#the way they don’t know how shooting a show works and the flat out lies they spew

[jesus-said-chill]

Ok I need to stay away from Reddit because people are so genuinely stupid over there agshhdh

[undressmewithyoureyes]

KING - (FOUR)

**Lillith**

The ride back to my place was an…interesting one. I didn’t have a chance to talk with 141 and the look on Nik’s face when we all came walking up was like a kid on Christmas morning. I know he does things for them, but I don’t question it. He’s not mine and I haven’t been with anyone in…anyway. 

I live out in the middle of no fucking where. Literally. I have a two story cabin that sits on a thousand acre property. My neighbors are the wilderness in the mountains of Tennessee, but don’t let that fool you. I have a whole fucking industry underground that goes on for several miles - and for me to bring 141 here, means I trust them to a certain extent. Not fully, but thats because I will never trust anyone fully, again. 

We walk into my home and my staff greet us. I can tell 141 is a bit uneasy, but shit, I would be too staying at a place I'm not familiar with. 

“Im sure they will like to take their own things to their rooms,” I tell Margo. She’s been with me for the last ten years. I stopped by the base 141 was staying at so they could get their weapons. Don’t get me wrong, guns shoot and knives throw, but nothing compares to your own weapon. Its weight perfectly balanced in your hands and you know the damn thing better than you know yourself. 

Margo gives me a curt nod and walks away leaving us standing in my foyer. I turn to face the team I just joined just to make a point, “I’ll show you where we’ll be staying.” 

I turn back around and walk towards my kitchen - which is straight ahead and my living room with cathedral ceilings to my right. I have an open floor plan with very few walls. That way I can see whats going on, but can take cover if need be. Right before I reach the kitchen, I turn left and head down my hallway. I have rooms here in the house and its set up like a house, but really its for my staff. If anyone was sketching the place out, theres someone always here - but the magic happens downstairs.

I walk towards the end of the hall to my bookshelf thats built in the wall. Reaching out, I place my hand around an encyclopedia as if I'm fixing to pull it out of its spot. The lock clicks and I push the bookshelf forward. Cliche? Kind of, but instead of pulling a book to release a latch, I installed a finger scan on the book. Without my print, no one can get it. 

The cool draft brushes past me and causes goose bumps to form on my skin. “Are you going to kill us?” The mohawk guy asks. 

I let out a small laugh, “Why? You scared?” I say lowly for that dramatic effect while looking at him.

I watch him swallow the spit that was in his mouth - which I'm sure is dry by now. My eyes avert to the black voids looking at me - which causes me to swallow. Something about this one sends a chill down my spine. Something I haven’t felt in a while - and I like it. I miss it, but I swore to myself years ago I wouldn’t put myself back in that position. 

I turn back around and head down the stairs - getting old memories out of my mind. The further we walk down, the temperature drops. My staff knows I have practically a small city down below, but they don have access unless I give them access. I have buttons placed in designated areas of the house in case they need to get me or if there is an emergency. 

So far, its only been pushed once.

After walking down the stairs for a few minutes, we finally reach flat ground. I can hear 141 whispering behind me about how cool this place is. It kind of is. Everything a military base has, I have - but more. And even better, its all below ground, which gives me the advantage. Nobody can know what my moves are and its one of the ways I stay hidden.

“How big is this place darling?” I hear John ask. 

I place my hands on my hips and admire my hard work. Its something that will never get old, “Several miles, but im still building.” 

“Thats….fucking incredible,” he says. I can tell by his tone he meant it. 

“Yeah, Li-,” Nik clears his throat, “Widow has been working on this for a few years now.” He looks at me with soft eyes realizing he almost fucked up. 

“What all do you have here?”

God, even his voice makes my fucking knees weak. Weak to the point I want to fall to them as he stands before me staring at me with nothing but darkness.

“Ever-,” I clear my throat. Thats fucking embarrassing, “Anything and everything.” 

I take a step forward and reach my hand out pointing in front of me, “There we have our weapons build. From guns, to knives, to explosives, to fucking nuclear warfare, its here.” I point to my right, “There is a half mile open area with helo’s.” I point up in the same direction, “I installed a retractable roof so its easy access. The ground still remains, but its on tracks so when the doors closed, you wont know anything happened.”

“Fuckin’ incredible lass,” the Scottish mohawk says. 

I know their names. Like their real name as well as their call signs, but that conversation can wait until later. 

I point to the left, “Down here is where were going,”I say as I get on a golf cart. I have several around here. They’re battery operated, so it doesnt put out so much pollution here. I have air vents the filter, but it saves on how much they have to work already. 

The golf cart has three rows of seats - big enough for all of us to get on. Nik gets on the very back with John facing backwards. The one they call Gaz gets in the middle with the one they call Soap beside him. And that leaves Ghost sitting beside me. His leg grazes mine and even with us clothed, I can feel the heat radiating off him. Hes a man of few words. I read his file, so I know why. He was the hardest one for me to get my hands on. And the hardest one for me to read. 

I turn the golf cart on and head to where we are going. I hear the guys behind me taking about how badass this place is and how smart it is and how they have never seen anything like it before. 

“Butterfly Company?” I hear Ghost say and I glance over at him.

Before I have a chance to say anything, Nik speaks, “Yeah, she started that program years ago for women and children.”

“You mean the one that houses and helps the ones who have been rescued from the sex rings and trafficking?” John asks. 

“Thats the one,” Nik confirms. 

“Is there anything you don’t do darling?” John asks with a chuckle. 

Pulling up to the house and parking the golf cart granted me to not answer him, but I really don’t want to get into that subject. Its a long one, and most of the stories I have, I don’t want to think about. 

“Another house?” Soap asks inquisitively. 

“I have several down here. Usually my staff here sleep in bunkers that are on the other side of this base. Its about a mile over. On this side, its for me. We’ll be staying here. I’ll show everyone to their room so you can get settled in and then we can meet in the observation room in a half hour?” I ask. 

They nod. 

We walk in and its set up similar to my house that people can see. The foyer, the living room to the right and the kitchen straight ahead - all open, but where the hallway is to the left of the kitchen, is a set of stairs. All bedrooms are upstairs. 

We head up them and there are three doors on each side the hallway up here. Gaz and Nik take the first set. John and Soap take the next set and that leaves Ghost. Of course, he’s across the hall from me. My room is on the left end and his will be on the right. 

“Oh,” I say as I open my door, “Each bedroom shares a bathroom.” Great. Gaz and John will share. Nik and Soap will share. Which means, Ghost and I will share. Since the last two bedrooms are on the end, the bathroom is a bit bigger since with sits at the very end of the hallway. That huge wall that separates the doors, thats where my shower is. And to put the icing on on the cake, since my bathroom is so big, my closet sets inside the bathroom. 

This is going to be great. 

“Hey, lass?” Soap calls out stepping partially into my room. 

I throw my bag off my shoulder and it hits the floor, “yeah?” 

I watch as he takes a look around my room, “Wheres the observation room?”

I snort. I did forget to show them that. “Just tell everyone to meet me downstairs in half an hour.”

He nods and closes my door. I hear him telling everyone and I plop down on the bed. This was a bad idea. 

This was a very bad idea. 

[virmillion]

uh oh guess who went swimming and got more thoughts about the rats

timeline!!

rough wakes up in the pool, facing a burnt-out light. he can turn his head and look around enough to see that the other lights in the pool are on, the lane divider floaties are above him, enough to piece together that it’s the high school pool. it’s pretty dark at the surface, and quiet as well, so there probably isn’t a swim lesson happening at the moment, so he figures he just arrived early or stayed late

then he thinks he should maybe question why he doesn’t know which it is. realizes he should probably be holding his breath right now, wrinkles his nose and tries to exhale - no bubbles. that’s probably not good. he tries to swim up to the surface, can’t. thrashes around in place, doesn’t really get anywhere. goes into a dead man’s float, fails to float. L

something grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him out, then deposits him on the tiles. he lies flat on his back and stares at the ceiling, thinking about gasping for air but not doing much of that. he doesn’t even have the lingering water that usually shoots up his nose and down his throat when he’s under for a little too long, so that’s weird

he looks around himself, confirming his suspicions - the room is dark and empty, save the pool lights. also save the person sitting at his side, propped up on their elbows with their legs sprawled out toward him

“howdy” they say. rather than be put off by this (rough has certainly said his fair share of ‘howdy’s in his time), he’s more distracted by their outfit. just a plain white sheet, with big black circles scribbled over where their eyes should be. the most cartoonish possible version of a ghost costume, although their bare feet preclude them from being able to safely trick-or-treat anytime soon

“uh,” rough agrees. he works his way up to sitting, hands automatically going down to wring out his trunks before they can get cold and clammy - they freeze inches from their destination. instead of damp swim trunks, he sees a pair of jeans, and past them are tennis shoes, none of which is allowed in the pool. more concerning is that none of them are wet, not even misted. hands still hovering in place, he turns them around - chipped nail polish and a few anonymous scabs and scars, so at least one thing is normal about this

“take your time,” the person in the ghost costume says. this comes as little comfort to rough, who is currently trying to determine whether his balance is good enough to walk this line between dreaming and insanity. instead of a swim shirt, he wears a black and yellow baseball tee, which shows none of the signs of having just been in a pool that it should

then some more of that thinking, i’m lazy, TK and [searchable brackets] and what have you

“you done?” they ask, already getting to their feet. rough shrugs, reaching for a hand that they don’t offer. their expression is obviously unreadable, hidden behind the fabric as it is.

he scowls and pushes to a crouch on his own, then rises to stand. he decides to make a point by sticking his hand out in their direction. “i’m rough.”

they look him up and down. “i’ll say.” then, completely ignoring the very polite and composed effort of rough, they turn and head toward the exit. rough shakes his own hand with the other before following them

they wander through the school and such, working their way to wherever aleth is

there’s back and forth of ghost asking, “okay, so you know your name. you can just call me ghost”

“that’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“no, why? anyway, what day is it?”

and ghost asks that sort of question about time and place to figure out where and when rough thinks he is right now. they don’t say so, but they’re trying to place how much time he lost, and it’s obvious he doesn’t know what’s going on

eventually they reach aleth, there’s a confusing reunion and rough says he MUST be dreaming or crazy, and aleth and ghost trade a look, made all the more infuriating by ghost only having the one look TO trade

“oh rough,” aleth says, with a too-sincere smile, “you’re dead, babe.”

shabadoowee, rough does not believe this, there’s some back and forth, eventually he decides he’ll just go home and prove it, because that’s the most obvious thing he can think of

he and emily dick around with each other, but he’s had his Moments (eg needing her to sincerely tell him what year it is, or turn off the light because he can’t) and she’s always cool during that time, so he’s certain she’ll be cool during this one

he goes home and it’s, like, three in the morning, so everyone’s asleep, but he’s sure she’ll understand being woken up (if she isn’t already up and just playing on her phone)

aleth and ghost follow him there, trying to be very clear that he Should Not Do This, “yeah that’s what you want me to think,” “it is please god listen to us” “cringe plus L plus ratio”

emily isn’t in her room, that’s weird. maybe she went out - but no, because her window is shut, and other indications that i’m too lazy for right now are enough to be clear that she’s in the house somewhere

he eventually makes his way to his room and finds her sleeping in his bed. that’s kinda weird, but not the strangest thing ever - they used to have mini sleepovers without asking, but they haven’t in forever, especially once emily figured out she could make friends at school that weren’t him

somehow he works out that, yes sir, you are dead, and labhras has run out of thoughts to think

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

What We See - Part 3

Summary: Marc and Steven have returned to their flat in London shortly after everything in Cairo. But there's just something Steven can't get out of his head. What really happened when they both blacked out?

Steven and Marc discuss the possibility of a third. How can they cope with being three when they still need to learn to be two?

Warnings: I don't know. You watched the show. All of that.

Pairing: Layla here for her husband and her favorite British crush. 

Word count:  1886

Part one here.  Part two here.

PART THREE: Layla finds the stranger isn't quite so strange.

-----------------------

“I think there is another one.” Marc fidgeted his hands. 

“You mean like Steven?” Layla smiled across from him. 

“No. Definitely not like Steven.” Marc looked away. This had been the hardest thing he had done in ages. He hadn’t even wanted to bring Layla into it. He had debated with himself for a whole day before he had finally picked up the phone. 

But he was trying to get out of old habits and Layla had been explicitly clear with him that she would not tolerate any more lies. 

“So who is he?” She leaned over her cup of coffee curiously. 

Marc could feel Steven bubbling up and had to quietly remind him that they had agreed that he would be the one to do this. He owed it to Layla after last time. 

“I don’t… I don’t know. He isn’t exactly chatting with us. Steven keeps trying to communicate with him and all we keep getting back is ‘No’.” Marc looked down into his own cup of coffee and frowned at his reflection. 

For the past week Steven had been leaving note after note for this other and each day they had found a big fat “NO” written across them. Steven was this close to calling him ‘Mr. No’. 

“So what do you want to do about it?” Layla sat back. “Do you think he’d talk to me?” 

“No!” Marc looked up, fighting down his panic. “No. I don’t want you to… Look, I don't know this guy. He’s killed a few times. Maybe more. I don’t know what he’s capable of. If he’s dangerous.” 

“What does Steven think?” She reached out and gently took a hand. She had done her research since finding out about Steven, but everything was always more complicated with Marc. She still didn’t know his traumas and had been willing to give them space to find a way to work out their relationship and balance. 

“I think he’s a bloody stubborn one he is.” Steven couldn’t help but mutter angrily. “I’m on his case, though. You better believe it. He thinks he’s so clever but I’m on his case. He’ll slip up and I’ll be there!” 

Layla blinked then smiled. “Hi, Steven.” 

“Oh, shoot.” He grimaced. He flushed and squeezed her hand tightly.  “You look lovely.” 

“Steven.” Marc sighed. “You promised.” 

“Right. Sorry. Got carried away.” He grinned at Layla and offered a little wave. “I’ll just… Um.” 

Marc shook his head and waited for the disorientation to fade. He had been struggling for the past couple of days. Apparently recognizing past traumas wasn’t enough to make everything all better. Simple things like closing a door too loudly or forgetting to buy toothpaste were sending him into panic attacks. 

“What did you see?” Marc stared down at Layla’s hands as she slowly ran her fingers over his. He loved her hands. The way she was never forceful with her touches. How she would slowly slide her fingers against his, waiting for him to open up and let her in. 

“In the battle?” She shrugged slightly. “I didn’t get a good look at him. I was sort of being blasted by gun fire at the time… But he certainly got the job done. Quickly. I didn’t feel threatened at all. He protected me, you know. Protected you.” 

“I told you.” Steven chimed in from the reflection in the coffee. “I don’t think he’s bad. I think he’s looking out for you.” 

Marc dumped the coffee out on the ground. It was a good thing they were outside. “He didn’t say anything?” 

“No. Not a thing.” Layla looked down at the coffee then up at him. “Marc, are you doing alright?” 

“Yeah.” He tapped a finger on the table then sighed. “I don’t know how to handle this. Everything I do is wrong. I’m trying to find my place in his life and I keep messing up. Now there’s this and it feels like one more thing I did because…. I’m broken.” 

Layla moved her chair next to his and gently pulled him in closer till she could rest her forehead against his. “It’s your life too, Marc. You aren’t here to force him to have a happy life and stay out of his way. He wouldn’t want that either. You deserve happiness. You aren’t broken.” 

“I just need to know who he is.” Marc leaned into her and breathed in her familiar smell for a moment. “Stay at your place tonight. I don’t trust him.” 

“I doubt he would hurt me. I’d like to see him try if he did want to.” She smiled and kissed his forehead. 

“I would just feel better about the whole thing until I can get a handle on it.” He looked away. “Please.” 

Layla frowned but nodded. “Alright. I’ll be in town for a few days. I want to see you, Marc. I’m here for you.” 

–

Layla had no intention of staying away. The last time she had turned her back on Marc he had quite literally died. 

She watched Marc walk home, appearing to all others to be talking to himself, but she knew Steven was there. She was learning to recognize the small shifts in posture and the movements of their hands when they talked. Her love for them was complicated and growing fiercely protective. 

They needed it. From Steven’s open honesty to Marc’s quiet reserve. She trusted Marc’s ability to get them out of situations and Steven’s ability to spot bullshit from a mile away, but they were both so vulnerable. 

Once they were back inside, Layla found a spot across the street to watch and wait. It would be a long wait, but she was settled in for the long haul. Night came and the light in their flat stayed on. 

She had heard that Steven didn’t sleep much. Was it from his days of waking up in odd places? Was it his never ending thirst for knowledge that kept him going? Or was there something else that prevented him from resting? 

Midnight came and went and Layla was struggling not to nod off. At just before three, the light in the flat clicked off. “About time, Steven.” 

She gave it half an hour and was about to go get her own sleep when the light clicked back on. “Are you kidding me?” 

She watched a figure move past the windows and quickly got up. After a few minutes the light clicked out again and she waited. 

It wasn’t long before the front door opened and a hunched figure walked out, hands deep in his pockets and head down. 

Layla’s heart beat faster. If she confronted him would he stay or would he push one of the others out? Would he be angry? 

She followed him as far back as she could, taking in the way he moved. Long stride, full of intent. A man that had places to be and wouldn’t be distracted by anything. Intense focus. 

He went a few blocks then took out a key and approached a car. Opening the back, he pulled out a jacket and a cap. His silhouette was instantly that of a stranger she might not have picked out of a crowd. 

He glanced over his shoulder, his jaw set in a firm line, lips thin and chin sharp. 

He got in the car and started it up. Layla debated on running after him. No, she would let him go. This time of night, she would be obvious if she followed. 

She had a better idea. She watched him drive away and turned back towards their flat. 

–

The hours ticked by and the sun came up slowly. Morning was well underway when the quiet jangle of keys could be heard approaching. 

The door opened and closed as someone walked inside. It was now or never. 

“You are quite rude, did you know that?” Layla held up the latest note Steven had left behind. It was crumpled and had a dark ‘NO’ written across it. 

A string of Spanish curses blessed the flat as the man startled and balled up a fist in preparation to fight his attacker. 

Layla stared at the man in her husband’s body. His coat and hat were gone again, but his stiff posture and deep frown were still present. 

She didn’t know what was more alarming, how different he managed to look in just an expression, or the fact that she had seen this man before. “I know you.” 

His eyes fluttered in a familiar way and Layla watched him start to slip away.  “No wait!” 

It was too late. Confusion set in and Marc steadied himself as he went from asleep in his bed to standing with a tightly clenched fist. 

“Layla?” Marc looked around as he got his barings. “What’s going on?” 

“Damn it! I had him.” She sighed and moved to tie her hair back in frustration. But all wasn’t lost. She had caught him before he could fully hide his trail. 

She was at his side in a hurry and started to pat him down. “I thought I could find out who this mystery man was for you. I know what I said, but you didn’t exactly tell me not to watch him from a distance.” 

“Layla you didn’t.” Marc gave her a frazzled look as he tried to catch up. “Did you break into my apartment so you could get the jump on a man that has a tendancy to murder people that try to get the jump on me?” 

Her hand found what she was looking for and she dove into his pocket. “Yes. It wasn’t really my intention to startle him, but I assumed correctly in thinking that he would have more control than to attack me.” She pulled out the car key and held it up like a prize. 

Marc blinked and Steven’s face instantly lit up. “AH HA!” He happily pointed at the key and gave Layla the biggest smile. “I knew he’d slip up! Where was he keeping it? Was it the fish tank? Only place I hadn’t looked yet. Didn’t want to upset the fish yet.” 

Steven ran over and looked into the fish tank with a careful eye. “Yep. Boat’s moved. That plonker probably had it wedged inside the boat! Oh Layla you are a genius. I could kiss you. I mean, I won’t. But I could. Could I? Unless you wanted me to.” 

“Steven.” Layla felt her cheeks blush brightly. While Marc could make her melt, only Steven could make her feel adored in such a way. “Steven Focus.” 

“Right.” Steven fiddled with his shirt and looked down. “What’s it a key to? Another storage locker? Maybe another flat?” 

“A car. It’s parked about two blocks south of here.” She grinned. “And his name is Jake. I’ve met him before. Only I didn’t know he was an actual person before. I thought he was just you know… A fake passport. I’m pretty sure Marc got the ID from our mutual forger friend.” 

“Jake?” Steven mulled the name around a moment. “British?” He sounded hopeful. 

“Spanish.” She watched his face fall as Marc came forward. “He speaks Spanish.” 

 “Of course he does…” Marc sighed. “Steven, go eat your stupid cereal. We’ve got a car to find.” 

[yesimwriting]

Searing Starlight (chapter one)

SERIES SUMMARY: the most powerful inferni alive, raised to see herself as a god-in-the-making, the bastard of the barrel and his team, and a shadow summoner with a common goal. What could go wrong? The giant mass of darkness known as the shadow fold and y/n’s sense of humor. 

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Y/n is sent to hustle the Crow Club. Technically it’s not cheating, but Kaz Brekker isn’t the type to let people off on technicalities alone. Especially when the one that committed the offense could help him earn 1 million kruge. 

a/n just a little something based on the show bc IM OBSESSED :)) --I’m planning on making this a series so if you want to be tagged let me know :)

The candles flicker as Kenya's palm makes contact with my face. I used to cry after he hit me; I used to run to Anya’s room for comfort and my energy would became so irritated I snuffed out all the candles in the church. Now, I just stand there. You get punished worse for showing fear. Gods fear nothing, and that’s what he wants from us--to turn into Gods so that the heavens will owe him. 

“You risk us again and again!” 

The yelling is worse than the stinging of the slap. I make a point of keeping my palms flat; the candles of the room flicker as if feeling my restraint. “Watch yourself or the tidemaker you’re so fond of will feel my wrath instead of you. At least when I bruise his face it doesn’t cost me a night of revenue.” 

I want to point out that the men I trick in the pleasure district don’t care about bruises, but the reminder of Jace has me frozen in place. Jace is good. He doesn’t deserve this treatment. “It won’t happen again, Father Kenya.” 

He nods once, unsatisfied but growing bored. “Disappear from my sight before my flesh wins and I forget to show you mercy.” Kenya turns sharply, watching Anya’s stoic expression. “Anya--we’re in need of funding, take these coins and triple it by morning.” 

Anya’s lips part; I shake my head once, a subtle plea for her silence. “Father Kenya, y/n’s the most talented card player we have--if she comes with us we can bring five times what you’re going to give us.” 

The promise Anya makes is that of a fool, but I know I’m capable of it. People are easy to read when they’re drunk, they’re easy to trick and lie to. And drunk people exude the clearest energy, something about their bluffing is as tangible as fog to me. 

Kenya squeezes the drawstring bag between his violent fingers. He loathes me more than the others. He expects more from me. He’d lock me in the cellar if he could afford to. But he can’t--he knows what I’m capable of. 

“Go somewhere in the Barrel--somewhere that doesn’t ask questions if the money is good.” Kenya looks at me, the bruises on my arms and cheeks. “Clean yourself up beforehand.” 

I nod once, stomach rolling at the thought of going out and knotting at the thought of staying here. I keep my steps even as I approach Anya, grateful for the excuse to disappear behind the chapel’s doors. 

----

This club is louder than most, boisterous men drinking constantly, slurring their words and leaning over bars. I only smile when someone’s looking, tugging on the dress Anya picked for me subconsciously. 

“Relax, y/n,” Anya hums, “Men don’t understand they’re being hustled when someone pretty is the one swindling them, and you look hot.” 

A particularly drunk man walks by slowly, eyes reflecting no shame as he blatantly rakes his gaze down my form. I shift uneasily. “That might be the problem.” 

She tilts her head back, gaze focusing on the crow marking etched into the back wall of the club. A very strange and consistent crow theme in here. “Maybe you should keep the dress on until you run into Jace.” 

The mention of Jace in that context leaves my face warm. “Wha--what?” Great. I’m sputtering. “Shut up!” 

She laughs easily, “I’m only teasing--he’d probably ta--” 

“Anya!” 

Again, her laugh is loud and bright. “Kidding!” Before I can scorch her, she nods her head towards a gambling table. “An open seat--go, you know Kenya’ll have our heads if we don’t multiply this,” she tosses me the drawstring bag, I catch it awkwardly, “By five.” 

There are a lot of things I’ve ruined--but I never mess up when it comes to gambling. We’re all entitled to our talents and mine are destruction and trickery. “I’ll have six times this amount before midnight.” 

A little cocky, but it’s well deserved. I stroll up to the table easily, comforted by the fact that Anya’s only a few feet away. 

“You’re playing this round?” 

I smile politely, used to this kind of hesitance. “I think I’d like to try it.” The mock-hesitance in my voice burns coming up, but the dumber I seem the faster I make up my money. The rest of the participants snicker. Expected. I’m going to enjoy taking their money. “I can pay if that’s the issue.”

The sound of me fishing through the small bag of golden coins silences the men at a table. The man closest to me, the one with smooth brown skin and a smile I imagine has convinced many people to play into sins for him, leans forward slightly. I let him peek at the coins, the more they want my money the more they’ll believe my lies. 

“How much to enter?” 

A tall man snorts. I fight back the urge to glare. 

“Three of those coins should do.” The boy next to me is decent enough to answer. I’ll steal from him least. “I’m Jesper.” 

I’ve been to enough clubs to know when a man is attempting to find company for the night. I hope the playful niceness I see in him is real. “Kamil.” My sister’s name is salt water on my tongue. 

The first game is easy enough to throw. The second, I have to work at a little more--their smugness is killing me. I pretend to be ready to step away from the table.

“Where are you going?” 

I shrug at the stranger. “I shouldn’t lose any more money, my father won’t be happy with me as it is.” 

The stranger leans forward, glancing at his chips. “We don’t want a girl like you in trouble at home--why don’t we up the stakes? You win this next hand, and you’ll win double what I did.” He pauses, eyeing my drawstring bag, “Of course--you’ll have to be willing to risk a matching sum.” 

Awful odds. “Deep odds,” Jesper mumbles, “Consider cutting your losses.”

Jesper is a better person than the other men here. I almost feel bad he’s going to be losing any money. “One more game won’t kill me,” I smile as politely as I can manage, “Besides--my luck could be about to change and I’d never know.” 

I hand the coins over to the dealer. I watch as the money is shuffled onto the center of the table, suppressing the grin of someone about to release her killshot. Ten minutes later, I’ve doubled what I’ve lost. The man who upped the bet is gaping, Jesper’s expression has shifted entirely, and everyone’s staring at me like I’ve shifted into another person entirely. 

“Wow--luck really does change quickly here.” I’ve hooked them. They’ll want to play again, to prove that my victory was a fluke. “Do you guys want to play again? It only seems fair I give you a chance to win back everything you just lost since you did the same for me.” 

Everyone’s quick to agree, but I’m quicker to win the second round. Some men look murderous, some look ready to play again, their egos incapable of handling defeat at my hands. 

“You came in with a surprising amount of coins,” Jesper muses, reaching over to pick up a piece of gold that rolled towards him, “I hate to accuse you of counterfeiting, but one has to wonder.” 

Typical. “I swear my money’s real.” 

“Real money can take a bullet…” Is he going to shoot it...in doors? Jesper tosses the coin easily, letting it flip in the air before taking out a pistol and shooting it dead center in a movement so casually fluid and deadly I’m taken back. 

The coin clatters onto the table, the bullet embedded into the precious metal. I eye it cautiously, beyond relieved that Kenya at least doesn’t lie. “T-told you.” 

His eyebrows narrow as he reholsters his pistol. “About that, I guess you did.” 

Jesper’s skepticism is a red flag. I need to get out of here before my winnings are taken from me and Kenya kills me or Jace for my failure. “I didn’t take you for such a sore loser.” 

Before Jesper can respond, something black raps against the table once. “What did I tell you about loud noises at the table?” 

Jesper’s gaze leaves mine immediately. “Sorry boss, just checking a swindler.” 

He--he knows. I blink twice, forcing surprise to color my features. “Swindler?” I look between him and the man he called his boss. “N--no, it was just--luck. I played a hand, I lost some money, I played again and I won some money. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?” 

“You only started winning after the stakes were raised--I’ve seen that tactic before and it’s not appreciated here.” 

I swallow once, a pinch of dread making its way through my stomach. He had shot that coin with no hesitation--I didn’t even see him click off the safety. How dangerous is the man at my table? How dangerous is his boss? Everyone seemed to straighten at the sight of the stranger with the cane. 

“There was no tactic--it was a game.” 

The man I don’t know tears his gaze away from Jesper. “Someone like you shouldn’t even be here.” 

He has a point--my demeanor doesn’t exactly scream someone who frequents establishments at the Barrel during the night. “I’m only here to keep my friend out of trouble.” A fair enough response. “And I played a game and someone can’t handle a loss.”

“You should have seen her bluff, I’ve met professional thieves that lie less fluently than her.” 

At Jesper’s words, the stranger’s grip around his cane tightens. I imagine that beneath his gloves, the color of marred souls, his knuckles are white. “Who do you work for? Who sent a girl to invade my business?” 

Who do I work for? No one that has any business with him. “What?” How self absorbed can one man be? 

“If playing the fool didn’t get you through a card game--don’t think it will get you through this.” 

What? Before I can question him, Anya grabs my shoulder, pulling me so that there’s a safer distance between me and the man. 

“You’re an idiot,” her whisper is pointed, directed solely at me. “Of course you’d find trouble with Dirtyhands.” Did I hear that correctly? Dirtyhands--as in the Dirtyhands? I stare at her, eyes wide. How had I been so stupid? I should have recognized him from his gloves alone. Anya turns her head towards them. “We don’t want any trouble--forgive my friend, she’s not a spy she’s just an oblivious idiot.” 

“Rude.” 

She throws me a glare. “But she did win.” The money isn’t worth the trouble we’ll find trying to keep it but Kenya’s words follow us wherever we go. “We’ll take what we earned and never come back.” 

“I don’t concede often.” 

I reach for Anya’s arm, brushing her forearm in hopes of telling her things will be okay. Kaz Brekker may be feared, but we’re gods in the making. “Neither do we.”

He seems to want to play at an odd, power-filled standstill, but Anya and I are more desperate than him. Anya leans forward, ready to take the money from the table, but the unidentified man who upped the stakes earlier is quick to grab her forearm. 

“I don’t take losses, little girl.”

Anya. I can only imagine the horror she feels when a strange man touches her. Screw precaution. “Is that money worth burning for?” 

“Y/n.” Anya’s warning comes out low; Jesper raises an eyebrow. I guess being Kamil was short lived. 

“Excuse me?” 

The man will not intimidate me. Fear is a crutch men use to keep women in check. “You heard my question.” I hold up my hand, releasing enough energy to develop a flame in my palm. “And if your answer is ‘no’, I suggest you release my friend before your body is nothing more than a pile of ash your own mother wouldn’t even be able to identify.” 

The stranger blinks, touches the gun on his hip, and then releases Anya’s arm. 

“You can’t come into my club, hustle money away from my men, and walk away unscathed because you’re a grisha.” 

Words cannot express how badly I do not want to speak to Kaz Brekker at any point in my life. His grip on his cane is a silent warning--a threat. But what is a man’s threat to a girl that’s meant to be a god? “You can kill me but I’ll use my dying breath to burn this entire building.” I’ve publicly backed him into a corner--I’m insane. 

Dirtyhands opens his mouth to reply, anyone within earshot holding on for his next words. Anya yanks me back as the sound of something explosive interrupts the room. A bullet flies past directly where I was standing and strikes the wall behind me. Anya just saved my life. Someone just shot at me. 

“Y/n, do you think it’s--” 

“No.” It can’t be. There’s no way a soldier found me again. “It can’t be--we were--we’ve been careful--and Kenya said they wouldn’t look for me--that he purchased me fully.” 

A man is moving through the crowd. A blue kefta. No. No. 

Not here. Not now.

And why are they shooting at me? “Anya,” I breathe out as cautiously as possible, “Run and no matter what don’t turn around.” 

“I’m not leaving you.” 

Anya. Always the older sister. “They don’t want you--they want me.” 

“You’re not a real Sun Summoner--it’s suicide for you.” 

I don’t have the heart to tell Anya I don’t particularly care about my life. It’s never truly been mine anyway. “I’ll make it out.” 

“You’re an inferni, not a miracle worker.” 

My lips pull into an odd sort of grimace. The gentle kind one hopes is mistaken for a smile. “I thought we were meant to be gods.” 

“A god can’t do what they want from you.” She mumbles. “So you’re capable of producing more fire than most--it’s not the same as creating light. It doesn’t matter how many drugs they pump into you it’s--” 

I shake my head once, “Anya--go.” 

“They want you to play Sun Summoner.” Dirtyhand’s tone is too smooth to trust. I know when someone’s trying to sell dreams that don’t exist. “The way they’ll have you do it will cost you, but the way I’ll have you do it will be practically painless.”

Is he always this confusing? “What?” 

The question is an irritation, that’s apparent in the cold tint that takes over his practically blank expression. “I need a Sun Summoner for a business deal--and lucky for you I’m out of time.” 

“You don’t want to work with me.” 

“No,” his voice is dismissive, he didn’t understand I meant that as a warning, “But I need to have some form of mass light before sunrise.” 

“The man I’m indentured to will never go for it.” Proposing such an idea would leave me with a broken rib again. 

Dirtyhands nods once, a vague acknowledgement. “That’s not your problem.” I keep my jaw set, scanning at the crowd for a flash of that blue kefta. “After all, it wasn’t his problem when he hurt you.” 

I had been careful to hide the bruises. The reminders of my humanity. My weaknesses, my failures, written onto my skin in purple and blue ink. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I didn’t until I got that reaction.” I’ve never so quickly felt the need to loathe someone. “It was easy enough to assume--young girl, desperate for money, a grisha powerful enough to be hunted down.” 

Is that supposed to be some sort of consolation? “My freedom would never come so easily.” 

“It wouldn’t be freedom--you’d owe me more than you already do for the kruge scam.” 

I swallow before I can make the mistake of telling him I’d consider any escape from Kenya freedom. “Close enough.” 

The grisha’s closer now, the light blue kefta so easy to spot amongst a sea of darkness. “You’re running out of time.” 

“Can you get my friend out?” 

“Y/n.” She can be mad for the rest of her life if she wants. 

He nods his head once. “She’ll be out the back before anyone knows she was even here.” 

“And she can take the money I won.” Maybe the income will be enough to spare her from Kenya’s wrath. “That’s a dealbreaker.” 

Kaz Brekker hesitates. It’s such a normal pause I almost think it’s a trap. “If she takes it there will be no way out for you--you will do what I ask even if it endangers your life.” 

“Y/n, it’s not worth it.” 

I don’t look at Anya. “You have my word.” 

“Y/n, I’m not taking anything and I’m not leaving you.” 

I finally turn. “Don’t be a self-sacrificing idiot--it’s not in your nature and frankly it doesn’t suit you.” Acts of goodness towards me have always left me feeling raw. Too raw. Like I’m bleeding out. “Sorry, I just…” Anya’s eyes are soft. She knows. She always knows. “I’ll get through whatever it is he’s planning and I’ll come back.” I swallow once, nerve draining from my body slowly. “Take the money--Kenya will be angry enough as is.” 

Anya drops her gaze as she collects from the table. It takes me a moment longer than it should to recognize this is shameful for her. I consider telling her that she’s doing the right thing, but that would burn her heart more. 

“You’re my sister,” Anya’s voice is lower than it’s ever been, “I should have stopped him.” 

Her guilt hurts more than the bruises. “You were as hurt as me--you have nothing to feel guilty about.” 

This is already more emotion than we’re used to expressing when alone let alone around others. Anya stretches out an arm, squeezes my shoulder once, and then takes a step back. “I’ll see you again.” 

“Yes,” I nod once.

“Jesper, take the girl out the back.” Turning forward blankly, Kaz begins to speak to me, “Hide behind the bar--my wraith will find you and take you somewhere else.” 

“Y--you have a wraith?” And I thought Kenya was weird. He lets out a sigh. “Sorry. Not the time.” 

“Desperation leads to bad decisions.” 

Dramatic. “I agree.” 

His gaze falls on me, taking in my narrow-eyed glare. There’s a moment in which I think the left corner of his mouth twitches upwards, but then he turns his head again. A trick of the light. “Go before you’re found and I’m out the money I let your friend take.” 

Yes. I’m not exactly safe right now, but Kaz Brekker needs me for something. That means I will not be leaving this building. By force or willingly. 

Silently, I turn, melting into those in the crowd that are either oblivious or don’t care enough to react to the cat and mouse game I’m currently in. When I reach the bar, I’m quick to duck behind it, pressing my back against shelves of alcohol. 

[theskywaslookingback]

hands

“Somehow I thought the place would have been smaller,” Martin says, bag slung over his shoulder as he looks up at the cottage. “It’s nicer than I would have given Daisy credit for.”

Jon hums, pulling his bag out of the boot of the car they’d borrowed from Basira and letting the lid fall shut with a heavy thunk. The cottage sits nestled at the base of a large hill, surrounded by lush green grass and the last vestiges of summer flowers. Far off in the distance a couple of cows graze lazily, just small dark shapes in the dying sunlight. Bugs hum in the air around them. It’s small and quiet, just the kind of place Jon thinks Daisy might have liked, actually.

The cottage itself is stone painted a stark white, with dark blue, peeling shutters closed tight to the windows. One of the shutters lies broken on the ground, and the glass it had been protecting is spider-webbed with cracks. Two terra cotta flower pots sit on either side of the front door, both empty. There was no evidence that a welcome mat had ever been laid between them. To the left of the door was a box filled with what had once been firewood but was now damp with mist and rot. Jon shuddered to think about creatures they might find lurking in the bottom of that box.

“Charming,” Jon says, the corner of his mouth turned down in distaste. He finds the key in a false rock on the right side of the cottage, just where Basira had said it would be, and lets them inside.

It’s clear from the moment they step inside that Daisy had not visited this particular safe house in quite some time. The air inside the cottage is thick and unpleasantly cold, smelling of dust and age. Dust motes catch in the dim light of the bulb as Jon turns on the light, and he’s displeased to see cobwebs sitting stubbornly in the corners of the room. The wood floor looks old and worn, scratchy looking area rugs dotted along like haphazard patchwork quilt. Jon loathes to take his shoes off.

“Well,” Martin says from behind him, crowding in close, “at least the electric is working.”

Jon shoots a withering glare over his shoulder and steps inside, letting Martin close the door behind them. He drops his bag next to the uncomfortable mound of fabric that someone generous might have once called a settee and goes to check on the rest of the place.

Jon checks the taps in the kitchen and is relieved to find the water running. There’s an expired  box of Tetley’s in the pantry that will have to make do until they can make their way down to the village to do a proper bit of shopping, and a couple cans of peaches that might be passable as dinner or breakfast if he can convince Martin to eat them.

He can hear Martin moving about in the sitting room, the creak of the windows and shutters as Martin pushes them open to get the place aired out a bit. “Might be a bit chilly with the windows open,” Jon says.

“There’s a radiator,” Martin replies, “I’ll see about getting it on.”

“Right.”

The hall light flickers when he turns it on, but it gives him enough light to see by. The cottage itself has only four rooms - kitchen, sitting room, one bedroom, and one bath - and Jon can’t bring himself to be surprised that the only bed appears to be a full size. He checks the dresser drawers and finds them empty, thankfully, no nesting mice or other visitors.

The bed is a utilitarian thing. One pillow, though he’s frankly surprised it even has that, white sheets with tight tucked corners, and a navy blue duvet. Jon pulls it off the bed to shake off the dust and sneezes, his eyes watering. He opens the single window with a little difficulty, having to stand on his tip-toes to get it all the way open, and unlocks the shutters. Night has settled quickly over the little valley, but the moon is bright and nearly full, pouring silver light into the room.

When Jon makes his way back into the sitting room Martin is crouched in front of the radiator and frowning, the sleeves of his button down shirt rolled up to show the light brown skin of his forearm. He has a birthmark on his left arm, nestled next to the crease where his arm bends, a dark spot like a smudge of dirt that Jon wants to press his mouth to.

Jon clears his throat, the tips of his ears burning a little. “Any luck?”

Martin jerks a little, swinging his head up to look at him. Jon feels his mouth go a little dry at the sight if he’s honest. Martin’s dark hair sweeping over his forehead, those sleeves rolled back on those thick arms. He likes the look of Martin at work, those calm dark eyes fixed on a problem that Jon knows he’ll find a solution for. Martin sweeps his eyes over Jon, head to toe, before looking back at the radiator. “I don’t know what Daisy did to this thing, but I think it’s well and truly dead.”

“Did you try plugging it in?”

Martin gives Jon a glare worthy of one of his own and Jon feels his lips turn up into a grin without his permission. “It’s a gas radiator, Jon.” He sighs, “Hopefully the gas is just turned off and it’ll be an easy fix, but we’ll be stuck without it tonight.”

“That’s...not ideal.”

Martin hums in agreement.

Silence settles between them, a not unwelcome weight that Jon’s been getting used to the last few days. “Tea?” Jon asks after a moment for lack of anything more helpful to do.

“That would be lovely, actually. Did you find some?”

“Daisy had some in the pantry, it’s likely ancient, but--”

“Tea is tea.”

Jon wrinkles his nose but doesn’t outwardly disagree.

“I’ll just get some things put away then,” Martin says, picking his bag back up off the floor. “Do you want me to take yours?”

“Leave it. I’ll get it later.”

“Alright.”

Jon finds Daisy’s kettle under the sink and starts to wash it out when he hears Martin say something from down the hall. He turns off the water. “What?”

Martin appears in the entry, biting his lip. “There’s er, there’s only one bed.”

Jon furrows his eyebrows. “I’m aware. I saw the bedroom, Martin.”

“Yeah it’s just--“ Martin trails off, his cheeks flushing. “How are...how are we going to sleep?”

Jon remembers the two days they’d spent in his flat, sleeping in the same bed, their hands tangled together even when sleeping because the thought of being separated was too much to bear. But that had been right after Jon had walked Martin out of the Lonely, so he supposes those were extenuating circumstances, Martin needing an anchor to find himself again. It should be a relief that Martin feels safe enough to want a little distance again, but mostly it just sets off a dull ache in his chest.

Jon feels a sharp pain in his jaw and realizes he’s been clenching his teeth and makes an effort to relax, though his shoulders feel pinned next to his ears. Jon goes back to washing out the kettle, filling it with cool water to boil. He avoids Martin’s eyes and says, “I think there might be some spare linens in the closet. I can take the couch.”

Martin shifts, the old wood floor creaking under his foot. “Are you sure? It doesn’t look very comfortable.”

Jon shrugs. “I’ve slept on worse, when I do manage to sleep. It’ll be fine Martin.”

“Alright. If you’re sure.”

“I am.” Jon says with a finality he doesn’t feel.

He finds a couple of mugs in the cupboard that he rinses out before filling with water and letting the tea bags steep. He brings the mugs back into the sitting room and sets Martin’s down on the table. He takes a sip of his own and grimaces. It’s vile, but far from the worst tea he’s ever had so he makes himself drink it.

Martin appears a minute later from the bedroom  and takes his tea with a grateful little thanks before taking a sip and making a face.

“Tea is tea.” Jon mumbles.

“I’m not sure this still qualifies.” Martin says but drinks it anyway.

They drink the rest of their tea in silence. Martin volunteers to do the washing up while Jon gets his own things put away.

Martin has left him half the dresser for his clothes and made a space for him on the bathroom counter. It feels almost too intimate, their toothbrushes resting side by side, their clothes in the same drawer. Jon tries desperately not to think about it as he changes his clothes for bed and rifles through the little linen closet for a set of sheets.

He finds a set of dark gray sheets and a threadbare red throw blanket that he drags back out into the sitting room. The settee is as uncomfortable as it is ugly, hardly more than a couple of boulders masquerading as a sofa; Although, Jon has spent many a night sleeping on the floor or bent over his desk at the Archives, so maybe he has no real right to complain.

Martin turns off the kitchen light and waits awkwardly for him to finish, hovering around the edges like he wants to say something but doesn’t have the words. “Are you going to be warm enough?” He finally asks, eyes locked onto the throw blanket. The fabric is almost sheer in spots from wear and dotted with holes along one edge.

The chill is almost impossible to ignore, but Jon just shrugs, a jerky up and down motion of his shoulders. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, if you’re--“ Martin bites his lip, “Okay. Good night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.”

Martin disappears into the bedroom, turning the hall light off, and Jon lets out a shaky breath when he shuts the door behind him with an audible click.

*

Moonlight seeps in through the open windows, the chirp of crickets ringing along the countryside, a chill settling across the fields as if to prove winter will be along soon. Even in his long sleeve and trackie bottoms, two pairs of socks pulled up over his feet, Jon shivers. He keeps staring at the ceiling, tracing along crisscrossing cracks with his eyes. He kicks his feet and wraps the blanket further up his shoulder and tries to relax. The walls creak and shudder, old pipes groaning and settling inside the wall. Jon throws an arm over his eyes and tries not to think about it. He’s almost asleep when he hears the floorboards start to creak, the soft padding of footsteps coming from the hall.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice is soft, a little strained and raspy like he’s anxious, “Are you still awake?”

Jon sits up, rubbing a hand down the side of his face. “Yes, I’m still awake.”

“Oh,” Martin says. Jon can’t quite see him, can just make out the shape of him, long legs and broad shoulders. His arms wrapped around himself like he can’t keep warm. “It’s...it’s cold, isn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“Might--” Martin clears his throat, “Might be easier if we slept together, yeah? Until we get the heating back up.”

“Are you--” Jon pauses, picking at a loose thread on the blanket, “Would you be okay with that?”

“Would I?” Martin blurts, “I, uh, would you? Be okay with that?”

“Of course. We shared before.”

“Yeah we…” Martin takes a step further into the room. The edges of him blur just a bit, and what Jon can make out of his face looks exhausted. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t, it--” Jon chokes on his own honestly, the lump of it hard and solid in his throat, “It’s okay when it’s you.”

Martin’s mouth drops open into a little ‘o’, a shocked exhale of breath coming from him.

Jon immediately wants to take it back. It’s too much, Jon knows, he’s always been too much at exactly the wrong time. He curls his fists into the blanket pooled at his waist, fighting back the sharp wave of panic that ‘this is it, this time he’s ruined it for good’.

“Okay,” Martin says softly, his lips turning up into a small smile that’s both soft and a little sad, “come on then, maybe we can still get a few hours in before sunrise.”

Jon swallows hard. The panic sits there in his chest, silent and waiting. “Okay,” He chokes out, “alright, let me just--” He gets up and takes the blanket with him, just to have something to do with his hands and follows Martin into the bedroom.

It’s just as cold in here as the rest of the house, but the way Jon’s fingers are trembling has nothing to do with the cold. He picks the side closer to the window, if only so he has something to stare at when he can’t sleep. Martin curls up next to him. The bed is so much smaller than his own back in London. Martin has to draw his legs up just to fit on the mattress, too tall and wide for the little bed. Jon fits just fine, but he’s a little worried about rolling off the mattress during the night. They’re perched precariously, sharing the same pillow, Martin’s warm breath at the back of Jon’s neck.

Eventually Martin sighs. “Here,” He says, shuffling a little behind Jon, “Can I--?” He hovers his hand over Jon’s waist.

It doesn’t-- it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just that the bed is too small for two grown men, despite one being below average height, and it’s cold besides. That doesn’t stop Jon’s heart from beating hard and loud in his chest though, as he slowly nods.

Martin’s hands are large and strong and lovely. Jon’s breath catches when Martin’s arm curls around his waist and he’s pulled back against Martin’s chest. He can feel Martin’s heart beating against his back, thudding almost as loud and hard as his own. Martin’s fingers settle over his stomach, splaying out. Jon thinks his hand could almost cover it completely and it sets off another round of shivering in him that has nothing at all to do with the cold.

“Alright?” Martin whispers.

“Yes.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m-- it’s cold, Martin.”

Martin hums thoughtfully and lets go of Jon for just a moment, long enough to pull the duvet up higher around them before settling his hand back against Jon’s stomach. Jon curls his own hands in front of his face and grabs the blanket so hard his knuckles ache.

“Night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.”

Jon is sure there’s no way he could fall asleep like that, pressed so close to Martin that he can feel the warmth of him all along his body, but eventually he does.

[READ THE REST ON AO3]

[mandos-sluts]

Ending 3: She’s Coming with Me

Wordcount: 1.7k

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, blow job, dirty talk

Summary:  Fed up with your creepy boss, Mando convinces you to be his permanent mechanic

Story beginning

Ending 1 and Ending 2

The next day, you’re working on some wires below the ship and hear footsteps approaching.

“I just have to rewire the calcinator and then I’ll be done.” You call out.

“Come with me.” You hear Mando’s modulated voice say.

“Huh?” You slide out from under the ship to see Mando standing directly above you.

“Come with me.” He repeats. “I could use a permanent mechanic.”

You stand up. “I’m content with my current job.” You state, looking back at the wires you were working on.

“I have the credits to pay you well.” He says in an assertive tone. He’s standing about a foot away from you.

Honestly, traveling around the galaxy with a Mandalorian bounty hunter sounds kind of exciting, and you could use a change of scenery. While this job does pay fairly well, it is the same thing every day. And your boss is the absolute worst; he’s a middle-aged creep who specializes in sexually harassing his female employees and taking more than his fair share of your payments.

Still, it’s a stable job and you have built a good reputation for yourself. You cross your arms. “It’ll take you more than that to convince me, I have many loyal customers that pay well.”

“I can offer you much more than they can, pretty girl.” Mando says inching closer to you. Pretty girl. These words go straight to your cunt.

“Is that so?” You say nervously.

Mando lightly pushes you against the outside of his ship. “Why don’t I show you.” He says moving his hand to the hem of your pants. You look down at his hands as he unbuttons your pants. “Tell me to stop and I will.” He says softly.

Your heart is pounding and you look back up at him. You feel his hand slip under your wet panties and he runs his gloved finger in your folds. He then abruptly shoves his digit into you and begins pumping it fast. Your mouth falls open at sudden penetration. “...ahhhhh.” You squeal in a high-pitched and breathy voice.

“Come on, baby girl, don’t make me beg.” Mando says, leaning his helmet against your forehead.

He continues to ram his finger in and out of you. Your back is flat against the ship and your hands down by your side. Mando’s other hand is next to your head with his palm against the metal wall.

“I– ”

“What the fuck is this!” You hear a voice yell. You peel your eyes away from Mando’s visor and see your boss walking angrily into your station.

“Mr. Calican!” You gasp as your heart drops. Mando casually turns his head behind him to look at your boss. He stops pumping his fingers but keeps his hands where they are, acting as if he couldn’t care less that someone has walked in on him fingering you.

You urgently pull Mando’s hands out of your pants and button them back up. Panic and shame are written all over your face.

“What the fuck is going on!!!? Is this how you’re accepting payment for your work!? You fuckin skank!” Your boss screams at you. “Get the fuck over here!” He yells pointing to the ground.

You instinctively take a step forward, headed to your boss when Mando grabs your arm. “She’s coming with me.” He states firmly.

“Who the fuck are you?” Your boss spits out. “You’re not taking that bitch anywhere!”

“Talk to her like that again and you’ll be sorry.” Mando says as he puts his hands on your waist and motions you to the open ramp of the ship.

“Hey! You need to pay for your repairs!” Your boss shouts as the two of you walk up the ramp.

“I already have. It's all going to her.” Mando says, looking back.

“What! No! Gimme my cut!!” He yells.

The Mandalorian stands in the doorway. “Congratulations on losing your most talented mechanic, asshole.” He says as the hatch closes, leaving your boss standing there fuming.

********************************

The first thing you do on the Crest is take a shower. You replay the situation that just transpired over and over again in your head: Mando fingering you against the ship, Mando telling your boss to fuck off. Fuck, you are so fucking horny. You step out of the shower, so turned on and desperate for the same kind of attention that Mando had given you earlier.

“Hey.” You say walking into the cockpit.

“Hello.” Mando says turning his head to the side, not looking all the way back at you.

“So I wanted to say thank you for this opportunity.” You say walking toward his chair. You lean on the control panel beside him and stare directly into his visor. You’re wearing a thin tank top that your nipples are poking through and short shorts. He looks you up and down. Your smooth skin is beautiful, and he can smell your enticing scent through his helmet.

“Of course.” He says, turning his head back to look out the ship’s front window.

“And I just wanted to show you how grateful I am that you saved me from that skug hole.” You say bringing your hand to his thigh. You slowly lower yourself to your knees.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do that.” Mando says, lightly grabbing your arm.

“I know.” You return as you run your hand up his thigh. “But the ship doesn’t need any maintenance right now, so what else am I supposed to do?” You say in a sultry manner.

You maneuver yourself between Mando’s legs; a tent has already formed in his pants. You unbutton his trousers and release his enormous cock. You exhale loudly at the sight of it.

You bring your lips to his groin and slowly lick his shaft up and down.

“Fuck.” Mando says under his breath. “What a good fuckin girl you are.” You take the tip in your mouth and swirl the head of his member with your tongue. Mando’s eyes are glued to you as you wrap your lips around his cock. He sets one of his hands on your head.

You lower yourself on his dick and put as much of his length in your mouth as you can. With one hand on his thigh and the other wrapped around the bottom of his cock, you begin moving your head up and down.

He lets out a deep modulated growl. He lies his head back so that it’s resting on his chair and closes his eyes. *see gif* “I wanted to shove my cock in that pretty little mouth of yours the second I saw you.” He says.

You moan out at his words and close your eyes. Your pussy is pulsing and you can feel that your panties are soaking wet. You move your hand from his thigh down to your cunt and begin circling your clit. The pleasure prompts you to bob your head even faster.

Mando grunts at this and looks back down at you. “Fuck!” He spits out. “Are you fingering yourself?!” Your eyes shoot open and look directly at his visor. “You’re gonna be such a good live-in cockslut for me, aren’t you?” He says, tightening his grip on your hair ever so slightly. “Pfftt. Sucking my cock while I’m piloting the ship... Finger yourself harder you needy little thing.” He commands. You start circling your clit faster and harder and your eyes fall closed again. You let out a series of high-pitched and muffled “mmmmmm!”

“Can’t wait to have your tight little pussy wrapped around my cock.” Mando says as his breathing picks up.

You remove your hand from the base of his length and take even more of his cock into your mouth, gagging as you try to open your throat.

“Look at me.” Mando orders in a deep stern voice. “I want you to look at me while you choke on my cock.” You open your eyes and tears start forming in the corners of them.

“Can’t believe you’re mine to fuck whenever I want. You’re so– uhhhhhh– so fuckin perfect, fuck.”

All of the sudden you hear something beep. A hologram of Greef Karga appears on the dashboard in front of Mando. He can only see the top half of Mando’s body through the hologram on his end.

“Mando.” Greef says.

“Greef. What– what is it?” Mando returns.

“There’s a bounty on Tatooine that needs to be collected as soon as possible. Can you take the job? The payout is high.”

You continue bobbing your head and start to suck a little bit harder. You can feel his cock getting stiffer. You move one your free hand to grab his balls. Mando flinches.

“Sh– sure.” He stutters.

“Great. I’ll send you their coordinates and information.” Greef says.

Mando glances down and thrusts his hips up while holding your head in place. You gag as your nose hits his stomach, trying your best to breathe through your nose. Spit is dripping from your chin onto the floor by your knees.

“Are you alright–”

“Yes.” He returns quickly and turns off the hologram. Greef’s projected figure disappears from the control panel as you feel hot juices fill your mouth and spew down your throat. “Fuuuccckkkkk.” Mando moans out as his breathing slows down.

You slide his cock out of your mouth and take a deep breath.

“Open your mouth.” He says as he lazily grabs your chin. “I wanna see your mouth coated in my cum.” You open your mouth and stick out your tongue while batting your eyes. Your tongue is covered in his sperm.

Mando traces your bottom lip with his finger, gathering the cum and spit that are dripping off of it. He sticks the digit in your mouth.

“You’d better get used to getting filled with my load, pretty girl.” Mando purrs.

[darling-i-read-it]

Dinner

Part 1

RE7 Rewrite Masterlist

Ethan Winters x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: spoilers for re7, violence, injuries, blood, gross rotted stuff

Author’s Note: Is this going to be a shit ton of work? Yes. Am I going to have copious amounts of fun with it? Also yes. I really hope you all like the first part!

Summary: The beginning of the game through the dinner that the Bakers hold for Ethan.

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator. Some of these lines are directly from the game so they may sound familiar.

(not my gif) (this is a mia winters hate blog)

The car underneath you was bumpy. You looked out the window, your thumb up to your mouth as you watched the ragged scenery pass by you. You tried to take even breaths, not thinking about what was to come. You would much rather not think about what was coming. All it did was stress you out.

Ethan drove the car beside you. His face was forward and focused. He could find Mia. Probably. The windows were down, trying helplessly to get air flow inside the car. You swatted a bug off your arm.

“I hate Louisiana,” you muttered. “Where even is Dulvy?” Ethan scoffed and shrugged.

“The place where Mia emailed us she was,” he said.

“No shit Winters.”

You had been Mia’s closest friend before she went missing. Just before she went missing she spilled her guts to you about everything that she had done, all of the bad and the lying. After she disappeared you told Ethan about it. You and Ethan didn’t know each other well but after Mia went missing you were all each other had. You shared her secrets, you pooled together your knowledge, you grew close.

Now, even three years later you were each other's closest companion.

Mia had emailed both of you, telling you to come and get her. Naturally you went together, in hopes that by not going alone you would be safer. It didn’t help the rising worry in your chest though.

“You really think she’s out here?” you asked quietly.

“I don’t know. It seems we didn’t know her at all,” he muttered. He was still hung up on the fact that she lied to him. You didn’t blame him.

“Why did you come? I mean, I get she’s your wife but I almost didn’t. I figured you know, she lied to me our whole friendship. She worked for some sort of evil organization. Good riddance to her,” you said. Ethan had been thinking the same thing. But when he got that email he couldn’t help it.

“I want to know what happened to her. And I want to know why she lied,” he said bitterly. You nodded and looked back out the window.

“Well I guess we’re going to figure that out.”

====

You came up to a large looming house. It was in the middle of nowhere. God only knows how they got groceries. You and Ethan started to walk up to the gate.

“Pff, a house in the middle of nowhere and they have a gate?” you muttered quietly. There were chains keeping it shut. “You think you could climb it?” He scoffed.

“No. You?” You shook your head. You gestured to a well worn path.

“This way it is then.”

The two of you walked your way through the path. There were crows hung from the trees and cow legs tied up to make some sort of circle. Ethan grabbed your arm before you could go through the cow leg entrance.

“Let me go first,” he muttered. You turned around to him and shrugged.

“Alright Winters. I’m right behind you.”

The path led the two of you to what looked to be the back of the main house. There was a swinging chair that you passed up to the decrepit house.

“What the fuck did Mia do?” you asked quietly. Ethan looked over at you as he kicked open the door.

“Wish I knew.”

You took a step inside. It stunk. After going through another door you came down a hallway and then a kitchen area. The place looked like it hadn’t been used in years. Ethan opened up the fridge. Rotted food was inside. He gagged.

“Gross,” he muttered. You looked in one of the pots.

“I think there’s something moving in here.”

You ventured further into the house. You went upstairs and looked around, noting a tape on the desk up there. You picked it up, turning it in your hand.

“You see a fuse up there?!” Ethan yelled. You came back down the stairs, shaking your head.

“Just this tape.” You handed it to him.

“There’s a VHS player in there. Let’s watch it, maybe it has something to do with Mia,” he suggested. You nodded a bit and followed him into one of the rooms. It was dark. You were just happy that Ethan remembered to bring some flashlights.

He stuck the tape into the player and the two of you sat down. Before long there it started up. A story started to play out about some men filming for a TV show. They seemed disinterested in the house and then it came into focus that one of them had disappeared in the house. They pulled a level under the fireplace and climbed down a ladder to the level below you.

At the end the man who had gone missing seemed to be distorted, his face stuck in a pipe downstairs. You grabbed Ethan’s arm worridley and he took the tape out, turning off the TV.

“I guess the only way to go is down,” he muttered. You nodded a bit and looked over at the fireplace.

“After you Winters.”

Ethan pulled the lever and the small door opened. You both climbed through it, to the latter. He glanced at you before climbing down. You watched as he descended into the darkness. The latter broke and he fell.

“Damn,” he muttered. He stood up and looked up at you. “You’ll have to jump.”

“No fucking way.”

“Yes way. Come on.” You looked back and took a deep breath. Then you looked down at him.

“We won’t be able to come back up,” you said.

“I already can’t. You gonna leave me?” You nodded a bit and sat on the edge. He put his arms up in the air and you hopped down. He grabbed you to help you landing. You wiped yourself off and looked around.

“No going back now,” you muttered.

You walked forward and through some water before coming to a prison door.

“Mia?” he muttered as he leaned forward. You nodded, turning around and grabbing some bolt cutters that were lying around. You cut open the chains that were holding it closed. You tossed it to the side. Ethan rushed forward and to her. He shook her awake. She turned around, waking up.

“Ethan?” she muttered.

“Well I’ll be damned,” you whispered.

“Y/N?” she asked. You nodded. She stood up. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“What do you mean? You contacted us,” you explained, arms crossed. You looked around worriedly.

“No,” she said hardly. “No I wouldn’t! Did I?” She sat down and then quickly sat back up. “Did anyone see you? Did he see you?”

“He? Who else is here?” Ethan asked.

“What the fuck is going on?” you questioned.

“Daddy’s coming. We need to go,” she said, quickly grabbing his arm. He started to drag him away before grabbing your arm and pulling you away. You went through the door again.

“Where are you taking us?” you accused.

“Someplace safe,” she promised.

“You don’t seem to know where you’re going,” you said. She gave you a look.

“I will find a place,” she promised. You and Ethan shared a worried glance and kept close to each other. “Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” Ethan asked harshly.

“I am telling you everything I know.” You scoffed.

“Doesn’t look like it Mia.” She ignored you and kept walking. She pushed through a couple of rooms, looking disoriented.

“I remember the family used to bring me food through here.”

“The family?” Ethan asked. But again she ignored your questions and pushed on. Finally you came to a well lit room.

“There was a door here. Where’s the door?!” She asked, looking at a boarded up wall. She stumbled back and her demeanor changed. “We’re going to be a family now that you’re here.”

“What?” you asked.

“There’s another door here. I’m sure of it.” She walked over to a coach and leaned down over it, putting her head on the side. You walked into the other room, searching for another way out. Ethan followed close behind.

“She seems weird no?” you asked. He scoffed.

“I suppose you can say that again.”

There was some loud commotion in the other room. You both quickly turned around and found Mia gone, the boarded up door now crashed open.

“Mia?!” you called. You ran through the door and went upstairs to a different place. You and Ethan stayed close together as you came to what seemed to be the upper floor.

“Mia?!” he yelled. You barged through the rooms, opening up a bathroom door. On the counter there was a handgun. You scoffed to yourself and picked it up quickly, struggling with putting the loose bullets into it. Ethan came through the door. “I found a gun.”

“Me too,” you said. “Convenient. And worrying.” You couldn't find another way out so Ethan opened the door back to the basement.

“Maybe we can go back to the other house,” he suggested, walking down the stairs. You nodded and started to follow him when you saw Mia climbing up the stairs. Her face was odd, evil. Veins popped out of her skin, her eyes a dark color. She was crawling up the stairs.

“Ethan,” you muttered but then she was up in front of you, stabbing at Ethan. He just narrowly managed to hold her back as you backed up, trying to figure out how to use your gun. Finally you were able to shoot her a couple of times.

“I can hear her,” she whispered. “I can feel her crawling her way back inside of me.” She hit herself against the wall and then fell flat.

“What the fuck!” he yelled, her limp body as his feet. You shook a bit. You may not have liked her but you hadn’t wanted her dead. You had killed her. Ethan had his hands in his hair.

“We need to get the fuck out of here.” Just as you finished saying it, Mia stood up quickly stabbing at you. You screamed as Ethan shot her in the back and she quickly turned around, pinning him and putting her knife clean through his palm. You screamed for him and hit her over the head with your gun when you ran out of bullets.

She collapsed again. You ran back to Ethan.

“Fuck,” you whispered. You kneeled down beside him.

“Just pull it out,” he said, breathing between clenched teeth. You nodded and grabbed the hilt of the knife. You took a deep breath and then pulled the knife out of his palm. He groaned helplessly and held it to his chest.

“Oh God. Oh fuck Ethan,” you said grabbing his shoulder. The phone behind you rang. Ethan stood up before you even processed it, picking it up and putting it to his ear. He was quiet for a second, only saying curt responses. He hung up the phone after not long.

“It was some girl named Zoe. She said there was a way out in the attic.” You nodded curtly.

“It’s the best we got I guess.” When you walked back to where Mia was, she was gone. You grabbed the axe she had left and Ethan grabbed the knife.

The two of you went up to the attic and had a run in with Mia again. Before long she was down for the count but you had to move quickly. You were both injured and weak but you had a feeling this was just the beginning.

But yet again she got up, just as you had gotten the fuse to get to the attic.

“Mia I’m getting fucking sick of this!” you yelled, throwing the axe at her. She turned to you, a chainsaw in her hands. You looked at Ethan who was on the floor, his hand cut off. You gasped and tried to keep yourself together.

“He’s my husband! Not yours!” she screamed. She ran at you so hard all you had to do was move to the side before she could trip over her own momentum. You dug the axe into her head and she fell to the ground, the chainsaw stopping with her. You turned back to Ethan who had his severed hand in his other hand.

“Fuck Ethan.” Was all you were able to say before the world went black.

====

When you woke up again you were tied to a chair. You let out a harsh sigh and looked around wildly. You were at some sort of dinner table. As you came too you noticed that Ethan was sitting beside you, awake. His hand was stapled on.

There was a man, a woman, a boy and an older lady around the table as well.

“He’s not eating it Jack!” the woman yelled.

“Shut up woman!” There was a knock on the door outside.

“Goddammit,” the boy said. “I bet it’s those damn cops again.”

“Pigs,” Jack muttered. He pointed a knife at both you and Ethan. He stared at you a beat longer. “Don’t go nowhere.”

The woman, the boy and Jack left the room in opposite directions, grumbling. You and Ethan stared at each other.

“What the fuck,” you whispered, fear in your voice. He moved back and forth on his chair before it fell over and broke. He quickly stood up and helped untie you. “Is your hand okay?”

“It’s stapled on if you think that that’s okay,” he muttered. You both stared at the old lady but she seemed like she wasn’t going to move. You stood up and backed away into the living room behind you.

You grabbed Ethan’s arm and he had a tight grip on your side. You were shaking and he wasn’t going to let you go for jack shit.

“What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into?” you asked. Ethan shook his head, swallowing hard.

“I don’t know and I wish we didn’t have to find out.”

Part 2

[one-boring-person]

Hey!

I was wondering if I could request a Rambo x reader set in the first movie, if that’s alright, where the reader sees him walking through town and knows that Sheriff Teasle will try to bully him out of town so she pulls over and lies about them being old friends and then they go to eat or something? And the reader actually treats Rambo like a human being and thanks him for his service to his country when she finds out he is a veteran. Oh and could the reader be female please? Thank you very much! If not then that’s totally fine 😊

And I also wanted to say that your writing is amazing!!! And the reason I ended up watching Rambo in the first place 😆

Hope you have a great night/day!

Nfhfhhhf thank you so much! I'm so glad you like my stuff! And I got you into Rambo? Hell yeah!😂 I liked this request a lot, so I hope I've done it justice!

Respect Me.

John Rambo (First Blood) x reader

Warnings: mentions of war, mentions if death

Masterlist

For once, the truck sound system seems to be playing the tape flawlessly, lacking the usual stuttering and skipping it generally likes to include in the soft flow of music. Idly, I tap my fingers along with the gentle beat, the steering wheel moving easily in my grip as I guide the beaten pick-up truck out onto the main road, falling in line with the other traffic around me. The vehicle shudders a little as I change the gears, the old truck having never liked to do anything it should do, slowly moving into a more sustainable pace as I lean back in my seat, keeping my eyes trained on the road, with a half-eye kept on the sidewalk and nearby shops. A few Christmas decorations adorn the homely stores, though it's mostly left dull and bleak, as this town always has been. Once again, I find myself wishing I could just move away from here, start a new life somewhere else. 

Ahead of me, the traffic slows, allowing someone to turn into the main flow, giving me the time to glance out of the window, scanning the sidewalk a little way away. Oddly, a familiar police vehicle has pulled up just past a nearby junction, the driver leaning out of the window to talk to someone on the pavement, who I have yet to be able to see. The car is Sheriff Teasle's, the knowledge of which does not sit well with me - If he's pulled someone over, it's not for a good reason.

Checking my mirrors, I indicate off towards the sheriff, leaving the main flow as I follow the curb round, finally able to see who Teasle is talking to. Just as I feared, it looks as if he's pulled up a random person for yet another unfair interrogation. Frowning, I regard the solemn-looking man with interest, trying to ignore the part of me that finds his somewhat crooked features incredibly attractive, taking note of his obvious vagrancy: his hair is long and shaggy, clearly being left uncut for months on end, his dust-strewn parka and faded jeans showing signs of constant wear. From what I can see, Teasle is questioning him, most likely about the guy's purpose in Hope, though he doesn't seem particularly open to this encounter. Making up my mind, I cross my fingers and hope my plan now works.

Pulling up beside the two, I stop the car and climb out, plastering on a convincing grin as I go towards the dark-haired man, greeting him as I go.

"John! I didn't realise you were in town! You should've said something!" I exclaim, pleading the man with my eyes that he'll play along, though it's somewhat unlikely.

He gives me a shocked look, head snapping round at the sound of the name, hard eyes fixing on me with suspicion and hostility, the severity of the expression sending a shudder down my spine. Teasle also looks to me, frowning.

"And to think you were left to walk along here in the cold! Jeez, you really should have called or something, I could've picked you up!" I carry on, praying that he picks up the cue, "Oh, hello there, Sheriff, how are you?"

"Not bad, thanks." Teasle replies tightly, glancing between the man and I, "You know this guy?"

"Oh, yeah. John is a family friend." I lie, smiling brightly at the man in question.

"Yeah, it's been a long while, but I thought it was time to visit again." The man finally chips in, his husky voice stirring up butterflies in my stomach, "Wanted to keep my visit a surprise, though."

"Ah, well! You're here now, at least I can give you a lift back to mine." I offer him, ignoring Teasle's sceptical look.

Giving me a taut smile, which looks more like a grimace, the man steps towards me, shooting the Sheriff a glance as he goes. Doing the same, I smile pleasantly at Teasle, and say my goodbyes, climbing back into my car as my new passenger joins me, sliding cautiously into the seat beside me. Quickly, I pull back out into the traffic, heading away from Teasle as swiftly as possible. 

"Thank you for doing that." The dark-haired man murmurs after a moment, his hands clenching around his knees as he forces himself to look out of the windscreen. 

"No problem. Teasle's an ass at the best of times, best just to stay away from him." I muse, "Do you want something to eat? There's a good place just down the road from here." 

Turning to face me, the man frowns and watches my face, as if for signs of deceit, his quiet nature giving me the impression that he's probably quite acclimatised to being treated as such. 

"How do you know my name?" He eventually asks, voice quiet.

Now it's my turn to frown as I glance across at him.

"I don't." 

"You called me John earlier. How did you know that's my name?" 

Surprised, I double take, now realising how sketchy that must look.

"Your name is John? I had no idea! That's a lucky coincidence, clears up confusion later." I chuckle dryly, "Honestly, I picked the first name that came to mind. I had no idea that it's your actual name."

He watches me for a second longer, eventually appearing happy with my response, looking away again.

"What's your name?" He asks me after a further minute.

"Me? I'm (Y/n). (Y/n) (Y/l/n)."

"John Rambo." John nods, flicking some hair from his face, "And if you're still offering, I'd like to get something to eat, please."

"Of course." 

Pulling up to the diner, I park the car, climbing out as I check the cash I have on me, deeming it enough for two decent meals and some drinks, hoping that it won't be too busy at this time of the day. John follows me, leaving his bedroll in the car as we walk into the small restaurant, finding a seat at one of the window booths, sitting opposite each other. He's quiet, scanning the room as soon as he's sat down, body stiff as he unzips his parka, revealing a red woolen jumper underneath. What strikes me most, however, (apart from the obvious planes of rippling muscle) are the silver dog tags hanging around his neck, jingling every so often as he moves. 

A waiter comes over to us, handing us menus with a false smile, leaving us alone together again until we've ordered drinks, at which point he returns with the beverages. Stepping away again, John and I are left with some privacy. At this moment, I take a breath and ask him the one question on my mind.

"If you don't mind me asking, are you a soldier?" 

John visibly stiffens, eyes hardening a little.

"I was." Is all he says, tone flat.

"Did you serve in Vietnam?" I ask, unable to stop myself as my curiosity gets the better of me.

Once again, John seems reluctant to answer, and instantly starts to glance around, clearly watching for an escape route.

"Yeah." He affirms, gaze returning to me.

Shock fills me at this: I'd heard horrible things about the Vietnam War, about how the soldiers (on both sides) faced terrifying situations that I'd never dream of, my heart stuttering at this admonition. 

"Really? That's...wow, that's…" I go to say something, finding myself speechless as I stare at the man before me, admiring him now in a totally new light, "God, you must be a strong person."

He blinks.

"Huh?"

"Well, you've done what I'd never be able to do, you've faced deadly situations, you've probably been in harrowing conditions and fights, I'd never have the strength to do what you did. Very few people do, so you must be a very strong person, mentally." I tell him, still in shock, "You definitely did the country proud, and I respect you for everything you've done. Thank you for that."

He stares at me in shock, eyes wide, lips parted.

"You...What?" Is all he manages, voice hitching.

"I respect you, and admire your bravery. You're a better person than any of the rest of us ever could be." I repeat, smiling gently at him.

For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, his expression remaining as it is, his body tense as he processes what I've said, clearly not quite believing me.

"You...respect me?" He stammers, quietly.

"I do." I nod, taking a sip of my soda.

"Thank you." John murmurs, pulling a face as he looks away, "You wouldn't be saying that if you knew what kinda things I've done."

"What you did isn't relevant to me, only that you served the country, and you did it with bravery, so for that, you have my respect." I reassure him, telling him the truth. 

John stays silent this time, apparently too overcome for words.

"Do you...do you need somewhere to stay?" I finally break the silence that has descended on us, tapping a rhythm out onto the table.

"No, but I don't want to inconvenience you any more than I already have, so don't worry about it. I'll figure something out." The veteran shrugs, still a little taken aback.

"You're not inconveniencing me, I wouldn't ask if you were. I have space in my house if you want to take it." I offer him, once again smiling across at him. 

For the first time, John smiles at me, his features loosening as the expression crosses his face.

"I'll take it."

[seasonofthewicth]

nobody does it like you do - act 2

Thank you so much for all your reactions to part 1! I hope you enjoy part two just as much :)

CW: mentions of past minor character death (incl. a pregnant woman)

7.3k - masterlist - ao3

--

Her first day of shooting isn’t great. It’s not bad by a long way, but it could have easily been better. They’re on location in a forest somewhere in the outskirts of Rifthold and she didn’t even know there were places in the city like this, she’d assumed it was all the sprawling metropolis of skyscrapers and crowded streets, but apparently not.

She’s cold. There’s a machine beating down torrents of fake rain on her and Fenrys where they stand opposite each other on the muddy path through the trees, they’re filming the scene where their characters first meet. Her feet are soggy inside the canvas trainers she’s wearing and they keep spraying water on her hair to keep the wet look running throughout all of the takes and she hates it. She’s uncomfortable and stiff but she comforts herself with the knowledge that Fenrys is the same if the frown he wears whenever the camera isn’t on him is anything to go by.

It helps, barely.

She keeps having to spit water out of her mouth between lines, she swears it never rains this heavily in real life but who is she to comment, and she watches Rowan’s lips twist in displeasure where he sits behind the camera every time she does it. Aelin’s not sure what else she’s supposed to do, he can sit there out of the line of the water all fine, but she can’t speak with her mouth full.

It can take time to fall into the natural rhythm of shooting a new project, even the shitty ones she’s done in the past have shown her that, but there’s something about the way Rowan watches her that prickles the back of her neck, his stare intense and heavy as he watches, that adds the pressure. She wants to show him that she can do this. She wants his approval.

She ignores the reasons why.

After they finish and Rowan has called cut she sulks back to her trailer, she’s only just managed to change out of her sodden clothes when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Fenrys, warm and dry now in his own change of clothes.

They’ve sort of become friends recently, after swapping numbers after the table read he had texted her first. The studio has put him in the same complex as her and they’ve shared a car back there a couple of times after some of their meetings. She likes him a lot actually, and while she knows his reputation of infamy with the ladies follows him around like a bad smell, she feels comfortable with him.

“That could have gone better,” he tells her as he flops down onto the two-seater sofa at the end of her trailer, the other half has a mound of clothes dumped on it that she hasn’t bothered to sort through yet.

She just shoots him a look that she hopes says tell me about it.

“Tomorrow will be better,” he tells her, reassuringly. He would know she supposes, he has far more experience than her.

“I hope so.”

“How’re you finding it so far, working with Rowan?” he asks, and she frowns, bristling at the fact that he somehow knows the worst question to ask already. Aelin doesn’t think she’s behaved weirdly around Rowan since the day at the table read, in fact she’s tried to avoid him where possible. Maybe that’s it.

“Fine,” she says, but that’s not quite true. It messes with her in a dangerous way every time she knows he’s watching her. She should be able to turn that part of her brain off during a scene, she trained for years to learn how to do that, but he gets to her. She’s working on it.

Fenrys laughs, seeing right through her.

“He’s not bad once you get to know him, the first time we worked together I thought he was a total dick.” She gives him the same look as before as she clears the clothes and sits down next to him.

“I swear he’s not that bad. He’s just-” Fenrys pauses, weighing her up with a look, and something that he takes in from the way she stands, gnawing on her lower lip with her hair still wet, has him saying; “He’s got a lot riding on this.”

“Why?”

It doesn’t feel like he has a lot riding on this, his last piece was nominated for the Oscars, how much higher than that can you get? It’s not like he’s in the same position as her, desperately clawing herself back to a place where she can be cast in a role and it not be followed by a stunned, oh?

She knows there were articles written when her casting was announced that were doubtful of her ability to do this movie, that questioned whether she’s up to the task and whether she’s good enough to be standing next to names like Fenrys and Rowan. Some of the articles were straight up mean, and she only knows that because she searched them up like a masochist when all the ones Elide sent over were far too nice.

A dark part of herself can’t help but fall prey to some of the headlines. The ones that throw around words like nepotism, the ones that question whether Aelin is talented enough to be where she is cut deeper than any knife, and only half of it is because she sometimes wonders the same. She should be better than that, but the reminder catches in her throat that she really does have a lot riding on this.

“It’s not really my place to say.”

That’s a load of shit, and she tells him so. He only shrugs, not willing to so openly gossip about their boss.

“How well do you know him exactly?” She’s fishing for any details, but it definitely could be passed off as casual curiosity.

“He directed my debut, we keep in touch every so often.” He’s nonchalant. “He asked me to audition for this.”

“Nice humble brag.”

Fenrys only flashes her his movie star grin, in combination with the wink he throws at her it’s almost an effort not to blush.

“He wanted you cast, you know?” That she didn’t know, but it’s nice to hear.

“Why? He doesn’t know me.”

“You’re hard work, you know?” He’s joking but it doesn’t sit quite right. She knows it’s true. “Come with us tonight. There's a group of us getting dinner, and you can ask him yourself.”

It’s an olive branch. She knows it’s obvious to everyone that she’s uncomfortable, still hasn’t quite found her feet on set after taking such a break, and it’s one that she’s grateful for. No matter how closed off she knows she still seems to them.

“Okay,” she says and Fenrys’ smile is genuine and a part of her lifts, it’s a start.

They share a car to the restaurant and he fills the journey with easy chatter. She appreciates it because she feels really fucking rusty. It’s been a while since she spoke to anyone outside of her immediate circle of friends and family, and it’s always been easy with them. This is different, but not unwelcome.

Sometimes she worries that, as much as they love her, Aedion, Lysandra and Elide are inclined to tread lightly around her. She’d like to think that she’s not that fragile, that she could take the full front of their humour and teasing like she used to, but then remembers when Fenrys’ joke fell flat for her in the trailer and she thinks again.

Either way, the cast and crew here don’t treat her like she’s broken, or even breakable, and it’s refreshing.

Fenrys leads the way into the restaurant, and there’s definitely paparazzi down the street snapping away at them as they cross the short distance from the car to the door. She tries to ignore it, she’ll text Elide once they’re done here, even though Elide will probably be overjoyed. It’s probably (definitely) easier to publicise your talent when she’s out there doing things with other famous people compared to staying inside her home alone.

Fenrys greets the staff on the door and they lead them through the restaurant to a staircase at the back of the room and it leads up to a private space with only one table. Right, privacy. Some of these guys are proper celebrities.

They’re the last ones there, and there’s two seats left at the table. Manon is here, so is Rowan and one of the executive producers who she thinks is called Gavriel.

“Alright guys, you all know Aelin,” Fenrys says and she smiles as they greet her.

Fenrys holds a chair out for her, the one next to Rowan, and she slides into it as he takes the one on her other side.

Rowan offers her a quirk of his lips, one she returns as she takes him in. He’s wearing short sleeves this time and she gets a good look at the tattoo snaking the whole way down his left arm. It’s in the Old Language and she can’t read it, even though her father had spent hours trying to teach her when she was a kid, but the lettering is beautiful and neat. She wants to reach out and touch, to trace the lines that roll down his golden skin.

She doesn’t. Obviously.

A waiter comes over to take their drink orders, Fenrys gets a beer, Manon and Gavriel opt for wine, but Rowan asks for an orange juice. He’s not drinking either and she wonders if it’s related to the reason he needs this movie to go well. So she’s nosy? So what?

She sits back and observes as the conversation flows, laughing along at the easy banter that flows between the three men and the sarcastic quips Manon throws in. Fenrys clearly understated his relationship with Rowan, they seem tight and have a clear fondness for one another. It’s easy to slot herself in as the night progresses, snarking with Manon and joining in with the general light-hearted mockery of Fenrys.

She thinks maybe so far she’s got Rowan wrong.

Tonight he’s quick-witted and charming, and he makes his best effort to include her in the conversation which she appreciates. It’s a contrast to the dark and teasing side of him she’s seen so far in the hallway and the table read. Maybe he’s decided to just start again, pretend they never met before she was cast, and she can do that too.

“So, Aelin.” Manon turns the spotlight to her after a while. “Tell us the scoop. I’ve not seen you in anything for a while.”

It’s not a nasty question, Aelin can just tell from the way she asks it, nothing more than genuine curiosity lies in her tone even if the phrasing is somewhat harsh. Manon might not be the bubbliest of characters, she’s blunt and doesn’t beat around the bush, but she’s not unkind, and Aelin doubts if she knew the truth she’d ask that question in such a way.

Elide managed to keep the worst of her… career break? One could phrase it more like breakdown, out of the limelight. She somehow managed to keep the worst of it hidden, and Aelin will owe her that for the rest of her life.

All the world knows is that Sam was murdered when they were both still newbies to their respective industries, neither of them had had their big break yet, and after that she took a break. For three years.

She remembers the headlines from the time, most were in smaller magazines, Sam wasn’t famous enough to make the front pages. Her mouth tastes like bile.

Singer-Songwriter Sam Cortland, 20, murdered in random street attack in Orynth, girlfriend Aelin Ashryver unharmed and working with police to identify suspect.

No one knows she knelt there in his blood begging for him to open his eyes, not even Aedion, or Lysandra or Elide, and she blinks back the image now. Her hands are curled into fists below the table and she forces herself to uncurl them and lay them flat against her jeans.

“Yeah,” she says after clearing her throat. “I took a break from it all for a few years, but I’m back now obviously and really excited for it.”

Manon nods and Gavriel raises a glass. He’s been nothing but kind to her all night. He kind of reminds her of her father, though he’s not that old, probably not even forty yet. He’s softly spoken and counters each snarky comment from Fenrys or Manon with something softer but no less amusing.

“Good to hear,” Fenrys says with a grin, clinking his glass against Gavriel’s.

The way Rowan watches her as he raises his own glass in a toast to her, careful and without speaking, tells her he knows. At least the basics about Sam, and it seems like maybe he did google her just like she joked back at the table read.

Their meals arrive then, mercifully taking the attention away from her. She needs to find a better way to deal with the attention than shutting down, especially if this film is going to be as big as everyone thinks it will be. She should call her therapist.

She will.

Eventually.

They leave the restaurant not long after, Fenrys covering the bill, emphasising that this was a celebration and an initiation for Aelin. She almost blushes for some unknown reason at his words, but she likes it. It sounds good. Like she really is back, or at least will be.

They each give her their numbers, and she likes the way he’s in her phone now as Rowan rather than Rowan Whitethorn, it feels like he’s not just someone from work. Not just her boss.

They each say goodbye and share a series of embraces, ignoring the small group of paparazzi that follow, desperate for any kind of incriminating image of any of the five of them. It’s clear that most of them are here for Fenrys, but she still makes sure to keep her expression clear and guarded as Rowan wraps her into a one-armed hug when they leave. It’s not just for the paparazzi.

Back in her apartment, when she’s tucked up in bed knowing she should be asleep, she can’t stop herself from googling him. She’s honestly surprised she’s lasted this long.

The first few news articles to come up are all about the movie and she scrolls past them, instead pulling up his Wikipedia page and scrolling straight to the personal life section. Maybe this is the weirdest way anyone’s ever got to know a friend, but she’s intrigued and still slightly flustered by him so it will do.

The section on his personal life is relatively bare, and it doesn’t surprise her. His Instagram account alone told her pretty explicitly that he’s a private kind of guy. She almost scrolls away after the first few lines, they don’t give her much information other than the college he went to and the languages he speaks, but she reads the final few lines of the section anyway.

In March 2018 Whitethorn’s fiance, Lyria Woods, passed away as the result of a road traffic accident. The driver of the other vehicle was found to be under the influence of alcohol at the time of the accident and was later sentenced to 6 years in prison for death by dangerous driving. Woods was 12 weeks pregnant with their child at the time of the accident.

Only a couple of weeks after the Oscars that she and Lysandra watched. She does the maths and realises this is his first film since then and thinks she knows what Fenrys meant.

Fucking shit.

Her second day of shooting goes better than the first, just as Fenrys said it would.

She’s more relaxed when she crosses the set from her trailer with a coffee in hand and she thinks she knows her place a little better now, even after only one night spent with the others.

She lies back while her make up is done, chatting to the make-up artist instead of sitting silently like the day before, and she’s almost ready for the discomfort that her wet hair will bring. The weather adds to the atmosphere of the film, dark and dreary and moody, and she gets why they’re doing it, but it still sucks.

Fenrys is ready when she gets there, and while she’s not avoiding Rowan today after finding out about his… past, she just finds it difficult to look him in the eye knowing what she does. He probably wouldn’t be surprised that she knew, if it’s on Wikipedia it’s public knowledge and they have made jokes about googling each other, but she feels weird in a way that she didn’t learn it from him. It feels intrusive, or invasive, to find out about something like that through Wikipedia.

But even though they bonded somewhat last night, and he greeted her this morning with an easy hey, they’re still not close. No matter that she thinks she might want them to be. She’s trying again to ignore the way she feels drawn to him, the way her eyes seek him out without her permission.

She knows she kills the take. Knows it from the high five Fenrys slaps against her palm once Rowan’s called cut and from the swift nod he offers her when she glances towards him.

There seem to be two Rowan’s too, there’s the award winning director Rowan Whitethorn, and then just Rowan.

Rowan Whitethorn is cool and calculating and distant, quiet while he watches their scene from his place behind the camera, the big black headphones he uses pushed down around his neck. His eyes are as sharp as a hawk’s while he watches for all the minute details of their expressions and any improvements they could make. He doesn’t give her that many she’s pleased to note.

The way he instructs them is impressive, with clear directions and thoughtful analyses. She’s been here two days and she knows how he got the Oscar nomination, he’s scarily intelligent and seems to know exactly what’s off about a performance before she figures it out herself.

The other side to him, the side that is just Rowan is…

Just Rowan is the one she likes more.

She suspects the smile he gives her later, after they’ve nailed the bulk of the scene in one take and she’s being twirled around by Fenrys, comes from him.

She has two full days off in a row, and she decides the best use of her time is to go and stay with Aedion and Lysandra. Fenrys isn’t free, and the reason she is is that he has a load of solo scenes to shoot, and she doesn’t envy him at all.

Lysandra is ecstatic when she announces via a group text to her and Aedion that she’ll be at their house for lunchtime, and she loves it, but it makes her feel a little guilty. That she’s let it get to the point when her friend reacts like that at her promise of a visit is quite frankly appalling, but she finally feels as if she’s taken the first step. She’s on the bottom rung of the ladder, and it’s taken her a while, but she’s there now.

Aedion and Lysandra live in a disgustingly big house in a gated part of the suburbs, and she knows the house isn’t exactly what they would have chosen in an ideal world, it’s too big and garish and grey, but there are gates by the entrance and 24 hour security.

It still messes with her head that Aedion is that famous. Aedion. Her gangly cousin, always too tall for his own good, who used to pull her hair when they were kids and sneak her extra helpings of cake at family parties before her parents divorced. She doesn’t know that much about football, so little in fact that her dad and Aedion teased her relentlessly for years, but everyone tells her he’s good.

Like really good.

The salary he gets from the Ravens is more than enough proof.

She rings their front door bell and she can hear Lysandra’s quick steps before the big wooden door is pulled open.

Her friend is glowing. Her dark hair falls into waves near the end and her staggeringly beautiful face is free of any make-up and unblemished and dewy. She’s had time to get over the insecurities that come from being friends with Lysandra so it barely phases her as she wraps her arms around her friend.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers into Lysandra’s hair. It smells like coconut and citrus and just Lysandra.

“I missed you too. So much,” Lysandra sighs as she pulls back, dragging Aelin into the house and shutting the door.

Their hallway is grand and open but there’s a pile of their shoes by the wall and a rack of coats that make it feel more homely. There are framed photos carefully arranged on the sideboard in the entry way that show the two of them with their whole family and all of their friends.

There’s one on there of Aelin and Lysandra at eighteen, their arms thrown tightly around each other while they grin massive, excited smiles at the camera, or more likely Elide behind it. She remembers the day it was taken, Lysandra had signed to her first agency and arranged to move to Rifthold, and they had taken her out to celebrate.

It was around the same time she signed for her first movie, a tiny role with two lines and twenty seconds of screen time but it got the ball rolling with her first proper acting credit, and she’ll never forget it.

A head of golden hair pokes around the kitchen doorway at the end of the hall and she lets her cousin sweep her up into a hug, swinging her up and around so her feet dangle above the floor.

“Alien, we’ve missed you.”

A stupid nickname from when they were young, the kind of young where he thought it was hilarious to replace her name with an extraterrestrial, but it only makes her smile now, squeezing her cousin tight before he puts her back down.

“Yeah, I bet you’ve been lost without me.” She beams at them, taking a moment to soak in how it feels to be with them even as Aedion rolls his eyes. “I’ve missed you both too.”

“Lunch is ready, come on,” Aedion tells her as he takes her case and drags it through the house, leaving it by the bottom of the stairs. It’s then that she spots the frilly pink apron tied around his waist.

“Alright,” she laughs. “I can’t wait to try what the domestic goddess has in store for us.”

Peals of laughter burst out of Lysandra and she grins back at her, forever grateful that they managed to keep their relationship with each other from ever impacting on their relationship with Aelin. At first she had been worried that Aedion and Lysandra would become AedionAndLysandra and that she wouldn’t have a place left with them, but she needn’t have worried, and they worked too well together for Aelin to have ever wished for anything different.

“Gods, shut up,” he mutters, slinging an arm around her shoulders and leading her to the kitchen. “So annoying, both of you.”

She grins as she hears Lysandra smack an overly dramatic kiss to his cheek.

Aedion’s a surprisingly good cook, the lunch he’s made is tasty despite being carefully planned to fit into both his and Lysandra’s strict meal plans. If they’re the cost needed to be able to live in a house like this, Aelin doesn’t want it.

“So,” Aedion says after he’s finished chewing a mouthful. “How are things going?”

He asks it with a gentle kind of sensitivity that she understands what he’s really asking. She knows it’s code for are you still sober? but she also knows he hasn’t asked it because he doubts her. Aedion and Lysandra have always been in her corner, even in her darkest moments they were there.

She never wants to put them through anything like that ever again. Never wants them to experience anything as terrifying as the last night she ever touched a drug. That night, almost a year ago now, will forever be the bottom of her pit. She doesn’t remember much of it, other than the devastation on Aedion’s face as he carried her out of the men’s toilets of a seedy nightclub in Perranth. The way he’d bitten his lip as he picked her up off the sticky floor, pulling the hem of her dress down to cover her underwear where it had ridden up.

The thought makes her sick.

He’d had to skip a game, leading to a bollocking from his coach, but he’d done it for her. Had carried her out of the club and into a car, waiting to take them back to his house. Lysandra had stroked her hair where she lay on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor while Aedion called a doctor to the house. Even through his panic he had thought of her and how little she would want it publicised that she’d been pulled out of a club, off her fucking rocker on whatever substance she’d been given by the lowlives she had fallen in with. She’s really, really lucky that for once Aedion hadn’t been followed by paparazzi.

She takes a sip of her sparkling water before she answers, it feels like all she ever drinks these days and it tastes like shit but it’s worth it if she never reverts back to where she was.

“I’m good.” She’s almost surprised to find that it’s true. “I’m feeling much better.”

She can barely look at them, can barely take the level of subdued joy on their faces.

“We’re glad Aelin, really glad.” Lysandra’s voice is sincere.

“So, how’s the new project going?” Aedion asks her, sensing her discomfort almost immediately.

“That’s good too actually.” It is. It feels good to have something positive to focus on, something that she feels is productive and worth doing. “It’s nice to be back and be busy even if the morning shoots begin disgustingly early. It’s good to be on set, surrounded by it all again and to remember that I can actually do this.”

She stabs her fork through a piece of tomato a little aggressively as she finishes and the look Lysandra shoots her tells her she’s not impressed with the self-deprecation but that she’ll let it slide for now.

“And Fenrys Moonbeam, is he really that good looking in real life?”

Aelin laughs. “More actually, sometimes it's too much.”

“Nice,” Lysandra nods appreciatively.

“Is he alright though?” Ever the overprotective older brother figure, she expected some version of this question from Aedion.

“He’s great. He’s hilarious and it really helps on the long days,” she says before taking her next bite.

“And Rowan Whitethorn’s directing isn’t he? What’s he like?”

Aelin blinks and finishes chewing slowly. “He’s… fine.”

She knows she’s fucked it when Aedion and Lysandra share a look, matching smirks beginning on each of their faces.

“Fine,” Lysandra repeats. “What exactly does fine mean Aelin?”

She purses her lips. “He’s a great director.”

Lysandra rolls her eyes. “And?”

She could probably lie here, they’d probably let it slide if she said some bullshit about how they’ve not spoken much and how she barely knows him, but she honestly needs to talk to someone about this. You know, to set her straight.

“And he’s really hot.”

She’s blushing as Lysandra laughs and Aedion chuckles.

“You’ve got a crush,” Lysandra sing-songs, and when she doesn't respond she says, “Have you got a picture of him? I don’t think I actually know what he looks like.”

She can’t blame Lysandra for that, she’s still kicking herself for not recognising him that day in the hallway, but he was only on screen for a few seconds at the Oscars and it wasn’t long after Sam so it wasn’t like she was paying attention in that way. She still thinks she should have noticed.

She pulls her phone out to find the only picture she has on there with Rowan. She had only taken it this week when they were eating breakfast with Fenrys one morning, in one of the tents that had been set up for them to sit in between takes, and Fenrys had pulled his phone out to snap a photo of her for his Instagram story.

She’d been wrapped up in one of the huge parkas they’re given for the times in between scenes holding her croissant high up in the air when he’d taken it. He’d captioned it she could have dropped her croissant and tagged her, and she’d gained a good few thousand followers. She’s almost at a million and they’re only a couple of weeks into shooting.

She had taken one of him in response and then spun around to force Rowan into a selfie with her, he’d protested but she’d pouted until he relented, grumbling something about actors that she knew he didn’t mean. She didn’t post it anywhere, she kept it to herself and she can’t lie, she’s looked at it way too many times since.

She’s smiling a wide smile, cheeks stuffed full of her croissant and it’s really kind of gross, but the small smile on Rowan’s face makes it bearable. More than bearable, she has to resist the temptation to make it her lock screen because that would be weird.

She remembers the heat of his chest where he had stood behind her to lean down so their faces were level, the hand he rested on her shoulder to steady himself and the way his fingers had brushed against her neck in the lightest caress.

She hands the phone over to Lysandra and wants to pull it back almost immediately.

It’s not that she’s embarrassed or whatever, even if they think it’s a bad idea they’d let her down gently, it's just that their opinion matters to her a lot. And while they haven’t exactly approved of her string of random hookups in the years since Sam, they’ve never tried to comment on it other than to check she’s in a good place with it, but she knows they’re waiting for the next person she sees seriously.

There’s a fairly large part of her that thinks her first relationship since Sam shouldn’t be with her boss. And that fucks her up a bit, because since when was she considering a relationship with him?

“Oh yeah,” Lysandra says, scaring away the intrusive thought and raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. “He’s hot alright.”

Aedion nods along, peering over Lysandra’s shoulder. Lysandra’s eyes are far too knowing when she looks back up at Aelin and passes the phone over. She doesn’t say a word before locking the phone and sliding it back into her pocket.

“You’ll have to invite us to set sometime.” Lysandra is sneaky but not subtle.

“I will,” she agrees.

The next week flies by, she shoots every single day but one, and she’s far too exhausted each night to do anything other than scrounge up a measly meal that can be pulled together from her cupboard basics and the limited vegetables in her fridge before falling straight asleep. They’ve made good progress so far, and she knows it's going to be good, but she’s tired.

She’s seen a lot more of the process outside of her own character by now too, and she’s amazed, but not surprised, when she persuades one of the crew to let her watch back one of Fenrys’ solo scenes from the previous week. He’s a phenomenal actor, that much is clear, but she had allowed herself to get caught up in Fenrys as her friend, the happy and funny guy she spends her time with, forgetting the talented and driven lead actor of their movie.

Not that she can forget it in the scenes they share, but she’s mostly concentrating on the emotions her character is going through, and responding to what Fenrys gives her. It almost feels too natural for him, and she forgets that it takes work.

His text meets her at lunchtime on the Sunday they both have off, when she’s still in her pyjamas on the couch, debating whether to start a new series or watch the latest cheesy rom-com that Netflix has released.

She auditioned for one of them a couple of years ago, and she’s far enough past the bitterness that comes with not getting the role that she could enjoy it. Maybe a little, cynical part of herself thinks she’s glad she didn’t get it. What she has now is far better. She’s being a snob, but she straight up doesn’t care. It’s not like anyone else is here to judge her.

Fancy coming to Rowan’s to watch the game? I’m leaving in 20 his text reads.

She didn’t plan on doing anything today, but the invitation sparks something in her, and she’s never been to Rowan’s place before. The studio put him in a house about thirty minutes from set, and she’s curious. How much luxury does the big name director get compared to what she and Fenrys have got? She’s lucky really, that Dorian managed to negotiate the same for her as they offered Fenrys.

rowan’s??? She replies, followed by what game????

She gets up off the couch, putting the lid on the tub of yoghurt she was tucking into with a spoon and walking through to the kitchen to throw it back into the fridge.

Tall, grumpy guy that bosses us around all the time comes through a minute later and she grins at her phone at the description. It’s followed up by Ravens v Panthers.

She taps out, getting changed will be ready in 15 and he replies with three smiling emojis.

She doesn’t think it will be anything fancy if her impromptu invitation is anything to go by so she only swaps her pyjama bottoms with tiny cartoon sheep down the legs for a pair of black leggings and throws a sweatshirt over her oversized t-shirt.

Manon is there when they get there, sprawled across the two seater sofa at the far side of Rowan’s living room, and she gives them both a wave when they enter the room. The house is a pretty modest, two-up two-down in a sweet neighbourhood and it’s cosy inside with relatively modern decor. She doesn’t know for sure whether or not that fits Rowan, but she feels like it does.

He doesn’t let them in, Fenrys swings the door open and marches in like it’s his own place and she wonders how much he and Rowan have hung out, or whether that’s just him. Rowan appears in the doorway about a minute after they come in, a bowl of snacks in his hand that she thinks could be popcorn and he puts it down before coming over to wrap Fenrys in a hug. They slap each other on the back in the way that guys do before pulling back.

Aelin stands at Fenrys’ side watching the exchange, unsure whether to greet Rowan or just take a seat, and once they’re done he seems to regard her with the same sort of uncertainty. Fenrys darts around Rowan to throw himself onto the other sofa and she doesn’t give herself long enough to doubt her decision before she opens her arms and steps towards him.

“Hey,” he says simply as he wraps her into a brief hug. “Thanks for coming.”

She wraps her arms around his own broad shoulders, and it feels nice. He’s warm and strong beneath her hands and the way his arms loop around her waist, so far his hands reach back around to her stomach, gets her in a way that she really doesn’t need to think about. It feels really good pressed up against him like that.

“Hey,” she breathes as he pulls back, and she knows he sees the blush on her cheeks. She’s not fifteen, she really needs to sort herself out. “Thanks for having us.”

“Of course, make yourself at home.” He gives her another half smile, offering a flash of his straight, white teeth, and again she’s struck by him. That his place is behind the camera is a crime. “I’ve got more snacks and drinks in the kitchen if you want.”

“Beer?” Fenrys asks her, already heading to a door that she assumes leads to the kitchen.

She shakes her head, “do you have sparkling water?” She directs the question to Rowan who nods.

He doesn’t have to speak before Fenrys says “on it,” and leaves the room.

She assesses the seating choices left in the room, there’s a cream two-seater sofa opposite where Manon lies, and that’s probably her best bet, but Rowan has already taken his seat on it, an ankle crossed over a knee as he settles into the cushions. There’s plenty of room to sit by him and not touch, and she weighs it up against having to ask Manon to move.

She’s friendly with the girl, but still feels slightly intimidated by the calculating and sarcastic blonde despite the fact that she’s a few years younger than Aelin herself, so maybe Rowan is the safer choice.

Fenrys comes back into the room just as she takes her seat.

“Move your feet, Blackbeak,” he demands as he hands her a glass of sparkling water, it’s chilled with a couple of cubes of ice and she appreciates it.

Manon lifts her legs for Fenrys to sit, but plops her legs back down across his lap immediately and sticks her tongue out at him as she does. Aelin feels herself smile at the display, and the fact that she’s included in this circle of friends. She hasn’t really made an effort with anyone new since Sam, the only people she’s really spoken to are Elide, Lysandra and Aedion, and they were all there for her before Sam. It feels really damn good.

She really, really, doesn’t understand the rules of football, but it’s easy enough to cheer along when the others do and laugh at their outrage when something doesn’t go their way. It’s the most animated she’s seen Rowan so far, and she’s not quite sure which way their allegiances lie, but it’s probably with the Ravens being in Rifthold and all, and she knows her own is.

Everytime Aedion gets the ball or is shown on screen she can’t hold back the cheers. She’s proud of him and she knows how hard he works to be as good as he is, and even knowing as little as she does, it's special to watch him excel.

Rowan and Fenrys both seem a little starstruck that he’s her cousin, to her he’s just Aedion and they’re the real, scary celebrities, but they gush about him like starstruck little boys.

“And you were at his house last weekend?” Fenrys cries, almost outraged that this is the first he’s ever heard of it, but honestly? They’re both Ashryvers; it’s not like it's a secret.

“Yes,” she laughs. “He’s basically like my brother.”

“Gods, Aelin.” He sounds almost pained that she hasn’t brought this up before. “You've been holding out on us! Please give me his number or introduce me or something.”

“Sorry.” She laughs again and throws a smile to Rowan that he returns with another quirk of his lips. “Invite me earlier next time and I’ll ask him to sort a box for us at the stadium.”

“Seriously?” Even Rowan sounds awed now.

“Yeah, just let me know,” she says. “It’s no big deal.”

It really wouldn't be, Aedion has been telling her for years to invite any friends she wants to games, she would just need some friends outside of him, Lysandra and Elide first.

“It’s definitely a big deal,” he says, watching her with a smirk still playing on his lips.

She shrugs. “Just make sure you text me early next time.”

“Oh, I will,” he says, and she has to look away from him. The way his voice curves around the words, all low and intense, is definitely about more than just the game.

She tries to pass it off as just looking to where Fenrys is cheering loudly at the next play, but Manon is there again, looking at her with such a knowing expression that she immediately focuses back on the TV.

At half time she needs to use the bathroom and Rowan gives her a quick rundown of the layout of the house. She’s quick to do her thing and runs by the kitchen afterwards to grab a refill of her drink and find something to eat.

Rowan had told them all to help themselves, explaining that he felt they had as much right as he to poke through the cupboards in the only just filled rental property and she gets it. The places the studio rent out for them are nice enough, and she’s more than grateful that they do, but it’s never quite home. Even if her home is somewhat impersonal, it’s still home.

She’s on her tiptoes, scanning through the relatively well stocked cupboards on the hunt for anything chocolate, when someone enters the kitchen behind her.

“I know I said help yourselves, but you’re going to eat me out of house and home at this rate.”

It’s Rowan, and he leans against the doorframe as he watches her startle and spin to face him, his legs are crossed at the ankles and his arms are folded over his chest. The pose highlights his powerful arms that she wants to be wrapped up in again and he looks really good in the dim lighting of the kitchen. It bounces off the lines of his tattoo, shining and highlighting the swirls that she can barely look away. She wants to ask what it means.

Aelin scoffs and pushes the cupboard door shut gently, they’re not eating that much and if they are it’s definitely not her, Fenrys and Manon are another story.

“There’s nothing stopping you from kicking us all out,” she says and he laughs, shaking his head.

He tilts his head to the side, his gaze picking her apart by the second before he says “maybe not all of you.”

His words and the way he shifts in the doorway as his eyes run her up and down gives her the confidence to bite her lip and look up at him through her lashes. He pushes off the door frame and comes to lean against the counter by her side.

He opens a cupboard door on her other side and rummages through a shelf before handing her a foil packet.

“I have a feeling this is what you were after.”

She accepts the chocolate and tucks it onto the counter at her side as she mirrors him and leans against it too.

“Unsurprisingly, you’d be correct.”

He presses his lips together before his lips twist again, it’s the same expression from before that she knows means he wants to smile but he can’t quite commit, and she feels her body loosen like she wants to lean forward to press into him. She doesn’t though.

What she does instead is take a sharp breath and a step back. “Thanks.” She waves the bar of chocolate in the air before stepping around him and making her way back into the living room, forcing her steps to seem calm and collected as she feels his gaze heavy on her back.

“Anytime.” His words follow her out of the room, they’re a promise.

Luckily, Fenrys and Manon both ignore it when Rowan follows her and retakes his place next to her.

[kyrisflowerfield]

The Unspoken Words (Gojo)

Blu on quotev requested:

Well if it doesn’t bother you, I’d like to req a Gojo x fem reader who has trust issues, and has trouble believing Gojo likes her, it can be fluff or angst- ur choice lmao

So here we are, thanks for the request blu :D I really like it!

Warnings: You guys know how I write readers with issues…..,reader has trouble trusting people, mentioned death

        There is an impenetrable darkness lurking within every corner of the mind, some have a darkness born others, some have a darkness born of themselves, in any case that shadow is always there in the back of your mind. A companion forever no matter what it is you truly what, forget about you need, it will always be waiting to swallow you whole. Always be waiting to become the only one you could see as a constant, all else was stagnant, a liquid lie waiting to drown you in your sleep.

       You were a first grade sorcerer, having nearly no offense capabilities but due to your technique that allowed you turn invisible and cut your cursed energy and residue you were an important stealth resource to the elders. Due to your technique and memories you’d rather erase you knew  that world you lived in was one smoke and steam, one of cover ups disguising disgust and hatred sold as stories of love. Yes, if any knew it was you, in the world a mouse was easily a rat once the screen lifted, a married couple both suffocating in waves of guilt of infidelity, a father and son drowning under the pressure of judgement and blame, bending until it all breaks. ‘Trust’ was a myth, an old folktale long lost, as easily gained as a unicorn is found, trust was…

       “Morning L/N!”’

       You drew your gaze from your papers to look at your white haired friend, he considered you as such so you should do the same you suppose, nodding at him simply before continuing to scrawl on the half-filled, post mission, reports. Gojo Satoru, the world’s strongest sorcerer as of now, was someone you respected and looked up definitely, someone you relied on and trusted in a work setting, but the term 'friend’, you used it loosely on him. It wasn’t as though you hated him, you quite liked his bubbly, loud nature, a clear counter to your own, but whether a decade or a century ago Gojo was and always would be the arrogant asshole he was in school, even if the man who matched his madness had turned traitor and died. Can people change? It was question many asked and the answer usually lied in whether they were a pessimist or an optimist, either wanting to believe their own, the world was to cloudy for such logic. He showed the light of new man but within his face were still the shadows of the younger him, you were not one to fall prey to a predator, not one lurking so obviously and blatantly with tantalizing lies of…

“I’ll ask you again then, go on a date with me L/N."

       You blinked back at him as you always did, not wasting a second to shoot down his request with flat "No.” Hand continuing to stroke ink into existence, the answer would always be the same, no matter how many times he smiled and told you he would ask again tomorrow. Today was different it seemed, today Gojo pulled out a chair and sat down next to you, today Gojo put his shoulder flushed against you, today Gojo’s breath tickled your ear as he spoke, ruffling butterflies you tried many times to kill in the past. Today Gojo…

“Can I at least know why? Don’t I deserve that much?”

       The feeling made you shiver as you looked him dead on, pink forcing its way onto your cheeks despite your refusal as your lips parted.

“I owe you nothing Gojo.”

       A beat, two, three, the room filled with silence as the sun rose higher in the sky, it was here you would die, suffocated by the man whose stare who drilling a hole in you, creating a chasm of endless depths.  Gojo backed away slightly, resting his chin on his hand whilst his other hand brushed a few hairs off your eyes, you swallowed thickly, petrified and unable to move as he spoke slow and deliberately. As he filled your mind with something that could’ve been intoxication and lies, could’ve been….

“You owe me nothing but I want to know. Be a little fair won’t you Y/N?”

       Yes, it had to more smoke and steam, you had to be choking on it as your breath caught in your throat, his voice speaking your name etched into your mind. You were not one to fall prey to predator but Gojo, it seemed you had forgotten for but a moment, Gojo was a god, a predator who preyed who other predators, made everyone his prey.  Made you his prey. Silence wrapped her arms around you and Gojo as you failed to speak, mouth burning dry, as you made a decision, as you swallowed the bile and stood up, never once breaking eye content with the carnivore before you. Never breaking spirit even as you trembled.

“Because I refuse to be yet another person tricked by the likes of you.”

       The steps of a deer, small and fragile but thinking its antlers made it strong, faded from the room and left Gojo alone.

—-

       It is within the deepest night when the moon is not to be seen and the sky has no stars that one could say there is not one shadow for the unseen to hide in. Their is only dark and depending on who you are darkness is ever so enlightening, is holy and precious and sacred, something to be cherished and trusted. Dark is your own personal dawn. It is within this cloudy night that you are, once again, walking aimlessly after a mission well done, mind hazed over with thought and comprehension and the roads blend together and your body travels though your soul stays still. It is a time in which you see no one, hear nothing, become something….

       The door of a 24/7 supermarket swishes open in front of you, flies buzzing incessantly around the dim light, a fan whirred erratically from somewhere above you as you browsed various forms of caffeine, in search of a substance capable of fighting off sleep for you. Something to buzz in your mind and provide liquid confidence only to find the source in which you needed it for.

“L/N? Late to be shopping, no?”

       You turned towards Gojo again, nearly looking away at the sight of him in casual, comfortable clothing, loose and revealing in nature.

“Late doesn’t exist for me, why are you up?”

“Curses don’t sleep, it’s annoying.”

       You watched as his nimble fingers picked up an energy drink, the other hand holding a basket filled with random sweets and bandages (Which was fairly odd considering his world altering technique) before he looked down at you from above the rim of his glasses, blue eyes shattering the last fragments of dark you held onto. His gaze had always forced your spine to straighten, made you swallow and shiver, as of now it also revived more the butterflies you had put into graves.

“I’ll get this for you, I don’t mind. Walk with me?”

“Fine.”

       The store shrunk and was suddenly only able to hold the too of you as you left, the world seeming to have turned into a tunneled as you walked side by side, shoulders knocking each other with every other step. You think it’s suffocating, the way he looks at you, something akin to blatant affection that you in now way trust flaring in them.

You also find suffocating to be an enjoyable fate.

“Earlier, what did you mean Y/N?”

       Gojo is a man who sparks curiosity in you as well, you wonder if he knows the rush you get from hearing your name drift from his lips, if he knows the tingles you get whenever his voice drops that low. It’s jarring and unbelievable, intriguing even as it pushes you away.

“I meant what I said, I know you don’t like me so drop it.”

       The words rang in the air, the silence louder than a gunshot, Gojo’s apprehension and surprise(?) apparent as he gawked at you, neck craned down to peer at you with the enchanting illusions he called 'eyes’ Seeming offended and yet with the way his shoulders sagged and how his eyebrows crease you could think him hurt.

“I do like you Y/N. Why would I lie?”

“Who ever said you changed?”

       Though as much as night is a friend, as much as it a foe, it is an audience, it forces the gentle hum of fans to grows, the mewls of lost cats to intensify, the ambience of life to create an incline of whatever it is feasting on. So as you and Gojo faced each other, looking the other predator, the other prey, in the eye, each wondering if light would grace them with an answer the night made you both sweat and worry and fear. You think if your face gets any hotter, if the chasm isn’t filled, the butterflies gone, and the crystal pointed somewhere else, you might drown in the distrust, might fall victim. Once again you find that the thought of drowning isn’t intimidating with Gojo standing next to you and the thought terrifies you, the cliff you now walk along is far steeper than you thought.

“I have, everything’s changed.”

“Why should I believe that?”

“Just give me a chance Y/N!”

       Trust is born of fragility you think, people made of stone do not trust unless a section is made of glass, people of glass trust to easily unless a part is made of stone. You want to be stone, you want to be pure, unshakable marble capable of crushing anything that dares to cross but faced with this you wonder if marble is hard enough, if titanium is. You also wonder, far more clearly, if marble can still be heavy with a basis of glass thinner than the trust you give.

“And if you hurt me? What then? It’ll be too late.”

A smile, you think you could fall then and there, descend into madness and not care at all so long as this image is burned into your mind. You don’t notice the way he presses his glasses into your hand until his eyes are bright and peering at you in full force, even as marble you would shatter at his slightest touch no matter how much you resisted.

“You’ll just have to trust me then won’t you?”

—-

This was longer than I intended, fuck. Anyway, wrote about half of this in the car because yk, ✨CAR CONTENT✨ I have two other things to post as well but there letters/poems so uh….sorry ;w; Blu, I hoped this lived up to what you were expecting and more! I hope the rest of you are doing well too, remember to stay safe and healthy ok?

-Kyu❤❤❤❤❤

[heloisedaphnebrightmore]

Perfect match [Oliver Wood x Reader]

Title: Perfect match Pairing: Oliver Wood x Gryffindor!Female!Reader Word count: 2k Published: 5 February, 2021 Author: Heloise Daphne Brightmore Summary: The lack of time you had to spend with your boyfriend affects your concentration causing your attention to wander anywhere but the match you are supposed to be focusing on. 

Harry Potter Characters Masterlist | Masterlists

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Oliver Wood was always ready to go after what he wanted. He was determined and reliable, sometimes a bit reckless. But beyond all that hard exterior, strict manners and can-do attitude, he was a cheeky little flirt who wanted nothing but to see his girlfriend smile.

Being in the same team with him, you always tried to be professional. You mutually agreed to keep a distance when playing quidditch, to be focused 100 percent on the game. Most of the times it worked flawlessly, as if you had no problem separating your relationship from the game, but there were certain occasions when one of you couldn’t control yourselves.

The broom you were seated on levitated above the ground as you watched your teammates flying around, trying to score in the midst of the practice match Oliver organised against Hufflepuff. It required your attention as one of the chasers, but somehow you couldn’t focus on anything but Oliver sitting on his broom across the pitch, lifting up the bottom of his quidditch jersey to remove the sweat from his face, exposing his toned abs.

You didn’t want to watch his movements, you had better things to do such as scoring a goal against Hufflepuff, even if it was just a practice match. It was supposed to help you win the Quidditch cup as Oliver so desired before leaving Hogwarts, but your attention betrayed you and your eyes seemed to rebel against your better judgement. Running your hands through his hard muscles and kissing him whilst sitting in his lap seemed like a better thought to focus on than the match itself.

“Oi! Get yourself together,” you heard a voice and felt a nudge on your shoulder, watching the ginger haired boy fly away from you with a bat in his hand. It was one of the Weasley twins who tried to get you to focus on the game and finally as if your brain gained back control, you started flying towards Angelina Johnson to help her out. She passed the quaffle over to you and you tucked it under your arm, leaning forward on your broomstick, speeding up towards the Hufflepuff’s hoops.

However, before you could have scored, a bludger narrowly missed hitting you, forcing you to halt your broomstick in mid-flight, giving opportunity to Heidi Macavoy to steal the quaffle from you. You groaned in anger, scolding yourself for the stupid decision you made. You could have flown forward, having the perfect straight path to the hoops, but instead you decided to halt, giving away the ball. Knowing that beating yourself up about a stupid decision wouldn’t help, you turned around and flew towards the Gryffindor’s hoops, trying to snatch the quaffle from Heidi, who wore a proud smile across her face that you wished to remove as quickly as possible.

You flew beside the girl, grinning at her, before you hit the ball out of her hold, causing it to fall towards the ground. Before it could have reached the grass, you caught it in mid-air and threw it to Katie Bell who hurried off towards the Hufflepuff’s hoops.

Flying back up to your team, once again you involuntarily focused on your boyfriend, levitating beside the hoops he protected diligently, a determined expression across his face. He ran his fingers through his short dark hair, watching his teammates proudly as they scored against your competitors. Trying to shake your thoughts of him, you took a deep breath, attempting to close your boyfriend’s presence out of your mind.

“Pay attention!” you heard Angelina’s voice directed at you and for a second you thought you were successful as you looked at your teammates and debated to fly towards them, to help them, to be useful, but when you turned back and Oliver wore a loving smile, gazing at you proudly, all your rational thoughts left you with nothing but the idea of you flying up to him and catching his lips with yours.

You groaned out loud at the thought, the lack of attention you have received from him recently starting to get to you. N.E.W.T.s were just around the corner, every waking hour was spent with studying and practice. It was exhausting and you needed Oliver beside you. A small kiss, a reassuring hug, the feeling of his love, but in the end, you didn’t voice your concerns, not wanting to look needy.

But now here you were needing him more than ever, causing you to be completely distracted. Oliver frowned at your lack of attention, his eyes wandering between you and the rest of the team members.

“Leannan, focus!” he shouted at you, but before you could have reacted, you watched as Katie defended the hoops from Tamsin Applebee and Angelina flew after Heidi, trying to stop her, before she passed the ball over to Malcolm Preece who was supposed to be stopped by you. In the end, you were too focused on Oliver, Malcolm scored without an issue just as Cedric Diggory caught the golden snitch, winning the game for Hufflepuff.

The defeated groan leaving your boyfriend’s lungs woke you up from your daze. Hufflepuff only managed to win 360 against Gryffindor’s 350 and you knew if it wasn’t for the lack of attention you had over the game, you could have won. Of course, Cedric could have caught the snitch anyway, but having higher scores would have earned Gryffindor a win.

Each of your teammates lowered themselves on the ground, leaving you behind sighing, guilt washing over you. Knowing it was your fault that your team lost made your heart ache. You could have prevented it, but in the end your brain was nothing but a mess of pink clouds thinking of love only, causing your team a stupid loss.

You were the only one left up in the air, but Oliver was watching you from the ground, waiting for you to come down. Looking at the defeated expression across his face, you didn’t want to face him just yet, but you knew you would have to at some point anyway. After heaving a long, heavy sigh you started lowering your broomstick, touching the ground with the tip of your shoes to steady yourself.

Oliver walked up to you, his mouth opening, ready to speak, but you stopped him before even a note could have left his vocal cords. “I know, I’m sorry,” you said as you lifted your broomstick and started walking towards the changing room, trying to avoid those saddened eyes that watched you eagerly, knowing they were upset because of you. You didn’t do it on purpose, you didn’t want him to be unhappy and it pained you to see him so defeated when you could have prevented it.

“Are you okay?” he caught your wrist, forcing you to halt your steps. Frowning at the boy, you tried to understand why he sounded so worried about you. You were ready to get scolded just like any other teammate of yours would have been, but Oliver was somewhat gentle, concerned.

“What do you mean?” you asked back, causing him to furrow his brows at your question.

“You have been pacing out and kept looking at me as if you haven’t seen me for months. The lack of attention I saw from you was very unlike my girlfriend and the way Heidi took the quaffle from you seemed like you weren’t even present. What is going on?” he tried to press you to talk, but you felt silly for being so needy, for wanting to see more of him. You didn’t want him to feel like you were too much, too attached. “Talk to me,” he added, seeing your inner debate as he stepped closer, linking his hands with yours.

“It’s nothing, really, I’m just exhausted,” you lied, forcing a phony smile across your face. But Oliver wasn’t dumb, and he knew you more than you thought he did. He gave you a deadpan look and waited for a different answer, his brows raised high, questioningly. However, you were too proud to voice your opinion, so keeping up your act you shook your head in denial.

“Leannan,” he called the adoring nickname he has given you. He always showed his love with adorable little nicknames, calling you all kinds of pet names, but Leannan was different. It meant he was trying to convey how much he loved you, cared for you, trying to reassure you that you were loved. “I can see that something is off, and I haven’t been able to see you much recently, so it does worry me,” he voiced his concerns, your head shooting up in surprise.

“It’s nothing like what you think, I’m not trying to break up with you,” you shook your head quickly, trying to get those silly thoughts out of his head.

“Then please talk to me, because at this point, I can only think of the worst-case scenario,” he added, his tone hopeful once again. Heaving a deep sigh, you walked closer to him, stood on your tiptoes and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. His hands sneaked around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest, enjoying the physical contact you have both been craving. Hiding your face in the crook of his neck you tried to tell him how you felt, but your words came out mumbled, so he quickly stopped you, pulling away from you slightly, cupping your cheeks as you lowered your feet flat against the ground. “Let’s try that again,” he smiled down at you, waiting patiently for you to open up.

“It’s just that- I don’t want you to think that I’m needy or too attached, that I might be too much, but I really want to spend a little more time with you,” your voice slowly turned into a whisper by the end of your sentence, but Oliver had no problem hearing you. A gentle smile spread across his face as he hinted a small kiss on your forehead, hovering above your skin a little longer.

“Leannan, you could have said something. I really wanted to spend time with you too, but you always seemed busy and I didn’t want to bother you,” he chuckled happily, his initial thoughts about a potential break up slowly disappearing from the back of his mind, your words easing his worries.

“So, you don’t think I’m being needy?” you asked, your tone more hopeful and somewhat happy that your boyfriend might have possibly wanted to spend more time with you too.

“I would love nothing more,” he grinned as your lips finally started letting a small smile spread across your face.

“And you don’t think I’m needy then?” you were hoping for further reassurance, but instead of a verbal reply, he pulled your face closer to his, catching your lips halfway, pouring all his love in that one kiss. It was overwhelming your senses. The sheer affection you felt from him made you dizzy and awakened the nervous little butterflies in the pit of your tummy.

“I want you just as much as you want me. If you are needy then so am I,” he breathed against your lips as you parted, leaving you with a wide grin across your face, all your worries disappearing into thin air.

“You really are a keeper, love,” you smiled happily, gazing into those warm, dark brown pair of eyes you adored so much.

“And you are a catch,” he snorted playfully, making you giggle.

“Aren’t we just a good match?” you wiggled your brows playfully, causing a loud laughter to erupt from his lungs, throwing his head back in the process. It took him a minute or two to calm down and capture your lips again, but when he finally did, he attempted to make up for all those times you both were desperately craving to spend in each other’s arms.

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[lady-z-writes]

A little preview...

So I normally don't post upcoming stuff for a fic I'm writing, but this scene with Heisenberg x fem!reader was just too much. Ended up sharing about it in a server I'm a part of and...here's a little preview of some smut coming up in my multi-chapter fic, What Lies Beneath

The following is NSFW...

Summary for below the cut: Reader and Heisenberg show up to a "family" meeting at the church. While they wait for the others, Heisy wants reader to blow him in one of the pews. Reader ends up fingering herself, mid-blowjob, and doesn't get to climax before the other Lords start showing up for the meeting. Lots of teasing ensues during the meeting because Heisy loves to play...

“We shouldn’t,” she urges, pressing against him in an attempt to get him to stop.

It’s dangerous she’s even this close to him, considering they could get ambushed by anyone.

Still, he insists on entering the church together and she’s forced to pull away from him for appearances sake. He’s smirking at her over his shoulder, finding this whole thing humorous. She shoots him a glare.

Moreau is the only one there already and he mumbles something to Heisenberg about Mother being late.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll be fine.” Heisenberg glances at her, nods down the hall. It takes her a moment, but she realizes what he’s suggesting and she shakes her head. He rolls his eyes, takes matters into his own hands. “Why don’t you wait by the door for her?”

Moreau seems giddy about this idea and [Y/N] watches him shuffle to the main door. The minute Moreau is out of eyeshot, Heisenberg grips her by the arm and drags her where he wants. She struggles, but only for a minute.

“Are you nuts?”

“Maybe a little,” he chuckles. [Y/N] pulls her arm back. His face falls. “Fine. Have it your way.”

He pulls her deeper into the church now, seats himself down in a pew in the nave, and shoves [Y/N] to her knees.

Gaping at him, she shakes her head while he grips her hair.

“Heisenberg,” she hisses, trying to push herself up.

“You wanted it this way, kitten,” he shakes his head, using his other hand to unbuckle and unzip. “But that’s fine, waste more time.”

His grip in her hair is painful and if she understands anything about him, she knows there’s no way of getting out of this.

They’ll be here any minute.

Quickly, she pulls his pants open just enough for his cock to spring out. He groans at the knowledge that she’s actually obliging. Shifting his grip on her hair, he adjusts in the pew, feels the weight of her arms draping over his thighs, one hand groping at his hip, the other around his dick.

“Good girl…” he coos as she takes his cock in her mouth.

Her tongue swirls around his head before she deepthroats once. Such a tease. Always such a tease. A flat tongue traces over the underside of his dick, lapping up to the tip again. She tenses her tongue, uses the tip of it to play with his frenulum. The sensitivity causes Heisenberg to buck his hips toward her mouth, moan aloud.

She startles, surely nervous to have him being so loud but it only urges him on. He’s smirking, she notices, and though she’s nervous she can’t help but be completely aroused by this.

“I’ll sit here all meeting if I have to. You know that,” his voice is sultry, whispered just for her to hear.

She steps up her game, using her hand to jerk him off while her mouth continues to pleasure him as well. The precum she tastes means he’s liking what she’s doing.

“Guess I didn’t – mmm – spell out my rules well enough, huh?” he pants out. “I’ll let it slide this time, ungh…kitten.”

She’s focusing on his pleasure and speeding things up but she’s also very aware of her own throbbing arousal. Pressing her legs together tighter, she moans at the stimulation.

Heisenberg stares at her. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” he cackles to which she deepthroats him repeatedly to get him to shut up. It works, but instead he’s moaning her name.

She can feel his dick tensing, the muscles in his thighs flexing, making the pew creak. It’s at this point that she removes her hand from his hip, uses it to put pressure on her clit.

Heisenberg watches every second – loves the way her mouth feels on him, how her hands grip him at the perfect intensity, how into this she is. He’d normally force her to stop touching herself, but he’s so fucking intrigued he can’t look away. Her fingers have trailed up her skirt and the filthy woman is fingering herself while she mouthfucks him in a church.

Heisenberg can’t hold back much longer – not with the way her throat feels against his tip, not with how talented that tongue is, and surely not when he hears her slick wetness as her fingers slip inside her cunt.

With a string of moans, he spills in her mouth, using his grip on her hair to thrust as deep as possible; give her every last drop. [Y/N] is moaning around his cock and, though his eyes are closed, he can still hear her fingers gliding in and out of herself.

Swallowing him down, she keeps her mouth on him as he starts the comedown but he pulls his hips back from her because she’s overstimulating him. With nothing to block the moans, she buries her face in his thigh, hides her expression as she nears her climax.

“Ohhh, fuck, buttercup,” he gasps, stroking her hair gently, his voice laced with pleasure. “You gonna cum for me? Hm? You gonna cum on your fingers for a job well done getting your master off in a church?” he chuckles and she’s completely gone – passed the point of no return. “And I’ll let you. I’ll let you because, baby girl, you did so good.” A few more strokes to her g-spot and she’s there. “Oh…? Oh…shit, honey…” he’s laughing at her and for a second she stills, listening.

Over the sound of her heartbeat in her ears, she can hear someone talking. No. No, no, no, they’re here already?

A sob leaves her mouth as she looks up at him from his crotch. He’s pleased, so fucking pleased with the sight of her – hair a mess, swollen lips, pupils dilated, chest heaving.

The voice of Lady Dimitrescu is apparent now, echoing in the nave as she enters. Heisenberg glances over his shoulder as [Y/N] debates if she should try to finish – but that edge is waning due to the new company.

“Up. Now,” Heisenberg speaks through gritted teeth, quickly zipping, buttoning, and buckling up.

A shaky breath that’s on the verge of a sob, she huffs in the pew beside him. Her hands come up to wipe her mouth, smooth her hair, swipe the tears from her eyes. Heisenberg takes another glance back, notices he has a second, and pops her slick-covered finger in his mouth – tasting her, tongue dancing across her skin.

A whimper leaves her before she purses her lips. Heisenberg is so humored by this.

He leaves her side, goes to greet Alcina with some witty, snide remark. She doesn’t even notice [Y/N].

Eyes wide, [Y/N] glances around the room, looking for an escape of some sort. Maybe she could rush to the bathroom – make an excuse – finish off in there…

And then Heisenberg is calling her into the conversation; something about her wanting to try Alcina’s wine.

“Oh, my dear girl! I’ve stored some bottles in the kitchen here. Would you fetch them for us?” she calls.

Perfect – an excuse. She could almost weep a thank you to Karl as she gets up and tries to walk, as composed as possible, to the kitchen. His eyes are on her. She can feel them.

Alone in the kitchen, she decides to take a breath and focus: get the wine and glasses before trying to finger fuck herself.

It’s fairly empty so it’s not hard. A wine opener sits on the counter too and she rushes to open the bottle, tries to mentally work herself up again so it’s not a problem reaching her climax quickly.

Bottle open, everything spread out, shielded by the counter, [Y/N] starts to pull her long skirt up –

“[Y/N]?” Lady Dimitrescu ducks into the doorway, startling her enough for her to drop the fabric back down. “Oh, I see you’ve found the opener as well. Very good.”

“I-I’m excited to try it,” she stutters out, clearing her throat as the Lady picks up the bottle. She struggles to hide her swollen lips, looking away when Alcina tries to look closer at her.

Heisenberg is in the hallway, just beyond Lady Dimitrescu – smirking. Of course.

“Come, now, child. We’re needed in the vestry.”

[Y/N] follows, grabbing the glasses with shaking hands. As she passes Heisenberg, he tips his hat at her, that devilish smirk taunting her.

No one behind them, he places a hand on her ass as they walk. This whole sneaking around thing is way too much fun, he thinks.

Donna and Moreau are in the vestry, seated at the middle table. Alcina takes the bottle to the front, naturally, overachiever.

As [Y/N] gets her glass filled with wine, Heisenberg takes one of the two seats at the back table. She glances up at everyone in the room, notices the only empty seat.

“Back of the class,” Heisenberg cackles.

The front board is covered with a hand-drawn map of the village. [Y/N] takes her seat and tries to distract herself.

Heisenberg is smug beside her, running his hands over his facial hair to make that delicious scratch that she loves.

He watches her cross her legs, sip her wine, stare at the front of the room. A quiet chuckle comes from him. Slowly he starts rolling up his sleeves, exposing his muscled forearms. [Y/N] inhales sharply and he is so enjoying this.

Miranda joins them shortly, instantly cutting to information regarding the upcoming culling. Maps of the village contained information on houses, villagers, livestock. [Y/N] tries to focus, but once the lights dim, Heisenberg has his hand on her thigh and she’s trying to calm down.

She gives it a few minutes, waits for Miranda to introduce their next steps.

It’s so damn hard to focus though and every few minutes she’s switching one leg over the other just to have some sort of stimulation.

Heisenberg’s hand doesn’t leave her no matter her movements. He notices her shifting, bites back a laugh.

Lackadaisically, he lifts her wine glass to his lips, takes a sip, swallows, hums. The rumble of his throat makes her squeeze her thighs together tightly. He starts touching his facial hair again, the sound against his leather gloves so arousing.

“You just gotta ask nice,” he barely whispers.

She’s afraid they’ll be caught; afraid someone already heard his comment. Yet, when his fingers just barely graze over her cunt, she covers her mouth and inhales sharply.

“Please,” she whispers.

She breaks.

“Absolutely.”

He doesn’t lift her skirt like she hoped, but the pressure of his fingers against her clit is enough to bring her right back to that moment: with her face in his lap, her fingers buried between her thighs.

Talented fingers tense over her clit, massaging up and down. Holding her breath, she closes her eyes in hopes to focus on her orgasm. Biting her lower lip, she barely bucks up against his hand.

Heisenberg’s free hand is pressed against his cheek, elbow on the table. He hides his smirk as he hears a soft, shaky breath leave her. Good. Good girl.

The orgasm is powerful, breathtaking, considering she was refused a release before. Heisenberg’s fingers are relentless and she’s so impressed he can coax her to peak so quickly. Here, in this room, after she blew him – her lips still swollen, mouth tasting of a mixture of wine and his cum.

Her eyes shoot open as she takes in the scene around her. No one else pays her any mind, but Heisenberg is staring, hungry, pants tented again.

She’s breathless once more.

[kae-karo]

Luckae, something along the lines of, it’s rotten work / not to me, not if it’s you.

HELLO HI DEAR tysm for ur patience while i worked on this!!! and THANK YOU THANK YOU for the prompt!! gods they're really just so perfectly set up for this dynamic aren't they??

not if it's you - T - 2.3k

tags: kaeluckae, reconciliation sorta, canon divergence, blood mention/injury mention

--

Diluc returns from a particularly rough fight during his moonlighting as the Darknight Hero to find Kaeya once again waiting for him at the winery, as he always seems to be. For some reason.

[read on ao3]

--

“My my, another rough evening, Master Diluc?”

Kaeya’s voice sounds tinny and off-key, but Diluc knows it well enough to understand when he’s being taunted. His hand remains pressed flat to his abdomen, grateful for the black of his jacket to hide what must be a particularly gruesome bloodstain.

“Why are you here,” he grits out as he slumps against the door, hopes that he can hold onto his composure for just long enough to convince Kaeya to leave. Adelinde can tend his wound, and Diluc does not have to face the mortification of admitting weakness in front of Kaeya.

“Why, for the wine, of course!” Kaeya says, as he always does. As he does every time Diluc returns to find him here, lounging in a chair in the winery’s entrance, at least one empty bottle on the table in front of him. Now, he hoists his glass in a false toast, offers Diluc a smirk. The dim candlelight makes it look sinister.

Until he tips his head back just a fraction, hardly any movement at all, but Diluc sees Kaeya from before, the Kaeya that would stay up all night with him, share stories of their dreams for the future under dim candlelight or bright moonlight, when the weather allowed it.

“Have I bored you so easily, Master Diluc?” Kaeya tuts, takes a sip of his wine, and Diluc grits his teeth. Partly in response to Kaeya, partly in an effort to keep himself aware. Partly to block out the pain - not the worst he’s endured, but most certainly high on the scale.

Kaeya shifts, though, and a clink makes it to Diluc’s ears. His eyes remain partly unfocused, so he blinks a few times, finds snapshot moments of Kaeya’s feet dropping from the table to the ground, Kaeya standing, Kaeya moving closer.

He hears his name, too - just Diluc this time, no tongue-in-cheek title to go along with it, and Diluc’s hand falls from his stomach. He didn’t ask it to, but gods did it require such effort to hold it there. He thinks there was a reason for it being there, but this is easier, isn’t it? To just let it fall, to let his body relax. To rest - gods, when was the last time he rested?

Warmth envelops him quite suddenly, then, and he doesn’t mind it. He’d been quite cold before, actually, and this is nice. Comfortable. He’s not sure what it is, though - his eyes won’t open, and-

Oh. Is this death? Kaeya’s kept him standing here for too long, or maybe he’s grown too- what’s the word? The opposite of humble, perhaps he’s gotten too...arrogant, that’s it. Like Kaeya. Like Kaeya. Like…

He blinks, surprised to find light pouring in now. Surprised to find...Kaeya. Hovering over him, brows furrowed and lips twisted, and a sudden-

“Ah-” Diluc coughs out as pain lances through him, sharp and sudden, and Kaeya’s gaze flicks over to meet Diluc’s. His tight expression evens out so quickly, then, that Diluc wonders if he’d imagined it.

Wonders, then, where exactly-

“Hold- Diluc,” Kaeya snaps, and Diluc pauses his attempts at looking around in favor of turning his gaze to Kaeya. Kaeya, who - upon closer inspection, and a clearer mind - appears...worried? “Hold still.” He enunciates the words with icy clarity.

Diluc does as he’s told, if only because he has not seen Kaeya like this...perhaps ever. At the very least, not since they were kids. He watches with furrowed brows as Kaeya’s hand returns to his stomach - exposed, now, and he sees the- ah. Right.

“You have no sense of self preservation,” Kaeya grumbles, almost petulant, and Diluc...he does not entirely know what to make of that. A decade ago, he might’ve thought it endearing, that Kaeya would worry for him, would make a fuss over an injury, but now…

“I don’t see why that concerns you,” he says, and finds his voice dry and hoarse. Kaeya shoots a glare in his direction, but does not respond. A rare occurrence, when he’s usually the one to prefer to fill the silence with idle chatter.

Diluc’s gaze flicks down again to where an ugly line cuts its way across his abdomen, and he watches as Kaeya sticks a needle unkindly through the edges of the wound. The pain itself comes almost as an aftershock, nearly hidden behind the wave of realization that hits him in that moment.

In all the nights that Diluc has returned from his masked forays into the city and its outskirts - all the nights that Kaeya, coincidentally, decides to make his way to the winery - Kaeya has never stayed.

And he has most certainly never tended to Diluc’s injuries, though Diluc supposes that this is the first one he’s been unable to hide from Kaeya.

The next prick of pain is not so bad, now that he’s prepared for it, and he watches Kaeya’s fingers dexterously weave shut the wound. He does not speak as he works, does not cast more than a cursory glance in Diluc’s direction, and Diluc does not know what to say.

Doesn't know how to act, when Kaeya steps out of his role as the flippant, duplicitous charmer. When he is sincere, when he’s-

“Archons,” Diluc grits out as Kaeya splashes something- ah, alcohol. Very distilled, apparently. His whole body tenses around the epicenter of the pain, the white-hot sting in his abdomen that refuses to subside even as Kaeya steps back, one arm crossed over his chest as he takes a generous sip from the very same bottle.

He sets it down on the nearby table with a hard thunk, his sour mood quite obvious, but does not turn to face Diluc. Just stares, hand gripped tight still to the neck of the bottle, and Diluc thinks that he has never seen Kaeya angry like this.

Tired, hurt, broken and hopeless, Diluc has seen all of these things, but never...never this. Never the tight expression, barely visible for the way his hair falls in his face. Never the white-knuckled grip that he must be controlling still, or it’d break the neck of the bottle. Never the quiet tension in his shoulders, hunched where they’re usually set back in a peacock-proud display.

Diluc does not know how to handle an angry Kaeya.

He sits up a fraction more, as though it might help clear his confused, clouded thoughts, but it only serves to make him wince and suck in an involuntary breath at the sting of his wound.

Kaeya’s head whips around, focuses sharply on Diluc, and Diluc holds immeasurably still. For a moment, he wishes that Adelinde had been the one to find him - her caretaking is far less...tense.

“I will freeze you to the table if you can’t manage to lay still,” Kaeya says, voice empty and nearly as cold as his ice. It crawls to his fingers, spreads from them to the bottle in a spiderweb of frost.

Diluc shakes his head, regrets the wave of dizziness that follows but does his best to keep his expression even.

“Why?” he manages after a moment, and Kaeya coughs out a laugh.

“You get yourself gutted, then ask why you need to rest?” A bitter scoff, and Kaeya releases his grip on the bottle to stand upright, to cross his arms over his chest and glare down at Diluc. “Fine,” he waves a hand. “Treat your life like it means nothing, then.”

Diluc’s brows furrow at Kaeya’s hard stare.

“Go on,” he urges, waves a hand now at the door. “Don’t you have important hero business to attend? Surely you won’t bleed out along the way!” Kaeya bares his teeth, an angry approximation of a grin, and the words hit Diluc like a- well, like a sword through his gut.

His chest falls with a heavy breath, and he wonders - perhaps naively, perhaps masochistically - if this is how it might’ve felt to be on the other end of his own blade that night all those years ago. If it was instead he who stood opposite Kaeya’s anger, knew his own faults and laid them bare for Kaeya to slash apart with his sword.

There’s a clink, then, and Diluc refocuses to find Kaeya lifting the alcohol from its perch, and he drops heavily into a chair and lifts the bottle to his lips. Drinks long and deep, then levels an unreadable stare on Diluc.

“If you intend to get yourself killed,” he says, quieter now, and his gaze flicks away. “At least have the common decency not to make me bear witness to it.” He takes another sip, and Diluc watches as something in his chest burns. Aches.

It’s a childish thing, he thinks, and he doesn’t entirely know where it comes from, but it blazes through him like wildfire, hot and painful, and he exhales a shuddered breath. This draws Kaeya’s stare, sharp with concern, and Diluc does not know how to wave it off.

“I did not mean to cause you any distress,” he says quickly, and Kaeya averts his stare the moment Diluc speaks. Leans back into the chair, evidently satisfied that Diluc’s death is not imminent.

“And yet, you run rampant through the streets with no care for your own wellbeing,” he says, voice like ice again. “Funny how that works.” Another sip from the bottle, and he rests it on his thigh. Keeps his gaze directed toward the door, though it remains unfocused.

“Is that why you wait here?” Diluc asks, then, as the realization dawns on him. Is that why I find you here every night I’ve gone out? Is that why you show up at the winery, seemingly at random, and only leave once I’ve returned?

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Master Diluc.” A hint of humor, but the bitterest kind. Kaeya glances from the corner of his eye, and Diluc sees it - hears it, almost, in a voice that is Kaeya’s but isn’t. A voice from a time when Kaeya spoke earnestly, when he did not cloak every truth in a veil of lies and almost-honesty.

If I admit that I care about you, then things change. We change.

He wonders, then, if Kaeya doesn’t want to - if he doesn’t want to care for Diluc. If he’d rather hate Diluc outright. It’s the same feeling that Diluc had felt about Kaeya all those years ago. It would be easier, certainly. Hard to feel pain when you allow nothing close to your heart - Diluc knows that truth well enough.

And yet, Kaeya’s all but admitted that he cares regardless.

“You don’t have to,” he says - an out, though it’s not quite a response to what Kaeya’s said. More to the words that he hasn’t spoken. “To be here,” he adds. “I can take care of myself. I know it’s-”

Painful to keep caring, when Diluc can never quite rid himself of his need for martyrdom. Impossible to justify it, when loss hovers so closely around Diluc that it might as well be a second skin. When he seeks it out most nights, tempts fate and knows that it will catch up with him some day.

“It’s rotten work,” he says quietly, and his gaze drifts to the wound that Kaeya’s so carefully tended. How many more will Diluc endure? How many would Kaeya stand by and watch before he can’t stand it? There is a reason that Diluc has never pursued lovers or a family or the like.

“Not to me.”

Diluc glances up, finds Kaeya still staring off into the distance. His gaze drifts over then, though, and holds Diluc’s. Something small, almost a smile, flickers at the corner of his lip.

“Not if it’s you,” he adds, even as his jaw tenses with something that Diluc has not seen since the night he raised a sword at Kaeya. Kaeya shakes his head, huffs out a breath. “You never quite figured it out, did you?”

He takes another sip of the alcohol, and Diluc’s brows furrow just slightly.

“Figured what out?” The ‘it’ tugs at his thoughts, though, somewhere just beyond his comprehension. He knows it, he thinks, whatever Kaeya intends to say, but Kaeya’s gaze flicks over, and he exhales a short breath.

“Never mind.” A smile curls the corner of his lip, gentler than his usual sharp smirk. “You need to rest. I’ll be here.”

He turns away again, then, and props a foot up on the table beside him. Takes another short sip from the bottle, and Diluc stares.

Sees it with crystal clarity, then, when Kaeya’s eye flicks over, just for the briefest moment, and it burns through Diluc’s chest - painful, warm, hot and bright and terrifying all at once. A thing he has buried for a very long time, because caring hurts.

“Kaeya.” Kaeya glances over properly now, and Diluc holds his stare. “Thank you.”

A small smile touches his lips, gentle and careful and Kaeya-from-their-childhood, and Diluc is fifteen again, and reckless and brave and head-over-heels, and just once, he allows that feeling to wash over him. When his lips curl up in a soft smile, Kaeya’s own grin widens, though he hides it with the bottle as he takes a sip.

“Get some rest, Master Diluc,” Kaeya chides, so warmly that it sounds fond, and Diluc’s heart feels so free and light it might fly right out of his chest.

That could also be blood loss, he supposes as a wave of dizziness turns the edges of his vision black, and he leans carefully back onto the table. Is grateful that Kaeya had thought to bring him a pillow, or he might be in for an uncomfortable night of sleep.

“Good night, Kaeya,” he offers quietly, and Kaeya huffs out a gentle, amused breath. Tips his head in Diluc’s direction, and Diluc’s eyes drift shut with the image of his smile branded in his mind - sincere, genuine in a way that Diluc hasn’t seen in years.

“Good night, Luc.”

[mnemosyne-musing]

Right person, wrong time (River/11)

The Doctor opens the TARDIS door and peers around him expectantly before frowning. How strange. He appears to be inside a very ordinary block of flats. He steps outside and looks around more closely. He sniffs the air. Earth. No. Not Earth. Something that was trying to simulate Earth but not quite.

He can’t hear anything in particular. There’s a buzz of conversation that he can hear coming from further down the hall but no shouts of distress or screams for help. He wanders up to the nearest door, peering closely at the small intercom before pressing the button.

He’s not quite sure what or who he expects to answer the door. But what he certainly isn’t expecting to see is a slightly grumpy looking River Song.

“River?”

“You’re late,” she announces, one hand on her hip as she stands in front of him in the doorway.

“Late?” he repeats indignantly, staring at her in amazement, “What do you mean, late?”

She rolls her eyes and turns to head back inside, clearly expecting him to follow. “You said you’d be here half an hour ago.”

“Did I?” he mumbles to himself as he steps inside, closing the door behind him. He follows her curiously as she wanders back into a small living room with a cosy kitchenette at the far end. It’s certainly not Stormcage. It feels like an Earth colony from around the 50thcentury, the tech on display is evidence enough of that. However, there are also books and texts scattered around the living room. There’s also some piles of clean laundry and a stray pair of River’s heels in the corner. There’s some artwork on the walls and a few pictures on one of the shelves.

In fact, the whole place has an almost studenty feel to it which really doesn’t make much sense at all. His gaze returns to River and he finally takes in what she’s wearing. Not the particularly revealing pair of figure-hugging shorts, which his mind certainly clocks and plans to return to contemplating very soon. No, what draws his attention now is the baggy, sweatshirt that comes almost down to the hem of said rather-short shorts. The one that says ‘Luna University’ in big red letters across the front.

“You’re a student!” he blurts out as River frowns at him, “Here! On Luna!”

“Of course I am,” she looks as confused as he feels, “Where else would I be?”

“And you live here!” he gestures wildly around him.

“Yes, you helped me move in here from those awful undergrad digs, remember,” she frowns at him as he turns back to look at her, “Why are you acting so strangely all of a sudden?” she asks, looking more closely at him, “Did you eat one of those weird peach things again?”

“Peach, what? No!” he gapes at her as he desperately tries to process what’s happening.

A look of realisation dawns on her face before turning, rather terrifyingly, to one of glee. “Oh! You’re not late. You’re young!”

He splutters at that. “No! I’m not young. You’re young!” And she is young. Now that he knows, he can see that she looks a few years younger than when he’d last seen her. He can’t quite tell exactly how old she is, he’s not brilliant at telling human ages after all, but she certainly doesn’t look like a young student to him.

Her eyes rake up and down him before returning to his face. “Do you even know who I am yet?”

“Of course I do,” he lies as she lifts one eyebrow in surprise, “You’re River Song. Chief purveyor of trouble in half the universe.”

River lets out what could only be described as a squeal of delight. “Oh my god, you don’t know yet!”

“Well, how do you know who I am?” he retorts with a huff.

“It doesn’t work like that,” she scoffs with a toss of her head, “I’ve always known who you are,” he opens his mouth to protest but she simply fixes him with an absolutely wicked look and shakes her head, “Sorry, Doctor, spoilers!”

He glares at her but she simply leans forward and grins at him, her eyes wide with excitement. “I’ve never seen you this young before. And I have been waiting so long to say that to you!”

He can’t think of anything to say to that so he settles for shooting a final glare at her and then turning away to leaf idly through some of the books on the table.

“Why are you here anyway?” River asks curiously, watching as he drops a large archaeology textbook back down with a look of disgust.

The Doctor shrugs. “Dunno. Wasn’t aiming for here,” he picks up a scroll of parchment and brings it up to his face, sniffing it tentatively, “Amy and Rory are on their honeymoon. Thought I’d pop over to the waterfalls on Epsilon IV. Ended up here instead.”

She moves over and plucks the scroll of parchment out of his hands before he can subtly lick it. “Oh,” she turns around to put the scroll out of his reach, “So you didn’t mean to come here?”

He still doesn’t know River that well but he can tell that she’s trying to sound casual and unconcerned. It doesn’t fool him though and the tension in the set of her shoulders is a giveaway even though he can’t see her face. He hesitates for a moment. There’s a part of him that’s longing to run back to the safety of the TARDIS. Away from this terrifyingly young River Song and the way she looks at him.

However, there’s a note of uncertainty in her voice that he’s never heard from her before and it’s that that makes him pluck up his courage and ask her. “You said I was late? Late for what?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says dismissively, too quickly almost, “Just a drinks thing in the archaeology department.”

“What kind of drinks thing?” he presses, watching her as she fidgets with a glass on the counter and avoids his gaze.

She shakes her head. “It’s just this drinks reception for new doctoral students and their, umm, their partners,” she says, rushing over the last bit very quickly, her eyes darting up to his to gauge his reaction and then away again, “But, it’s fine,” she continues breezily, “We can do something else. Or you can go if you want. Or-“

River trails off, her feigned nonchalance undermined as she still fidgets with the glass in front of her. He takes a deep breath and straightens his jacket lapels.

“You’re trying to steer me away from a party, River Song!” he exclaims, “I never thought I’d see the day!”

“Are you sure?” she looks up at him and if he wasn’t convinced before then the grateful look she shoots at him now is certainly enough to reassure him.

He claps his hands enthusiastically. “Of course! Lead the way!” he falters suddenly, his eyes falling to the rather scandalously short hem of her shorts, “Are you- are you going to go like that?” he asks, his voice coming out an octave or so higher than he had anticipated.

“Why? What’s wrong with this?” she asks, her face a picture of innocence but for the smirk playing around her lips.

He gulps and gestures vaguely at her legs. “Maybe something a bit less- I mean, more. Definitely more fabric.”

“Ooh, so strict for one so young!” she outright smirks at him before turning around and wandering across the room into where he assumes is her bedroom. If the extra sway in her hips accentuates her arse in those shorts then he definitely definitely doesn’t pay particular attention to it as she leaves the room.

Several hours later they are in one of the quieter bars on Luna, away from the student crowds. River had indeed changed outfit and is now wearing a rather fetching dark red cocktail dress. They are sat side by side at the bar, perched on high stools. A future version of him has clearly been here before as the barman handed him a menu for the milkshakes instead of the cocktail menu as soon as they sat down. So, here he is, sat enjoying a triple chocolate milkshake while a very young River sips her gin martini and brushes her knee against his from time to time.

The archaeology drinks party had been- Well, he still hesitates to use the word fun where archaeology is involved although he’s rapidly coming to the realisation that anything involving River Song could probably be fun. He glances covertly at her over the top of his milkshake. She’s humming along absent-mindedly to song that’s playing in the background. He recognises it as an old 20th century jazz song.

This younger River Song is definitely different to the one he knows. He’s only met her a couple of times in this body; the adventure in the Byzantium and then all that business with the Pandorica and the universe collapsing and restarting. She’s still the same flirty, confident, charming woman he knows but there’s an openness, he hesitates to call it a vulnerability, about her this young that he hasn’t seen before.

He’s suddenly gripped by a feeling of regret and self-loathing that it wasn’t the version of him she knows that showed up today. That she had to make do with an early version that barely knows her instead.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, as River turns towards him questioningly, “I’m sorry I’m not your- that I’m not the right person, the right me, the one that-, that knows you.”

She stares at him for a moment, gazing at his face searchingly before a soft smile curls her lips. “You’re always the right person, Doctor,” she says and he feels a warmth blooming through his chest at her words, “Even if your timing’s a bit off occasionally,” she adds with a grin as she leans in to steal a sip of his milkshake.

He feigns a gasp of outrage and swipes the glass back from her but, as they sit and gently bicker about the best flavour milkshake, the thought crosses his mind that maybe his timing isn’t actually that bad after all.

[carelessannie]

lookin for love (in all the wrong places)

chapter five

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

In CA:CW Steve kicks Spider-Man in the chest, awakening a soul deep bond and sending Peter into his first heat, before running away to Wakanda.

The soul bond, omegaverse, Spidershield angsty romance everyone needs.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Peter Parker Chapters: 5/ Chapter word count: 6.5K Fic Rating: E Warnings: mild violence and implied sex trafficking, extreme levels of fluff Read it here on AO3 Title is from this song by Johnny Lee

Steve

The ferry docks in the Åland Islands for a few hours overnight, allowing the two of them to sleep in shifts to be safe. After dinner, they had swept the ship for suspicious persons and bugs, tagging three places around their hallway with ears to keep an eye out for possible threats.

Even with the precautions, Steve feels on edge as they sail in the morning. Neither he nor Natasha get more than a few hours of sleep, and once the sun rises, they decide to spend the rest of the journey on the upper deck. Separating for the duration of the trip, Steve takes the helm while Natasha lounges closer to the stern.

There’s no attack, no threat to be concerned about— so when the ferry docks a few hours later, the two of them are already seated in their car and driving down the off-ramp. Steve takes the wheel first, while Natasha guides him East, following the sun until it sits high in the sky.

They stop at the border to Russia and switch vehicles, easily slipping through as the newly-mated Alpha and Omega couple on their Russian passports.

And if Natasha bats her eyes and gets them a free passage to St. Petersburg, Steve isn’t complaining.

It’s as they’re driving away that Natasha flinches at something one of the border police says under their breath, and Steve raises his eyebrow in question as he steers to merge back onto the highway. If Natasha is showing her reactions, it has to be important.

“They thought…” she pauses, chewing on her lower lip, before starting over, “When they reviewed our documents, they thought you might be my... trophy Alpha.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly, furrowing his eyebrows, “Is that bad for us?” He doesn’t quite understand what the issue is, or why Natasha might be anxious. The two men— Betas, probably— had given them a suspicious onceover, but otherwise let them travel in peace.

Natasha makes a frustrated noise, “I’m not translating it right. They think you’re my stud— that I brought you in from America or England to… breed.”

Horrified, Steve almost swerves the car off the road. “What— does that happen often?”

“Often enough that they may call it in. It’s not illegal, technically, but if they catch wind of possible trafficking…”

“Oh,” Steve checks the rearview mirror, suddenly all too aware of the surrounding cars and trucks. “What’s our move, Nat? Do you think they’ll actually come after us?”

She shakes her head again, “Best to get to St. Petersburg. We can call Tony from there, and switch out cars. If someone’s on our tail, they’re bound to know where we’re headed anyways. Stark can get us new documents by the time we reach the base.”

“Fine. I assume you know your way around the city?”

“Steve,” Natasha coos, “haven’t I taught you not to ask questions you already know the answer to?”

He shoots her a grin, “Good, then you’re in charge of ditching our ride. I’ll make a few calls.”

“Teamwork makes the dream work,” Natasha murmurs as she reclines in the seat, shifting to give herself a good view of both side mirrors while still seeing clearly out the front windshield. She crosses her feet at the ankle and pulls down the lid of a carefully worn baseball cap. If Steve didn’t know better, he would assume she fell asleep in the passenger seat.

They spend the last two hours of the drive in a tense silence, both of them on high alert. Steve knows from experience that Hydra likes to hide in plain sight— so he scans license plates, calculates distances, and carefully surveys the people in each car, looking for anything out of the ordinary. So far, nothing.

That changes when they enter the city.

Immediately, both of them sit up straighter, scanning the surrounding lanes for a threat.

“Do you—”

“Yes, stay alert,” Natasha hisses. Her hands are digging rapidly through her backpack until they pull out their last international phone. In one swift motion, she destroys it on the dashboard, lowering the window to sprinkle pieces onto the highway, sure to be crushed further by oncoming vehicles.

Steve changes lanes, inching closer to the quickly passing exit ramps. He doesn’t see a suspicious car— no black sedans, no tinted windows— but the feeling of being watched is undeniable.

“Exit here.”

Natasha’s voice is flat, and if Steve wasn’t listening for it, he would have missed the direction. Instead, he steps on the gas and throws the car into the right lane, barely avoiding the traffic cones as he speeds down the single exit ramp.

“Slower,” Natasha is reaching behind him as he merges back into traffic, this time heading West into the heart of the city. “When we get into the city, look for a coffee shop. You’re going to drop me off. Drive around the corner and watch for me— I’ll order you a drink inside and pretend I’m grabbing an item from my car. Instead, you will switch places with me, and sit outdoors drinking what I order. Keep your eyes up, run if you need to. I’ll rendezvous within an hour. Got it?”

“Got it,” Steve confirms, already slowing down as they breach the populated city limits. It isn’t long until he’s pulling up to a small café and Natasha is sauntering down the sidewalk, drawing any nearby attention to herself as he swings the car around back.

Traffic is thick, stifling, and he’s grateful to have the intel portion of this operation. Within five minutes, Natasha is in his rearview mirror, and he steps out of the vehicle to offer her the wheel.

He pulls his own hat lower to shield his face before slipping into the coffee shop, sidestepping immediately and settling into a corner table. There are three other patrons, all scattered throughout the space and engaged in the work in front of them. No threats yet.

“Peter?” a heavily accented voice calls, and Steve has to stop himself from flinching. It’s a common name— he needs to get himself under control. The voice calls out, “Peter?” once more, just as a tall, well-built man strides through the door, walking up the counter and picking up the drink.

The man turns around, “Huh. Didn’t know you were goin’ by Peter these days.”

“Sam,” Steve breathes, meeting his friends’ eyes with a shocked smile. He jumps to his feet and pulls the other man into a hug. It’s shakey— both of them chuckling and holding on tight— but the embrace is warm and feels like home.

“The hell are you doing here?” Steve grabs his arm, steering them both outside and towards the patio. “Not that I’m not grateful to see you, but… how did you find us?”

Sam shoots him a disbelieving look, placing the coffee cup between them before reclining back in his seat, “I got a tip a few days ago— something about Hydra and a base nearby. Stark got me a ride over yesterday and said I could plan on intercepting you here.”

Something in his face turns thoughtful, “You seriously didn’t see Redwing on the way in?”

“Uh,” Steve sorts through the details of their fast paced cut into the city, but can’t remember Sam’s drone being anywhere in sight.

Sam chuckles, “I followed you from the moment you entered the city— c’mon, you can’t tell me you didn’t see him, not with the way you were driving.”

“Dammit, Sam,” Steve curses. “We thought…” and then he laughs, slumping back into the patio chair and scrubbing his face. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Sam spreads his arms wide, and gives Steve his widest, most charming smile, “Takes one to know one, Cap.”

There’s a beat of silence as Steve sips his drink— it’s perfect, not that he expected anything less from Natasha. Sam looks good, if not a bit tired. The smile on his face is practiced, and Steve knows it’s more for his sake than anything. They’ve never lied to each other, never had the opportunity to, so if Sam is appearing strained and weary, Steve knows he’s supposed to notice.

“Decide not to take a pardon, then?” Steve hedges, watching as Sam raises an eyebrow in amusement.

“No, Steve,” he looks out into traffic, carefully thoughtful, “it’s been a rough few months since Germany, but Sharon and I have been doing some ground work wherever King T’Challa is willing to send us. There’s a lot of shit going down, and— up until now— the only goal I really had was finding you again.”

A rush of guilt hits Steve in the chest, and he winces, “Look, I’m sorry for leaving you—”

“Hey, no— don’t do that,” Sam dismisses him, waving away the apology with one hand, “I knew you had to go to Wakanda, I had other shit that needed to get done.”

“Still, you deserved a better friend than that.”

Sam laughs, but the sound lacks any real joy, “I think we all deserved better than we got.”

There’s not much to say after, and Steve takes a long pull of his drink, trying discreetly to check his watch. Forty minutes until Natasha returns.

And speaking of, “So where did the Widow herself head off to?” Sam asks, checking his own watch. “Thought I’d catch both of you here.”

“Switching out cars. We assumed Hydra was tracking us into the city,” Steve narrows his eyes across the table, and it makes Sam laugh again.

“Damn, well... can’t say I’m sorry. Stark wanted me to keep a low profile until we crossed paths, and…” Sam sits up taller and leans across the table, forcing Steve to meet his eyes, “he mentioned something about keeping you stable.”

“God dammit—”

“Language.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Steve huffs, scrubbing his face with one hand, “why can’t Tony keep shit to himself.”

“Something I shouldn’t know about?”

Sam’s always been good at coaxing answers out of him, and Steve curses the other Alpha mentally for it. Why does he always attract friends who know him better than he knows himself?

“I found my soulmate, Sam.”

Jerking forward, the other Alpha’s eyes grow wide as his hands come down, hard, on the table. “Shit, Steve. When on earth did you have time—”

“I didn’t, Sam. That’s the thing. Fuck—”

He feels rage flow through his body for the first time in ages, and Steve’s hit with a flash of their bonding moment, marred by fear and devastation from his young Omega. He closes his eyes, remembering the residual pain from each heat. Scared and empty and alone.

There’s a hand on his arm, but Steve shakes it off, “Remember the kid Stark brought to Germany? Spider-man?”

“Sure, Bucky and I fought the kid, and he stuck us to the floor.”

“I fought him, too,” Steve sighs, rolling up the sleeve over his left arm to show the bright red and irritated word etched into his skin, “and I kicked him right in the chest.”

Sam doesn’t reach forward to touch. He barely gives it a glance, reaching over to roll up his own sleeve. Steve has to stop himself from growling in sympathy— the writing is black, smudged and illegible.

“Sam…”

With a sad smile, Sam rolls his shirt back in place, “It was years ago— and we bonded in combat. I got a few years with him on active duty, and then I felt when he was shot out of the sky.”

Sam meets his eyes, “Fucked me up good for a few years.”

“I had no idea.”

“I’m better now, sure. Wouldn’t show you if I wasn’t. Just letting you know, whatever you’re going through with this kid— because obviously you’re not with him now— that you’ve gotta value whatever time you get. In our line of business? I’m grateful I got years instead of moments, you know?”

Something clenches in his chest. Steve feels tears prick his eyes. He has to look away, afraid of the suddenly all too real possibility of crying in public. Quickly, he covers it up with a swig of cooling coffee, letting the emotions wash away alongside the bitter, familiar taste.

“I’ve never even met the kid, Sam. All I know is that he’s an Omega, and he has a strong bond with Tony.” Steve sighs, checking his watch again, “We were supposed to be extracted in Oslo, but got the tip instead. I’ll head home to him after we take care of the threat here.”

He can tell Sam disapproves of this choice, but the other Alpha just shakes his head, nodding to draw Steve’s attention back to the street, “Looks like our ride is here,” he chuckles just as a beat up Jeep swerves across traffic, coming to an abrupt stop in front of them.

The window rolls down, and Natasha makes a show of lowering her sunglasses, “Pickin’ up strays, Rogers?”

Both of them stand and approach the car, and Sam smiles as he takes the backseat, “Good to see you too, Romanoff.”

“I hope you brought your uniform,” she muses, swerving back into traffic once both of them are buckled in, “we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

---

Peter

I think you’d hate my friends, Alpha. I don’t know, maybe not. I think you’d like that they wanna take care of me, even if they’re both little pieces of shit. I bet a visit from Captain America would shut them up. Or… Are you still Captain America, Steve?

Just as Peter finishes the line, the main cafeteria doors slam open. Both of his friends— MJ and Ned— have their arms in the air, gesturing animatedly.

“There you are!”

It’s as if he summoned them. Damn Spidey-senses, never working when he needs them to.

Peter squirms in his seat, “Hey, guys…” he checks his exits, noting quick escape routes. Sure, he’s never actually needed to run from his friends, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. “What’s up?”

Ned scoots into the bench next to him, pressing in close and draping an arm over Peter’s shoulders. MJ takes a seat on Peter’s other side, and both of them give Peter award-winning smiles— terrifying, really. Matching smiles only usually mean one thing.

“Can’t we just hang anymore, Parker?” MJ rolls her eyes, taking a discreet look at the pages in front of Peter on the table.

He quickly closes his notebook, “Sure, sure. I mean, we can hang— we hang all the time,” Peter catches them exchanging a glance, and sighs, “is there something you want? I’m trying to get homework done before practice.”

With a shake to his shoulders, Ned chuckles nervously, “No, no… we’re just looking out— ow!”

Peter looks down. MJ definitely kicked him.

“— I mean, we’re just wondering…”

“You wanna go to a Halloween party, Peter?” MJ cuts in, flicking at Ned’s arm where it’s still draped around his shoulder. Her face is open, fairly honest, and it catches Peter off guard.

“When’s Halloween?” he asks, thankful when Ned pulls his arm back.

The two of them exchange another look, “Uh…” Ned clears his throat, “it’s today, Peter. Today’s Halloween.”

“Oh.” Peter peeks into his folders to check the date on today’s homework, and sure enough, October Thirtyfirst is printed clearly across every page. Huh. He’s usually great at remembering holidays like this. “I wonder why May didn’t say anything…”

“Because,” MJ grabs his backpack, starting to shove notebooks and textbooks back inside, “we asked her to keep it a surprise. And your mom, too. We just didn’t think you were enough of a dumbass to miss the whole holiday.”

“Honestly, Peter, I don’t get how clueless you can be.”

He just nods along, letting the two of them pull him out of the cafeteria and walk towards the carpool lane. Maybe some part of him wanted them to find him today— who knows? Several other, better, hiding spots come to mind, but Peter doesn’t have it in him to protest.

A night off sounds like too much fun.

His mood immediately improves when they step outside. Parked closest to them, dark and intimidating on the curb, is one of Mr. Stark’s cars.

Happy is standing outside, holding the back door open, “Hey, kid. C’mon— haven’t got all day.”

“Oh!” Peter turns to his friends, both of their expressions smug and satisfied, “Please tell me the party’s at the compound? Oh god, I literally have nothing to wear. I have no idea—”

“We’ve got it taken care of,” MJ pushes him from behind, and Ned laughs, motioning for Peter to get in the car first.

“How did you—” Peter slides into the back seat, freezing when he sees who’s waiting for him, “Mama!”

Mr. Stark smiles— wide and genuine— and opens his arms wide. “Hey, kid. Surprise?”

Peter melts into the older Omega’s arms and squirms to get closer, ignoring how his friends laugh and tease him as he does so. Mr. Stark ruffles his hair, and rearranges them as the car starts moving. Ducking under his arm, Peter settles into Mr. Stark’s side and lets his eyes slip shut with the steady movement and noise of chatter in the background.

“You have a good day, Pete?”

He looks up to Mr. Stark and smiles, “It was okay, a lot better now. Did you help plan this?”

“What do you think, bambino? These friends of yours are… passionate.”

The description makes Peter chuckle. He’s fully aware just how passionate his friends can be. They are digging through the amenities stored in hidden compartments, and somehow both end up with a can of soda and several boxes of candy.

Peter ignores them in favor of burying himself into the warmth of Mr. Stark’s scent. There are lazy, calloused fingers in his hair, and he relaxes even more— a pleased purr building effortlessly from his chest.

When they eventually pull up to the compound, Ned and MJ are out in a shot— barreling through the doors and screaming into the empty halls.

Before Peter can leave the car, Mr. Stark grabs his shoulders and turns them to face each other, staring intentionally into his eyes. “If you don’t want to do this, Peter, we don’t have to? I have about fifty people coming over for a costume party, but I can cancel it and we can spend the night just us, if you’d like?”

He takes a moment to actually think it over. His skin is crawling, eyes already heavy with exhaustion. The thought of socializing with more than a few people is turning his stomach, and he looks into Mr. Stark’s eyes with a helpless grimace, “I guess I wouldn’t mind a party…”

“But you’d rather not?” Mr. Stark guesses, giving him a knowing smirk. Peter scrunches up his nose and shakes his head, and gets a chuckle in response, “Alright bambino, let me make a few calls. Why don’t you go inside and coral the animals.”

Peter laughs and leans in to give Mr. Stark a quick peck on the cheek, “Okay, Mama. Don’t work too hard.”

He catches a glimpse of Mr. Stark’s embarrassed flush before hopping out of the car, skipping towards the compound joyfully. Now that the threat of social interaction is out of the way, Peter feels excited about Halloween and the evening ahead of them.

“Ned?” He calls out, “MJ? Where are you guys?”

“Try the Eastern living room, Peter,” Friday’s voice rings out in the hallway, and Peter turns around to race down the corridor in the opposite direction, still calling out their names.

“In here, Pete!” Ned hollers.

When he turns the corner, Peter comes face to face with the classiest Halloween party room he’s ever seen. Every wall is covered in glass decorations, backlit with soft lights in various colors. An entire section of the room has been converted to a wardrobe, and both of his friends are rifling through the options.

Peter gravitates towards them, pushing aside different dresses and masks, “What’s…”

“Look, Pete— I’m you!” MJ has a Spider-man mask pulled down over her face as she laughs, pretending to shoot webs from her wrists, “bet I’d be a kick-ass Spider-man.”

He just shakes his head, “I bet you would, MJ.”

“What about me?”

Both of them turn to look at Ned as he wobbles over, legs and arms shoved haphazardly into the wrong end of a Spider-man onesie. His face is so confident as he stands in the middle of the room, and Peter can’t help the cackle that bursts out of his mouth, bringing tears to his eyes as he keels over in laughter.

“Where did… what did…” he can barely breathe, and looking up again at Ned is just a mistake.

MJ isn’t any better. She tears off the mask and coughs loudly, falling to the floor in a heap, “Ned! Where did you find that?”

“What?” Ned whines, striking a pose that sends them back into a fit of hysterics, “I don’t get how you can fight bad guys in this Peter— I feel too sexy for crime right now.”

“Please!” Peter begs as he wipes away tears, “mercy!”

“What’s all the— oh mother of god,” Mr. Stark’s voice rings out in the room, and it sends all three teenagers back into peels of laughter. He stands at the entrance to the living room with his arms crossed and an indulgent smile stretched across his face, and Peter lets himself roll on the floor and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Peter turns onto his back and lets the tears flow. They drench his cheeks and drip onto the rug, creating small spots on both sides of his head. It feels good— freeing. His next inhale is deep, his mind clears completely, and Peter realizes this is the first time he’s laughed in months. That every time he’s cried in the past few weeks has been full of devastation and sorrow.

Their combined scents slowly fill the room and bind them together as the evening progresses, each of them relaxing further and further into the moment. By the time the sun’s setting, Ms. Potts and Aunt May arrive with delivery, and the small group of them curl up on the couches to watch a Halloween movie.

Mr. Stark and Pepper take the love seat, and— with one last, longing gaze at the small spot in between them— Peter settles into a lump of blankets and pillows on the far end of the longer couch. He keeps a good distance between himself and his friends at the other end, but he can tell that there’s some awkward tension in the room as the movie starts to play.

He tries to ignore it, but Aunt May keeps giving him a look from her seat on a nearby chair.

“What?” he hisses at her, pouting a bit when she smirks.

May points at the loveseat and whispers, “You should sit with them. I know you wanna.”

“Stop!” Peter shakes his head in denial, “I’m not going to—”

“Hey, pup!” Mr. Stark calls from across the room, and Peter flushes. He knows the nickname is aimed at him.

Peter pulls the blankets up around his face, “Yes, Mama?”

There’s a snort from the MJ-Ned-shaped-lump, but it’s ignored. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts exchange a few hushed words before motioning for him to join them, “Come on over, Peter,” Pepper says with a confident smile, “plenty of room to join us.”

He’s up and out of the seat before he even processes moving.

At different points in his life, Peter has imagined how it might feel to curl up, safe and warm, between his parents. Never, in a million years, did he think he would get to experience that.

But the space between Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts feels like home. Scents like home. It’s sweet and warm in a way Aunt May’s Beta scent has never been. Peter has never scented Ms. Potts up close, but he’s not surprised when her scent has him immediately relaxing, melting back into the couch cushions.

The only Alpha he’s ever been close to is MJ, and her scent is terrifying .

Pepper lifts her arm and gives him a small smile, “You comfortable, Peter?”

Words won’t come, his senses are on overload. He feels a hand on his shoulder as Mr. Stark moves him, turning him bodily to lay across their laps with his feet in Pepper’s lap, head on Mr. Stark’s shoulder.

“Just relax, bambino,” Mr. Stark whispers, scratching at the baby hairs behind Peter’s ear, “we’ve got you.”

He lets his eyes close slowly. Both of them are scent-marking him subtly— squeezing his arms and legs, kissing his hair, and laying a blanket over him sometime later. The movie passes by completely unnoticed, and Peter dozes comfortably.

Why can’t every night be like tonight?

As the thrill of the night is fading away, Peter hears Mr. Stark offer his friends a ride back to the city. The two of them are fading as well, and it doesn’t take much convincing to get them out the door and into a waiting car.

May kisses him on the head before she leaves, “Sure you don’t want me to stay, Pete?”

“M’sure,” he murmurs, blinking up at her lazily, “you have work in the morning, right?”

“Yeah, champ. I do. You okay staying the night here, or do you want to head back with me?”

Peter looks back at Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts with a hopeful smile. Both of them laugh, and Mr. Stark waves his hand dismissively, “You know you’re always wanted here, Pete.”

“By both of us,” Pepper adds, squeezing his leg where her hand is resting.

“Alright, alright, I can take a hint,” May chuckles. She leans in for another kiss and Mr. Stark gets up to walk her out, leaving Peter and Pepper together on the couch.

He looks up at her. Everything about Pepper screams an intimidating mix of composure and warmth. Now that Mr. Stark is gone, he can separate their scents— and something about her distinct Alpha scent has him ducking his head, shy and submissive.

There’s a light touch on his arm, “Don’t hide from me, Peter,” her grin is soft and reassuring, “if you feel uncomfortable with me like this, you don’t have to stay— you know that, right?”

Her eyes are kind and not at all judgemental. He believes her doubtlessly.

“We haven’t spent much time together, have we?” Peter asks, hesitantly.

Pepper shakes her head, strawberry hair sweeping gracefully over her shoulder, “No, I don’t think so. Tony does come home smelling of you often, though.”

“Oh!” Peter sniffs his shirt, grimacing, “sorry about that, he helps me…”

“No, don’t worry, Peter,” she places a hand on his shoulder again, “I just meant that I’m familiar with your scent already. Tony even puts some of your items in our nest— I know he wants me to get used to our scents together.”

“Why… why would he do that?”

“Oh, Peter,” Pepper sighs. She shakes her head and leans back against the cushions, “we’re gone on you Peter. We really want to adopt you… at least informally.”

“She’s right.”

Mr. Stark’s voice is loud in the living room as he makes his way back to the couch. With a little bit of maneuvering, Peter is stuck in between them again, and this time he’s resting against Pepper’s chest. Her arms easily settle next to him on the sofa, aware of his space and cautious not to close him in.

“We have a secret plot to adopt and steal you away, kid,” Mr. Stark smirks and kicks his legs up, sipping on a drink as they settle together. “I just needed to get proper approval beforehand, you know?”

Peter hums, and he knows his own scent has gone sweet in satisfaction. The thought of being adopted— having a mom and dad, Alpha and Omega— is overwhelming.

“You promise?” Peter whispers. Part of him is scared of the possible rejection, even though he knows Mr. Stark rarely lies to him.

“Of course, bambino— whatever you want.”

As they cuddle together on the couch, trading hushed stories and sweet laughter, Peter has a thought.

It’s not the most responsible thought he’s ever had. If Mr. Stark digs too deep, he’ll chalk it up to being a teenager, being emotional, being an Omega.

“Mama?” Peter stares up at Mr. Stark with his best puppy-dog expression, and pouts his bottom lip, “Can I ask a favor?”

“I’m suspicious already, but sure— what is it?”

Pepper chuckles behind him, and Peter reaches down to hold her hand for comfort, “Can you get my letters to Steve?”

With a loud cough, Mr. Stark chokes on his drink and sputters. His hands fly up and wave around frantically, possibly looking for something to anchor him. Peter curls further into the shield of Pepper’s body and lets her deal with the aftermath— patting Mr. Stark’s back and criticizing him for being so dramatic.

“In what—“ Mr. Stark starts, coughing hard, “In what universe would that be a good idea, Peter?”

“I... I didn’t...”

“Actually,” Pepper interrupts, interlacing their fingers together, “I think that might be a good idea.”

Mr. Stark looks betrayed, affronted. Peter turns to smile up at her, “Really? You think so?”

“Once your hormones are stable, why not?” Pepper asks, kicking at Mr. Stark when her Omega makes a disappointed face, “It might be helpful for your Alpha to hear from you.”

“Get his head on straight,” Mr. Stark grumbles. His hands are clenched, and he refuses to look at them.

There’s a beat of silence where Peter just stares at Mr. Stark, hoping for an answer. He knows it’s a big favor to ask— but if anyone can get it done, he knows Tony Stark can.

“Fine.”

---

Hi Steven Grant Rogers, God. Would you make me take your name? I really hate that. Maybe I’ll ask you to take my name instead. Mr. Stark said I could send you one letter every month, and that if you respond, I can have that letter back. I hope you respond. Uh... I’m not sure what else to say. My name is Peter and I’m in high school. I know that makes things hard for you, being old as dirt, but I hope when we meet that it won’t be too awkward. I hope you stay safe. I’m finally on suppressants and doing better than I was before. Your words on my arm barely hurt anymore. Okay. That’s all for now. Yours, Peter Benjamin Parker Oh! PS I’ve sent a little sample of what I scent like. Mama said that you would like that.

Tag list (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @purplefreakwolffish @instantsharkskeletonpizza @justslightlycrazy @angelstarker @femmeparker @starkeraddictbaby @starkentrprises @snowstark @sarcastich