw that as something bad or like a "enemy". On the contrary, he was her friend and appreciated him very much.

Last important factor: The archaeologist's words:

Black Sheep, the one who didn’t know anything about her roots, about her family, thought about how she wouldn’t like someone or an entire country and it’s people to live the same as her: not to know a part of her life. These factors caused that Black Sheep's empathy was different from that of VILE and her agents.

The other agents, although we don’t know their lives completely, the fact that we know that they’re orphans is enough to give us a glimpse that their lives haven’t been easy. The reasons why one can be orphaned are many, which can lead to sad experiences, hard, full of pain, others not of course, but being an orphan is to carry a great mark on your life. And in the end one must survive and get what he needs by his own hands if you are alone. But maybe have a brother, have a life partner, in these cases a brother/sister, can change everything, because you no longer feel alone in life, and you can create a bond of empathy, like Zach and Ivy. Or maybe not, like Shadowsan and his brother.

Sorry if it seems that I'm moving away from Gray, but I need you to understand how the VILE agents don't have a great connection and their empathy is lower because they don't know (or perhaps they do and not having good consequences) about their roots. To experience rejection more than once and for years. Of not having had a "family" or person to help them connect with the world and thereby seek and understand other people. Perhaps most of them had to survive alone. Or they got together with people of bad influences as seen with Shadowsan. They didn't have or lived the points that I mentioned about Carmen, or maybe they did, and even so they wanted to steal for mere enjoyment and get money easily. Everything is possible.

The fact that the faculty recruits students over 16 (it seems that it's from the age of 20 or is an approximate) is a great plan because it's 20 years of a habit of only trusting you, seeing for you and stealing for you, there comes a point where you live it with more enjoyment/play than just "surviving". A "vocational school" will provide you with a home, food, appreciate you for your stealing skills, without being without any communication, living for a year on an island, with people who have in common being an orphan and stealing, feeding your enjoyment of theft , that the faculty helps you find and develop skills to achieve a successful robbery, continuing to see it as a game and now see it in a professional way, which will make you survive forever, generates the idea that “it's okay to do it ”And you do it together like a family.

Graham and Black Sheep understood each other very easily and enjoyed spending time together most of the time. Antonio, Jean Paul and Sheena also considered them his friends, but not as close as Black Sheep. They communicated just by looking at each other, they understood each other easily, and they covered their backs. How to forget when as long as they didn't expel Black Sheep, Graham lied to the Faculty. He reassured her as long as he trusted that he would pass the exam and graduate from her. He felt very bad to realized that they wouldn’t graduate together. Gray somehow began to develop an empathy for Black Sheep. In the book he mentions to Black Sheep in detention: 

“I know they say there is no loyalty between thieves, but we’re in this together right? I have always taken care of you”

Which shows that he appreciated her a lot, but being on the island and under their ideals, made him think that everything was to be in a “family”, everything was loyalty, he didn't realize it could be more than loyalty, but appreciation, the beginning of great empathy. He really knew her very well, her goals, her desire to be the best thief and always improve herself. He knew Black Sheep, but not the factors that would make her Carmen Sandiego.

The next thing I will say is more of a theory/assumption, not a fact: As I mentioned in the previous analysis, Gray is someone who wants to be successful, he's always going to prove it to himself and will give everything to achieve it. Being an orphan, perhaps he has affected him in some way, that at some point in his life he decided to just see for himself and show that he can be successful and that nothing would stop him. He's ambitious. But when he met Black Sheep, his empathy grew more, however, a “struggle” began within him between his ambition and his love for Black Sheep, a person outside his life, but who has lived with her so much that your appreciation is big. A fight, of which, throughout the whole series, Gray will never be aware, but with acts it is always demonstrated.

There is a sentence from him in the second episode that I always found very curious:

This is cute and talks about how much he appreciates Black Sheep to mention her well-being first.

"Criminal Career" Do you realize how much Crackle has thought about it? He doesn't see being in VILE as a game or something. He sees it as a "Career". Something tells me that if it were up to him, he would have set his sights on a position at the faculty. That he would be willing to do anything to achieve it.

At least as far as I'm concerned, Crackle wasn't going to kill the archaeologist because he's evil, or because he doesn't have absolute empathy, it's because he always tests himself to achieve his goals, for him, to start with his criminal career, was to abide by ALL the rules of VILE. He somehow affirms it:

Did he want to be successful? Did he want to have a great criminal career? He had to do EVERYTHING.

BUT!

His empathy reminder was there

and was still there

This, this expression says it all (This expression was the one that convinced me that Crackle wasn’t bad at all and from then on no one moved me from that belief). Deep down, Crackle wasn't so convinced of going that far either. Something in him, the empathy in him spoke and made him feel that such acts were too much for him. Carmen's words reached him. Deep down, he felt she was right. But what could he do? Although he listened to all of Carmen's story, even his ambition and all that year in VILE resonated more with him. Because he hasn’t lived experiences of strong empathy as Carmen already lived.

His goals are very big, he commits himself to them at any cost. But there is also still a place for her in his heart. Unfortunately, we don’t know in detail (or rather nothing) of how he reacted when Black Sheep managed to escape from VILE. But when he and Carmen Sandiego meet on the train, he asks so many questions because he doesn't understand what led her to do all this. As I said before: he didn’t know the factors that I mentioned at the beginning, and there was no time for them to talk about it. He no longer recognizes her, he only has his memories of Black Sheep and of course he misses her, but he doesn't understand that she is no longer Black Sheep, she is Carmen Sandiego:

He told her that because he believed that she was still thinking like Black Sheep, but no more.

I always liked this scene because it shows how Carmen is in the light and Gray is in the dark.

I can only say that he didn’t want to do it, he only did on VILE's orders, because of his ambition that he was almost going too far. But deep down he didn't want to, if only there was a proof… oh, yes there is, but this is not the time to move on to it ;D

In the end and as we know, Carmen defeats Crackle and she uses him to distract Devineaux. This is caught by the police, VILE saves him, and he "regrets" not having caught Carmen (he’s relieved that he had not killed her rather. Crackle NEVER wanted to.)

BUT

VILE can accept failures, but not be trapped by the Law.

So Crackle, since you've lived so many years for your goals and ambitions, let's see what happens to live as little as 18 months with just pure empathy.

It would be all with this part! Geez, I feel that I wrote a lot but it was necessary to tell all this! Believe me that doing this is making me better connect my ideas and understand better to Gray. I hope it’s also helping you, you like it and it makes you reflect. I want to know what they think and if they have any other points of view. I love talking about analysis with more people. The next part for sure will be shorter, but still very important, it’s the safest that if they have it in two days. Greetings!

Part. I Introdution

Part. II Empathy vs Ambition (HERE)

Part. III Amnesia and it’s Future Consequences

Part. III.5 Graham Calloway: The Walking Enigma

Part. IV Integrity At a high (and unfair) price

Part. V The final decision and a new beginning

Plus 1. Gray and his strange habit of explaining things

Plus 2. Crossover: Sabrina And Gray: New Beginning

Plus 3. Crossover: Hawk/Eli and Crackle/Gray: Redemption

[angryinternetduck]

When All Feels Lost Chapter One: All Business A scheme, some terrible plays, an outburst in an elevator. Rom coms, late night talks, dreadful kale and carrot juice. Harry Styles is one arrogant son of a bitch. [producer!harry x actress!reader; enemies to lovers] Warnings: explicit language and alcohol consumption about 11,000 words series masterlist | general masterlist | ask

~*~ The interior of the staircase doesn’t match the exterior of the apartment building at all.

On the outside, the building is run down. The paint of the windowsills is chipped, dead flowers lay wilted in graying flower boxes. It’s not quite derelict enough to catch the eyes of passerby, though; in fact, it’s so unnoticeable that you almost walk right past it.

When you walk in, the door creaks loudly. A small bell tries and fails to mask the sound, ringing out a pleasant chime just barely noticeable over the whine of the door. The man behind the desk looks bored, but a slight bit of interest crosses his face when you ask for the producer you’re looking for: Harry Styles.

The man at the desk points you up the stairs, tells you where to go.

Apparently, Mr. Harry Styles has a level all to himself. The staircase up to his apartment is lined with awards, certificates, and framed newspaper clippings. Where there are shelves, more awards in the form of small trophies cover every surface.

Despite yourself, you’re a little in awe. You knew how famous he was, how good he was at his job, but you never really saw all his glory laid out before you like this. It’s really quite impressive.

When you arrive at the door, you take a second to pause before knocking. You take a breath, read the gold plaque on the door: Harry E. Styles. Executive Producer. You let the breath out, and then knock.

“Come in.”

You walk inside. It’s a big office. There’s a leather sofa on one wall, a desk in the back covered in papers. A coffee table sits in front of the couch, covered in even more papers. Stacked on top of and spilling out of filing cabinets are thin yellow books, bold black print on their covers.

And Harry Styles himself is sitting on the couch. He’s terribly handsome, you notice first, all tan skin and tattoos peeking out of sleeves and green eyes when he looks up at you. He smiles, and you see dimples.

He’s also a mess. His crisp white shirt is undone one too many buttons, his bow tie unknotted around his neck. The coat of his black suit is over the back of the large chair behind the desk.

It hits you, then, that this man isn’t a big time producer. He was a big time producer. You close your eyes for a split second, thinking back to the dates on the newspapers, all from years ago, back to the less-than luxurious building he’s residing in.

He produced countless hits on countless stages, but none in the last few years. Which is odd, seeing how he looks young - he can’t be more than twenty five, twenty six, but it somehow seems like eons ago when you last saw his name in the papers.

Well, it seems like eons since you’ve seen his name glorified in the papers and online. He’s been featured quite a few times with horrific reviews, critics ripping his pieces to shreds and complaining about the once-master reduced to nothing.

Really, that’s the only reason you’re here, the only reason you think you have a shot with him: he’s probably just as desperate as you are. He hasn’t produced a hit in ages. You haven’t starred in a hit in ages.

You’ve been to every other place imaginable, starting at the top and spiraling down, but you haven’t been able to find a job anywhere. You’re the picture of a starving artist. You’re an actress - a damn good one, too - but haven’t seen the stage in months.

“Are you lost?” Harry Styles asks after a moment, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You blink. “No.”

“Alright, then,” he sighs, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. A sliver of muscled stomach peeks out at you as his shirt lifts, and you frown, your gaze darting back to meet his eyes, which are staring at you almost challengingly.

“I need a job,” you say.

“There’s a McDonald’s down the street,” he replies flatly. “It’s hiring.”

“I’m an actress.”

He quirks an eyebrow and then turns around, walking over to his desk. “Then the reason you don’t have a job is because you’re stupid.” You frown more, following him further into the room. He collapses into the chair, which squeaks and bounces under him.

“I’m not stupid,” you tell him, a sliver of irritation flashing through you. “You were the best producer Broadway’s ever seen. I need a job.” He laughs wryly, shaking his head. “‘Were’ being the key word there.”

“You must have something.”

“Yeah, I have something,” he says. “I have a lot of somethings. But a play isn’t one of those somethings.” He stands up again, heaves a sigh. “Neither is patience. So I’m asking you to leave, please, and find some other poor bloke to torture.”

“I’m not torturing you,” you say, stepping forwards rather than back. “I’m asking you for a spot in one of your plays.” His face hardens, and he juts out a finger at you. “Listen to me,” he says lowly. “I’m not producing a play. I’m too fucking broke for that, and it’s not like there are people lined up outside to support me.”

You scoff. “So what the hell are you doing in here?”

He blinks, his hand lowering as his expression melts and his face softens. “Withering away,” he mutters under his breath. “Just leave,” he sighs. “There’s nothing for you here. You look like a good actress… or whatever. You’ll find something else.”

“No,” you snap. “No, I won’t. This is my only option. I’ll do anything.”

He sits down at his desk. “Moose Murders,” he says.

He’s joking. You know he is. Moose Murders is widely considered the worst play ever created. But you sit down across from him anyway, because this is a test, and goddammit you’re going to pass this test and get a job if it’s the last thing you do. “Sold,” you say. “Moose Murders. I’ll do it.”

For a moment, he studies you. You’re a bit intimidated, but you hold his gaze.

Finally, he leans forward. He folds his hands in front of him, on the desk on top of loose pieces of paper. “Would you like to know my secret?” he asks, and you pause. You wonder if it’s another test, but if it is, you have no idea what the right answer is.

A hesitant, “Okay,” is what you decide on.

He clears his throat. “I’m going to try and perform a heist.”

“You what?”

He smiles, almost sweetly, and says, “I’m planning a scheme to cheat rich investors out of thousands of dollars.” Your jaw drops, just slightly, and you have absolutely no idea what to say to that. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” Harry Styles mutters. He stands up, shoves his hands into his pockets, and starts pacing. You turn around and watch as he walks. “I peaked early,” he begins. A faraway look is in his eyes, and you’re a bit scared of what you just got yourself into.

“I was nineteen when I produced my first hit.” He pauses at the record player tucked in a corner, inspecting it. “I’m a genius, I’ll have you know. I’m the perfect producer. I churned them out, one hit after another. I was the best there ever was. And then…” He sighs heavily. “It took one mediocre play to topple me.” He looks at you, and you see anger in his eyes. “It wasn’t even that bad. It was okay. It just wasn’t a hit. And I had… I had no idea how to handle it.”

He turns back around, starts walking around the room, gaze drifting over the documents and posters lining the walls. “I was a flop after that, as you know. Still am. My reputation went down the drain, my investors lost their interest… And now every show’s a flop.” He laughs wryly, looking at you again, shaking his head. “You know that, too. They’re all flops. Failures. But I… I figured something out after my last fuck up.”

Your eyes trail him back to his desk, and he meets your gaze as he sits down.

“You can make more money with a flop,” he says, “than with a hit.”

At that, you frown. “No, you can’t.”

“You can,” Harry insists. “You sell shares before a play, right?” It’s rhetorical, but you nod anyway. “Right,” he says. “You get money, in exchange for a payment once your play is a hit. But if your play isn’t a hit, if it’s only on stage for one night, you can avoid payouts and then just…” He shrugs. “You can just run away with all the money.”

You blink at him.

“We can run away with all the money,” he amends. “If you… want to work with me.”

“You’re kidding,” you say flatly.

“No,” he insists. “I’m not kidding - I swear. It will work. Nobody will check the books of a play thought to have lost money! If I - we - wait for a while overseas until it’s all forgotten about, we can come back, go our separate ways, rich as can be, and…” He tosses his hands up. “And live happily ever after.”

For a second, all you can do is stare at him.

He shifts forward, focusing his gaze on you. “Listen,” he says. “I need somebody like you to convince my investors that something’s different. They’ll never believe something’s changed unless I can show them that I’m serious this time, and you’re the way to do that. An experienced actor, a beautiful actress to star in my next hit - it’s perfect.”

You bite your lip, stay quiet.

“And you…” He scoffs, throws his hands up at you. “You need this. What else are you going to do? Where else can you go? Nowhere. There’s nothing. Theater’s a dying business, darling. You said it yourself: this is your only option.”

You swallow thickly, feeling yourself start to consider his offer. It really might work, you realize, and that kind of scares you, because you really shouldn’t do this. “Well - well it’s not right to steal like that.”

“Oh, please,” Harry mutters. “First of all, we’re stealing from rich old bastards who have nothing else to do with their money but invest in plays. Secondly, we’re barely stealing anything! We’re not taking thousands from one single person, it’s - oh, it’s just a little bit from each person. Each person who has millions, probably.”

You cross your arms. “We could go to jail.”

He rolls his eyes at that and replies, “We absolutely will not. We won’t get caught. Who the hell will check the books?” He leans forward. “Nobody. Besides,” he goes on, spinning his chair around, “compared to my bleak bloody existence at the moment, I don’t think I’d mind jail all that much.” He sighs, staring out the window at the gray building front it looks out on. “At least I’d’ve gone out with a bang.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

He turns back around. “Well?” he asks. “Any more arguments?”

“I need money now,” you say. “My rent’s about to let up. It’s the end of the month, and I… I can’t cover it. I need a job, or - or something now.” Harry looks at you. “Move in with me,” he suggests.

You scoff a laugh, shaking your head. “Absolutely not!”

“Why not?”

“Because - because I can’t!”

“Fine,” Harry says, waving a hand in the air. “Consider it. Whatever. Just get back to me by… oh, by the end of the month.” He levels your gaze. “Before rent’s due.” Then he slides a card over to you and taps it twice. “There you are. Use it well.”

He opens a yellow booklet and spins around in his chair.

You can’t do this. It’s insane. It’s absolutely ridiculous. You could go to jail. And moving in with a complete stranger? Especially one malicious enough to scheme people out of - what did he say? Thousands of dollars?

You look at the business card.

Shit, you think. You need this.

“Fine,” you say. “When can I move in?”

***

The days are starting to blur together.

So are the words.

It’s been about a week since you moved in with Harry Styles, and your days have been nothing but reading lately. You’ve paged through what feels like hundreds of those thin yellow books you’d seen that first day, spilling out of cabinets and opened on tables. You’re looking for the perfect play, which really means the most awful play. It needs to be so indescribably bad that it closes within the first week of opening so that everything goes according to plan.

You never thought there could be so many plays. Most of them are pretty awful. There’s a pile on the coffee table in the main room of potential prospects, but nothing good enough - or bad enough, rather - to run with.

You’re sitting on the bed in your room, plays scattered around you. There’s an empty cup of coffee on the table next to the bed, and you look at it forlornly, willing it to fill up. It’s almost midnight, and you’d go to sleep if you had any sense.

But you don’t have any sense. So with a sigh, you roll off the bed and pad out of your room in your fuzzy socks. As you head to the kitchen, the front door opens up behind you. You glance around.

Harry meets your gaze.

You turn around and pour more coffee into your mug.

The first time he disappeared, you had been asleep and had only realized he’d left when you woke up to him opening the door. He looked a little less than disheveled and absolutely exhausted, and you could only presume he’d been out getting laid.

Well, you thought. Good for him.

Then it started happening more often. It was almost every night, which was fine, you supposed, but only if you didn’t have a play to find. He worked with you during the day and left at night, or left mid-afternoon and came back around midnight, like today.

He shuffles around behind you, and it’s a combination of laziness and stubbornness that keeps you from turning around and watching him or asking him where he’s been. When your mug’s full, you turn around and walk back into your room.

Hours later, on another coffee trip, he’s asleep on the couch with a script on his chest.

***

The first few times he offered you snacks, you refused. You wanted to spend as little time with him as possible, which was a bit difficult seeing as you lived with him. You couldn’t control bumping into him on your way to the bathroom in the morning, or eating breakfast at the table while he watched TV on the couch, but you could control where you read the pages and pages of scripts.

Sometimes he plays records out in the office. He must have quite the collection. You’ve heard a few things you recognize through the door of your bedroom - lots of Fleetwood Mac, some Joni Mitchell, the Eagles - and a lot that you’ve never heard before. It’s all good, and it’s a pleasant background noise to your tedious reading.

He never stopped offering snacks, though, and today, apparently, the last of your restraint has melted away. When he knocks on your door and says, “Popcorn if you want it,” you can’t refuse the delicious smell of buttery popcorn wafting under your door.

If he’s surprised when you come out of your room a few minutes later, he hides it well. He glances up at you, but then his eyes go right back to the script in front of him. The popcorn’s worth it, and when the bowl’s empty, Harry wordlessly goes and microwaves another bag without taking his eyes off the script he’s reading.

When he comes back from the kitchen, he slides down from the couch and sits on the floor, popping a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. From your spot on the opposite side of the sofa, you watch as he spills crumbs all over the script.

You wonder why he’s pulling this scheme, suddenly, wonder why he’s going through all this trouble when he’s really probably fine from what he’s made in his early productions. Scowling, you come to the conclusion that he’s just greedy, and take one more piece of popcorn before standing up and walking back to your room.

***

“Have you seen my, erm - my collection?” Harry asks.

You’re eating lunch at the kitchen table, some spaghetti dish that Harry had made the night before. He’s quite the chef, you’ve learned. “Nope,” you say. There’s sauce on the booklet you’re reading, and you frown as you try and thumb it off.

“You should.”

The sauce smears. You frown more.

“Do you like music?” Harry asks.

You stand up. Walk to the sink. “Of course I do,” you say, a bit sharply. “I’m an actress.”

Behind you, you hear him shuffling through his records. “I love music,” he says softly. “I wish I could… I dunno. Sing or something.” You bite your lip as you run water over your plate. There’s a beat of silence. It’s just the sound of water, the clinking of the dishes in the sink.

When you turn around, Harry’s staring at the empty record player thoughtfully. He looks up after another second and smiles, just slightly. “Any preferences?” he asks, running his hands over the vinyls.

You shrug. “I don’t care.”

Harry looks at you, then shrugs and starts looking through the collection. Finally, he chooses one. “I listened to this,” he begins, sliding a disk out of its sleeve and gently placing it onto the platter, “on the plane the first time I came to the States.” The gentle sounds of Frank Sinatra’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane” float from the turntable.

He begins mouthing the words, dancing slightly, smiling at you.

“We should find that play,” you say, and you walk back to your room.

***

A few days later, you gasp awake when you feel Harry’s hand on your cheek.

“Christ, what are you reading?” he asks. “That’s the third time I’ve woken you up.”

“You had to slap me to wake me up?” you scoff indignantly, sitting up on the couch.

Harry frowns as he takes the script out of your hands. “I did not slap you.”

It’s two pm. You’ve been chugging coffee all day - he’s right, you shouldn’t have fallen asleep at all, much less three times since you started that script. It really is very boring… Your eyes widen as you think back to the play, and you begin, “I think -”

“This is it,” Harry breathes.

“It’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever read!” you exclaim, sitting up.

“I can see that. This is it. It’s dumb as hell, and - and you’ve fallen asleep.”

“Three times!”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Harry says happily. “The ending doesn’t - it doesn’t…”

“It’s awful,” you agree with a grin.

“Margaret Fitcher,” Harry says, reading off the back of the script. “It’s - there’s an -” He grins, looking at you as he snaps the booklet shut. “She’s close,” he says excitedly. “Get your shit. We’re going.”

The car ride is quiet. You fidget. So does he. His leg moves a mile a minute, his finger fiddling with his lip. He’s going just a tad over the speed limit. When he pulls into a parking lot, you don’t even look at the building.

There’s a directory, and you find the name you’re looking for: Margaret Fitcher. 9C.

The elevator is shaky. It has an iron gate, blinking numbers. When the ninth floor button lights up and the elevator rattles to a stop, the gates clatter open and you follow him out into the hallway.

Harry knocks on the right door. “Ms. -”

“It’s open, sweetie! It’s open!”

You look at Harry. He shrugs. He looks excited.

He pushes the door open, and immediately, the smell of rotten fruit assaults your senses. You grimace, and you see Harry blink, nose wrinkling. “Come in, dearie,” a voice calls. You walk further inside. A cat comes and slides along your leg. You shift away, bumping into Harry, and he steadies you before he turns the corner and you see an old lady - Ms. Fitcher.

Her face is illuminated by the TV, on which an infomercial is playing. There are cats curled around her. You count. Six. Plus the one who’s decided to sit on your feet. Seven. You spot the source of the odor: a small bowl set in front of an easel, which carries a small, partially painted canvas. It’s supposed to be the bowl of fruit, you see. It’s not half bad.

“Sit down, sit down,” she says. Her voice is weak. She’s wearing glasses, on a chain, that are sliding down her nose. “Hello, Ms. Fitcher,” Harry says, speaking up above the TV. “We’re here to talk to you about your -”

“Eh?” she interrupts, squinting at him “You’ll have to speak up, dearie.”

Harry tries again, louder, “We’re here to talk to you about your -”

“What are you selling?”

This time, Harry shouts. “We’re here to talk to you about your play!”

“My play!” Ms. Fitcher laughs. She picks up a ball of yarn that had been sitting next to her. One of the cats fusses. “My play, my dear play…” She begins unwinding the yarn. “Who are you, again?”

Yelling, you introduce yourself, and then Harry does.

“Nice to meet you!” Ms. Fitcher croons. “Never see young ones around here anymore… What a shame…” She shakes her head, beginning to wrap the yarn around her frail hand again. “What a damn shame…”

You and Harry exchange a glance.

“Your play is wonderful, Mrs. Fitcher!” you shout.

She looks up. She seems almost coy. “Why, thank you.”

Harry clears his throat, begins to scream, “We wanted to -”

He’s cut off by somebody banging on the wall from the other side. “Oops,” you mutter, realizing neighbors can probably hear all the commotion through the thin walls. “Can we shut off the TV?” you shout, a bit afraid somebody’s gonna come over and rap on the door.

“Oh, the TV?” Ms. Fitcher says. “Whatever you want, dearie.” She hands you the remote, and you shut it off. The silence is glorious. “We want to buy your play,” Harry says, and Ms. Fitcher’s eyes grow wide. “To… to put it on the stage?” she asks, her voice soft.

“Yes,” you tell her. “We want the world to see your story, Ms. Fitcher.”

She pauses, inspecting the two of you. You feel slightly uncomfortable. “You’re not wearing wedding bands,” she says, looking suspicious, and a surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Oh! Oh, no, you - you mean - you think we’re -” You laugh, shake your head. “No, no, just - just business partners.”

“Business partners, roommates, that’s all,” Harry adds.

Her gaze narrows. “Roommates?” she echoes.

“Yup!” you chirp, hoping that’s not a problem.

She hums lowly in a way that makes you think it is a problem, but then asks, “Who will be playing the role of dear Rosalind?” You falter, then remember that’s the main character’s name. “Anybody you want, Ms. Fitcher,” you say.

“I can see auditions?”

“You can come to every rehearsal,” Harry reassures her. “It’ll be just as you like it.”

She stares at you over her spectacles. And then she says, “No.”

You blink. “What?”

“I don’t want you children ruining my masterpiece,” she sneers.

“We are not children,” Harry says irritatedly.

“Hmph.”

“You sent this play to me,” Harry says.

“That was ages ago,” Ms. Fitcher says wistfully. “When I was but a girl.”

Harry scoffs. “It was last year!”

She glares at him. “Get out.”

“No, no,” you try, “no, please, Ms. Fitcher, you’ll have total control, it’ll be you, all you and your -”

“Get out, you’re bothering my cats,” she snaps. “Get out!”

“Please, Ms. Fitcher,” you beg, “please. We’ll -”

She stands up, and now the cats really are bothered. “I’ll call the police!” she shrieks, and both you and Harry jump up, hurrying to the door, which she slams behind you. You look at it, at the sign with the apartment number engraved on it, at the fraying fuzz of the green carpet inside that had stuck to your shoes and was now on the floor of the hallway.

“I’m covered in cat hair,” Harry whispers.

You turn around first. He follows you to the elevator, which clanks as it stops and as its doors slide open. You step inside, lean against one wall. Harry leans against the other. You look down, not sure what to say. The adrenaline’s fading. You really thought that was the one.

And then -

The elevator bangs to a stop.

“What the fuck?” Harry whispers, looking up as you do.

Each floor’s light blinks, then shuts off, in rapid succession.

“Are we gonna die?” you ask.

“I - I don’t know.” He pokes a finger through the iron gates. “We’re in between floors.”

You blink, feel your brows furrow as you shake your head to clear your mind of the cloud of disappointment. “The - the building,” you say, pulling out your phone. “We can call the building.”

“What’s it called?” Harry asks.

You look up. “I have no idea.”

You stare at each other for a second, and then Harry’s face lights up. “I have it,” he says, fumbling in his bag for the paperwork. When he finally finds it, he flips it around so you can see the address. You type the name of the apartment complex into Google and call the first number that appears.

“Hi,” you say, trying to keep calm. “Hi, we’re, um - we’re stuck in one of your elevators?”

There’s a pause.

“Hello?” you say, impatient.

“Um… I don’t really know…”

“Who are -” You sigh, taking a step in the elevator, trying to pace, but you don’t have room. “Who am I speaking to?” A bit of static, and then, “I’m Mike,” the guy says dumbly. “I’m just the desk guy…”

“Do you have the elevator controls?” you ask, not really knowing what you’re asking but unsure of what else to say. “I mean - can you restart the elevators or, like - I don’t know, can you get them moving again? Do you see the - I don’t know, the controls?”

“Yeah, they’re… the box is right here,” Mike says.

“Great!” you exclaim. “Can you please start the elevators again?”

“Oh… I don’t know how to work them…”

You let out your breath, gritting your teeth. “Fantastic,” you mutter. “Um, well, can you call somebody who does?” Mike shuffles a bit. “Um… Yeah, I think so…” You laugh wryly. “Great, Mike, that would be great. Please do that.”

“Okay, I, um… Okay…”

“Keep me updated, okay?” you say tensely. “I’m counting on you, Mike.”

“Okay… bye…”

He hangs up.

“We’re gonna be trapped in here forever,” you moan, banging your head against the wall.

“What?” Harry asks. “What was that?

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “He said he’d call somebody.”

“You didn’t get a time estimate?”

“Jesus, Harry, no, I didn’t get a fucking time estimate.”

Harry frowns at you. “Maybe you should’ve.”

You glare at him.

There’s a beat of silence, and then you start your two-step pacing again. “This is ridiculous,” you mutter. Harry blows his breath out, sliding down one of the walls to sit on the floor. “Ridiculous indeed,” he says.

“I can’t believe this is happening.” You feel yourself getting riled up. “I can’t - fuck. I can’t fucking believe this is happening.” Harry stares at you from the floor. “I’m in an elevator… after getting shot down by a crazy old lady… with - with -” You glance at Harry. “With a fucking con artist.”

Harry frowns at that. “I’m not a -”

“Dammit, I should be on Broadway,” you interrupt. “I should be on Broadway. I did everything right, Styles.” Your breaths are coming faster. You lean back against the metal. “I - I went to fucking Julliard, Styles. I’m a pro. I trained, and I did all the little shows, and I - fuck.”

“It’s just a little pitstop,” Harry offers. “Before Broadway.”

“No!” you sob, and you clap your hand over your mouth. “No.” You step forward, turn around, two steps, you’re pacing around him in the teeny-tiny little box. “God, I’m a failure. I’m a - a failure. That’s why I’m here.” You glare at him through tear-clouded eyes. “With you. Jesus, how fucking evil do you have to be to steal money to get rich? You don’t even need it. You’re probably just fucking fine, probably have some rich daddy back in fucking - fucking England - and you just…”

Your voice is cracking, getting weaker, and you wipe away the tears on your face angrily. “I can’t believe this.” You sniffle, shaking your head. “God, Styles, everybody likes to talk about the new opportunities. Everybody likes to say, ‘Oh, when one door closes” - you jerk on the iron gates - “another opens!’ But dammit, Styles, it’s not open!” You shake your head, stumbling back onto the back wall of the elevator.

“Those goddamn doors must be locked,” you say softly, staring at the shut elevator doors in front of you. “They’re locked,” you repeat. “They’re locked. They slam shut - in my fucking face - and every other door is locked. They’re all locked…” You slide down the wall. “They’re all locked with a key I just - I don’t have.”

Your breath stutters. You look at Harry. “I just don’t have it, Harry,” you whisper.

He opens his mouth to reply, and then your phone rings.

“Hello?” you say. Your voice cracks.

“Hi, are you the lady stuck in the elevator?” It’s a different voice than before. Not Mike.

“Yes! Yes, yeah, I’m here with -” You clear your throat. “What’s happening?”

“We’re resetting the system,” the guy says. “Hopefully that’ll pull everything together. Can you stay on the line for me and tell me if it starts moving again?” You nod excitedly, stepping forward and scanning the buttons. “Yes, I can - what, um - what am I looking -”

A button lights up. There’s a loud clank, and the elevator starts moving.

“It’s moving!” you say happily.

“Great, great. Thanks for calling. Have a nice day.”

There’s a dial tone.

“Right, then,” Harry says as the doors open and you slide your phone into your purse.

You start walking to the car, and Harry follows you. You slow down a little so you’re walking side by side and look at him apologetically. “Um… I’m sorry,” you say quietly, wiping the last of the tears from your eyes. “I’m just… frustrated, I guess.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry says.

The car ride back to the apartment is silent.

***

You’re back to reading in your room after seeing Ms. Fitcher.

What’s sort of annoying is that you’re not even partially ignoring him because you’re mad at him - you’re almost just embarrassed about your explosion. You don’t want to face him, don’t want to talk about it. You don’t even want to think about it.

He seems to understand. He cooks a lot. You told him your favorite food a few days ago, before Ms. Fitcher, and he’s made it quite a few times. That makes you even more embarrassed. You blew up at him, insulted him… and now he’s cooking for you.

Ridiculous.

He still disappears a lot. It’s for longer, now; sometimes he’ll leave at noon and not be back until around midnight. You only know because he keeps his bedroom door open and the apartment always has a different air about it when he’s not there.

He doesn’t usually tell you, but… today he is, apparently.

There’s a knock on your door, and you tell him to come in.

“Hi,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hi,” you say.

He looks down at his hands, and you follow his gaze. He’s holding a small black box, fidgeting with it. “I have to… go,” he says, quietly. “But I, erm…” He looks up, steps forward almost hesitantly.

You get up to meet him, and he holds the little black box out to you.

“I thought of you,” he murmurs. His ears are tinged red, and he won’t meet your gaze.

You take the box. It’s light. When you go to open it, his cheeks flush red to match his ears, and he presses his hand on top of yours. You blink, surprised, looking up. “Sorry,” he says quickly, pulling away. “I just… I, er -” He smiles, laughs a bit sheepishly. “Do you wanna open it when I leave?”

You smile slightly, a bit amused despite your confusion. “Sure,” you say.

Harry nods. “Okay,” he says. He clears his throat, not moving, and despite yourself, you’re not mad, because it’s nice to be in his presence, to hear his voice, because you haven’t heard his voice in a while, haven’t been near enough to -

“Okay,” Harry repeats.

He leaves, and you look at the door of your room for a second, hearing the door of the apartment shut before looking down at the little black box in your hands again. It’s a jewelry box. When you open it, a little slip of paper flutters out.

It has jagged edges like it was ripped from a larger piece of paper. You recognize the handwriting from the notes Harry writes in the scripts he reads, from the thoughts he writes in the margins of the books he’s lent you.

For when every door seems locked.

Inside the box is a necklace.

The chain is delicate. Simple.

Attached is a silver pendant, in the shape of a key.

***

The next day, after you said thank you to him, and after he smiled and said you’re welcome, you stayed in the main office with him to read. It’s quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You could stay in this quiet all day.

The day after that, he’s gone for most of the day.

When he comes back, your plan to silently scold him for leaving again by ignoring him for a while crumbles because he’s watching The Notebook while he works. It’s late. You were just getting coffee, planning to hide away in your room after acquiring your dose of caffeine.

Then he gives you a soft smile and nods towards the empty side of the couch.

Come on, he says silently. You know you want to.

So you do. You can’t help it. It’s The Notebook, of course, and you can kind of just tell it’s his favorite from his small smiles at certain parts, his whispered echoes of every other line. Also, he tells you, says, “This is the best movie ever created,” as he grins over at you from the opposite end of the couch where he’s wrapped in a soft blue blanket.

It continues the next day, when he flicks on a movie during dinner and doesn’t turn it off after all the food’s away and you’re just reading on the couch. It’s just something random, but you have to bite your lip to hide your amusement at Harry’s snarky comments under his breath.

A few days later, you shouldn’t feel as satisfied as you do when he comes in to find you already on the couch, your favorite movie onscreen. He smiles at you, takes some of the chips on the coffee table, and starts reading.

Progress goes a bit more slowly once the movie watching begins. You need it, though; it’s a welcome distraction and you’d definitely go crazy without it. Letters dance after a few hours of nothing but reading in silence.

The Potential Prospects Pile on the coffee table grows, but it’s kind of just for show. You both know you’ll know it once you see it. Your interest piques whenever you see him add a booklet to a pile, though, and you flip through each one that’s added like he does.

It’s a few weeks after that first time watching The Notebook, and to your slight reluctance, you’re watching it again. You’re sitting on the floor, coffee sitting next to you, a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table on top of the prospects. Harry’s on the couch, all six feet of him sprawled and taking up the entire thing.

It’s late, almost two am. You want to fall asleep - are falling asleep - but Harry only just arrived and you feel like you should stay up with him. He’d been out the entire day, doing God knows what.

“Sometimes I hate Allie,” Harry murmurs suddenly.

“Really,” you say, only half listening.

“She makes it so… unbalanced.” His voice is so low. He sounds exhausted. You look up, and you see that the play he’s reading isn’t even open - it’s closed in his hand, fingers marking his spot, hanging over the side of the couch. He’s on his side, head on his hand, eyes fluttering shut.

“What d’you mean?” you ask before you can think.

“He writes to her for a year,” he whispers. “A whole year. And she... She doesn’t.”

You shrug. “She didn’t know he was writing.”

“She should’ve written to him anyway. She said she loved him. She should’ve written, and told him again, or… or…” He fades off. “What, she should’ve run away back to him?” you ask, and Harry whispers, “Yeah.”

When you turn around again, he’s asleep. You bite your lip, and then look back at the TV.

On screen, Noah catches a glimpse Allie across the street, then sees her kiss someone else.

You open another script and take a sip of coffee.

***

Sleepless in Seattle is playing on the TV. Harry loves his romcoms.

It’s late again.

The days seem to pass so quickly, and the nights seem to drag on forever and ever. Maybe that’s because your sleep schedule is royally fucked up, but you’re mostly blaming that on Harry being out all day.

You’re sipping hazelnut coffee. It’s delicious. It’s not hot anymore, but it’s not quite cold enough to be given up on. The remainders of your midnight snack - tacos - lay on the coffee table, and there’s a smear of guacamole on one of the Potentials.

The movie’s wrapping up. The elevator doors are closing. The credits begin to roll.

Sighing, you stretch for a second before turning around and resting your chin on the coffee table so you can look at Harry. The key necklace swings forward. It hangs in the space between your chest and the table, and you can feel its weight on the back of your neck. It’s comforting.

Harry’s on the couch. He’s on his back, holding his arms straight up with his elbows locked so he can read his script. His brows are furrowed, and his lip is between his teeth. He looks uncomfortable.

“I don’t know anything about you,” you whisper.

Harry meets your gaze, dropping his arms. “You know my favorite movie.”

“But not your favorite book.” You wonder what the hell you’re doing.

Harry smiles slightly. “Or, apparently, how indecisive I am. I can’t decide.”

“Are you just trying to avoid other ‘what’s your favorite’ questions?” This is the longest exchange you’ve had in weeks. “No,” Harry says, “really. I can’t decide. I’d answer all the ‘what’s your favorite’ questions you have if I could.”

“Why?”

Harry sits up, looks at the script in his lap, and shrugs. “Seems like you hate me.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“No,” he says softly, looking at you.

His eyes are really green, you notice. Maybe it’s just the light. Or lack thereof. They sparkle in the darkness, and you kind of want to see him smile, want to make him smile, want to be the cause of those dimples so that you can see his green, green eyes light up for real.

You close your eyes and lean backwards. Now your back is on the ground, your arm over your eyes. “I think you should pay for a chiropractor for me,” you murmur. “My back’s killing me from sleeping out here all the time.”

“There’s a bed just in there,” Harry says.

“Too far away.”

“Then that back pain’s on you.”

“You’re why I’m out here in the first place.”

“No, you’re out here for the food.”

You feel yourself smile. “And the movies.”

“There you have it.”

“Still think you should pay,” you whisper.

“I pay for yours, you pay for mine.”

You close your eyes tight, bite your lip hard, because now you’re smiling even more.

“You have yourself a deal,” you say.

***

A few days, later, and you’re trying to hold your tongue again.

It’s been quiet for too long, and you’re getting uncomfortable. You’re not sure if that’s because you’re beginning to associate silence with the tremendously boring reading, or if it’s because you just don’t like silence.

Another possibility hovers in the back of your mind, one that implies that you really aren’t uncomfortable, you just want to talk with him, with Harry, the enigma sitting two feet away from you, but you don’t want to think about that, so you say something.

“You sound British,” is what comes out, even though he hasn’t spoken in hours.

It’s a few days later. Four in the morning. The TV’s quiet, no movie playing. There’s a bowl of M&Ms on the table - this guy has every snack imaginable in his little kitchen - but that’s the only distraction. You’re both on the floor this time, the coffee table pushed off to the side. He’s cross-legged, sipping tea, you’re on your stomach, eating more M&ms than probably healthy.

“Is that a compliment?” Harry asks, looking up from his script.

You eat another M&M. “Can be.”

“That’s ominous. I am. Born and raised.”

“Why’d you come here?”

“Broadway.”

You smile, turning onto your back to look at the ceiling. “How romantic.”

Harry frowns, asks, “Why?”

“Dunno,” you reply with a shrug. “There’s something sweet about that - a little boy, being absolutely entranced by plays he sees onstage… he’s enchanted, wants to be a part of it but isn’t nearly handsome enough to be an actor, so -”

“Hey!”

You look over at him. Grin. “What?”

“You don’t think I’m handsome?”

“I’ll only make that big head of yours bigger if I answer honestly.”

He smiles. Takes a sip of tea. “Nice to know.”

“Why not an actor, anyway?” you ask, looking back at the ceiling. You follow the fan with your eyes as Harry says, “Believe it or not, I prefer to be backstage.” He sighs, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him follow your gaze to the fan.

“I wanna see people’s reactions,” Harry says softly. “I like to see their faces light up at something funny… Or their tears at something sad…” He looks back down and takes an M&M out of the bowl. “The best is when somebody’s trying to hide it.” You see him smile at you, and you look at him. “When they think they’re so cool, so stoic and - and immune to the wonders of the stage…” He smiles more, fiddling with the M&M. “And then you see them break, see their reluctant laughter or their hands rush to hide their watering eyes…”

You steal the M&M he’d been playing with. “Wouldn’t you rather be the one making them feel those emotions?” He gets another M&M. “Nah. Too much work.” He eats it, finally, you watch him chew and swallow and then you look at the ceiling again.

“It’s not,” you whisper, closing your eyes.

“Maybe you’re just not doing it right.”

You open an eye to glare at him, and he smirks.

“I am,” you say. “You’ll have to see me some time.”

“Maybe after this mess I’ll produce a real play,” Harry murmurs. “You can star.”

You close your eyes again. “Not in one of your plays,” you hum. “Don’t want my first play back to be a flop.” You feel something against your arm, and you realize Harry had thrown an M&M at you.

You scoff. “I’m just being honest!”

“Sometimes a little white lie can be appreciated.”

“That’s not good for your ego.”

“What ego?”

“The one making you think you’re funny.”

“Oh, sod off,” Harry laughs.

There’s a beat of silence, and then you whisper, “What if we never find a play?”

Harry clears his throat. “We will,” he says. He stands up, dusts off his hands, and grabs a book. You watch as he sits down in a chair and puts his legs up onto the table. “Keep looking,” he tells you quietly.

So you do.

***

A few days later, a little after lunchtime, and it’s your turn to pick the movie. It’s one of your favorites, a comfort movie at this point. You mouth along the lines with the actors, grinning madly at the television screen because it’s so perfect and you love it so much.

Harry’s not really paying attention. He’s been quiet. Normally, he’s cracking jokes, murmuring sass at the stupid scenes and sighing heavily at the dramatic ones. If it were any other movie, you’d be curious, or anxious, but not this one.

You’re not even holding a script.

Harry is, though, and you look over at him curiously as the credits start to roll.

“You okay?” you ask.

He doesn’t reply.

“Hey,” you say, nudging him with your foot, “are you good?”

“I think… I think this is it,” he says quietly.

Yawning, you stretch towards the ceiling. You wonder what time it is. “What’s it?”

“This is it,” Harry says, sitting up but not taking his eyes off of the script. You frown, straightening. “It’s bad?” you ask, and Harry finally looks up. He’s practically glowing, he’s so excited, and a spark of excitement rushes through you.

“It’s so bad.”

“Lemme see,” you say, standing up, but Harry’s pacing.

“Retired FBI agent Leopold Gray is suddenly being hunted down by a small town dentist named Ernest D’Angelo who thinks Gray has killed his wife. As D’Angelo chases the elderly Gray around the globe, the two slowly start to lose patience; by the end, D’Angelo has given up, and Gray is retired - again - in Bismarck, North Dakota.”

He pauses, and you frown, waiting for him to continue.

Instead, he looks up, grinning. “That’s it!” he exclaims.

You blink. “You’re kidding.” He hands the script to you, and you read over the summary, scoffing in pleased disbelief as you get to the end and see that it’s just as unsatisfactory as Harry read it to be.

“God, it’s a - it’s an action and a musical!” you laugh.

“Come on,” Harry tells you, grabbing his coat. “Look at the address on the back, tell me where we’re going.” Following him out the door, you read off the street name and number. Harry plays music in the car, but you don’t hear it.

A sliver of doubt runs through you as you get closer and closer to the address, scared to be shot down again. You shove it aside, shifting from one foot to the other as you wait on the front porch.

This guy lives in a house. His name is Richard. The house is a small stand alone, with a little yard out front. It’s gated. The paint on the door and under the windows is chipping, and the flowers in the yard are drooping and wilted.

Harry knocks on the inner door. The screen door slams shut when he pulls away.

You wait a beat, another, you’re getting nervous, and then -

BANG.

You jump a foot in the air as the screen door slams again, this time against the rail behind it, and then fear courses through you, because the guy is holding a large cast iron pan, and you’re genuinely afraid for your life.

“Who are you,” the man - Richard? - hisses, glasses sliding down a crooked nose.

Harry coughs, backing up half a step. “I - I’m Harry Styles, this is -”

You tell him your name. His eyes are beady, and there’s a single strand of graying hair on his forehead, and his fingers are trembling, and Harry says, “Please, sir, we just want to talk to you about your - your, erm - your absolutely fantastic play -”

He freezes.

“Could you put away the, um - the pan?” you ask, and it slides out of his hand.

It thuds against the floor.

“My play, huh?” he says gruffly, wiping a hand under his nose.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s - it’s absolutely ingenious.”

He stares at you for a second, and then backs up. “Come in.”

Harry looks at you, and you shrug helplessly, opening up the screen door. Richard’s already halfway through the hallway, which is dim, and if you squint, you can see cobwebs in the ceiling. You follow Richard until he stops in a living room and sits in a creaky sitting chair.

Richard glares at you. “What about my play.”

“We want to put it on the stage,” Harry says.

“Why.”

You clear your throat. “Because it deserves to be seen.”

“I think so, too,” Richard says. His glasses are slipping down his nose.

Slowly, Harry pulls the documents out of his bag. “If you sign here,” he says, patiently, like he’s talking to a five-year-old, or perhaps a wild animal, or maybe a criminal about to kill somebody, “thousands of people will see your play.”

“Thousands,” Richard echos, his eyes widening.

“Thousands,” you confirm, lying. Harry gently slides the papers, along with a pen, towards Richard on the glass table between the easy chair where Richard’s sitting and the sofa where you and Harry are.

“You’ll be praised in every newspaper,” Harry says, also lying.

Richard picks up the pen. He looks down at the papers. The place where he’s to sign is highlighted in yellow. He’s looking down, and his glasses are at the very tip of his nose. You wonder what would happen if they slid off his face completely, or if he’d notice.

After an awkward moment as Richard just stares at the papers, he begins to sign.

“My mother will love me again,” he whispers.

You look at Harry.

Harry looks at you.

“Make me proud,” Richard says hoarsely, and you and Harry both look to Richard, who’s holding the papers out. You see a single tear roll down Richard’s cheek. “Thank you so much!” Harry exclaims, and then he grabs your hand and practically sprints out of the house and into the car.

“Floor it, floor it,” you rush, and Harry speeds away.

As soon as he turns a corner so Richard’s house is out of eyesight, he pulls the car over, parking for a second. “Okay,” he breathes, palms flat against the top of the steering wheel, “what the fuck was that?”

“I have no idea,” you reply, laughter bubbling out of you.

“Oh, my God,” Harry says incredulously, laughing too, and for a second, all you can do is laugh, because that was so surreal and you’re not quite sure how else to react. “I hope we never have to deal with that again,” you say as your laughter dies down.

“Christ, he’s fucking insane.”

“Harry, our cause of death could have been a frying pan.”

“No wonder his mum doesn’t love him!”

“Shit, this play better bomb,” you giggle, and Harry pulls onto the road again.

“We gotta do something,” he says. “To celebrate.”

You raise a brow. “Like what?”

Harry glances at you, and smiles. “I know just the place.”

***

You haven’t been out in forever.

Harry’s music is great - calming, quiet, mellow. The entire atmosphere of the apartment is like that. Everything’s quiet, with a layer of comfort over it. That’s not bad, of course, but it does mean that the club Harry’s just taken you to is a little more than a shock to your system.

This music pounds in your ears, thrumming in your chest and in your stomach, pulsing in your hand where it meets Harry’s. He’s leading you through the crowd, and when he turns around to grin at you, he’s glowing.

He says something, you can see his lips move, but you can’t hear him.

“What?” you shout, and he stops for a second, but you don’t, and you’re suddenly bumping into him, pushed flush against him by the moving crowd around you. Smoothly, his hand slides down to your waist, holding you tight, grounding you.

You can feel his breath on your skin, his fingers digging gently into your hips. He’s everywhere, flooding your senses. The fabric of his suit jacket is warm under your fingers, his cheek so near you’d be kissing him if you were any closer.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he says, right next to your ear.

You feel yourself shiver, and you nod because you don’t trust your voice.

Suddenly he’s moving again, and then you’re through the crowd and landing at the bar, and you’re breathless, and he’s flush-faced and happy and you feel yourself smiling because he’s smiling, and then he’s ordering something and you’re not sure what it is.

On three, you see him say when the shot glasses appear in front of you.

And on three, whatever it is slides down your throat, burning a trail to your stomach and lighting you up from the inside. The music is deafening. You love it. Harry’s beaming, and he clinks his next glass against yours before downing it as you do.

You’ve never felt more alive.

Harry leans forward, and you lean into him, and you’re smiling blissfully, you’d kiss him if he let you, and he says, right into your ear, “You alright?” You laugh and nod and tell him, “Never been better.”

Time begins to blur, and your head’s fuzzy as hell not just from the alcohol but from Harry’s intoxicating presence and the thud of the bass in the music. You find yourself in the bathroom, a while later, staring at your reflection in the mirror.

You look different. Good different. You giggle and lean forward, inspecting yourself, and then sigh and stumble backwards against a wall. It’s much quieter in here, and you can breathe for a second, and can kind of hear your thoughts through the muddle of your mind.

After a while, you wonder where Harry is, and walk out of the restroom to search for him. “Harry,” you sing out, your voice drowned by the music and people. “Harry, Harry, Harry,” you call, just for the fun of it.

“Harry, Harry, Har -”

You freeze.

You recognize his hair, and the jacket he was wearing, and the rings on his hand, which is holding someone else’s hand above their head, against a wall. He’s close to them, lips against their neck. It’s a girl. She’s grinning euphorically, eyes closed. You can see her laughing, chin tilting upwards as Harry whispers something into her ear.

“Oh,” you say, out loud, even though you can’t hear yourself.

You can’t move. Your brain’s stuck.

When he moves, his arm slides around her waist, and he’s leading her out of the building. He looks over his shoulder before they reach the door, and sees you. He falters, and a spark of hope flashes through you before he just grins and winks and keeps walking and your heart falls back down into your stomach.

You see his fingers linger against the door as he guides it shut from the outside.

Oh, you think, silently, blinking back something that feels suspiciously like tears even though… why? You rub at your eyes, frowning at yourself, walking away, because why on earth would your - friend? roommate? coworker? - why would Harry getting laid suddenly make you cry? That’s ridiculous.

You collapse at the bar.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Somebody’s smirking at you. They’re pretty good looking. You sniffle, then smile back.

There’s nothing more ridiculous than crying over Harry getting laid.

They start to come over, and hurriedly, you blink away the tears in your eyes.

He wouldn’t cry if you were getting some.

They’re smiling at you. You bite your lip, letting your eyes trail over their body.

Not if - he won’t cry when you get some.

You say yes when they ask to buy you a drink.

Yeah, no, he won’t cry when you get some. Tonight.

You lean into their kiss, open-eyed. They’ve got some pretty green eyes.

It’s not like you can go back to the apartment, anyway.

***

“Charles Cartwright,” Harry reads off the list in front of him.

“Double ‘c,’” you say.

“Hope his middle name is Carter.”

“Or Chris.”

“Cole?”

“Cooper…”

You watch as Harry sighs, setting the stack of papers down onto his desk again. He doesn’t sit there a lot, behind the huge mahogany desk at the back of the room with the giant leather spinny chair.

“We’re never gonna get anything done,” Harry says, looking down at the list.

You shrug. “We have tomorrow.”

“Said that yesterday.”

“All these people sound like bastards, anyway,” you mutter, spinning the paper around on the desk so you can look at the names. “Yeah, that’s why they’re wasting money investing on my plays,” Harry mutters back.

The list is very long, a whole stack of crisp white printer paper with a cover page and a shiny black binder clip holding it together. Enumerated neatly on the left side are what seems like thousands of names, all previous investors of Harry’s various plays. Phone numbers and addresses sit under the names, along with emails and other pertinent information.

“We’ll go for Mary Sanders first,” Harry says decisively after a second, clearing his throat. “She loves me.” You look up at him, an eyebrow raised, and he rolls his eyes. “I look exactly like her son,” he says, “who hates her. So she’ll do anything for me.”

“Fun,” you say.

“Very. Tanner Smith, however…” He points his name out at the bottom of the third page. “He’s just fucked up. Batshit crazy. He hates me, but liked my old, erm - the company manager, so he chipped in for something I did with - with her.”

“Great.”

“Excited to meet Mr. Smith?” Harry asks with a wry smile, sliding a manila folder over to you. “Can’t wait,” you say, flipping the folder open. There’s a picture of a scowling man in wireframe glasses. “Wow,” you add, shuffling through the ten or so pages in the folder. “This is… a lot.”

Harry shrugs. “Most of it’s just financial details, but there’s a” - he reaches forward, slides a single page out to the front - “page on personal stuff. Don’t mention his wife, but we’ll definitely mention hockey.”

“Hockey?”

“He sponsors his grandson’s minor league team,” Harry tells you, rolling his eyes. “It’s all these entitled little rich boys who flip him off behind his back. He thinks he’s doing God’s work.” You snicker, scanning the document.

“They have games every Saturday,” Harry says, and you look at your phone. It’s Wednesday. Harry goes on, “I usually ambush him there,” and then frowns. “It usually doesn’t work.” His frown turns into a smile as he looks at you. “But maybe this time it will.”

“Making me feel a little used here, Styles.”

“Well, you’re using me for money, too, so don’t get all high and mighty on me.”

You sigh. “Are you really gonna take me to a hockey game?”

“Consider it our first date,” Harry says, smirking.

“Better buy me flowers, then.”

Harry smiles. “A whole bouquet. That’s Saturday, though. We’ll go for Miss Mary today.”

“Have a file on her?”

In response, he slides another manila folder from a filing cabinet behind him. This one’s a lot thicker, double the size of the last. “I’m a little creeped out,” you say, hesitantly opening the folder and peeking inside.

“Don’t be,” Harry replies. “She’s, erm - quite the chatterbox. This was all given consensually, I promise…” There’s a picture of Miss Mary herself on top of the papers, and then a picture of a young man next to her.

The young man is very good looking. Dashing. Green eyes, dark hair, a charming smile.

You look up at Harry and then back down at the picture.

“Nicholas,” Harry says. “Her son.” He poses for you. “See the resemblance?”

“If I squint,” you say with a shrug.

“He’s a lawyer.”

“Good for him.”

“Married,” Harry sighs. “A kid on the way. He lives in San Francisco. Drinks kale juice.”

“Damn.”

“I know,” Harry says, almost wistfully. “Imagine that.”

You scoff a laugh, brows raised. “No, Styles, I’m surprised that you know all of that, not that it’s - unimaginable.” Harry frowns at you. “Like I said! Mary’s a chatterbox. Not my fault she calls me to give me an update on her perfect son every week.”

“Je-sus. Every week.”

“More or less,” Harry says. He stands up and stretches. “Study up, we’ll leave in ten.”

***

He’s a natural.

You can tell from the moment he walks into the little flower-covered house that he’s got her wrapped around his little finger. “Oh, Harry, darling,” Mary coos, patting his cheek and linking her arm with his. She doesn’t even notice you, just leads Harry into the house. “I have biscuits in the kitchen, dearie, come on, come on.”

Attempting to disentangle himself from her, Harry starts, “Mrs. Sanders -”

“Mary, dear, you know that,” Mary interrupts cheerfully, pausing for just a second in the hallway. You hover in the doorway, but Mary goes on, “Oh, and I have that dreadful kale and carrot juice you love, too!”

You make a face at Harry, and he rolls his eyes.

“That’s Nicholas, Mrs. Sanders,” Harry mutters.

“Oh, of course,” Mary says absently, and she rubs his arms before starting into the house again. Harry sighs, and you watch his jaw clench in frustration as he gently places a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “Mary, I have a guest.”

“A guest!” Mary sputters, turning to look at you, still standing in the doorway.

“Hi,” you say.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Mary gasps to Harry, smacking him on the chest with the back of her hand. Harry winces. “He’s terribly impolite, isn’t he, sweetie,” Marry says disapprovingly. “What’s your name, then?”

You introduce yourself, Mary hugs you, and Harry shrugs at you over her shoulder.

“Come in, come in!” Mary exclaims when she finally pulls away. “I have biscuits and tea in the kitchen, you won’t have any of Harry dear’s terrible juice.” Behind her back, Harry throws his hands up exasperatedly.

“Okay, Mrs. Sanders,” you say, biting back a smile at Harry’s dramatics.

“It’s Mary, dear, please,” she tells you, leading you into the kitchen.

Harry closes the door behind her, then follows behind you.

“Sure, then, Mary,” you say with a smile, and she pinches your cheek. When you arrive in the kitchen, there is in fact a plate of cookies on the table and one teacup. Another cup, this one tall and clear, is set across the teacup, filled with a thick, scary looking green substance.

“Sit, sit,” Mary orders, pulling another teacup from a cabinet.

You do. Harry sits next to you, inspecting the juice with a disgusted look on his face.

“I do hope chamomile is alright,” Mary says, pouring some into the teacup that sits in front of you. “More than alright,” you say, closing your eyes as you breathe in the comforting steam happily. When you open your eyes, Harry is glaring at you over his kale juice.

You smile at him sweetly, then turn to Mary. “So, Mary,” you begin, “I’ve heard you’ve helped Harry here with his plays in the past.” Mary nods, hands wrapped around her own cup of tea. “Yes, I have. Quite the talented one, he is. He’ll be a force to be reckoned with once he finally decides what he wants to do with his life!”

“It’s this,” Harry says in a halfhearted way that makes you think they’ve gone through this many times before. “I’m a producer. That’s what I want to do with my life.” Mary chuckles, patting his cheek again. “Okay, dearie.”

You clear your throat. “Well, about this play…”

“Oh, yes, yes, what’s this one about?”

“It’s about an FBI agent,” Harry says. “It’s very adventurous.”

“Adventurous!” Mary echoes gleefully.

Harry smiles. “Yes. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

Your eyes widen as Mary rifles around in her purse and then comes out with a checkbook. “I certainly will!” she says happily. Her handwriting is elegant, flowing from her black fountain pen and onto the check with graceful ease.

“I have an appointment at two, darlings, so you’ll have to excuse me,” Mary tells you, handing Harry the check. “But I do adore seeing you, love, so come back soon!” Harry slides the check into his pocket, and you stand up as he does, following him to kiss Mary on the cheek.

“Bye, now, Mary,” he says. “See you soon.”

“It was nice to meet you, Mary,” you say, and Mary smiles at you. “And you too, dearie. You better come back soon, too, promise me.” You nod, and she looks at Harry. “And pick up the phone, Harry.”

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but she goes on, “You’ve been dodging my calls, love, don’t bother denying it.” She glances at you and winks. “Maybe it’s because of this one. Try and take a break from each other every now and then, you hear me? Young love is important but so am I.”

Harry looks about as red as a tomato. “We’ll see you later, Mary,” he says hurriedly, and he grabs your hand to lead you out, which probably doesn’t help with Mary’s assumption. “Bye, Mary!” you call.

“Sorry about that,” Harry mutters once you’re outside, letting go of your hand.

“Seem a bit flustered,” you laugh.

Harry rolls his eyes as he opens the car and gets in. “Shut up.”

“Didn’t deny it, though.

“‘s not worth it,” Harry sighs as he starts the engine.

You reach over and pat his cheek like Mary, grinning. “Whatever you say, Styles.”

~*~

aaaaand that's chapter one! hope you liked it!!! if you did, a reblog and some feedback would be much appreciated <333

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[blushing-starker]

Anon asked for alpha Peter and omega Tony for a baby announcement. Thank you to the wonderful @vaguekiwi for motivating me and sharing her thoughts on the story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did, anon.

"Tony, Tony? Are you up? It's 7:30am already, you have a meeting with Miss Potts in forty minutes. Tony?"

Soft hands curl into already silver hair, scratching at the strands in an attempt to wake him up gently. Butterfly kisses on a cold nape, a ridiculously hot nose nuzzling everywhere. Peter knows scenting the billionaire is basically the only way one can ensure a calm morning.

Not today. And not for the next few months either.

He loves his husband, appreciates the nearly romantic demeanor, he does. But "unless you have a cup of coffee for me, there is no way in hell i am gonna leave this bed. your child has kept me up with nausea the entire night. I wanna hurl my guts out more than that time Rhodes found Dad's liquor cabinet. please, tell me you have coffee."

"..." Tony is severely displeased by the fact he can read Peter like a book even with half his mind shut off because fine, he's right and dammit all.

"I want that weird drink you make. The one with milk, cinnamon and chunks of brownie. And French toast with waffles. No jam, not too much butter, as much sugar as possible. Now, go before I scream at you for having the only dick that could get a hormone fucked forty something omega pregnant. "

The kid scrambles from bed, practically face plants with all the covers tangling long legs and yup, this is the person that the universe designated as his soulmate. Because Tony Stark can never have a partner with a reasonable, normal amount of enthusiasm, stamina and a sense of balance.

That sounds like he's ungrateful, he's not. But it turns out being three months pregnant gives him plenty of perspective to peer at life in a whole new way that does not include caffeine, alcohol or sex.

Would he kill and die for this amazing human being that makes Tony's heart race no matter the day, that inspires him to be a better version of himself? Yes, no questions asked. No hesitation and no regret.

Would he clobber Peter for doing the impossible and technically causing Tony incredible discomfort on a daily basis thanks to what his doctors can only assume is a superhuman baby he already loves and adores more than life itself? Also yes.

Things aren't mutually exclusive in this household.

Pep, bless her, has yet to find out about their future mini Parker so there's been no respite on the whole 'running a multi billion dollar industry ' thing. And yeah, while it's not exactly easy, he can focus on other things and not fall into a panicky state of mind — because him? A father? Of a super baby? Tony Stark, infamous playboy with a hedonistic streak, a dad?

Just thinking along those lines makes shame and self doubt slither over a metallic plate. Working, dealing with innovative scientists, crafting the new world of tomorrow, guaranteeing the safety of their planet, shapeshifting into a role model, a mentor (for the interns and school kids he visits, not Peter, of course, thank God they left that dynamic ages ago), loyal friend, reluctant errand boy (fuck the assholes in charge of the Accords), great husband, good man, it all distracts a fearful child from thinking, what if I turn into Howard?

"I couldn't find brownies, so cookies it is! Aunt May had a few boxes sent in when I told her work was keeping you on your feet all the time. Said it'd be a good idea to snack along the day in case you—" Peter freezes, tenses with a not-so-narrow back held ramrod straight. Oh, his husband brought him breakfast in bed.

How could he ever think to clobber such a nice, wonderful—

"Your scent is odd."

"Yeah, well fuck you too then."

Five seconds of silence.

"I'm bringing you one cup of coffee and the hormone pills."

" Yup, that's a great idea. "

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

Tony’s mumbo jumbo with self loathing is firmly put on the back burner after inhaling a delicious breakfast and chugging that one glorious cup of coffee. Until they go to the bathroom and he sees himself in the mirror.

"We gotta tell them."

"You said you wanted to wait a while before saying anything."

Peter strips, ducks into the warm shower, lets out a pleased little sigh and Tony wants to rip his fingernails off. Is it bad, having sex while pregnant? No! The doctors, every single one of them, said it's a perfectly normal thing to do. It'd be bad if they didn't have sex because Tony, thanks to his crazy hormone production, needs the extra attention for his body to understand this is a happy process that shouldn't include sad pheromones or stressed out moments. Will Peter put him out of his misery and allow a quickie in the mornings? No.

"Take more than five minutes in that shower and I'm joining you."

Listen, he grew up in the 80's and 90's, Tony wasn't immune to peer pressure. Did he cave and eventually do so many squat competitions with Rhodey his butt turned into a duck's butt? There's no evidence, he's made sure, but yes. And Starks have always turned out to be beautiful, doesn't matter your gender or age. Finding a companion for the night has never been a problem for anyone in his family tree.

That, and his work as Iron Man has kept him — well, not ripped like Cap, certainly not as lean and (God help him) athletic as Peter, but fit. Sturdy. Firm. Solid. (Peter once muttered the words 'daddy-like' in regards to his body and he nearly choked on water.)

The passage of time has made him a bit slower, dusted once black hair with, as his husband says, stardust and the corners of his eyes now show how much time Tony spends laughing or frowning. All in all, he looks fucking spectacular for his age and experience as a villain-punching-bag. Thing is, he has a belly. A bump. A curve where it was once, well. Less curvy. Is it a problem for Peter? Nope, as acknowledged every time his alpha tackles him if he so much as looks oddly in the mirror. Is it a problem for him? He'll get back to you on that.

The point is, there's a belly when just a few months ago there wasn't such a pronounced belly. It's great, of course. Proof their child is growing steadily and Tony's body is adjusting to it accordingly. A small part of him, the omega part he actually lets live, is fascinated and proud. He's doing that, Tony's the one growing a human being, creating life out of nothing in his own body. That child, although not the only physical embodiment of their relationship, is a result of his love for Peter. Of how much his husband loves him. They love each other so much they're gonna start another family together. That chokes him up a bit, reminds him how grateful he is for Peter and for the other Avengers. If they hadn't been so accepting of his status, would he have ever considered going through with this?

Anyway, he's not gonna start sobbing this early in the morning when there's no alcohol involved. It's fantastic seeing his child develop, good, warm and fuzzy feelings, yada yada yada, it's also not very easy to hide. And Tony...Tony wanted to hide it from his family because.

Because Peter hasn't been the only partner in all his life that has wondered about a future with a white picket fence. Because when he was Peter's age, in his goddamn prime, a doctor, ten doctors, all the doctors told him the same thing, smashed his dream into a million pieces. Tony was nearly infertile. There was a one in a million chances of him getting pregnant. If he did, they couldn't be sure his body would be able to maintain two hearts. And then the cave happened.

So yeah. It happened to his cousins, his aunt, a few uncles, his grandmother. Tony would do a baby announcement, but only the second that baby was outside of him and safely in his arms. Now there are still several months left and nothing certain. But time is a bitch and beginning to show the world, maybe those extra pounds aren't from eating the Parker's amazing breakfasts.

"Tony, you know I don't wanna risk-" Losing control of my strength. They've been together long enough that Tony can see quite clearly between the lines.

"Hurting us, yeah, I know, I understand. I'm getting too wide, we're gonna have to tell them or Natasha will take one look at me and whoops, impromptu announcement from someone else. It's a miracle she was out on those missions when we found out." Thank God for renegade troops.

He's still looking at himself in the mirror when Peter comes out, barely dries up and slides behind him. His husband is slightly taller now, can easily hook a curved jaw on Tony's shoulder to peer at the image they make. Contrasts, he supposes, have always enthralled Tony. The study of light and shadow. Variations of the same basic components. Where his body is aging, showing signs of wear and tear, Peter's is evolving into something beautiful, majestic. Silver hair, chestnut brown. Scarred canvas, silky smooth and sunkissed skin. Soft, fragile curves, chiseled lines that deserve to be revered more than Michelangelo’s David. But their eyes, their eyes are equally tired.

“We can tell them if you want, have dinner together and just, just say it. Like that -”

“No. It's our kid, we're not gonna act like it's ripping off a band aid. This is special, unique. Dinner is good. Fantastic, actually. Wait for dessert, and announce it. “ Peter comes ever closer, wraps arms that could carry the world around him and how did he get so lucky?

They've lied to each other in the past. Mostly in the beginning, when they were too worried about hurting their new relationship to show their desires and wants. Tony didn't explain the Training Wheels Protocol. Peter tried to fight high level crime on his own. Things got hard to understand, like being in the right place at the wrong time. Puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit together, an extra inch of space prohibiting them from seeing all the possibilities that the truth could bring. They were walking the same path, just in parallel lines that never crossed.

But then he'd been rejected, thrown away and able to realize how fucking stupid it was to let Peter go when being near the kid, it felt like finally breathing after residing in the deep end of a pool for a thousand years. So Tony ran after him one day, crashed into his AP English class, half assed an excuse for the baffled teacher, yanked Peter out of the room and proceeded to have the best make out session of his life with his back against the kid's locker. And now they don't lie, ever.

Which is why it's so hard to accept Peter's, “You're beautiful, Tony. The handsomest man I've ever seen in my life. I loved you before, I love you now, I'll love you forever, Anthony Stark. You carrying our kid doesn't change that, how could it, Tony? It's going to be ok. The three of us will be ok and I won't stop thanking whoever decided I'd get to marry my wet dream.”

Scorching kisses trace his pulse point slowly, sharp nails start dragging against a too thin shirt, but it's the fact that Peter hasn't looked away from him, is confidently holding his gaze through the glass, that makes Tony shudder and stop breathing.

The bathroom is flooded with pheromones, cinnamon and honey assaulting an unprepared billionaire, and he'll die if they stay like this, can't function properly, brain switching gears, trying valiantly to remember baseball stats, past wounds, May's cooking because Peter's gonna wreck his sanity if those hands keep winding down, if those lips don't stop unraveling him like a Christmas present.

“If I'd known you'd get this handsy and romantic, I would have complained about how I look earlier." It's a gasp, half murmur, half plea as Peter grins at him shamelessly. “I know it's rude and wrong and sexist, but I like comforting my omega, acting like a stereotypical alpha. Makes me feel like I'm doing my job of making you happy. “

He quirks an eyebrow, is glad Peter can be comfortable enough to take the reins every once in a while. “You're telling me that assuring me I'm still drop dead gorgeous, “ his husband snorts, nips at Tony's shoulder for that quip, “ makes you horny because you feel like an alpha comforting, and I quote, ‘your omega’? “

Peter reverts back to the shy teenager who could barely ask a girl out to the homecoming dance, ducks his head into Tony’s neck with a blush quickly spreading over damp skin. “Well, I've got news for you, sweetheart. Your wet dream also thoroughly enjoys it so you better break tradition and have sex with me to remind me I'm the hottest man you've ever seen. "

He's actually serious about this, his self esteem hasn't exactly been, you know, the best and Tony's mood always improves significantly after playing around in bed with Peter. Besides, it's a sign of trust. Peter won't hurt him or their child, will be able to hold back his strength. He always does.

Listen, it's not exactly moral, but he has more than enough problems to go ahead and analyze his attraction and dependency on Peter while pregnant.

“So, I can distract you from your bad thoughts by acting sort of possessive and taking you to bed? " Oh, he adores when his husband is afraid of showing a new side of himself and asks for permission ever so sweetly.

“Babe, if you don't, I'll kick you out of the apartment. Give me possessive Peter Parker any day you want, like I'm gonna complain about a gorgeous, brilliant twenty something year old all over me. Now what's it gonna be, alpha dear, bathroom or bedroom? I wouldn't mind the tile but, oh God, I forgot you could pick me up." Tony clings to broad shoulders, can't help but laugh because aren't they a pair?

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

After having what he's sure was the best sex of his life, Tony stumbles out of the bedroom with torn clothes, a dazed look in his eyes and several bruises blossoming around his neck. Peter's halfway out the doorway when Tony whistles, makes sure all their family is paying attention, blurts out, “Peter and I are having a kid. I'm pregnant, woohoo, it's great, it's amazing, save your congratulations for later. We'll do a proper thing soon, if anyone interrupts and they're not dying, I'll kill you myself. See you in a few hours, " and yanks him back in while Friday activates Sock on the Doorknob Protocol.

Rhodey and Nat clink glasses while waiting on the others to pay up on their bets regarding Tony and Peter's odd behavior.

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

Later, much later, like, two days later, they have a proper dinner with their family in the tower. There are balloons and streamers, cake and ice cream, warm hugs and gentle cheek kisses, subtle tears and full on weeping (Happy had to borrow a box of Kleenex), pictures and videos and a pile of gifts taller than Tony.

The most important thing, though, is that the A.I recorded the reaction after Clint asked about baby names. He's grateful they went to the doctor before tonight. The visit revealed a treasure Tony thought he'd never have. Now it's time to reveal it to their pack.

His husband snuggles up to him, is so ecstatic the whole dining room smells like cinnamon and honey, like joyous love he'll never get enough of. Tony grins at him, curls their hands together and repeats the same thing over and over again in his head.

It'll be ok. They'll be ok. If the universe keeps giving Tony the greatest gifts he could ever want, maybe it's time he stopped looking at the horse's mouth. That's how it goes, right? Right.

He turns to look at Peter, loves him so much it aches, feels tiny feet pressing against his stomach. Guesses he's not the only one smitten with this incredible human being.

“We were thinking Marie,” Peter smiles at him, eyes lit up and lovely.

Tony is never going to forget this moment, this warmth in his chest.

“And Benjamin Parker-Stark.”

Their family loses their shit and both Friday and Karen have ample proof.

(@puppypeter look, omega tones! @tonystarkisaslut thank you so much for allowing me to use the prompt board! I am still accepting prompts! Although I can't guarantee getting them ready within a few days, I'll try to finish them on the one week mark depending on how long the fic is!)