#they absolutely will not survive a fic where the tags aren’t enough to warn about the fic

[the-name-is-loser]

What they don’t tell you about not having played a game yourself and only watching YouTube videos of it is that the fanfiction for that game will either be good or bad (this will happen either way. And can change from one to another)

[thewinchestah]

Strawberry Fields (sonhei com campos de morango) - Alastor X Reader fic

Summary: On a dreadful night, Alastor goes to collect one of his contracts. Something goes terribly wrong. He finds you.

Warnings: fem!reader, Human!reader, smut, 18+, period sex, overstimulation, light cannibalism, blood, A LOT OF BLOOD, general creeppiness, Alastor is in hell for a reason, oral sex, alastor kind of hunts reader down, possessive!Alastor

A/N: Soooo!! This was a long time coming but here it is. This idea has been on my mind for a long time now and I wanted to test the waters before i commit to a long fic. I hope you guys like it, i'm kinda on the fence about it. I'm working on the requests and they should be out soon I PROMISEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Also I got a little carried away, i'm sorry. Hope you guys enjoy it. It's always a pleasure to write for you. The visuals and the title for this fic are heavily inspire by this music video. Not the lyrics tho, i always felt like the singer did a poor job with this concept and i wanted to do it justice.

Taglist: @markster666@jyoongim@stygianoir @pepperycookie@fraspent @aether-th3-enby  @lady-valtieri @karolinda007-blog @jesi-pinkman@polytheatrix If the tags aren’t working or you wanna be tagged, let me know.

You curse when another sharp stone cuts your feet.

You regret it a second later when you hear the ominous sounds that reverberate through the trees. They are closing in on you.

You don’t know how you got here, you just know now you are running for your life inside these woods now. The only guiding light, a full moon that looks weirdly otherworldly.

Adrenaline burns inside your bloodstream, the forest seems devoid of any living thing. It’s only you and whoever is chasing you. You wish you could hear gunshots, you wish you could hear screams. Anything besides the occasional twig snap or wind caressing the pine trees’ leaves. The eerie silence is deafening, and worse: the eerie silence makes you even more aware of your situation. 

It’s incredible how everything gets clearer when you’re about to die.

Maybe you shouldn’t have traveled alone, maybe you shouldn’t have decided to go somewhere where the closest thing to civilization is the village’s old-yet-charming dinner. 

You just wanted a little bit of quiet, a place that made introspection inviting. Next time you should go for a beach vacation.

Next time? why does next time sound so… far away? Somehow your feet carry you away from the forest’s well marked path and deeper into the thick vegetation, hiding behind a large tree. You gained a few minutes on them by taking a detour.

Breathe. Remember to breathe.

Right, your mind remembers. You’re being hunted down like prey in the creepy horror film woods, time to focus on surviving again. You can overthink later.

You assess your options: you can keep going into the woods, a deadly game of hide and seek. Zig-zag through the trees, keep them guessing. There’s a good chance you will find wildlife as you go deeper. This could be a problem, it’s too dark to make anything out, an encounter could cause enough of a distraction, you could take advantage of that. Or you could end up mauled. Plus, you are absolutely positive there are bear traps somewhere. If you're gonna die, make your death less dumb. Quite an embarrassing topic of discussion in the afterlife, saying that you died like horror film pretty girls making dumb decisions that you clearly would never make in a situation like that. You just know they are incredible hunters, you need to take them out of their element, expose them.

So yeah, going deeper isn't an option. 

Something catches your eye, there’s a big opening in the thick vegetation, there’s a clearing ahead and… sparks? You definitely see a light. You were told by the locals how the population is scattered across acres and acres of practically untouched wilderness, there’s also the park’s rangers stationed on specific places that grant them a visual advantage in case of emergencies. A big clearing is perfect for that. Maybe, just maybe there’s hope. 

Of course bolting there will make you terribly exposed, they will know your position all the time, and they can still hunt you hidden by the edge of the trail.  Besides there’s no guarantee of what awaits you when you reach the promised land, they could have a partner waiting, there could be nothing at all there. Taking this risk for nothing sounds worse than being lured into a trap. You just have this gut feeling that’s where you should go. Your brain starts to pick the plan apart, this doesn’t sound good. Hesitation can be fatal. But you are all adrenaline and primal flight intistic - 

The decision was made for you, you start running again. Taking advantage of the final stretch of cover you still have until you hit the trail again, you take several deep breaths. Oxygen needs to keep coming, so you can make decisions, so your limbs can respond quickly. Your peripheral catches something that’s also running. It’s a stag.

He’s also prey. He’s an omen. He’s your cue. 

You leap across some fallen branches and your scratched feet land on the main trial. As soon as you complete your first step you hear movement and hurried voices. They are onto you. “What do we say to the good of death? Not today” you give yourself a pep-talk as you keep running. Maybe thinking this is all fiction will help you survive this, detach yourself from the situation, don’t think about the consequences, just act. 

And like that, you don’t stop running. You sing your abcs to focus and stop spiraling. Evolution is truly amazing, the cuts you suffered don’t hurt anymore, precious shooting adrenaline, adrenaline that makes you tunnel vision towards your objective. By now you know where to step, when to dodge, when to slow down and when to go faster. Millennia of sheer force of survival catching up to you.

breathe, remember to breathe.

You inhale a good chunk of oxygen and look ahead. There’s a man on the edge of the tree line and a few meters left. Your mind wants to sing in victory, but you refrain from that, you know better than that it only ends when it’s over-

You’re positively sprinting towards the man right now, like he is your assured salvation. Something inside you screams louder and louder guiding you to him and you follow the sound. 

You hear gunshots. 

So noooooow they bring out the guns? That’s low. 

But that’s a good thing right? If they are shooting they are getting out of time. A single gunshot can take you down and they can smoothly and swiftly carry you away, like it’s a normal hunt. No one will question shooting something they didn’t see getting shot so deep into these woods. But shooting a girl in front of a witness? that’s for amateurs right? So, the man is not a partner you decide. 

remember to breathe, you are not breathing. 

You are so close now, you see an outstretched hand coming your way only a few more steps

breathe. 

You don’t, instead you leap towards your loosely established finish line and take the hand an-

 Dirt greets your face as you fall face first into the trail,  and you crawl like a zombie that just rose from its grave. You have a collection of new cuts and scrapes now, it hurts and you can’t bite your lip to suppress the pain. Still, you intertwine your fingers with his, your other arm aggressively seeking for leverage, clinging to your flesh lifeline. You blur out a bunch of incoherent things as he effortlessly lifts you up  in one swift motion. 

“Get behind me, my dear.” he asks. He has a weird voice almost like it leaves something in the air that caresses your skin, an inviting voice nonetheless. You hide yourself inside the crook of his arm, giving you the ability to witness just a little bit of the action there’s about to happen. You never let go of his hand. Your prince charming feels awfully cold.

Alastor waits, rather impatiently, for his clients to arrive. Making a deal with a human is his ticket topside and Hell is still terribly boring, even with the hotel. The Radio Demon was no stranger to contracts with humans, they were a win-win situation. Those who seek him always have a taste for the wicked and deranged, so it’s easy to figure out what they want and twist it for his own benefit. When they inevitably die, be it death by old age or death by occupational hazard, Alastor gets useful men from the moment they manifest in Hell. They always know exactly where they are and why, they are not confused sinners, petty crime or moral crime sinners. They are, most times, skilled killers who take no trouble doing Alastor’s bidding. An accomplished killer in life makes an even better prolific hellish soldier, someone who will continue indulging in their desires without the constraints of society, but eternally tied down by Alastor’s constraints. With the right incentive, they can rise in the ranks and become treasured resources for the overlord. Plus, the camaraderie isn’t all bad. Takes one to know one, they say.

However, humans these days are getting careless, sloppy. This entire display is proof of that, they should be over to kill and cover their tracks alone. The basics, for hell’s sake. 

 Alastor only takes care of the details. Tampering with some evidence here, getting a victim on the right place at the right time there. The occasional final encouragement to give into the darkness and finally kill, some advice. A self respecting killer should be able to kill and get away with it without the demon’s aid. He’s there for consulting and making sure there are no loose ends. 

But never this. Having to intervene in the middle of a kill because his client made a very very big mess that screams “you’re getting caught!” is below him. Amateurs are not worth Alastor's time.

The two men approach the tree line, clearly worked up from the hunt and shocked to see him there. If Alastor is withholding a victim, something went very, very wrong.

“Good night my good fellows!” the greeting leaves his lips in an overly-chirpy tone. Is that static in his voice?  Radio static? Is that what’s leaving goosebumps on your skin? The stress and the adrenaline are making you imagine things. You took the “pretend this is all a fantasy and you the main character” too seriously. Because now you are hiding behind Darth Vader’s skirts. That’s impossible, right? right?

“Great.” you can see the sarcasm dripping from one of your aggressors. “You’re here to watch?” the question asked all passive aggressive with an edgy tone. That’s definitely a teenager. What the fuck? you were being chased by a high school kid? This is ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, how can a teen pull this off? And you almost died? What? Your mind starts spirling. 

Alastor ignores the son, is the father he cares about. They’ve known each other for years now, and he’s underperforming to say the least. He waits for the father to address him, it’s his mess after all. The older man gives his son a stern look and finally breaks the silence. 

“Goodnight. We didn’t expect to see you here tonight, to be honest.’”

 The second voice is much older. That doesn’t quiet your thoughts at all. Is this a cult initiation thing? Hunting girls down like they are prey? WHY DID YOU TRAVEL TO THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE IN THE FIRST PLACE??? OF COURSE THERE WOULD BE CULTS HERE, DUUUUH. IF I WAS IN A CULT THIS WOULD BE THE PERFECT PLACE TO HIDE. There are so many voices screaming inside your head now, you are shivering. With anger, anticipation, fear. Your inner monologue overrides your brain and you are not sure you can cope with everything that’s going on. The voices, all the voices, sound wrong. They land weirdly inside your ear and you need to think hard to understand the words, you know how crucial every piece of information is. They could make all the difference when you talk to the police. They could help a conviction when you are on the stand, giving your official statement. You are surviving this. You are going to watch these fuckers get life in prision or worse.  You are surviving this right? There’s so much you haven’t thought through. Whose hand are you holding again? 

“Oh please. Don’t act all coy now, it doesn’t suit you old friend” Alastor is starting to cross the line from nuisance to anger. He twirls his microphone in annoyance, and makes sure to sink it deep into the moist ground. “Let me remind you about the terms of our agreement. For each 2 kills you make, one soul is mine to take. Or am I wrong?”

“No. You aren’t”. The father answers through gritted teeth.  “But I never thought you would want to collec-” Alastor tilts his head, his grin widens and he snaps “Never thought what? That I would claim what I am owed at my leisure? That I would stop waiting patiently for you, acting at your whim? You earned the privilege of killing unbothered by my vigilance. Because you always delivered your side of the bargain with excellence. I can revoke said privilege whenever I want. Especially after this pitiful performance.” The seasoned killer seems to slightly cower at Alastor’s words. Good. He always regarded the demon without fear or trepidation. His work was meticulous, spotless, basically perfect. And that gave him the justifiable confidence for going toe to toe with the Radio Demon during conversations, a bargaining chip during dealings of his contracts. Few could say that. 

You feel nauseous. Reality is crashing down at you hard and fast. How many people have these people killed? They are trading lives like it is the stock market, and yet you can’t let go of your prince charming’s hand. There’s no rational thought to justify it, actually rational thought is also being slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb tonight, because despite the gigantic red flags you are not letting go of this man’s hands. Everything about him screams danger, everything about him screams your safety. He’s the type of paradoxical that messes with your primal senses, that makes a moth go to the lights that will kill it. 

From the crook of his arm you finally gather the courage to open your eyes. You try to look up to your prince charming, but his face is concealed by the shadows of the night. Actually, everything of importance seems to be conveniently hidden from you. Your aggressor’s faces look distorted, recognizable traits melting together like watercolor painted by 100 shades of darkness, voices and words fuse together creating only cacophony. You hear things, you see things, but you can’t discern them. The three men keep going back and forth, but their conversation seems to dissipate into the air. Everything about this feels like a dream. 

Of course you can’t register anything of importance. Alastor makes sure of it. You are a potential victim after all. A liability, capable of making a positive identification. It’s wishful thinking that someone would take your account of what’s happening on this dreadful night seriously.

 Alastor has no shame in using the prejudices of your world to his advantage. If you were to tell, everyone would make the assumption that you are “just another hysterical woman, thinking too much about folktales”. You had too much to drink, partied too hard. Hallucinogens are a common party drug and this is the result of a bad trip. At worst, “someone tried to spike your drink, but nothing happened. You should be thankful, not getting in the way of important police work”. Alastor also knows that injustice is no real crime, and yet he decided to spare you. It doesn’t feel fair for you to perish in such crude ways, a practice run for a post pubescent, obnoxious serial killer in training. A precious thing like you should be honored, savored. In the odd chance that your voice was heard, the Radio Demon  guarantees that no reliable information will come out of your mouth. His clients might be lacking, but in the dealmaking business your words are your worth and Alastor has a silvertongue. Surely that pretty mouth of yours won’t be a problem. 

“I’m afraid I have to insist, my good friend. The pair of you caused enough damage already with these sloppy, impetuous spree killings. Your law enforcement is already on your scent, tracking the pattern and by the looks of it tonight’s mess will send quite a message. A message that I will have to make sure is delivered faultlessly. I will uphold my hand of the bargain, you will uphold yours. The girl will be spared. There’s plenty of prey out there, plus her death would only act as an aggravation, she’s not your type, and trust me, they will know you made a mistake, you will be exposed.” The Radio Demon’s patience is wearing thin. He shouldn’t have to justify his actions to humans. There’s no compromise to be found here, they went to him and the deal is always on his terms. You squeeze his hand really tight during the discussion of your scheduled demise, like a reminder that you are still there. Still afraid. 

 How cute. Alastor thinks. Your adrenaline is starting to wear off, dissipating into the cool forest breeze and opening space for a strong sense of false security, equally as inebriating. The smell of your sweet fear laced blood is unmistakable, assaulting your savior’s nostrils. Your knees buckle, and you struggle to keep yourself on your feet, clinging to prince charming’s hand for dear life. “Breathe darling, you are forgetting to breathe” He turns quickly towards you, his voice impossibly soft, shooting. You try to look up at charming’s face again, the only new discovery made is that he's awfully tall, and his face is still hidden by opaque darkness. You work really hard on breathing normally again, but you want to keep looking. Their faces are a monstrous distortion, vacant eyes that seem to cry blood. Your entire body tingles, you feel weird goosebumps. It takes all of your willpower to keep standing. You won’t lay yourself at their feat, defeated, like the corpse they would drag from these woods. But you just can’t keep looking, so you shut your eyes and grip the hand that has become your lifeline even tighter.

“You won’t even truly use the bitch, she’s no use for you” The entitled brat opens his mouth again. That’s the trigger.

The Radio Demon grows as tall as the native pine trees, his antlers furiously expanding and casting a shadow so dark over the two serial killers that the moon is completely obstructed. The only source of light in the forest now is the burning red dials of his eyes. The father sees the burning inferno of Alastor’s eyes and for the first time he is speechless. Maybe the realization of where destiny is sending him finally happens. The son sees raw, untamed power for the first time in his life and cowers like a scared puppy. Pathetic. 

“Now let’s get something clear here. I’m only tolerating your insolence because of my decade long relationship with your father.” You shut your eyes harder, your eyelids a shield from whatever is about to happen. Foreboding making the forest air too thick for you to breathe. You finally break down and start crying, too fucking much.  Alastor’s face meets the son on eye level. His teeth are bared, static picks up around the group to the point both men are struggling to breathe. A clawed hand traps the father’s face, a trail of blood dripping from the older serial killer’s cheek.“He’s as close to a professional as our kind gets. Shame the same thing can’t be said about you. This juvenile outburst does not make you more feared nor does it assert your dominance. It displays how weak you are, inept to succeed on this because you can’t keep your entitled demeanor in check. You are not owed anything in this lifestyle, if you want something you need to prove you’re worthy of it by taking it yourself. Whining like a petulant child won’t get you anywhere” You feel dizzy, the earth beneath your feet quakes,  whoever, whatever is holding your hand is sheeting with rage so consuming the ground shakes with the intensity of their emotions.

Alastor’s attention is now focused on the father, the red inferno from his eyes making the man feel genuine fear for the first time in his long, violence-filled life.  “Teach your spawn some manners and proper work, otherwise get him out of my sight. This was a courtesy. Fulfillment failings lead to contract termination, and contract termination means a lot of details appearing. You do not wish to make an enemy of me” Alastor delivers his last threat with a snarl. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up at the intensity of his words, you feel a powerful rush of wind, leaves ruffling, hurried steps and suddenly the world is at a standstill. The forest seems devoid of life excluding you, your mysterious prince charming and your two aggressors. All of your senses are assaulted with an overwhelming feeling of wrongness… darkness. Darkness that feels like the most luxurious silky dress on your skin, the most intense look of a passionate lover. It feels dangerously alluring and your will power is being gladly tempted by it. 

You feel like you’ve been holding your breath for hours, the rollercoaster of adrenaline inducing hyperventilation and conscious calming breaths making your brain enter some sort of high. Is that what people felt after a battle in ancient times? Is that what It means to stare death in the face and come out victorious? You don’t understand what you are feeling, but when oxygen finally feels normal again, tall, dark and handsome is escorting you deeper into the woods and you don’t even care.

 You’ve just slayed the dragon with your bare hands. You don’t care. You just want to bask on the feeling. To fucking feel. To remind yourself that you are still alive. 

Alastor is drunk on something that he rarely indulges in. Desire. Pure, raw carnality that makes him antagonize one of his greatests clients. Someone Alastor awaited his inevitable death with anxiety and hopefulness, someone he could actually call more than a partner in crime when in hell. A friend. A friendship born from blood and gore but bathed in kinship and inexplicable understanding of one’s dark nature. And the Radio Demon almost killed the man and his useless spawn and fucked everything up because when he saw your running for your life something ignited inside him. When you squeezed his hand so tightly, with such abandon and trust, like he was an Angel sent from heaven to protect you when reality was the most wicked antonym. 

Alastor spared you because you were prey. Beautiful, delicious prey that defied your destiny by accepting the nature of your condition. You didn’t dare to fight, you didn’t dare to think you could stand a chance against your hunters. You just fled. You fled and was perfectly lured into another trap, you doubled the bet when you held his hand and didn’t let go, serving all of your vulnerability on a silver platter to someone you deep down knew was way worse than any serial killer. 

Prey, that will chew its own leg to get out of a trap. Prey, that will offer herself to the most ungodly creature around if it means she can survive a few more moments, just to spite those who started the chase. Prey, that now holds his hand completely carefree and all giggles while she is led to a much more final and insidious type of slaughter. Prey that he was now going to claim.

Your wounded feet start to land on soft squishy things, a familiar scent invades your nostris. From the scent of sweat, blood and gore now to the scent of juicy, plump strawberries. 

“Hey, are we on a strawberry field?” it’s the first time you addressed him directly. You trail behind him, hurried steps crushing the strawberries on your way. You look up and for the first time you can see open skies. “You don’t need to worry my dear, you are perfectly safe now”

Are you? 

You decide that he doesn’t sound like  Darth Vader anymore, his voice is impossibly staticy, it prickles your skin and it feels like goosebumps that accompany butterflies on your stomach. He sounds like someone you would meet at a ball and have a cinderella moment with. The blanket of stars that illuminates the clearing you ferociously fought for grants you a better vision of his figure: scarlet red, snug tailcoat, perfectly tailored. Long legs and trousers that fit like skinny jeans. He dresses like the lead singer from a classic emo band. You can’t say you are complaining, you always loved the idea of a tall dark and handsome prince charming. 

“So, you have some weird friends don’t you?” you ask him. You can hear him chuckle, it is a very pleasant sound. Suddenly the twirls you, a fucking disney princess’ musical number twirl, and you find yourself in front of very big bed. 

With impeccable white sheets, you mind adds. Must be really hard to maintain white sheets in the middle of a strawberry field. Wait, what is a king size bed doing in the middle of th-

“Ah, I don’t really do friends, more like reluctant colleagues” bootleg brandon urie is the melancholic type, then. 

Alastor finally takes a good look at you when you take your seat on the bed with a contented sigh. You look marvelous. Your hair is messy and wild, your cheeks and neck flushed red from the effort. Your eyes big and pliant, waiting for his answers. You look so human, so deliciously alive. He desperately wants to be the cause of your disarray, to make the blood rush to your face under his materfully wicked touch. To feel your pulse fluttering when he touches your neck. 

You still can’t see all of him though. There’s stars, a big full moon whose light outstretches far, bathing the clearing in ethereal silver. The brightest lights cast the darkest shadows, your savior is always in the shadows.

By now you know he is purposefully hiding his identity from you, but you always liked a game.  Plus you don’t really have anything to lose now, you just want to forget everything that happened to you tonight, you just want to inebriate yourself, and charming really looks like someone who could show you a good time.

Either that or you are having a psychotic break after enduring life threatening stress. 

Anyway, you decide to bite. One possible psychotic murder, funny, charming murderer is better than two lukewarm ones.

“Do you always take random women to a creepy bed  with impeccable white sheets in the middle of the woods or am I just special?” not a chuckle now, a laugh. A beautiful, full laugh. The residual static on your skin making you shiver. 

Alastor completely understands what you are trying to do, and it’s truly hilarious. Your petulance and sarcasm towards him means to an end. You’re so precious, talking to him like this, thinking you could take him at his own game. What a beauty! Seeing you think you are succeeding in this only for him to take that conviction away from you at the last minute is going to be so entertaining. He wants you to dig your own grave, lay yourself at his feet.

He doesn’t indulge you, instead he takes a thick, silky strand of your hair and inhales deeply. You smell like sweet innocence and summer. It makes Alastor euphoric. 

His head tilts down as he smells your hair. You don’t that’s creepy, it looks creepy, it sounds creepy, but you feel reverence in his action. 

And then out of the shadows comes a revelation, you see his horns. You suspected his unhumanity, but the confirmation of it knocks the wind out of you. Your eyes widen, you simply cannot make sense of this night, everything feels too surreal and raw reality at the same time, it’s giving you whiplash.

“Are you the devil?” you ask him without much consideration of the weight of this question. You do your best to keep your voice from failing but it’s impossible. You never dropped his hand, in fact you feel like you are permanently attached to him, like a marble statue. Your fingers open and interlock again and again, reflecting your anxiety, but you don’t let go.

You can’t see it, but Alastor’s grin is as big as a cheshire cat’s.

 “Do you seek the devil?” answering a question with a question. Smoke and mirrors. Alastor waits for you to answer, but you don’t. You don’t know what to answer, you try to contemplate if enganding further could mean eternal damnation, or if you are already damned. Is he going to make you an offer you can’t refuse? an offer you aren’t allowed to refuse? Alastor will blame it on lack of patience, but the fact is he can’t wait anymore to taste you, there’s a burning desire inside him, that only gets more and more ferocious as he tastes the inebriating smell of your fear blessing the air he breathes again. 

He removes your interlocking fingers, his hand quickly trapping your tiny wrist inside. You hear heavy breathing. 

“Or do you seek a taste of the forbidden fruit?” The demon licks the long cut across our open palm. His tongue is sensual and cold, the sensation of it slowly dragging across your wounded skin a soothing balm. You moan, he growls. “Forbidden fruit it is.” he announces, delivered like a sentence. 

You are completely free of his touch for the first time since it all began, but it feels like you just suffered an enormous loss. You feel taunted, like someone just dangled a shiny new thing in front of you and took it away. It’s like your entire being has become tunnel vision and you need to get to the bottom of this, whatever this is. Consequences be damned. 

You watch closely as your paranormal paramour moves towards the bed, he is completely concealed by the darkness. Darkness deep and palpable, he morphs within it. The visuals are beautiful, it looks like one of the art’s greatest masters is painting a watercolor in front of you. Darkness from absence of light floating and mixing with otherworldly opaque darkness, flowing like a river. You wonder if it would run through your fingers like water if you touch it. 

Antlers. He has antlers, not horns. 

The not-devil settles himself behind you, back against the headboard. He quickly maneuvers you onto his lap, grabbing you by the waist. You squeal in surprise as more of him touches you, now pressed flush against his hard chest you feel something you shouldn’t be feeling, nonetheless resistance is futile, you spread your legs giving him more access. He has barely touched you, and yet you are completely surrendered to him. 

Alastor wasn’t joking when he established that a woman like you should be savored, slowly consumed so he can extract everything you have to offer. He knows your mind is exhausting itself trying to discern what is happening, how the body and the spirit get more susceptible to succumb to desire after surviving imminent death, and he intends to take full advantage of it. Alastor wants to see you writhe under his touch, pain and pleasure. He wants to torment you and make you pay for existing near him, for making him careless. For making him indulge in carnality and arousal. But mainly, he wants to punish you, because you battled so hard for your survival against them. When you should fear him. 

The Radio Demon touches your neck, exactly where your pulse is, where he can feel your beating heart, full of life pulsing. Life that taunts him and seduces him. The thump thump thump of your heart beneath his fingers like a moth going directly to the light that will kill it. He holds your entire life, your entire existence under his clawed finger, it makes him delirious. 

You feel a sharp sting on your neck, fangs that break your skin and spill your blood, red and ready for his taking. Holding your breath while he sucks the life out of you, your head swims,  and you drown on the feelings. You feel pleasure, forbidden pleasure from having something hurting and feasting on you. 

“If you are not the devil, are you a vampire?” It might be a dumb question, but it’s the logical one. Sometimes the obvious needs to be said.  He laughs again, a full deep laugh,mockery dripping from it.

“Why? If I were a vampire would it make you feel better about spilling your blood for me?” he dodges the question again. Bait and switch. He’s feeding on you and you are enjoying it.. You don’t know what he is, you don’t know his name. It only spurs the burning desire in the pit on your stomach.

Alastor licks the entire length of your neck, his other hand applying light pressure on your pulse point. He bites down on you again, harder, going deeper. You roll your eyes and moan obscenely  as he sucks on it. This is going to leave a mark for sure, but you don’t care, because whatever he’s doing to you feels delirious, it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt. 

Your blood is dripping from Alastor’s lips, he licks it not wanting to waste a drop. He can taste your eagerness, your fear, your essence, your soul. The red liquid is solid proof of how alive and defenseless you are, completely at his mercy. You keep moaning and melting on his lap at his ministrations, a finger starts tracing your arm, feather light touch that leaves you shivering in anticipation. 

He’s gently scratching, teasingly. It’s a claw, you realize. Another part of his unhumanity making you scared and deliciously trembling in anticipation. It’s Alastor’s turn to moan now, his clawed finger comes to torment your clothed nipple, he makes sure to do it tantalizing slow to give you just a taste of what it could be. He wants to hear you ask for it, beg even.

 “I’m afraid I’m way worse than the Devil, little doe” his low, threatening tone makes you close your legs together and rub, desperately seeking friction, some relief. 

“Re–really? You don’t sound that bad” A lie. You just want to say something back.

Your paramour laughs again, he takes your hand in his and starts making his way downwards. 

“How precious are you, lying like that to me” He stops both of your hands on your lower belly, threatening to cross the point of no return. You squeal and struggle on a desperate attempt to raise your hips and get something more, anything.

Delighted in seeing you writhe this badly when he has not even properly touched you, Alastor squeezes your neck tighter, inflicting just enough pain and pressure to make you sing. The Radio Demon finally makes the decision and drops any pretense of moderation, hastily dropping the band of your panties and guiding your joined hands to your slit. “I can taste the fear in your blood, how your sense of pleasure has been forever skewed”.

The two digits tease your entrance that is coated with arousal and something more, his touch is masterful, like he knows the ways of the human body the same way a talented musician knows their way around an instrument. He makes you moan, he makes you sing with only the possibility of his actions. The idea of being taken by something unholy. 

At last, Alastor finally enters your  tight wet pussy, his finger guides yours as he undoes you in ways that should not be allowed. He pumps your cunt mercilessly, gone are the careful, calculated touches, he wants to make you crash and burn as quick as possible, he wants to make you understand that you crossed the most important line of your life. There’s no going back now, your pretty mortal body is forever tainted by unholiness, by his darkness. 

“You spread yourself like this for me, a wanton little thing while I choke and feast on your blood”. Alastor curls the fingers inside you repeatedly making you move your hips in the maniac rhythm he has set. You ride your joined digits, moaning like a whore while your lover’s grip on your throat tightens and releases making your brain short circuits in pure unknown carnal feeling. “You are not the demure, feisty thing like you desperately tried to prove earlier. It only takes the slight touch of something forbidden to make you moan like a common whore” he adds another one of his huge fingers and starts scissoring inside you, the combination of two of his digits and your little one only adds insult to injury. You will never be able to replicate these ministrations, the feeling of being this full and stretched, you had a taste of the forbidden fruit, you are high on it and you will never get another hit on your own. 

Alastor alternates between choking you and curling the fingers inside you, your lightheadedness combined with the assaulting pleasure making you feel feverishly delirious. Your body is hot from desire and adrenaline combined, a starking contrast to your mysterious lover’s touch, ice cold. The two of you distinct seasons, distinct stages of existence mixing together, life and death tethering each other, blurring the lines of worlds that shouldn’t exist together. 

Orgasm building quickly, you grip the white sheets tighter and tighter and tighter but your fingers feel wet, you look down to see a mess of redness leaking from your core. 

Oh fuck, you are on your period. You completely forgot about it. In normal circumstances you would feel mortified about being fingered like this while bleeding, but right now it makes things even more erotic, you’ve learned that your lover may not be a vampire, but he definitely has a thing for blood and something inside you ignites at the idea of letting him feast on your blood, eat you out while you bleed for him. 

Your pussy flutters with the fantasy of that tongue working your pussy and with a particularly harsh pinch on your clit you are off. Waves of pleasure spread across your entire body like wildfire, he chokes you merciless making the urge to scream to the universe how fucking good you feel impossible. You want to scream his name, but you don’t know who he is, what he is. You just want more.  

While you ride the waves of your orgasm unbothered Alastor takes the opportunity to take fingers from your pussy to his mouth, red with blood and slick with arousal, he moans audibly as he tastes you, the most intimate parts of you. Only a little bit of it inebriates him, this is better than 70% of what he does in Hell. This feels better than closing a new deal, watching the princess of Hell fail miserably at rehabilitating sinners. You taste so sweet, so alive and afraid. He’s hard with the conviction of how scared you are, of how he has permanently tainted something so innocent and pure. How you stupidly threw yourself to his mercy. Perishing at the hand of those serial killers is more merciful than him. And now you will know. 

You must have babbled something while you came, about wanting to scream his name and not knowing it, because now you find yourself completely lying down, the bed feels soft like a cloud and you are sprawled like an angel, and he finally reveals something about him of his own volition.

“The name is Alastor, my dear. It has definitely been a pleasure meeting you.” Alastor, now you know, settles himself between your thighs and the pooling redness from your core. You feel him running his claws across the impossibly soft flesh of your inner thighs, you cover your face with your arm.

“Alastor I’ve never… No one has ever…” you trail off, you shouldn’t be embarrassed at this point, but nevertheless you feel your cheeks burning. Is he really going to eat your bloody pussy? fuck.

Alastor’s name on your lips sounds so soft, so pure. He wants to ruin it. He wants to destroy the careful constructed cognitive dissonance that makes you feel safe and comfortable around him. He wants you to be completely afraid and craving being scared of him, disrupting your sense of pleasure so he can ruin you completely, getting you hooked on him and delirious for more, willing to do anything for another taste of the forbidden fruit.

So, he makes you look.

“Look at me” you don’t want to. You feel a lot of things right now, but mainly you feel as if you really take a look at your dark lover tragedy is going to happen. Eros and psyche all over again, but bloodier. 

He claws your thighs, you hiss at the delicious pain, but still disobey him. 

“Look. At. Me” he snarls, definitely a threat. You feel yourself getting wetter. 

Alastor slaps your ass, hard. He’s losing patience, his temper turning quick at the realization that you not knowing who he is isn’t a perfect plan.

You moan from the pain, from the sting. It feels wickedly erotic. You almost want him to hit you again. Since when pain felt so fucking good?

So you do, you finally look at him. 

Red. The first thing that your brain fixates on is how much red there is. Scarlet red hair, red blood running down your core and staining the white sheets. Red claws that pierce your skin. 

Red eyes. Burning red eyes that entrap you. It’s like you can see the blazing fire that tortures the damned inside those eyes. 

If this is why people fall from grace, you totally understand the appeal now.

The second thing, the thing that makes you transfixed at the sight of him is how wrong he looks. His antlers are beautiful, growing from his scarlet hair beautifully adorning ears that look extremely soft, non-threatening, like a crown. His eyes are big and sharp, close together 

while he stares at your soul, eyes of a predator in the middle of softness of prey. His grin is completely predatory, dangerous, sharp teeth that hurt and maul, but at the same time bite you just the right way to make you moan in raw carnality. The skin is pale, not in a michael-jackson-thriller-way but in an ethereal way. His voice is static that seems to tickle your skin, sometimes more than others. He’s paradoxical, everything you should be afraid of and the comfort you should seek at the same time. A force you shouldn’t meddle with. Primal and raw. 

You may not know what exactly he is, but one thing is certain: he’s dangerously alluring, and you completely fell into his trap. But it hardly matters anymore, because he is about to drink blood from your pussy with that marvelous silvertongue of his.

“Fucking beautiful” you blur out, not realising he’s going to hear you.

One of Alastor’s eyebrows shoots up. He’s not regarded as beautiful often. Alluring, maybe. 

He wants to make you pay for all the soft ideas you have about him.

You soon learn how hard it is to hold the gaze of your lover’s eyes, his burning red irises entrap you. It's impossible to look away but overwhelming to stare into. 

“If all the mortal men you’ve been with are weak and pathetic enough to decline the dark gift of your bleeding cunt, then I’m honored to be your first” and without much more warning you feel a delicious cold tongue licking your entrance and you are off

 Alastor isn’t eating you out, he’s feasting on you like you are his last chance of salvation. His face is completely buried deep in between your legs as his tongue assaults you at a merciless pace. He makes sure not to waste a drop of anything your gushing pussy gives him. His tongue enters you and the contrast between your tight heat and his coldness makes you delirious. Exquisite carnal pleasure, you could cum from it alone.

Alastor is having a hard time navigating this double edged knife: you don’t know who he is what is capable of, which means your aren’t near as scared of being this vulnerable with him as you should be, a literal cannibal delighting in your soft flesh, drinking the warmth of your sacred blood. You must taste delicious terrified. But the silver lining is that the fear he inspires would make any woman who knows more compliant to this, even offering this to him freely. You have no idea about his exploits, he can and he will tarnish you with all of his unholy darkness, wrecking your world during the eleventh hour when you realize what you’ve done, who you’ve so easily corrupted your morals and your spirit for. You’re so beautiful, so naive, so trusting, so alive. You moan “Alastor, Alastor, Alastor” soft ohhhs and aaaahs as he polishes your cunt, every sound you make, every twitch of your legs and roll of your lips reminding your ungodly lover of how delicate and rare you are, aiding him on his mission. Gripping the sheets isn’t enough anymore, you instinctively place your hands on his antlers, the texture indescribable. Again, the contradiction of the softness of his velvet and the sharpness of his teeth, wickedness of his tongue giving you whiplash. You start rubbing them furiously, trying to mirror his ministries on your swollen folds. It definitely is doing something to him because he drags his teeth along your inner tie, breaking more skin, drawing more blood, hissing. You scream at the heavenly pain mixed with unholy pleasure.

Normally, Alastor wouldn’t let anyone near his antlers, arguably the most sensitive part of his body. If worked right, the sensations take him to another level of desire, insane carnality. But you taste so sweet, rich blood mixed with erotic arousal on a soft flesh platter, he consumes your innocence as he coaxes another orgasm from you. You hold on to dear life on his antlers, his velvet shedding and bloodying your hands, running through adding to the painting of reds that connects you two. Something ignites on you and it’s the most intense orgasm of your life, you feel every nerve burning from everlasting fire, that transforms and transforms until it explodes in a supernova. You don’t have the strength to scream, so you whisper Alastor’s name like a filthy prayer. 

He looks up grinning like a devil. Something makes you open your eyes as you ride out the waves of pleasure. There’s so much blood, blood dripping from his lips, blood on his nose, blood cascading down his bewitching face mixing in a flowing current of red, it ends in a glistening red pool where you meet each other in immoral sin, so inviting you could jump in. It’s like what would happen if the killers had caught you, but twisted into wicked, ungodly pleasure, it’s almost worse. Because well, if you’re killed you’d be dead and would never have experienced this, but now you have and the ephemerality of this night crashes on you and you feel conned, betrayed. 

 He licks his lips and stares right at you, a doe caught in the headlights of his eyes, you almost cum again. 

Alastor feels delirious from the bloody mess in front of him, carnality so powerful it makes him insane, he needs to finish this. He needs to sink his cook deep into your slick cunt. Pushing himself up, he starts to position his cock on your entrance. He’s so tall, the shadows of his bloodied antlers cover you and hide the welcoming silver lighting of the moon. The stars look so different today, and the welcoming sight of a full moon looks merciless, devoid of warmth and hope.

“Women like you are not meant for mortal men. They cannot honor you, they cannot savor you, they cannot satisfy you. Once you take a bite of the forbidden fruit you understand your place. Pliant and submissive beneath me. To be ravished and tamed by something beyond puny mortality. You are made to me fucked, to be owned by the better man who defied destiny and transcended what the hands of fate enforced on him. You are Helen of Troy, tailor made to fit my cock, satisfy my thirst”

He teases your entrance with just the tip, making you greedly roll your hips towards him, a primal response to the ravishing words. Alastor laughs mockling at you attempt of getting him to fuck you on your terms, your time. You may not be aware of everything but by now you know you can’t outfox and fox on his own game. 

“please. please. PLEASE” you scream the last word, you can’t take it anymore. A second without him touching your body feels like an eternity. 

“Tsk. You look so pretty when you beg” the condescending compliment lands like music on your ears and he finally enters you. Inch after inch he spreads your tight walls open, practically breaking you. You understand now why people in times before yours had sex after battle. It’s the most rare and coveted feeling in existence, to greet imminent death, escape her fatal calling and then do the thing that undoubtedly proves you are alive. Only to meet her again at the finish line of carnal sensations and no rational thought. Primal need to feel, to live.

Alastor finally bottoms out with an animalistic growl, making your shiver under him. He fucks you at a merciless pace, he fucks you with haste, with urgency and abandon. He knows what he needs and he is going to take it. 

“Hoooooly FUCK Alastor” you scream. 

“There’s nothing holy here. Everything that’s holy has abandoned you. There’s only me, your wicked god who has you completely at his mercy, to fuck, to break” he takes it all out and enters you at once. You try so bad to look at him, to hold his piercing gaze with adamantine conviction but you can’t. It’s too much, overstimulation creeps on you and everything hurts. You shut your eyes. 

“Look at me. Fucking look at me or I will stop” it’s not an order, it’s a threat. You should be scared, you feel scared, but tonight fear is diesel to your desire, and the pain makes you enter a mind numbing stage. The lines of torture and relief blurring together until you can’t discern a thing, you feel. 

You do as you’re told. You look at him as he fucks you, thrusting like a mad man, obscene sounds reverberating throughout, you are being so loud you are sure they can hear you back on the village. The village, your cabin. You had a life before tonight. Will there be life after tonight?

You don’t have time to have an existential crisis because what Alastor does next gets your undivided attention. 

“You will look at the demon who is ruining you, fucking you. You are no immaculate maiden anymore. You are a common whore for the Radio Demon” your eyes widen at the revelation. He is not a vampire, he’s not the devil. The fact that he is a demon and not satan makes you even more mortified, like you’ve settled for less. Just a little demon is what it takes to completely undo you. 

Alastor keeps thrusting at a breakneck pace, feeling vindicated. He did exactly what he said he would do, he took the last fiber of comfort, of dignity away from you. He can see your  entire world shattering on your beautiful doe eyes, making you finally feel the right amount of horror on the edge of a rapturous orgasm. 

You feel true terror now, there was still a slimmer hope that he wasn’ evil incarnated, that he had a redeeming quality. After all, he saved you. Didn’t he save you? Or did you start something you are not even close to understanding? You feel terrified because there’s a demon fucking you, biting you, feasting on your blood and you fucking love it, you want it every night. You really took a bite from the forbidden fruit and ruined yourself.

“It’s too much, Alastor I can’t” the words leave your lips and feel like confession, like somehow if you admit your complete surrender it will absolve you of something.

“Too. Bad.” Alastor punctuates his point with delicious sharp trust after each word. He finally tainted you with his darkness and made you aware of it. He feels delirious, he feels like victory incarnated. Your moans grow louder and louder, now pleasure means pain, hell means rapture. Things that should not exist together making you feel the best you have ever felt. Tears spill from your eyes, the overstimulation something you’ve never felt before, mind numbing and life-altering.

In an act of paradoxical mercy, your demon lover rubs your clit and you’re out like a light. Your walls tighten around Alastor’s cock, and white hot pain, blinding red pleasure overcomes you. You feel like falling, you feel your literal fall from grace as your body tingles and burns with ineffable, forbidden pleasure. Alastor howls and cums inside you. 

You land on silky, comfortable, alluring darkness. 

-

The cool forest breeze greets your abused skin, it stings but feels soothing at the same time. Paradoxical, like everything from this night. Alastor holds you tight, cradling your head on his chest, petting your hair. He draws lazy circles on your hip bone, featherlight touch, careful and coy. You turn on your side to face him.

“Can you see it now? It’s beautiful, he’s so beautiful” your mind asks you. You agree.

You start giggling, laughing. It is also so funny.

“What’s so funny, little doe?” Alastor asks you, genuinely amused. He feels elated from this night. He feels satiated, contented. It’s a very rare feeling for him. 

“For a while I seriously considered you are an alien” you tell him, you can’t contain your laughter now. You are so silly. Alastor’s eyebrow shoots up, quizzical. He chuckles and indulges you. “Alien, is so mundane. You could never be an Alien, it’s way too easy”. What your giddy minds means is that now you know Alastor is anything but easy, actually there’s nothing like him. He’s something else. Something entirely different, a delicious mystery that creeps inside your heart, haunts you forever. 

You stop laughing when realization hits you.

“Will I ever see you again, Alastor?” you ask him, your voice failing, nothing more than a whisper. You feel the ephemerality of this night, you feel daylight closing, ruthless sun rising that ends this everlasting dream. 

Alastor stares deeply into your eyes, he sees your wanton desire, your trepidant expectations. “That depends entirely on you, my dear doe. It’s time to make a decision.” his voice is so soft it fucking hurts. 

You look at the fading moon on the horizon, the distant stars judge you, the earliest of birds sing for you. 

Yet from those starts, no light but rather, darkness visible.

-

You open your eyes, you feel impossibly rested. Your bed feels soft and you want to visit dreamland again, but the noise stops you.

Songbirds and blazing sirens mix together a cacophony of urgency. You get up fast, trying to remember little bits and pieces of the crazy dream you had and run to the big window across the room. 

You look down, you see ambulances, police cars, lab coats and tall guys in FBI jackets.

Something definitely happened here last night.

 That explains it then, the nature of your murderous dreams. The sirens creeped their way into your subconscious making that murderous, dreadful dream. You take a quick look and your hands and see nothing. Perfect, unblemished skin. 

It felt so real. Strawberry fields and blood. 

Your neighbor from across the street gestures manically at you from her window. 

Fuck, it must have been really bad. There’s a lot of people at your doorstep. 

Hurrying to put your robe on, you fly down the stairs towards the bustling crowd outside. 

You are dying to know what happened. You were always a vivid dreamer.

You reach the hall and open the door, a polite officer starts talking to you.

You don’t notice the old radio on your vanity, or the opaque darkness that followed you from the corner of your room to the world outside.

[shades-of-stony]

Heavy Angst (And Not-So-Heavy but Still Angsty) Stony Fanfics!

I’m absolutely love a good Tony whump and hurt story so prepare to see a lot of those here! Get your tissues ready!

Push by phoenixreal

Summary: Tony Stark was known for pissing people off, it was a given. Then, after the man everyone thought was nothing more than a selfish prick decided to nearly kill himself saving Manhattan from a nuclear bomb, even the most sure of Tony's bastard status had to rethink it. And then, his team who were sure they had him pegged, they were invited (ordered) to move into Stark Tower with him. To their surprise, they found he had furnished full floors for each of them, somehow knowing their tastes exactly, including a floor dedicated to the resident Asgardian who would only be there some of the time. Surprised, and please, they all wonder at the enigma that is their host. After a couple months, Pepper Potts stops coming around so much, and they realize that something has exchanged between them because they are rather professional to each other. Pepper still frets over Tony, but instead tells the others to keep an eye on him rather than doing it herself. They easily forget that Tony is, and always has been, simply a human civilian. Then things get strange when they find themselves locked down within Stark tower, and after a harrowing viewing of a mysterious video, they find their resident playboy is completely gone.

Note: Prepare to cry and be hurt! This fanfic dabbles with Tony’s insecurity, self-worth, and issues. Please heed the warnings!

The words you choose to say by masterlokisev159

Summary: After the SHRA, the events around Steve’s death and Tony discovering he deleted part of his brain, Tony finally decides he's done enough. With Osborn taken care of, Tony leaves the Avengers and decides to quit being Ironman effective immediately.

He tells himself it doesn't hurt when Steve agrees. Why should it? After everything he's done, the team's better off without him.

However before he can truly move on, there are things he needs to take care of, and it's not long before he realizes he's dangerously close to losing his company. He's desperate and willing to do anything to keep it together.

So when, after months of silence, Steve asks him to drop everything and come work for Shield, Tony finds he doesn't have a choice. He agrees, no matter how much he knows he shouldn't. His reputation isn't exactly the best after the SHRA and he's heard stories of what he'd done as Director. He's knows what he's done. He's knows he's responsible for what happened to Steve.

He just wishes someone had warned him first. He hadn't been prepared to deal with the consequences.

Note: A 1000/10 angst fanfic that made me weep at 3 am in the morning. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED. READ IT AND PREPARE TO CRY BUCKETS

Protocol SOTERIA by GoldenFinches

Summary: Friday's primary objective at all times is to protect one Anthony Edward Stark. And she will fulfill that objective no matter what it takes. Even if it means including certain people she thought she would never have to deal with again.

(Basically the Rogue Avengers get some sense knocked into them with the help of Friday and handful of videos.)

Note: A HIGHLY RECOMMENDED ANGSTY FANFIC. I CRIED SO MUCH READING THIS. 

Straight to Voicemail by YouMakeMeDokiDoki

Summary: "I DID!" Tony screamed, cutting Steve off mid-sentence and whirling around to glare at him. 

"I CALLED YOU! EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU!"

Or

The one where no one answered their phone and things got out of hand. 

Note: this will absolutely break you heart.

Sunshine and Luck by ImportedfromMunich2

Summary: Months after Siberia, Steve and the rest of the defectors are pardoned and allowed back onto the Avengers, with the help of Tony Stark. Now that they're back - nothing is the same as before. Tony is even avoiding Steve at all costs.

Then one night - Tony barges into Steve's bedroom while he sleeps, and they have spontaneous, passionate sex.

Only, the Tony Stark he just fucked isn't from this universe.

Now, Steve has to find a way to explain to Tony that he had sex with his counterpart from another dimension.

Note: A good Steve whump fic! 

When You Mess With Him... by REM_It_Up

Summary: During an event with the Avengers, Tony is kidnapped by an unknown group of men right in front of the team. The group who took Tony taunt the Avengers by leaving small clues to Tony's whereabouts. When the kidnappers finally get in contact with the team, they are forced to watch Tony get tortured on camera.

The Avengers desperately search for their missing friend before they never see him again.

The kidnappers are smart and fast, they have everything figured out in order to get away with their plan...They just forgot one thing--

Colonel James Rhodes

Note: Now this is really heavy! Brace yourselves for a kidnapped and tortured tony! Also, protective honey bear aka Rhodey bonus here!

To Need is Not To Want by Brixon

Summary: All his life Tony has been used as a means to someone's end. Always someone's tool in a game. Carelessly thrown aside, once they had no longer use of him. He keeps it bottled up because, because he's Tony Stark. But he's always had this desire that one day someone would come who would stay because they wanted and needed him. He thought he had that with the Avengers, but after everything with the Accords and everyone leaving after Civil War that hope of having something of his to stay was gone.

Despite being burned constantly, Tony still has this wanting. So when Ryder, an old college friend, comes back into his life and actually seems to want to stay because he wants AND needs Tony, Tony is beyond thrilled. Because Ryder is staying. It doesn't matter if the bruises stay too.

But what happens when the Avengers return and Tony finds himself wondering once again exactly what he wants and what he needs.

Note: I’m sure, from the summary, you can tell that it’s a heartbreak here. 

Hiding Things Is All Too Easy - Until It Isn't by audhds

Summary: Tony hasn't been the same since Bucky arrived at Stark Tower. That much is obvious. But Steve is overjoyed to have his best friend back and is somewhat oblivious to how Tony is withdrawing away from him. Because surely Tony is just overworked as usual. He must be quiet and jumpy because he is sleep deprived. And of course he has a few cuts and bruises on the visible parts of his skin - he fights and works for the Avengers as a living. It's part of the job description. Until it isn't.

Will Steve discover the physical and mental trauma that Tony is going through before it is too late?

Note: This is even heavier! Please read the tags carefully! Also, this has some serious Bucky bashing! If you are a Bucky fan but still interested in this, please prepare yourself. 

No Trait As Much As This by KandiSheek

Summary: Tony gets hit with truth serum. It's a terrible time for everyone.

Note: A bit lighter than the others but still angst nonetheless. The added truth serum element makes this even more interesting!

Good For You by @orbingarrow

Summary: Steve doesn't understand why Tony dates people who abuse him. Tony doesn't understand why Steve cares.

The rest is bad choices, good choices, rehab, milkshakes, paintball, YouTube videos, couples therapy and learning to put the past in the past. Or: How Tony finds his happy ending.

Note: Another Tony-in-abusive-relationships fanfic!!

hold the things you wanna say by SailorChibi

Summary: Tony is still a consultant, and between SI, the team and SHIELD he's overworked and exhausted. That's okay.

He and Steve have been having sex for weeks but that's all it is, just sex, and Tony wants more but he'll never get it and that's okay. Really.

What's not okay is the fact that Howard Stark has somehow appeared in the future and is the same as always.

This is definitely going to fuck up his schedule.

Note: Anyone up for some Howard-travels-to-the-future fanfic?

Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies by MemoryDragon

Summary: Seven-year-old Tony Stark wakes up on a Hydra base, lost, afraid, and alone. He has to overcome his fears before it's too late for the Avengers and Captain America.

Note: De-aged Tony just screams heavy angst and hurt!

Advanced Protocol by masterlokisev159

Summary: The Incursions are coming. The Illuminati have surrendered and everyone has come together to take one last stand.

Everyone except Tony. And Steve is tired of waiting. He wants answers.

There's something the Illuminati aren't telling him.

Note: If you don’t know what the Avalon is in Marvel, I recommend you search it up, or you could read this fic. You will be heartbroken with what you find. 

Flower Child by itsallAvengers

Summary: The point was this, though:

In a hundred million universes, in a hundred million different lives, there would never be a single one of them in which Tony Stark deserved anyone like Steve Rogers. Ever.

So this? Nonsensical.

Note: Another fanfic that highlights child abuse and Tony’s insecurities! 

What Pays All Debts by KandiSheek

Summary: No one is supposed to survive the date written on their skin. And yet Tony's numbers keep piling up.

Note: Angst + Death dates? You could probably foretell how much of a gut-wrench journey this is.

Falling Into You by sabrecmc

Summary: Tony and Steve end up as fuck buddies after the events of The Winter Soldier until Steve calls it off. When Loki's spell wipes all of Steve's memories since the last time Loki was in town, Tony decides it will be so much easier to just not tell Steve they had something of a relationship. Spoiler: It isn't.

Or, how Steve fell in love with Tony and forgot about it, and how Tony fell in love with Steve and realized it.

Note: There are just something about amnesia fanfics that makes it so goddamn heartbreaking. 

Art Freaks and Comic Geeks by Coil

Summary: Tony Stark had made himself a phenomenally renowned writer. The world had fallen in love with the heroes that appeared in his novels; captivated by his vivid words of life and colour.

His next ambition was to publish a comic book series starring the much-beloved heroes of his novels. There was just one problem. Brilliant as Tony may have been with his words, his skills in the field of drawing were less than great. It didn’t help that he barely knew what his characters ought to look like in the first place.

Enter: Mister Steve Rogers – an up-and-coming artist/illustrator with the potential to be brilliant.

Their paths happen to cross at Comic-Con.

Note: this is a much lighter angsty fanfic but is still angsty. It is a Modern AU mixed with Artist!Steve and Writer!Tony.

Unwritten Endings by XtaticPearl

Summary: Tony takes the bullet meant for Captain America at the end of their war and through his death, brings together the team again. Only, he isn't really dead and when he comes back, the equations between the team-mates begin to alter and reform, writing a new story altogether.

Note: Of course, you can’t have an angst fanfic rec without a fake death fanfic!

WIP

Need Is Just A Word by masterlokisev159

Summary: A month has gone by since the war and Tony has never felt more alone. of course, with the unrest within the government, the disappearance of the Avengers and the obvious lack of Steve Rogers, it was only a matter of time before the UN finally flipped out and decided to act on the last available Avenger. Too bad they didn't realise a promise had been made by Captain America to be there when Iron man needed him.

Note: a gut-wrenching Post CA:CW fanfic where tony is suffering the consequences of the civil war.

Take me out tonight by masterlokisev159

Summary: When Steve gets invited to a formal party with the government, Fury tells him he can bring a plus one of his choosing. While listening quietly in the corner, Tony heaves a sigh of relief because the team could really do with some positive publicity and any of the Avengers are a good choice for Steve. Tony just wants Steve to be happy after all, even if he knows Steve's gonna pick Natasha. He knows Steve doesn't like him and he's aware there's never going to be anything more between them. They're barely even friends really.

So of course he's absolutely shocked when a gold filigree letter rests in his palms two days later. He's the worst person for this.

Why on earth did Steve choose him?

Note: AHHHHHHHH, INSECURE TONY IS JUST A FAVORITE. Also, confident!Steve that knows who he wants is just a whole new mood!

The Soul Stone's Sacrifice by masterlokisev159

The soul stone demands a sacrifice that Tony and Steve are not prepared for, but in the end, one life is sacrificed for the many. Steve lets Tony go for the last time and mourns a future they never had.

That is until Tony comes back.

Note: A scenario where Tony and Steve where the ones to go to Vormir. 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

72 Hours In Montreal [Part I]

A/N: Many moons ago, the incomparably lovely @im-an-adult-ish​ pitched a Montreal concert fic idea (jokingly, I think), and quite a few of my followers fell in love with it. They were even kind enough to vote on which Queen member should be the love interest, and there was a clear winner: John! 

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and at last, here is the first of three chapters of this new mini-fic. I’m going to tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy. 💜

Series Summary: John Deacon is a rock star at a crossroads. Y/N is a world-weary employee at a Yankee Candle shop. They’ll only ever have three short days in Montreal together...or will they??

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (not graphic). 

Word Count: 6.8k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @escabell​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​ @deacyblues​ @tensecondvacation​ @brianssixpence​ @some-major-ishues​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @youngpastafanmug​ @simonedk​ @rhapsodyrecs​ ​​​ @joemazzmatazz​​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​​ @namelesslosers​​ @inthegardensofourminds​��� @sleepretreat​​ @hardyshoe​​​ @sevenseasofcats​​ @jennyggggrrr​​ @madeinheavxn​​ @whatgoeson-itslate​​​ @herewegoagainniall​​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​​ @pomjompish​​ @allauraleigh​​  @bluutac​​ @johndeaconshands​​ 

The obnoxious British men are still laughing. The one with the mustache, suspenders, and illogically tight red leather pants is standing on the tiptoes of his equally red Adidas shoes to paw candles off the top shelf so he can sniff them. The blond one has no less than eight jars balanced precariously in his wiry arms. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing is billowing through the shop speakers.

“Oh my god, he’s gonna break something,” you moan in a whisper, covering your eyes but peeking through your fingers. Your apron is suddenly too tight around your waist; your cheeks are roaring with blood as you envision the inevitable confrontation: Sir, unfortunately you ruined some of our giant tacky overpriced candles and so now you have to pay for them. So sorry. Paper or plastic? We take Mastercard.

“Who?” Kevin asks. He’s holding a broom in one pudgy, pinkish hand and a dustpan in the other. He has surrendered.

“That one. Suspenders and moustache guy. Red shoes guy. Dorothy without Toto.”

Kevin cracks a smile. “That is frighteningly accurate. He is rather whimsical, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll click his heels and disappear back to London or wherever.”

“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” you mutter in commiseration. Actually, to be perfectly literal, you’ve never been to Kansas in your life.

“Wait, I think I might have met that guy before somewhere.” Kevin squints with great concentration. “He looks oddly familiar…”

“Hm.” You check your eyeliner wings in your reflection in the cash register screen. From what you can tell, they’re every bit as tragically asymmetrical as you remembered. Spectacular.

“Staring won’t make it better,” Kevin notes, very unhelpfully.

“I know,” you reply, miserable, toying with your bangs so you can hide behind them.

“How does that even happen? The right one is practically a 90-degree angle. The left one looks like you drew it on with a Sharpie.”

You groan. “I’ll try to scrub them off during my break.”

“If you’re not too busy helping me sweep glass off the floor, sure,” Kevin says. “I told you, I took an electrical engineering class as an elective once. I could totally take a look at your bathroom.”

“I thought you said you failed that class.”

“No, I said I got a D in that class. Ds aren’t failing.”

“Well now you’ve convinced me.” You scrutinize your reflection again, frowning. You rent a rather dilapidated one-bedroom apartment above a bakery just a few blocks from the Yankee Candle shop. The apartment always smells like powdered sugar and baking bread, which you like. What you don’t like is everything else about it: the peeling paint, the low water pressure, the windows that you can’t wrestle open, the occasional mice, the shoddy electrical wiring. On any given day, there’s an approximately 27% chance that the bathroom light won’t turn on when you flip the switch. This morning you had been on the losing side of those odds, and with the only mirror in the apartment being the one mounted over the sink—and the overcast November skies outside offering painfully little natural light—you had haphazardly guesstimated your way through your makeup routine before dashing off to work. Your guesstimation skills, apparently, are not all that great.

“If he’s The Wizard of Oz...” Kevin points his broom handle from the snickering moustached man to the gangly, poodle-haired one who has been trying to decide between two candles—Christmas Cookie and Cinnamon Stick—for twelve uninterrupted minutes. He’s wearing a parka spotted with patches: a NASA emblem, a soaring rocket, a smiling green extraterrestrial face, Saturn and its rings. “That guy’s gotta be Star Wars.”

“Or Alien,” you suggest, clutching your chest and pretending to die melodramatically.

Kevin laughs. “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

“Close Encounters of The Third Kind.”

“What about that one?” Kevin nods to the guy who has large blue eyes and bleach-blond, fried tufts of hair sticking out in every direction and a grin that is simultaneously childish and foxlike. Under Pressure comes on the shop speakers, and the British men all start cheering and high-fiving each other, leaving their candles momentarily tucked under their arms or quivering precariously on the edges of wooden display tables. You are entirely mystified. “God, he’s gorgeous.”

“Bye Bye Birdie,” you decide. “Beautiful. Charming. Beloved by all. Perhaps a little dangerous. I can picture teenage girls sobbing themselves to sleep as he gallantly marches off to war.”

“You think he’s gay?” Kevin asks hopefully.

“I don’t think he’s dressed well enough for that.” The blond man is wearing a shapeless, polka-dotted sweater that has ‘NIVEA’ spelled across the front, for reasons that are difficult to fathom.

Kevin sighs, crestfallen. He suffered a nasty breakup with his boyfriend Patrick two weeks ago, and is enthusiastically on the hunt for a rebound to distract him. “You’re probably right. Okay, last but not least.” Kevin aims his broom handle at the fourth and final British stranger. “What shall we call him?”

You consider the man who has wandered away from the others. He’s wearing Levi’s, a black bomber jacket, aviator sunglasses, a mop of unwrangled auburn hair, thoughtful lines that break around the corners of his hidden eyes. He is browsing unhurriedly, perhaps even distractedly, through the fruit-scented candles. He picks up a jar of Macintosh Apple, sniffs a few times, then sets it back down precisely where he found it. He even spins the jar so it’s label-side-facing-outwards again. You warm to him immediately.  

“One of the James Bond movies?” Kevin offers. “He seems…enigmatic somehow. Esoteric. Yet still clearly leading man material.”

“Casablanca,” you say, not tearing your gaze from the stranger. “I can imagine him waving off some old flame on a foggy, night-draped airport runway, breaking hearts with sparse words of wisdom. Can’t you?”

“Oh, that’s exactly right!” Kevin sighs again, dreamily, yearningly. And whether he’s yearning for his ex-boyfriend Patrick or Bye Bye Birdie a.k.a. NIVEA-sweater man or passion or sex or love or maybe just the ineffable high that accompanies the beginnings of things, you couldn’t say.

You peer at your reflection in the cash register screen once again, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Maybe if I—”

“Freddie!” Star Wars cries, and you whirl just in time to see The Wizard of Oz, whizzing around and giggling and preoccupied with teasing NIVEA-sweater man, stumble into the six-foot-tall tower of Christmas Tree-scented candles and send countless jars crashing to the tile floor.

“I knew it!” you unleash in a rush of misery and exasperation, the biting threat of tears in your eyes and the back of your throat. And of course, it isn’t just about the mess on the floor, it isn’t just about having to tell your manager and hoping to God he doesn’t fire you. It’s about your derelict apartment, it’s about your fucked up eyeliner, it’s about everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months; it’s about the never-ending feelings of helplessness and inertia and predestined ruin, it’s about not being able to get fifteen meters down the street before life throws up another red light, another jagged sinkhole gaping like ravenous jaws. And none of that is these ridiculous British men’s fault; yet still, in that moment the fury you feel towards them is overwhelming.

“Jesus christ,” Kevin mumbles, stepping out from behind the counter to survey the damage, his hands still clutching the broom and dustbin.

“You couldn’t just mosey around and ask which candles are on sale and maybe sniff one or two like a normal person?!” you explode. “You had to come in here acting like goddamn animals and destroy like a third of our inventory?!”

“I’m so sorry,” The Wizard of Oz sputters, looking at you and Kevin with wide, profusely apologetic dark eyes. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man are helping him to his feet, albeit with very spirited chidings. Kevin is grudgingly asking if he’s alright. Casablanca is already trying to sort through which candles are broken and putting those that survived aside. And when he casts furtive glances from behind his aviator sunglasses, they’re directed not at Kevin or The Wizard of Oz but at you.

“Freddie, bloody hell,” NIVEA-sweater man laments.

“I’ll pay for them all,” The Wizard of Oz tells you. “I’m so, so, so terribly sorry, you’re absolutely right to be cross with me, and I’ll pay for everything. Here, let me get my wallet…” He digs around in the pockets of his preposterously tight red leather pants.

“Uh…sir…” Kevin begins uncertainly, not wanting to break the bad news.

“It’s going to be hundreds of dollars,” you inform The Wizard of Oz. “Maybe over a thousand. You’re really going to pay that? Or are you just going to wait until we start sweeping up and then sprint out the front door the first chance you get?”

“Hey,” Kevin warns you quietly. He wants you to keep this job probably even more than you do. You are, by his own admission, far and away his favorite coworker.

“No, no, darling, please, let her scold me, I deserve it.” The Wizard of Oz at last locates his wallet. He sashays to the counter, brushing nuggets of glittering glass off his clothes, and counts out two thousand Canadian dollars in hundreds. “Will that do? You can keep the change as compensation for the inconvenience. And we’ll help clean up as well, has anyone got an extra broom?”

As you stare down at the money, shocked into speechlessness, three hulking men dressed in black come barreling into the shop.

“Lord in heaven, Freddie, what happened?!” one asks. He has a thick beard and an Irish accent and closely resembles a grizzly bear.

“I made a complete ass out of myself and am now trying to win the affections of this marvelous creature,” The Wizard of Oz replies, flourishing a hand towards you. “Is it working, dear?”

“Kind of,” you admit, still stunned.

“Oh my god.” The broom tumbles out of Kevin’s grasp and clatters on the floor. He points at The Wizard of Oz. “I know where I’ve seen you before. You…you…you’re Freddie Mercury, right?”

In reply, The Wizard of Oz only flashes an enormous, toothy, dazzling grin.

“Oh my god,” Kevin says again, a starry, awed smile rippling across his round face.

“Please don’t make his ego any bigger,” Star Wars pleads.

“And you’re Brian May!” Kevin replies. “And you’re…” He turns to NIVEA-sweater man, snapping his fingers, trying to remember. “Robbie…no, Ronnie…uh…Ricky…?”

“Roger Taylor.” But it comes out like ‘Rogah Taylah.’ NIVEA-sweater man extends a hand for Kevin to shake, not the least bit offended. “It’s a pleasure. Sorry about the candles.”

“No problem, sir!” Kevin squeaks as he takes Roger’s hand, beaming. The men in black—the band’s security, you’ve gathered—have descended upon the crime scene, confiscated Kevin’s broom and dustbin, and are rapidly clearing glass and chunks of candlewax from the floor and discarding the mess in a trash bin that usually collects only chewed gum and unwanted receipts.

“So I guess I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you tell Freddie Mercury guiltily, all the venom in your voice evaporated. You’re no Queen superfan, true, but everyone knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody and We Will Rock You and We Are The Champions. And Another One Bites The Dust. And Killer Queen. And Crazy Little Thing Called Love. And Somebody To Love. Your thoughts are suddenly a racing, indecipherable blur. Your knees are boneless. You’ve never met a celebrity before. Well, not unless you count professional hockey players, which you definitely don’t.

“No, you absolutely should have,” Freddie retorts. “I was dreadfully discourteous. I’m positively mortified about it. I should be punished severely. Have you got anything behind the counter to whip me with? A riding crop, perhaps?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not that I know of. I’m sorry I called you an animal.”

“I’m sorry about the candles. There, now we’re even. Wait, not quite yet.” He calls over to Kevin: “Darling, how would you and your friend like front row seats at our show tonight?”

The squeal that bursts out of Kevin is not human.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Freddie Mercury says, very pleased.

“This is really too generous of you,” you protest, although your heart isn’t in it; Kevin might legitimately strangle you if you screw this up, and you’re finding that you want to see Queen in concert too. It’s something to interrupt the powerless, unrelenting monotony; it’s like something that might happen in a movie or a dream.

“Nonsense!” Freddie announces cheerfully. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man—or, rather, Brian and Roger—are chatting with the security guys and nodding along as the bearlike Irishman reviews the day’s itinerary.

You peer over at Casablanca. Now that the floor is mostly clear, he’s migrating towards you and Freddie. You glance apprehensively down at your reflection. “Goddammit,” you mutter, manipulating your bangs again, wishing you could disappear. “I meet a rock star for the first time ever and I look like this.”

“It’s not that bad,” Kevin says, obviously lying.

“I like it,” Freddie tells you, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on his knuckles. “It’s very goth raccoon chic.”

“My bathroom light wouldn’t turn on this morning and I was late for work and I guesstimated and that was clearly a poor decision.” Poor decisions are my expertise, you think instinctively, and feel a tug of something you don’t quite have the words for. Shame, grief, disappointment, a raw sting like a flame beneath your palm, a dread like a child who’s lost their mother’s hand.  

“I’ve offered to take a look at the wiring!” Kevin exclaims. “I told you, a D is passing!”

“Kev, babe,” you reply. “I really, truly appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ll probably just make it worse. And then my landlord will hate me and keep my security deposit and write me awful references and I’ll have to live in an endless string of ancient, hideous apartments until I die.”

“It’s an electrical problem?” Casablanca asks, pushing his aviator sunglasses up into his unruly hair. His unveiled eyes are a blueish grey—they remind you of one of the candles, maybe Beach Walk or Bahama Breeze—and very direct. He stares at you and you stare back, and at some point you realize that everyone is waiting for you to answer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes nothing happens when I flip the switch. That’s the extent of my handyman knowledge, unfortunately.”

Casablanca nods. “I could take a look, if you like.”

Not Beach Walk. Not Bahama Breeze. Warm Luxe Cashmere, maybe. “Now that really is too generous. I couldn’t possibly put a rock star to work on my terrible apartment.”

“John’s got a degree in electrical engineering, that’s right in his wheelhouse,” Brian counters.

“Yes,” Roger says, grinning, teasing in a way that has absolutely no malice in it. “He’s more of an engineer than a rock star anyway, isn’t he?”

“Seriously?” Casablanca—John, you mentally correct yourself—doesn’t seem much like an electrical engineer. But Roger’s right: he doesn’t really seem like a rock star, either. What John seems like is steady and abiding and perceptive, attentive, unflinching. He studies you like some people study paintings, like you once studied paintings; not in a passing-by-in-a-crowded-hallway type way but in a patient way, a methodical way, with the quiet that comes from knowing that vision in the frame is older than you will ever be and will still be hanging on that wall when you’re bones in a box somewhere.

Freddie lights a cigarette and puffs on it decadently. Smoking definitely isn’t allowed inside the Yankee Candle shop, but you aren’t about to snap at Freddie Mercury for the second time today. “Oh, let him tinker around in your flat, darling. It’ll make his day.”

“Is it far?” John asks you.

“No, really, Casa…uh, I mean, John, I appreciate the offer more than I could possibly express but I—”

“It’s just a few blocks north,” Kevin says, and tosses you a wily smile.

“How convenient!” Freddie trills. “When does your shift end, dear?”

“Not until 5:30.”

“She can take a long lunch break.” Another smile from Kevin. “Honestly, there’s not much to do around here now that the Great Candle Massacre of 1981 has been remediated.”

“Splendid!” Freddie says, radiant.

You shake your head, very slowly. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Then you clearly haven’t lived enough,” Freddie quips.

“Fred!” Roger presses. “Are we going to the bookstore down the street or not? That was the whole deal, we suffer through your candles, you suffer through our books.”

“You didn’t seem to be suffering,” Brian says.

“Of course I’m suffering. That cashier over there almost murdered me,” Roger slings back.  

Freddie sighs and rolls his large, dark, expressive eyes. “Yes, darling, of course, don’t give yourself an aneurism. We’ll go to the bookstore, John can rendezvous with us later.” Now he turns to you. “We’ll send a car to your flat at 7 to pick you and Kevin up for the show tonight. Don’t let John leave without knowing your address. Wear something deliciously opulent. Lots of sparkle. Maybe furs.”

“I make eight dollars an hour,” you tell him.  

“Or you could just wear nothing.”

“Sparkle and furs it is.”

Freddie chuckles and turns to the men in black. “Chubby, my dear?”

The towering bearlike Irishman replies: “Yeah, I’ll go with John. Don’t wreck anything else while I’m gone. Don’t get yourselves deported before the show. EMI will have your heads on spikes.”

Freddie pretends to be scandalized. “Causing destruction? We would never.” He saunters towards the shop door, jingling the bells as he swings it open, and waves like royalty. “See you tonight, darlings!”

“Bye!” Kevin shouts after him. And then, after Freddie, Roger, Brian, and the two non-bearlike men in black have departed: “Oh my god I just met Freddie Mercury and he’s amazing and he knows I exist and he spoke to me and tonight he’s sending a car to take me to a concert and I’m going to have front row seats and what if he invites me to have a drink afterwards oh my god.”

John, evidently unaffected, prompts you: “So your place is just a few blocks away?”

“Yeah. Just let me get my coat…”

The man in black—Chubby, as Freddie had introduced him—fetches your coat off the rack by the door and holds it up so you can slip inside it. No one has ever done that for you before.

“…Thanks…?” You button your coat, feeling a little like royalty yourself at the moment.

John pulls open the door, the tiny metal bells jangling, and gestures out into the streets of downtown Montreal. He’s wearing his aviator sunglasses again; the November wind gusts through his hair. You catch threadbare ghosts of cigarette smoke and cologne that the breeze lifts from his skin like pages of a book. And he smiles, just barely. “After you.”

You walk north together along the path of the sidewalk with your hands in your pockets, your breath fog in the cold, weaving through the bustling crowds of tourists and holiday shoppers, Chubby trailing not far behind and displaying his talent for keeping watch while not letting on that he is. To even your own horror, you can’t seem to shut up.

“John, this is so kind of you, this is completely unnecessary, you really shouldn’t feel like you owe me anything because Freddie already paid for the candles twice over and I was totally unprofessional for yelling at customers, even annoying customers, and Kevin and I are already getting a free concert tonight and so—”

“Okay,” John says firmly. “You have to talk about something else now.”

“I can’t talk about anything else. All I can think about is how ridiculous this is.”

“Have you lived in Montreal long?” he asks, very casually, as if you’re strangers in line next to each other at Starbucks.

“My whole life.” Minus a little over three years, but you don’t need to get into that. “My parents live over in Verdun, right on the St. Lawrence River.

“Sounds scenic.”

“It certainly is.” You’re trying not to look at John, because every time you do it’s hard to stop. You look at the cars rolling by instead. “This is super embarrassing, and I don’t mean to offend you, but what exactly do you do in Queen?”

He’s not offended; he thinks it’s hilarious. “I’m the bassist.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah, bassists are quiet and reliable or whatever. Bassists don’t terrorize Yankee Candle employees.”

“You’re not a Queen fan?”

“I’m a casual and appreciative listener, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I couldn’t pick any of you out of a lineup, clearly. Roger is the drummer, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Drummers are feral, almost universally. Which means Brian must be lead guitar.”

“And what do you think of lead guitarists?”

“Word on the street is that they are brilliant yet micromanaging egomaniacs, but I don’t want to bash your friend or anything.”

John chuckles, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on yet. “No, please, bash away. So you prefer bassists.”

And finally you do look at him, and you regret it immediately; because now you’re caught in the thoughtful crinkles around his eyes and the barely-there stubble of his cheeks and the playful curve of his lips and how the wind ruffles his auburn hair the same way it steals leaves off of slumbering trees. You almost walk right past the bakery. “Oh, wait, we’re here.”

You lead John and Chubby upstairs to your chronically irritating apartment. John removes his sunglasses, inspects your bathroom light switch, then asks if you have a specific kind of screwdriver. You bring him the toolkit that has lived beneath the kitchen sink since before you moved in and he roots around, finds what he’s searching for, and unfastens the light switch plate from the wall.

“Please don’t electrocute yourself,” you fret, as Chubby meanders around in the living room and tries not to intrude. “If you die your groupies will never forgive me.”

“Who says I’ve got groupies?” John replies, amused.

“I just assumed all rock stars do.” Your eyes flick down to his hands as he fidgets with the wiring; and you notice randomly—or, maybe, not all that randomly—that he’s not wearing a ring. You’re still ruminating over that when he returns the light switch plate to the wall, secures each of the four screws with a few deft twists of his wrist, and performs a test flip. The light turns on immediately.

“Mission accomplished,” John says mildly.

“What?! No, no way, no freaking way.” You flip the switch again. The light turns off and on obediently. You try it at least five more times. Perfection. “…How?!”

“Just a few loose wires. No great hardship.” He tucks the screwdriver back into the toolkit.  

You gape at him. “That took you…like…two minutes.”

“Aren’t you glad my band wandered into your candle shop and almost demolished the place today?” He rests his hands on his waist; his sturdy, skillful, ringless hands. “Anything else I can fix for you?”

“Definitely not.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

“Stop looking at my fucked up eyeliner.”

John laughs. It’s a delightfully clear, disarming sound. “That’s not what I was doing.”  

“I should fix my makeup and go back to work now. And you should probably go help your friends burn down the bookstore or blow up a Starbucks or do whatever else is on your agenda for today.”

“Soundcheck and dinner, actually,” John says. He slides the toolkit back beneath your kitchen sink, meets Chubby by the front door, and pauses there to give you one last lingering, laden gaze. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“In my best furs,” you purr in your most convincing Freddie Mercury impression.

“Or nothing at all,” John suggests levelly. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

It turns out better than you thought it would. Your tan, knee-high suede boots are celebratory without being too uncomfortable. Kevin brings you a faux fur jacket that he stole from Patrick during the breakup. You find a glittery black dress in the back of your closet that you once loved, then couldn’t stand to look at, then forgot existed entirely; but tonight it’s like you’re seeing it with brand new eyes. It fits even better than you remember. In the mirror, you look like a stranger and a hauntingly familiar acquaintance and yourself all at once.

Chubby arrives in a black limousine at precisely 7pm, parks along the curb next to the bakery, and honks the horn twice. You and Kevin dash down the narrow steps and climb into the backseat, finding complimentary cigarettes and bottled water and chilled champagne. As the limo rolls though Montreal under changing traffic lights, Kevin prattles on about the band, their history, their albums, their tours…and John in particular. He tries to tempt you. You resist valiantly…for the first fifteen minutes, anyway.

Finally, you sigh in capitulation. “Okay. Fine. I get it. What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s divorced,” Kevin says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I saw it on the cover of a tabloid a while back. Very contentious, spicy stuff. He’s got like eight kids.”

“He does not have eight kids!”

“Okay, maybe not eight. But he has a lot,” Kevin insists.

You rearrange your hair with deliberate flippantness. “What do I care if he’s divorced?”

Kevin grins. “You know why you care.”

“Stop,” you plead.

“Look, all I’m saying is that he definitely likes you. And you like him. And I haven’t seen you like anybody, ever, in the…wait, let me count…the nine whole months that I’ve known you. When was the last time you even had a boyfriend? When was the last time you got laid? Oh my god, it hasn’t been nine months, has it?! That’s way too long to go without sex. No wonder you’re so serious all the time. It all makes sense now. You poor thing. You’re in dick withdrawal.”

“Assuming that’s my problem—which it isn’t, by the way—if I wanted to get laid there are far easier ways to accomplish that.”

“Sure,” Kevin says. “But you don’t want just any dick. You want British bassist dick. John Deacon dick. Casablanca dick.”

“This friendship is terminated.”

Kevin cackles, pouring himself a glass of champagne that bubbles over the top and spills onto the limo floor. “I’m really glad you’re here with me. I’m glad we can do this together.”

You fill a champagne flute with bottled water and clink your glass against his, smiling. The limo is turning into the parking lot of the Montreal Forum. “Me too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The backstage room that Chubby escorts you and Kevin to after the show is full of chatter and heavy smoke and roadies and fans and musicians and journalists, trays of hors d'oeuvres, wine and Stella Artois and vodka and tequila and rum, the electric promise of things that will go unmentioned in the morning. There are stacks of stereo speakers in the corner rumbling out Another One Bites The Dust. You and Kevin camp out on a green velvet couch—making small talk with each other to avoid making it with anyone else—until the band arrives.

John is still wearing his concert outfit: blue pants, blue shirt, a black leather jacket that gives him an edge like a knife. He passes out a few polite nods; but Freddie and Roger are undeniably the suns in this room, and the guests their planets. Freddie is soon surrounded by a constellation of followers and whisks Kevin away with him. John, meanwhile, comes straight to where you’re sitting on the couch and stands in front of you with his messy hair and his veil of cologne and his mystery-candle-blue eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks in that calm, measured way that you’ve learned he has. “Rum and Coke? Moscow Mule? Hurricane? I’ve been on a mojito kick recently.”

“I don’t drink.” And you wait for the inevitable awkwardness that usually follows that sentence, when he says why? or seriously? or maybe just oh in wilted disappointment.

Instead, what John says is this: “No problem. Rum minus the Coke?”

You smile up at him. You can’t help yourself. “That would be perfect.”

There are innumerable drinks already poured on a table, dark carbonated liquid trembling in red plastic cups as the bass from the stereo speakers quakes through the crowded, droning, smoke-hazed room. John moves from cup to cup, taking tentative sips before shaking his head and putting them back down on the table. After each attempt, he casts you a rueful smirk before continuing on to the next cup. At last, he finds two unadulterated Cokes and brings them to the couch: one for you, and one for him. He sits beside you with one of his legs crossed over the other, a lit cigarette in his right hand, a red plastic cup of Coke in his left, and his eyes on you in a way that isn’t hungry or arrogant or restless but merely, benignly contemplative. You find yourself thinking of paintings in museums again, you even start to feel a little like one; and you wonder what colors he sees in you, what types of brushstrokes, what signatures scribbled in the corners of the canvas, what shadows painstakingly penciled in to mimic the angles of the sun.

You tell John about growing up in Montreal, about autumn strolls along the St. Lawrence River, about snowfalls and Mont-Royal and Chinatown and the Notre-Dame Basilica, about the exhilarating turmoil of the Summer Olympics in 1976. You tell him about how Kevin is in his last year at Concordia University and works part-time at the Yankee Candle shop for money to invest in his hair gel and travel fund. You tell him so many things he doesn’t notice all the parts you leave out. In return, John tells you about himself; not about John Deacon the bassist of Queen, but about the understated man who likes cars and electronics and the Beatles and tea in the evenings beside a roaring fireplace. And when his arm comes to rest on the back of the green velvet couch, and then across your shoulders, and then around your waist, it doesn’t feel strange at all. You lean into him as you exchange stories and clandestine giggles until you’re nearly in his lap, and that doesn’t feel strange either. And you haven’t had a drop of alcohol—you haven’t in almost a full year, in fact—but you feel a little drunk tonight, because your cheeks are hot and the room is blurry and the world is brimming with a pure, rose-gold, uncomplicated happiness.

The other band members periodically stop by to say hello, clutching their drinks and making stilted pleasantries as you and John smile drowsily up at them, looking nothing like the soberest people in the room. Chubby and the rest of the men in black are simultaneously omnipresent and scarce, which you are beginning to think is a requirement inked into their job description. Kevin, having been fully absorbed into Freddie’s entourage, is beaming and flushed and extremely, blissfully tipsy. And they all watch you and John not with scandalized sideways glances but with warm approval swimming in their gleaming eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you yet,” you tell John when you are alone again. “For improving my dreadful apartment. So thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. I hate that I marred your time in Montreal with unpaid labor.”

He shrugs it off. “I like fixing things. It’s what I’m best at.”

“Besides being an internationally acclaimed rock star, you mean.”

“I’m honestly not so sure I’m cut out for the rock star life.”

“You are, though. I saw you. I watched you all night.”

John just stares at you, and then he leans in even closer, inhaling deeply. You can feel the heat of his breath on your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck; goosebumps spring up across your skin like stars at twilight. “What the hell is that? Perfume? Lotion? Shampoo?”

“It’s probably sugar and baking bread, because I live on top of a bakery.”

“Does Yankee Candle make anything that smells like you?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “They definitely do not.”

“They should,” John murmurs. And with the rough whirlpools of his fingertips he turns your face to his so he can kiss you.

It should be kind of humiliating, right? Making out with some guy you just met on a green couch in front of thirty strangers, your hands getting tangled in each other’s hair, your lips meeting again and again, taunting darts of the tongue and quick painless bites and stifled moans and grasping tugs at clothes that you’re starting to wish weren’t there at all. It should feel embarrassing, you should feel overexposed, here in this land of unfamiliar expectations and accents and faces. But no one seems to be watching too closely. This must be so tame in the world of rock stars, it occurs to you; almost wholesome. And you can’t remember a time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“There’s a pool table in the next room,” someone says, startling you, and you break away from John to discover Roger perched on the arm of the couch, grinning coyly as he sips his emerald glass bottle of Stella Artois. “I mean…you know. If you’re into that. John’s got all sorts of moves, we played for days at a time at Ridge Farm. You could challenge him to a round or two. Place bets. But be warned…he’s a total pool shark.”

“Is he?” you ask mischievously, clasping the lapel of John’s leather jacket. Even if you freed him, he shows no indication of retreating. He’s raking his knuckles back and forth along the length of your thigh that your little black dress leaves exposed, never venturing above the hem.  

Roger winks. “Just thought you might want to know.” Then he hops off the couch and disappears into the crowd again.

John is trying to keep his eyes locked on yours, and no lower. He’s trying to not be even vanishingly forceful. He’s trying not to sway you. But you know exactly what he wants. “Do you…?”

“Show me how to play pool,” you whisper. And you lead him through the shuffling bodies and boisterous, increasingly intoxicated laughter and cumulus clouds of cigarette smoke to the door on the other side of the room.

Beyond the threshold you find a pool table and not much else. It’s terribly unceremonious; it’s absolutely perfect. You can hear Blondie’s Call Me playing back in the packed room where the rest of the band is still reveling, the bass crawling through the walls to radiate in your eardrums, your bones. You lock the door and reach out to flick off the harsh florescent lights, but John stops you. You don’t have to ask him why. He wants to be able to see you. He asks if this is okay—again, wordlessly, with the forthright blue of his eyes—and you nod. And then he kisses you as you drag him in, breathing in his cologne and nicotine, tasting the virgin Coke on his lips that he drank just for you.

John tears off his leather jacket. You toss the faux fur that Kevin lent you to the floor. You climb up onto the pool table, and John follows you. You yank off his shirt, link your suede boots around him as he positions himself between your naked, down-soft thighs. And then John stops.

“Look, I have to be honest,” he says. His hands tremble as they cradle the small of your back, just barely. “I’m newly divorced, and I’m really out of practice, I mean really out of practice, and this is not at all my usual way of doing things, and if I’m total rubbish or only last like thirty seconds or something I just want to apologize in advance and swear that I’ll do absolutely everything I can to make this worth it for you. Because I like you. I really, really like you.”

“I’m a little rusty too,” you confess with a small, sheepish smile. But he doesn’t need to know exactly how rusty you are, or in how many ways, all those layers of blood-hued ruin that spin webs from the skin down to the marrow.

John seems relieved. “Then maybe we’re even.”

You’re not even, you’re nowhere close; but it’s comforting that he thinks you could be.

John kisses you again. His hands find the zipper on the back of your dress, and then the tiny metal clasp of your bra, and then the black lace of your panties…and then everything else as well.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you return together to the green velvet couch in the next room, not with bashful swiftness but with your hands entwined, your eyes satiated and calm, your clothes unapologetically rumpled. The partying is winding down. The song pouring through the stereo speakers is In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins. And now you and John don’t talk very much at all; you just sit there with fresh cups of Coke, your head resting against his chest, his left arm draped around you, watching the rest of the universe spin on like a carousel as your feet stay rooted to the earth.

“So you’re the smart one,” you say eventually. “You must be, with an electrical engineering degree.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re rather erudite, as far as rock stars go.” He smiles drowsily down at you. “Freddie’s got a degree in graphic art and design. Roger has one in biology. Brian has the better part of a PhD in astrophysics. He might even go back to finish it one day. He probably will, just to be able to lord it over us.”

“Wow,” you reply, distantly, suddenly feeling very small.

“What did you study?” he asks you.

In truth, you never finished college; but you aren’t going to tell John that. “Something useless.”

John is intrigued, and perhaps a little concerned as well. His brow furrows with grooves like lines of fortune in an open palm.

“I wanted to be a painter,” you explain, smirking at the absurdity. “But the world doesn’t need painters anymore. They have pictures and videos that are just as clear as real life. They don’t need my fantasies or interpretations. They have reality.”

“I think we still need painters,” John disagrees, his calloused fingertips tracing lazy circles around your bare shoulder.

“Really?”

“Yeah. For when reality requires improving.”

You let a few moments of silence tick by. And then you put on your faux fur jacket, finish the last of your Coke, stand and find your balance on the low heels of your boots with exhausted, shaky calves.

John jolts upright, somewhat alarmed. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“This was great, John. This was the best night I’ve had in a long time. So thank you for that. But I have to go home now.”

“Okay.” He studies you, processing. “Okay, okay. I’ll have Chubby drive you.”

“That’s really not necessary, I can get a cab…”

But John has already waved Chubby over, and the massive man appears serendipitously with an impossible degree of stealth. Kevin finds you, staggering, babbling breathlessly about all of his adventures, showing you where Freddie and Roger and Brian signed his chest with a black Sharpie, repeating the same stories on an identical loop every few minutes. As you leave, you offer John a brief parting wave; and he returns it, like a reflection in a mirror, but he’s wearing a pensive frown and eyes dark with thought. Then again, maybe you are too.

Chubby leads you and Kevin outside to the waiting limousine. You slip into the backseat, ply Kevin with bottled water, open the sunroof so moonlight and cold, reviving November air can flood in like a river.

Kevin is coming down now from the high of the champagne and the concert and the carousing with Freddie Mercury. He blinks, soaking you in, really seeing you for the first time in hours. “Wow, you had a good night with Casablanca. You had a really good night.”

“Yeah,” you reply softly, resting your head against the window and watching the stars and streetlights pass by above like seasons. “And it will never happen again.”

[fictionplumis]

A Lambert/Aiden Thing

Okay, bear with me here, this might be long. And maybe at one point I'm gonna try to RP this but unfortunately there's no one on the Lambert/Aiden RP tags on the site I use. So I'm just gonna put this here for now. And if anyone wants to, oh I don't know, write a fic or whatever based on this, PLEASE link me 'cause I wanna read it but anyway. 

Set after the Wild Hunt, one of those rare AUs where Aiden genuinely did not survive.

While traveling together as super cool witchers, Geralt ends up telling Ciri all about helping Lambert get revenge for his Cat friend, right? 

Time passes, and Ciri starts trying to really solidify her control with her ability. Geralt ends up spending more and more time at Corvo Bianco and Ciri is out on the Path, but every so often a girl needs a break, y'know? So sometimes she'll disappear for a couple days, maybe a few weeks, just off in another world. It's a good way to practice. 

In one world, she ends up running into this man named Aiden. (This world being our world. Not a modern Continent thing, not some point in the future, I mean OUR world.) They talk, and he ends up mentioning his roommate Lambert, and the more he says about Lambert, the more it becomes obvious that it's LAMBERT. 

Now Ciri has absolutely no intention of doing anything about this. It's not her place, telling Lambert would be an AWFUL idea, and going to meet that world's version of her uncle just seems like a bad idea. But she is curious about what kind of man can inspire such a strong sense of friendship in Lambert, so she decides to pop into that world every so often, "accidentally" find Aiden, and just kind of get to know him a little bit. Plus it's another way to practice her abilities, not just pin-pointing and traveling to a specific world, but to where a specific person is. 

She does that on and off a few times, enough where her and Aiden are sort of acquaintances. 

Now in this world Aiden isn't a saint, okay? This boy pretty much grew up on the streets. He has a past that he's trying to get away from. He knows his way around a knife fight, has ample experience running from the cops, and has been through so much therapy. (I don’t get into detail here but any kind of modern Aiden I usually have some kind of neurotypical. Might be something as simple as ADHD, though I do love bipolar!Aiden and psychotic!Aiden as well. I’d imagine at this point he’s good at managing it, with the help of therapy and medication. Now the therapy wouldn’t be all that accessible with where this is going, but Ciri could help him make sure he has his medications. Hell, if wanted to have him keep things consistent with his therapy too, he could move down to appointments maybe once a month and Ciri could make sure he could get to them, the same way she helps attain other things later on in this snippet. I absolutely support positive and accurate depictions of mental illness, I’m not just using the terms bipolar or psychotic lightly.) And unfortunately his past ends up catching up with him. 

Ciri happens to get there just in time. Before Aiden can end up with a bullet in his eye, she's teleporting him to the first safe place that comes to her mind: Corvo Bianca.

Now poor Aiden has no fucking idea what happened. One second his old "friends" have him backed into a corner with a gun to his face and the next he's experiencing the worst motion sickness of his life and throwing up in a pot that smells like shit. He spends the next two days sleeping off some major jet lag and when he comes to, he had no fucking idea where he is. 

Then comes Geralt and Ciri having to awkwardly explain the whole witcher thing to him, the Continent in general, the time period, the fact that monsters and sorceresses and magic exists in this world, all that happy shit. And it's a lot to process. Before they can even get to the whole "do you want to go back to your world and handle the deal with people trying to kill you thing" Lambert shows up. 

At first Aiden doesn't even think, he's just like oh thank fuck a familiar face, I know you hate hugs but I think this can be forgiven because I've had the weirdest most stressful week of my life.

And then he's like, wait a second. Lambert is... Thicker. 

Like Lambert's always been a very physically active guy, he's a mechanic or whatever you want a modern day Lambert to do, but his shoulders weren't THAT broad before and under those spiky metal arm things are some impressive biceps. Also what are those spiky metal arm things? Lambert, what are you wearing? How the fuck did you get here? Holy shit your eyes--

He puts two and two together. Right, the name Geralt sounded familiar because Lambert's mentioned the name. That's his adopted brother. So if this Geralt is a witcher, then Lambert in this world is a witcher. And Lambert is also having a minor breakdown because, y'know, AIDEN. 

Let's just say Geralt warned him. Explained the whole situation and asked Lambert to come back to help with this, and Lambert was very torn because it's not HIS Aiden. It'll hurt too much, to see someone so much like Aiden but just slightly to the left. He knew it would. He just didn’t expect this Aiden to be SO MUCH like his Aiden. By this point Aiden has had to change his clothes into some of Geralt's trousers with a belt to hold them up and a loose tunic, but it's fucking him. 

They all talk a bit. Aiden pretty much admits that yeah, there are people after him. And they probably won't stop until he's dead. That's how gangs work, y'know? You can't really... Get out. He tried, he really fucking did, but even if it's not the ones that cornered him before, it'll be someone else. So yeah, Ciri saved his life and going back is probably not the best idea. 

Now I absolutely don't want to fuck over another world's Lambert just to make Continent!Lambert happy, so we're gonna say the two were really good friends. They were roommates, they were close, Lambert was pretty much Aiden's only friend, but they weren't lovers. Lambert was with a woman named Keira. A doctor. They were good for each other, y'know? When Lambert first started dating her, Aiden thought she was kind of a bitch but as time went on she kind of mellowed out. It wasn't that she became less full of herself, but more that she actually felt confident enough that she didn't feel the need to try to take on the world anymore. And Lambert's happy with her. So leaving Lambert behind in that world kind of sucks, yeah, but he'll be okay. And this Lambert is so similar that to Aiden, it doesn't feel like he's losing someone. 

Now we have Aiden getting to experience the Continent for the first time. Getting to experience witchers for the first time. 

Lambert. Sword fighting. 

And that's so fucking cool. Can you please teach me that?

Which of course has Lambert a little iffy, because this Aiden is human and no fucking away is he letting this Aiden anywhere near a monster, but Aiden is like, nah, relax, I just want to learn because sword fighting is really cool. Look, I'm really good with a knife, teach me some cool sword stuff. 

So Lambert gets to teach Aiden some cool sword stuff. And how to make bombs, which Aiden LOVES. And maybe some alchemy, too, because Aiden asks about the potions and Lambert is very adamant that he never drinks any but Aiden likes at least knowing how to make them. It's fascinating. You all fucking know you would love to make potions out of gross monster parts and herbs if you had the chance, don't even lie. Lambert even shows off some signs and Aiden is delighted. 

This eventually leads to one of those serious conversations about what it takes to become a witcher, and what all Lambert went through, and how people view witchers. And Aiden gets it, maybe not completely, but he gets the just of it. Because he knows about the other Lambert's past, and his shitty father, and all that stuff. And Aiden's brown, and people don't like that. And he's gay, and people don't like that either. Lambert's whole thing kind of reminds him of the X-men. 

And Lambert doesn't know what the fuck that is so Aiden explains comics and superheroes and the X-men to him. 

Because in his world they don't have witchers or magic, so they make up stories that have people like witchers, that have magic, and in those stories, those people sometimes face very similar prejudices. So to Aiden, Lambert is a lot like a superhero. 

And Lambert's like uh huh, no way, definitely not any kind of hero, that's pretty boy's job. 

To which Aiden responds, no, I definitely think you're a hero, even if you don't, so suck it up. 

And they probably kiss and stuff. 

Eventually Aiden gets restless and he's curious about the rest of the Continent, and he's tired of wearing Geralt's ill-fitting clothes because he's used to skinny jeans and shit so he gets Lambert to take him into Beauclaire for clothes. 

And Beauclaire is fucking beautiful, he loves it. 

The clothes are okay. Eventually he just asks Lambert what he used to wear and they go see the armorer instead. Aiden's not entirely sure about it, because Lambert looks like he's swallowed a mouthful of tacks when he sees Aiden in the Cat armor, even without the chest piece or the gauntlets, but Lambert assures him that he's fine. 

It just doesn't quite ease the restlessness. So the next time Ciri pops in, Aiden asks for her help and together they scheme. The next day, Aiden tells Lambert to go find something to entertain himself with for awhile because he needs to spend some quality time with his BFF. 

A few hours later they find Lambert sulking out in the vineyard, Aiden looking fine and fresh in a brand new pair of skinny jeans that show off his very nice ass, and some well-fitting combat boots that aren't nearly as durable as actual leather boots on the Continent but they have studs and buckles and look really cool.

Lambert is torn between thinking Aiden looks like a fucking idiot and thinking that he's never wanted to fuck Aiden more in his life.

Then Aiden drops the news that he also put together an outfit for Lambert because in his world, when you're interested in courting someone, the first thing you do is take them on a date. And he wants to take Lambert on the most stereotypical first date. What's that? Why the movies, of course! There's an X-men movie that just came out (I don't know which one, okay? I don't watch the X-men. You figure it out.) and he thought, maybe, he could show Lambert a little bit of the world he came from. They wouldn't be there for long, and they wouldn't be going to a theater anywhere near where Aiden's old gang would be. Nothing would be tied to Aiden's name, and he would be with Lambert, so he would be safe. 

It's a big change from the Continent. 

Lambert's never seen so many fucking people in his LIFE. Aiden had warned him about cars and technology and Lambert is pretty quick witted so while he's absolutely amazed, he manages to take it in stride pretty well. The thing that throws him off the most is when they go to buy popcorn and the girl at the counter goes, "Oh my god, I love your contacts! Where did you get them? They look so real!" 

Lambert doesn't know what the fuck contacts are, but Aiden steps in all smooth-like, "Fuck, Lamb, you've had those forever, haven't you? I think he got 'em off some cosplay site." 

Then he has to explain later that sometimes people put these little discs in their eye to help them see better or to change the color of their eyes for costume purposes. To which Lambert has the understandable reaction of, "Who in their right fucking mind would CHOOSE to do this to their fucking eyes?" 

Well, y'know, they can take contacts out whenever they want. It's a cosmetic thing. They don't know what you had to go through to get your eyes to look like that. You'll probably have some old conservative people eyeing you weird, thinking you're some Satanist or whatever, but most other people will just think it's a cool choice you made, to put those in to go to the movies.

The world is weird. Lambert can't decide if he likes it or hates it. 

He definitely likes the movie, though. And the popcorn. Probably finds the soda to be a little too sweet for his taste. There's still a lot of people, which makes him a bit on edge, but they came to the theater at an off time and not many people are actually in the room with them. They sit at the back and hold hands and Lambert decides he loves it. Ciri picks them up like a proud parent driving her kid and her kid's date home, only instead of driving she's teleporting and neither of them are her kids but whatever. 

But Aiden isn't done scheming. When they get back he tells Lambert to stay put and gets Ciri to take him back for one more little errand. 

A couple hours later they clang back into Corvo Bianco. CLANG back because each of them has a weird metal cart piled high with items and they're laughing their asses off. 

So you might be wondering, how did Ciri and Aiden afford clothes? They stole them. How did Aiden afford movie tickets and popcorn? He pick pocketed. Boy grew up on the streets. He knows how to steal wallets. And now they performed the greatest "run out the doors of Walmart with carts full of shit" EVER. Because as soon as they were out of sight, they teleported, no one the wiser. 

Aiden is thrilled with his non-purchases. Firstly, he has about a year's worth of toilet paper. he throws a package at Lambert, who's like, what the fuck is this. Toilet paper. What do you use it for? To wipe your ass after you shit, Lambert. Trust me. Once you use it, you'll never go back. It's a blessing, you'll thank me for it. There might not be indoor plumbing here, but god dammit, I want toilet paper.

He then hands Ciri two boxes of pads. Yeah, she was there shopping with him, but he just kind of dumped stuff in carts without explaining anything, and while Ciri knows what most of the things are, do you really think she's thought about how other worlds deal with menstruation? Because I menstruate, and the thought would genuinely not cross my mind. I would continue using whatever method I used back in my original world. So Aiden leans in to whisper what they are, because he's polite, and he becomes her favorite uncle just like that. And when Geralt and Lambert are like, uh, what? She tells them it's for menstruating and, "Oh, don't make that face at me, Geralt. I bleed, it happens."

Aiden admits that most of the other purchases are for Lambert, and when Lambert tires to protest Aiden makes it very clear that everything he bought is NORMAL in his world. Not even luxury, just NORMAL, so Lambert just needs to shut up and let Aiden make his life a little easier. 

First up, sunglasses. Because Lambert mentioned how painful it can be to take Cat and then step out into sunlight before the potion has run out. He tosses a pair at Lambert, who tries them on with a frown and is like, "Oh. Huh. Alright. These might actually be pretty useful." Aiden got himself a pair too. They match. There's also a tent. It folds up pretty small, but witchers travel, right? And Lambert mentioned how shit it is to camp in the rain, so here's a tent that’s better than the shit you can buy on the Continent. You lay out your bedroll in it, and you don't have to worry about bugs, and it helps protect you against the weather. It's small, but it looks kind of easy to put up, should be durable enough. 

And maybe just big enough for two, because Aiden isn't stupid. Eventually Lambert will need to take to the Path again, and Aiden wants to comes too. He wants to see the Continent. He can't help with the monsters, he knows, but maybe he can do something else to help them earn money. Who knows, right? This world isn't run by capitalism. He could make a living doing nearly anything. He can figure something out. 

He even got a water filter, and a couple filter replacements because witchers can probably drink any kind of stagnant water they want but he would rather not die of dysentery, thanks. And he got himself a sleeping bag. And he got Lambert a very, very soft fleece blanket just because he thought Lambert would like it. (He does.) Oh, also, Lambert, smell this soap. And this shampoo. Using a bar of soap has not done Aiden's hair any favors, he got actual fucking shampoo. The BIG bottle. And now Lambert has some nice pomade to use in his hair instead of bear fat. Won't make his hair greasy plus it smells better. Also there's bubble bath, just because. And beard oil for Lambert. Some moisturizer. Here, Lambert, put on some chap stick. Trust me, you'll love it. 

They set out on the Path and it's not always easy because Aiden worries CONSTANTLY. But Lambert is good at what he does. The few times they're ambushed, Lambert always keeps Aiden safe, because in this household everyone fucking survives. 

Aiden likes seeing Lambert in action. He swoons and calls Lambert his hero. 

There are some stunning places to visit on the Continent. Aiden's favorite are the elven ruins they sometimes come across. Only after Lambert deals with the wraiths, though. 

Aiden learns how to play Gwent. He's not that good at it. Aiden learns how to cheat at Gwent. He's VERY good at it. Lambert teaches him how to fish with bombs. Aiden is fucking delighted. 

Eventually he realizes how he can make money. He copywrites Disney. 

He's no bard. He can't sing or play an instrument. But he CAN tell stories, and no matter how much you hate Disney, there are probably a lot of Disney movies everyone can quote by heart, and they're either already time-period approved, or they can easily be adapted into something time period approved. Lambert comes back from a hunt to find the entire tavern listening to Aiden with rapt attention while he's in the front of the room putting on a one man performance of the whole, "I am Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die," while jumping back and forth to play each part. He's clearly having a blast with it, because who doesn't love telling other people every little detail about their favorite movie? 

As he's heading upstairs with Lambert, he just keeps raving about how he can't believe he actually made money with that. He hands Lambert a handful of coins, just like, "I don't know how much money this is, but look, it's money!"

Which probably leads to some conversation about capitalism and how easy it was in his world to feel insignificant, to feel like everything is pointless, and how much happier he is with Lambert. How it's even given him a new outlook on the world he came from. He doesn't want to go back, per se, but he doesn't want to completely leave either. He wants to show Lambert the best parts of it, to re-experience his world through Lambert, to really feel the amazement of it all the way he's supposed to, the way that's so easy to stop doing when you're actually living there. It's so easy to take it all for granted, but when you're showing it to someone who's experiencing it for the first time, you can really appreciate it all. 

So every winter they head back to Toussaint and Ciri takes them back long enough for them to do something FUN. They play laser tag. They rope Geralt, Eskel, and Ciri into doing an escape room with them. They go kayaking. They do one of those rope courses and zip-line things. They go to an amusement park. A water park. They walk around a nature trail. They go to a comic convention. (Lambert wears his armor and so many people want pictures with him. He's just sad Aiden wouldn't let him bring his swords, the kids would have fucking loved to see a sword.) They have so much fun. And Aiden stocks up on modern supplies for the year while he's there. Another year's worth of toilet paper, a new tent, another fuzzy blanket, a few pairs of sunglasses because Lambert always ends up breaking his, a nice backpack because Lambert really likes having a bunch of different pockets in his bag for organizing things.

And you know what? Give it ten years, Aiden's bordering on his forties, and he finds some way to make himself functionally immortal. Magic, fairies, a curse, a blessing, I don't know, I don't care. Their plan becomes to live until one of them dies of something--probably Lambert, because he's the one Aiden always has to patch up (he now always buys a very large, well stocked first-aid kit from his world too) what with fighting monsters and all, and the other will follow. It's morbid, sure, but it works for them. With the way things are going, neither of them thinks they'll need to do that anytime soon anyway.

Basically, they live happily ever after, okay? 

HAPPILY EVER AFTER.

[ace-oreos]

You must be so sick of alpha and Fordo asks but you’re latest fic has given me angst potential- maybe a one-shot with alpha working with the bad batch to find Fordo post order 66 an him just breaking at the seams when he finds his Vod because he thought he lost Frodo like he lost Sev. Tears and man hugs ensue

Oh I am NEVER sick of Alpha and Fordo asks - they’re such a fun chaotic duo to write for. :D Also, Alpha working with the Bad Batch is something I never knew I needed until I saw your ask and I would absolutely write something with all of them again. I cannot express how difficult it was to not go off on a tangent about Hunter.

In true Sev style, I chose Kashyyyk as the main location for this one. It’s just so useful for these kinds of things.

Also. Y’all. I did not realize until I was four pages into this that I forgot Echo. So uh... whoops?  😅 😂 With that in mind, let me warn you that this is WAY longer than the other fics. I have no idea what happened. I have no idea what I’m doing.

Also also, thank goodness for Wookiepedia lmao

Edit with tags: @dudewhynotthis @merspots @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @delta-the-mando (taglist is open!) 

“Captain.” The sergeant keeps his distance even now, face inscrutable as he surveys Alpha. 

“Alpha,” he corrects half-heartedly, more for the sergeant’s sake than his own. 

“Alpha,” Hunter amends. “We’ll be entering the Mid Rim soon - maybe an hour, hour and a half tops.”

“Good to know.” Alpha knows he sounds despondent at best, but he’s hit enough dead ends by now to know all too well this will likely be a fruitless endeavor. There’s nowhere in the galaxy safe from him - not when his brother’s life is hanging in balance.

But it’s a big galaxy, with little regard for individual yearning or emotion. Alpha can vow to upend the galaxy as much as he likes, but the fact is they’ve only so much time, and only so many resources, and...

And maybe Hunter picks up on that, in that way of his as he observes Alpha without further comment. The sergeant is as much his vod as anyone else Alpha has encountered. Still beyond him sometimes, a little too other for Alpha to ever fully mesh with him or his brothers, but he’s a good soldier. A good man. 

“We’ve always got room for another,” are Hunter’s parting words as he makes his way back to the cockpit. 

If you find out your brother was dead all along. 

Alpha doubts it was anything less than a genuine offer, but it isn’t the only route. Not until I’ve exhausted every other option. And even then....

It doesn’t do, to let himself become so intertwined with a brother until he isn’t entirely sure he knows who he is without the other. He’d tried, both for his brothers and for his own peace of mind, to put a stop to it before it went too far. And maybe that was Jango getting in his head more than Alpha ever should have allowed, but he’d thought it was the right thing to do.

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder...

________________________

“ - you know as well as I do we’ve been going in circles for weeks now - ”

“Yeah, you might’ve mentioned that once or twice…”

“You said it yourself - we’ll get ourselves killed if we aren’t careful.”

“So we’ll be careful.” Hunter’s voice holds a note of finality. “We can keep rehashing this conversation, or we can help a vod.”

Alpha doesn’t catch the muttered reply, but it’s hardly amenable, if Hunter’s sigh is anything to go by. He can’t blame them, really - Fordo isn’t their brother, and outside of combat they’ve little common ground. And it’s only natural for Crosshair to raise the questions none of them are yet ready to face. Alpha thinks he could learn to like the man, given time. 

He reigns in his thoughts before entering the cockpit. The least he can do is put on a rational front. This whole thing isn’t at all rational, but the Bad Batch seem to understand better than others. It runs deeper than brotherhood here, whatever it is, and Alpha is irrepressibly reminded of Fordo, somehow - 

(And osik, does that thought burn, dig under his skin to remind him once again that he failed, that should he redeem himself it will be not on his terms but likely an inconsequential whim of a galaxy that cares nothing for them or everything they’ve fought so hard to hold on to - )

“Y’know, I’m not sure we’ve ever been to Kashyyyk,” Wrecker muses. “That’s a first.”  If he’s trying to divert Alpha’s attention from Crosshair, it’s a skillful effort that almost takes Alpha aback. “‘Course, I only remember the fun parts,” he adds as an impish afterthought.

“Anything with explosives, you mean?” Alpha asks drily. 

Wrecker grins. “Something like that.”

You and Fordo would get along fine.

What leaves his mouth is, “I don’t suppose anyone has any relevant information about this place?”

Right on cue, Tech pipes up from his position alongside Crosshair. “Actually…”

Tech is just as much of an efficient distraction in his own right. It’s not exactly the height of strategy on Alpha’s part, but once again it redirects attention. He has no doubt Hunter sees right through it; still, the man has enough tact to refrain from commenting.

You understand, I think, Alpha decides, watching exasperation and amusement play across Hunter’s face in turns as his brothers’ bickering fills the cockpit. You would go to hell and back for them, wouldn’t you, Sergeant? 

Hunter casts him a wary glance. Alpha holds his gaze.

There’s too much we can’t say. It’s okay, vod - I think I’m starting to understand too.

________________________

Kashyyyk is dishearteningly vast, all sprawling jungles and endless island chains set on a swath of ocean that dissects the planet’s hemispheres. Getting in was no easy task, what with the Imperial blockade cutting off the planet from others in its sector. But Tech’s adroit piloting had come through, and they’d slipped past the blockade with little disturbance.

“You really think your buddy is here?” Crosshair asks dubiously, surveying the area with a distinct air of displeasure.

“I’ve seen the records,” Alpha says, as much to reassure himself as the other man. “The Empire’s tighter with the book-keeping, I’ll give them that. Fordo’s unit lost contact not long before Order Sixty-six went down. If they made it out, it would be on record somewhere.”

“And if they didn’t?”

Alpha battles his temper into submission before replying. “Then they would be confirmed KIA. But they’re still listed as missing as of two weeks ago.”

“Sounds like you’re leaving an awful lot to chance,” Crosshair opines. There isn’t malice in his voice so much as an unmistakable note of disapproval. “What’s your plan if it turns out they were just waiting for reinforcements and pulled out days ago? That leaves us here in the heart of Imperial occupation.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Alpha says grimly. “But if they lost comms before the order came through, then there’s a chance they aren’t with the Empire. Their main focus would be survival, not falling in line nice and neat like Palpatine expects.”

It’s clear there are a number of objections rising to the forefront of Crosshair’s mind, but the man keeps them to himself. There’s a conflict brewing there, Alpha knows, but that’s a matter to address at another time. 

“There’s an area south of here where all comm signals go dead,” Tech announces, tapping furiously at the device mounted on his vambrace. “According to intel, the Wookies call it the Black Forest.”

“Sounds inviting,” Hunter says. “What’s the deal with it?”

“A prison ship crashed there centuries ago,” Tech relays. “The Wookies believe it’s cursed, so they avoid it whenever possible. It’s possible Fordo and whoever was left were driven back by the Seps - or it was a desperate bid and he was banking on the droids not following somewhere they can’t maneuver well. But why cut himself off from allies…?”

“The forward operating base was set up in Kachirho,” Alpha muses aloud “There was another commando squad deployed here, but they were retasked shortly after Order Sixty-six. If Fordo’s here, I doubt he would hang around anywhere with high Imperial activity.”

If he were operating alone, the decision would be simple. But he has the welfare of four other men to consider now; one wrong move, and they’ll all end up on the business end of a blaster.

With that in mind, Alpha looks to Hunter. “Sergeant. What do you think?”

“It’s your call,” Hunter answers. “If you have reason to think your brother is hiding out here, then I think it’s worth taking a look. So long as we go careful, I don’t see why the Imperials should notice us.”

Wrecker’s chuckle fills the comms. “Famous last words.”

_________________________

For all that they have a reputation for being unorthodox - a reputation that is doubtless justly earned - the Bad Batch can pull off stealth pretty well, too. It comes as a bit of a surprise, if Alpha is being honest, but if nothing else the overarching threat of Hunter’s wrath is enough to keep them in line. 

“Keep an eye out for slavers,” Tech warns. “The whole planet has been a hotspot for them ever since the CIS first let them in.”

It’d be just our luck to run into slavers, Alpha thinks wryly. Individually they’re not much of a threat, but a group of Trandoshans spells trouble for anyone. Even without the training to back it up, their brutality can overpower even an ARC trooper. ‘Course, it’d be just like you to get into a mess like that, Fordo…

“We’ll be a bigger target if we travel as a group,” Hunter says. 

“If we split up we might as well ask for a death sentence,” Alpha cautions. Typically his first choice would be to operate alone, but between the slavers, the Imperials, and the remnants of the Separatist forces, he’s starting to think their strength might lie in numbers this time. 

Alpha mulls it over. Greater numbers means slower going. If we split up, we’ll be able to cover more ground. It’ll be risky, but - payoff is worth it. 

“We’ll move faster this way,” Hunter says, echoing Alpha’s thoughts. “Wrecker, Tech, you’re with me. Cross…” He fixes his brother with a stern stare. “Don’t do anything stupid. Alpha has my full permission to stop you by any means necessary.”

Alpha rewards the sergeant with a wolfish grin. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He can’t read Crosshair half as well as the others, but the sniper doesn’t appear altogether displeased. He merely shrugs when Alpha jerks his head towards the route they’ll be following, and trails after him without argument.

Silence lays thick over the jungle. There’s an odd rustle here and there, interspersed with faint growls from time to time, but progress is relatively smooth. Alpha takes pains to remain on guard; just because he can’t see a threat doesn’t mean they’re in the clear. 

Before long the silence is disconcerting. Given the planet’s Wookie population, there should be regular movement around them, or some sign of existence. But this stretch of the jungle is oddly lacking. 

“This doesn’t feel right,” Crosshair mutters. 

“Guess no one’s home,” Alpha answers absently, scrutizining the terrain. “Look - there’s no sign of a fight. Maybe no one was here to begin with.”

“Kachirho isn’t too far from here,” Crosshair points out. “You don’t think it’s a little odd that this path hasn’t been used at all?”

“It is,” Alpha allows, “but look at it this way. We’re traveling the way we’ve been trained to in this kind of setting. The Wookies probably have their own methods for getting around.”

“It’s still weird,” Crosshair decides. “And if your brother really was here, we’d have found evidence of that, too.”

He isn’t wrong, but it nonetheless stings to hear the man voice the doubtful thoughts that have been creeping up on Alpha. Still, we’ve come this far. What have we got to lose?

(More than he’s willing to surrender. But Crosshair doesn’t need to know that.)

“Let’s keep moving,” Alpha says, sharper than he intends. 

“Hang on,” Crosshair says suddenly. “Contact - ”

Alpha pivots in time to see a Trandoshan emerge from the surrounding foliage. The lizard is taller and more solid than he previously anticipated; instead of hitting it head-on like he initially planned, Alpha redirects in order to avoid being gutted on the lizard’s knife. 

He hears the shot and the telltale thump of the lizard falling to the ground. As Alpha picks himself up, Crosshair scans the area through the scope of his rifle. 

“Oh, shab,” the sniper hisses. 

It doesn’t take long for Alpha to locate the cause of Crosshair’s disgruntlement. A group of Trandoshans lurches towards them. Alpha does a rapid assessment: each lizard is packing some sort of ranged weapon - including slugthrowers, he notes unenthusiastically - and most are carrying an assortment of knives.

“Ideas?” Crosshair asks tersely. 

“They’ll just follow us if we run,” Alpha says. “It’ll save us trouble in the long run if we take them now.” 

“I can see why Hunter likes you,” Crosshair says, oddly nonchalant considering the circumstances, and fires. 

With Crosshair covering ranged attacks, Alpha elects the more up-close-and-personal option. The slavers have the advantage of size, but Trandoshans aren’t renowned for their intelligence. As long as he stays in motion the risk of having his throat slit is greatly reduced. 

Alpha targets a straggler first. He hits low, knocking the lizard off balance and sending it staggering into another. The other makes a grab for him, but Alpha is already ramming his vibroblade into the first slaver’s exposed neck. Using the limp body as a buffer, Alpha pushes against the other lizard, trying to force it onto its back foot. 

Just as he feels his opponent’s defense start to give, another three descend on him. Cursing, Alpha throws himself aside before they can hem him in. One of the slavers has enough presence of mind to bring his knife down on Alpha’s unprotected back; the force of the blow has him crashing to the ground. 

Alpha scrambles for a foothold, but one of the lizards seizes his leg in a vicelike grip. He writhes instinctively, kicking out with his other foot. He feels the impact more than sees it and wrenches himself free. 

Just as a third lizard fills the other’s place, there’s a crack from Crosshair’s rifle, and the lizard topples. Alpha springs to his feet to avoid being crushed by several hundred kilos of Trandoshan. The others are wary now, trying to divide their attention between him and Crosshair. 

Alpha doesn’t give them time to choose. This time he uses his blaster to put a round through the closest target. It’s not quite enough to put the lizard out of commission entirely, so he follows up with a quick succession of bolts. 

It’s not exactly an even match, but things aren’t going as badly as he first feared, Alpha thinks. No sooner does the thought cross his mind than his helmet flashes a warning. He turns to deflect the attack coming from behind, but he moves too late and steps directly into the strike. 

The slaver’s curved knife skids off Alpha’s breastplate and sinks into his bodysuit in the gap between the cuirass and the shoulder bell. Alpha manages to pull away, but not before the knife catches the underside of his arm and slices a gash halfway down his bicep.

A line of pain sears through his arm. There’s no doubt the Trandoshan cut deep into the muscle. That arm is effectively useless now; Alpha grimly switches his knife to the other hand. 

He doesn’t have eyes on Crosshair from his current position, but the rasping breaths and occasional curses over the comms suggest the sniper isn’t having an easy time of it either. Time to fall back and reassess.

“Let’s pull back. We might be able to lose them.” Alpha bites the inside of his cheek to suppress a hiss of pain when his wounded arm is jostled. “We can’t take them now, at any rate.”

“You might want to rethink that, alor’ad…”

Crosshair jerks his head to indicate the slavers pouring into the area. There’s a slim chance they’ll be able to slip by, but not without risking serious injury. Slowing down to accommodate a bad hit would mean certain death or capture.

Pinned down. Shabla brilliant. 

Alpha makes an effort to keep his rapidly rising alarm in check. “We’ll have to hold them off, then.”

“There’s no way,” Crosshair objects. “We’re outnumbered eight to one.”

Alpha sends a slaver sprawling rather than answer. He can see it as plainly as Crosshair, but he’s not going to lay down and die, not when his brother is still out there somewhere, not when there’s still a chance they could pull this off -

He hasn’t been this close in weeks and it isn’t his place to gamble anyone else’s life but his own, but even now he can’t bring himself to give in and he understands in a sudden flash of clarity that this is where he will always fail - because he has a foothold, now, and even though all logic points to turning back for once he can’t give in - 

An arm clamps around his neck. Alpha thrashes, trying to throw his attacker off, but now that he’s been caught off guard the lizard has an advantage. His vision begins to blur at the edges and he redoubles his efforts, fueled in no small part by panic at being unable to draw breath. 

He doesn’t know where Crosshair is anymore. He can hardly see beyond his own hands, scrabbling desperately at the arm locked around his neck. 

No sooner does his vision begin to fade than the crushing pressure on his neck abruptly loosens. Alpha hits the ground gracelessly, coughing violently as he tries to inhale. His breath rattles in his throat, but his vision gradually returns. 

He lurches to his feet and assumes a defensive stance as best he can. He’s lost track of how many slavers are still standing - too many is his best estimate.

But the man standing before him isn’t an enemy. He’s -

“Vod,” Fordo says softly. 

Alpha can only stare at his brother in stunned silence, momentarily deaf to the ongoing struggle around them. Fordo....

“Later,” his brother promises. 

______________________

“So how’d you end up running with them?” Fordo asks with a nod towards the Bad Batch. 

“It’s complicated,” Alpha says lightly. “Too much to unpack now, at any rate.”

Fordo laughs. He’s battered and weary, with something lurking in his gaze Alpha can’t quite decipher yet, but it’s Fordo, and that’s more than enough. 

“It’s quiet here,” Fordo remarks. “I like that.”

“‘S nice,” Alpha agrees. 

They’re still hovering just above the surface. Tentative. It’s not exactly what Alpha is accustomed to, but for Fordo’s sake he lets his brother take the lead. 

“Everything’s gone sideways, hasn’t it,” Fordo says suddenly. 

“It has,” Alpha admits. There’s no use pretending otherwise. “But we’ll find a way through.”

Fordo flashes a small smile. “You’re good at that.”

Alpha merely shrugs. There’s a thousand other things he wants to say, but he hasn’t the faintest clue where to begin. Finally he ventures carefully, “Y’know, for a while now I thought this mission did you in.”

Fordo lets out a long sigh. “I was starting to think it might, myself.”

“I…” Alpha breaks off, startled by the sudden pressure behind his eyes. It worsens when he tries to continue. “I don’t know what I would’ve - ”

He falters again. I care more than I should. I never should’ve let that happen, but even now I don’t know if I regret it.

“Alpha,” Fordo says softly, and pulls him into an embrace.

Alpha doesn’t know how much time passes before he finally disentangles himself from Fordo as gently as he can and scrubs at the hot trails on his face. He can’t quite bring himself to feel any shame over it. He’s never been given to such displays, but… Fordo is his vod. 

“So what’s the plan, alor’ad?” Fordo asks with a familiar note of mischief in his voice.

Alpha smiles despite himself. “It’s a big galaxy.”

“We’ve got time.”

“Yeah,” Alpha laughs. “We have time.”

[watchtower-feed]

Detective

Anon: after your last imagine I can't shake college Damian off my mind, can I request one about him and his s/o in college? I don't really have an specific idea but something like walking them to class, studying together, getting each other coffee and just overall taking care of each other. Notes: I didn’t get to cover everything in the request because there are too many scenes and I didn’t wanna turn this into a bullet point fic. Hope you like it though! Words: 2,774

     “No.”

     The girl that approached the table looked forlorn and her friends slowly helped her walk away.

     “Ugh,” Will groans. He’s one of Damian Wayne’s friends and their varsity is currently doing charity work for Gotham Academy. Will took a brilliant idea from the internet where they set up a table offering people to walk them around campus if they feel bullied or generally unsafe.

     “You can’t keep saying no to people, Wayne. That’s not how the charity works.”

     Damian clicked his tongue. “I know exactly how this works, and those girls did not need assistance.”

     “Yeah. In the bedroom, they did,” Mike laughs and tries to fistbump Will who just stares at him until he puts his hands down.

     Damian’s attention is already taken by you. He kicks back his seat to leave.

     “Where are you going now?” Will whines.

     “Helping someone who actually needs it.”

     You’re walking to your next class while looking over your shoulder every now and then. To Damian, they’re simple signals of someone who feels like they’re being followed. So he stands right in front of your path in the middle of the quad where there is a multitude of people around. You almost bump into him but he quickly takes a step back to give you your space. 

     You know him. Everybody on campus knows him. He’s the greatest player the football team has ever had. Too bad he left halfway through his first semester and joined the swim team instead.

     Damian is staring down at you from being almost a foot taller. Then something catches his eye and he looks at someone behind you who quickly hides behind a statue.

     You see a small snarl on the corners of his lips before he starts taking steps around you. You stop him immediately.

     “You can’t--”

     “Why not?” Damian quickly asks.

     “If you-- if you get in a fight again, they’ll kick you off the team.” 

     Damian raises his eyebrows in thought, “That doesn’t sound like much of a loss to me.”

     “Please don’t.” You grip his arm tighter.

     He stares at you, “Why haven’t you reported him?”

     “He-- he hasn’t done anything. He’s smart. He keeps his distance and no one has actually noticed him following me around.”

     “I did.”

     And you want to thank him for that. This whole semester has been a nightmare for you. It started with your survival instincts kicking in, always warning you that you’re in danger. Your gut has never failed you so you listened. But this stalker is so good that he’s hidden himself well from all of your friends. Friends you’ve lost because they deemed you too paranoid and anxious.

     “Come on.” Damian’s voice saves you from your thoughts. “I’ll walk you to your class. Spanish, right?”

     You’re stunned, “How-- how do you know that?”

     He rolls his eyes and then points at your books. “It’s the one on top of your pile. Lucky guess.”

     You suddenly feel assured and laugh a little. “You’re quite the detective.”

     His eyes widen at the comment and he slowly turns back to you. “You have no idea.”

     Damian walks you right up to the door of your classroom. As soon as you thank him, he leaves and heads for his own class. When it’s time for lunch, you’re surprised to find him standing against the wall outside of the room.

     “You’re here.”

     “Do you have another class?” he asks you while his eyes roam the hallways.

     “No, I’m about to have lunch.”

     “Okay. Let’s go.” Without giving you time to respond, he starts walking to the cafeteria and you try to keep up with his strides. 

     So far nobody has paid attention to the two of you. But when Damian carries both of your trays to your table, the staring and the whispers start. There are even some flashes from cameras that almost blind you.

     “Sorry,” he mutters under his breath while concentrating on his food.

     You shake your head as you watch the lines on his brows and the irritation on his face. “It must be hard being a Wayne,” you say.

     He grins at the thought of what it’s like to be a real Wayne beyond what the gossip columns say. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s all this stupid attention that I hate.”

     “That’s probably why you don’t date, huh?” Damian looks up and stares at you with a raised eyebrow. You quickly wave your hands, “It’s just that-- my friend-- well my old friend-- she asked you out once and you said you’re not interested. We teased her that maybe you’re just not interested in her but--”

     A sudden flash hits the side of your cheeks and Damian is quickly leaving his seat and marching over to another table, the table where your stalker is sitting with a camera pointed at you. You wince at the sight of it. 

     Damian grabs the man’s camera still strapped around his neck. “What? Did you think you could hide your flash among these paparazzi wannabes?” Before he could say anything, Damian takes off the camera and starts flipping through the pictures. 

     “Hey, man! That’s mine!”

     Damian scoffs. “Really? That’s good then. You can get it back from the cops.” Damian turns the camera around and shows the stalker a picture of you in the girl’s shower. His eyes widen and quickly tries to run but Damian grabs him by the collar and slams the side of his head against the table.

     You watch all of this go down from your table. People’s murmurs are louder, trying to figure out what’s going on. When word reaches you that Damian is calling the cops, you feel a new kind of relief wash over you. Suddenly, your shoulders felt lighter and it’s easier to stand up straight.

     Damian stays with you the whole time. Whenever the officers and the stalker’s voices got too loud, your voice would falter and Damian would speak for you, authoritatively holding everyone’s attention. 

     Once the stalker was detained and all evidence tagged, you and Damian walk back to campus.

     “You seem… happy.”

     You didn’t even notice you’re smiling until you touch the upturned corners of your lips. “I feel kind of free… like a bird.”

     Damian snorts to himself, “Yeah.” 

     You mull something in your head and speak your thoughts out loud, “You planned that, didn’t you?” Damian stops walking and he’s looking at you when you turn around. “You knew he wasn’t just following me, and that he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity you created.”

     Damian’s brows furrowed, “I apologize for using you as bait--”

     “No!” you interrupt and hold his hands, “I was just thinking that it’s ingenious. Forget being a detective, you’re almost as good as Batman.”

     Damian smirks. You suddenly see a whole new side of him probably no one on campus has ever seen. A playful one. “Just almost?”

     When you reach the dorms, Damian walks you right up to your door. He takes a quick look inside to make sure you’re roommate is already there. Before you let him leave, thinking this will probably be the last time you’ll be together again, you gather up the courage to hold his arm, stand on your toes, and kiss him on the lips. “Thanks. For everything.”

     Damian gives you a look before he nods and leaves. You watch a small shade of red reach the tips of his ears as you cover your own blush.

     The next day, Damian Wayne is back at the table with his varsity friends. You walk by and only mean to wave at him before your next class. But as soon as he saw you, he shrugs off Mike’s arm from his shoulder and gets up to leave.

     “Dude, no. You’re bailing again?” Will whines.

     “You have more than enough people here. Just message me.”

     Will slumps down in his seat and crosses his arms, “Yeah right. It’s not like any of us has your number.”

     “They don’t look too happy about you leaving,” you tease as he approaches you.

     He shrugs nonchalantly, “They’ll live.” He gives you a long look before he raises an eyebrow in curiosity, “You seem happier today.” You quickly blush and immediately think of the kiss from last night. “You’re thinking about the kiss, aren’t you?”

     You stare at Damian with wide eyes. You wonder if he’s either a real detective or you’re just too obvious. You laugh, “You, too. I mean you’re actually teasing me. Where is the always-reserved Damian Wayne of Gotham Academy and what have you done to him?”

     He smirks and points ahead to the direction of your next classroom, World History. You look down at the top book in your pile and roll your eyes. Definitely the detective. Definitely obvious.

     After class, there’s no Damian standing outside waiting for you. You try not to feel the tiny pang in your chest and walk to your Figure Drawing class. As soon as you walk in, you come face to face with a very naked Damian Wayne.

     When Damian returned to the varsity table, Will had given him punishment for bailing twice in a row and volunteered him to be the model for a class. Damian has absolutely no problems with appearing naked in front of anybody. To him, this was just a chore he had to do to live up to his civilian identity.

     But as soon as he sees you walk in through the door and your eyes roam from his head all the way down to his toes, he grits his teeth. “I’ll kill him.”

     “Y/N, please. You’re already late. Take your seat.”

     Your lecturer’s voice jolts you back to your senses and you quickly take a seat on the far side of the room. It’s one of the most grueling classes you’ve been in since you got to the academy. Damian avoided your eyes the whole time.

     “Y/N, wait for me.”

     Damian calls out while he put on his clothes. You’re already standing by the door and a lot of people had stayed to continue to watch him. When they heard him call out to you, they instantly turn and glare.

     As soon as he reaches you, he puts his arm around your shoulder and you walk out together. You can feel the heavy weight of his arm rest on top of you.

     “Do you have another class?” he asks. You shake your head, still unable to speak to him because you keep seeing him naked inside your head. “Good. Let’s have lunch in the city.”

     Damian takes you to a small diner hidden in a corner between the business district and the Narrows. The lunch rush is already over and you find yourselves in a corner booth.

     “Wow,” you say. “I never expected you to eat at a place like this. You’re more down-to-Earth than I thought.”

     “As opposed to what?”

     “Oh, I don’t know. Being a rich kid? Everything handed to you on a silver platter?”

     “Trust me, Y/N. Nothing was ever handed to me. Everything I have-- everything I am, I worked for.”

     You prop your elbow on the table as you look at the once menacing Damian Wayne. The past two days, you’ve spent with him have completely changed your opinion about him and a little of the ancient Wayne family.

     Speaking of.

     “My family’s here,” Damian mutters as he scoots over until he’s sitting next to you, freeing up his side of the booth. A group of four walks into the diner and start heading for your booth. “Damian!”

     “Good morning, Grayson. Cain.” 

     Two of the four, nod their heads at you. While the shortest boy, who is still taller than you, crosses his arms. “Rude. What about us?”

     Damian doesn’t pay him any attention. You watch as they enter the booth in a single file. 

     “Late night?” Damian asks.

     The one he called Grayson gives a long sigh as he sits next to Damian. “You have no idea. Would’ve been faster if Rob-- Ow!” The tallest of the three elbows him and nudges his head toward you. “Oh, hello there.”

     “Are you on a date?” asks the girl he called Cain, smiling.

     “Yes.”

     “We are?” you ask right away. You tried to keep your voice low but from the way their eyes widen, you know they heard you.

     They look at each other and smirk. “Looks like you forgot to inform your date,” teases the tallest one.

     Damian smirks to himself before replying. “Y/N can’t think straight at the moment. Still a little flustered after seeing me naked.”

     Damian pulls you closer to him to avoid the spray of water from one of his siblings. “We really shouldn’t be letting you loose into society without a harness, Drake.” 

     “It was for figure drawing class,” you chuckle to break the tension, and try to appease their wide eyes with your waving hands. “I’m Y/N by the way. I go to GA, too.”

     “I’m Dick,” one of his siblings reaches around Damian to shake your hand. “These are Cass, Jason, and Tim. We’re Damian’s siblings--”

     “Adopted.”

     Jason looms over the table and grabs Damian’s head to harshly rub his knuckles into his hair. “You don’t have to say that every time, demon.”

     “Todd-- Stop it--”

     Dick tries to pry them apart but ultimately fails and accidentally gets punched by one of Damian’s flailing limbs, making Jason laugh. “You may have gotten bigger, but you’re still a runt!”

     “Not-- as much-- as Drake--”

     Tim, who’s sitting at the outer edge of the booth across from you, apologizes for his brothers with a sigh. “I wish I could tell you that we’re not always like this.”

     You smile at the thought and finally realize why Damian is always so reserved on campus. He’s the youngest of such a big and lively family. Dick and Tim are familiar, too. You’ve seen their faces on the Legacy Wall of the academy. You’ve seen a few pictures of Jason and Cass, too but not as much.

     This is what Damian meant when he said he’s worked hard for everything in his life. It must be hard living behind so many giant shadows.

     When Cass finally intervenes and disentangles the boys, you place your hand over Damian’s as he sits back down. He turns to you and you give him a supportive smile.

     He smirks and raises an eyebrow, “You keep getting into a better mood each time I look at you.”

     You blush a little because who would ever expect someone to just say things like that. “Maybe your company just does that to me,” you tease back.

     You hear a quick snicker from Dick and both of you turn to him. He’s visibly whispering to Cass but it’s audible enough for you to hear. “They’readorable.”

     After that, Damian never took you back to the diner again, not wanting to let his siblings see the two of you together. But on campus, you are almost always together.

     “Stop! Stop!” you laugh and try to protect yourself from the whirlwind of water Damian is sending your way as he shakes his head. He had just finished training and met up with you at the stands where you’ve been studying while waiting.

     Damian leans down and kisses you on the lips. Your eyes widen before they slowly close as you let him lead. You hear catcalls from his teammates and you can already guess that Damian’s flipping them off.

     “Okay. Come here.” You break the kiss and pull down the towel he had draped around his shoulders. You use it to properly rub his head and dry off his hair. “You must be tired. That ran longer than usual.”

     Damian tries to look at you as you keep drying his hair, “Competition’s next week so we’re doing last-minute checks on everyone’s forms. Did you wait long?”

     You nod your head like a child. “Been here since morning. It’s so hard to date a varsity,” you groan.

     Damian takes the towel from you and rubs your face with it. “Think that’s hard? Try dating a vigilante.”

     You giggle as you try to fight Damian for the towel, “I wouldn’t mind that. Batman seems to be getting hotter these days.”

     You’re only teasing him and he knows it. But you don’t know that the mantle of Batman has been passed down to him. So he laughs out loud and it’s one of those rarest moments you want to treasure but you also can’t resist the urge to just kiss this happy and carefree version of Damian Wayne. 

[crystalrainwing]

hiii do you happen to have umbrella academy fic recs??? I’m just now diving into fic for it and I like your takes on it so I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction :)

heck yeah anon!! so flattered that u asked me actually 💖

i tend to like dark/heavy fics so i have a LOT of those but that might not be what you’re looking for - ill give you a few light fics and a few heavy ones.

starting off with heavier ones!! all are gen unless otherwise specified.

out of the dead land by tomorrowsrain

multi-chapter and a WIP

basically klaus is living in a zombie apocalypse when the canon universe five time travels to klaus’s universe (which did have a five who didn’t disappear, but is dead now). this fic is FANTASTIC and lives in my head tent free always, but it’s also pretty dark in places, so make sure to check tags and notes if you read it!

Fall apart without me by Whatisthiswhatamidoing

completed one-shot

this ones JUST sad. but so good. but so sad. major chapter death warning but i don’t want to spoil who dies.

where only the lost can find by hujwernoo

series, completed

amazing AMAZING series. it’s pretty long but worth the read, if you’re able. QUITE dark though. the basic thing is that klaus’s secondary power is the ability to be possessed and it’s been causing problems since he was a little kid, so he finds a way to solve it and that way is drugs. so so sad. it gets sad, then happy, then sadder, then absolutely devastating. there is a happy ending but it goes through a lot to get there. so many warnings im not even gonna go into them all here, but check the tags if ur gonna read it! all the other TUA works by hujwernoo are amazing as well but i don’t want to put too many here. hugely would recommend them all tho this is the darkest.

From The Brink by @aye-of-newt

series, WIP

i LOVE this series it’s. so good. AU where klaus’s powers are weak until he has to use painkillers after his stairs accident, and then he starts seeing ghosts... and everything goes downhill from there, at least for awhile. it’s a rough ride until you hit the happy bits but it is SO GOOD! all of the other works by this author are also great so check those out too!

Lately My Hands Don’t Feel Like Mine by @veteranklaus and @cowboyklaus

Multi chapter, completed

oh i love this one so much. i really do it just also causes me physical pain to think about. it’s so sad and painful in the best possible way but it’s also like. INCREDIBLY dark. the thing is that klaus gets possessed by the handler pre-season 2 and... no one realizes. so he’s stuck in his body, watching and knowing she’s going to do something terrible to his family. huge recommend, but uh this ones also quite important to check the tags.

black flies on the windowsill by millcrs (remorse)

one of my absolute favourites ever it’s so good! AU where diego’s powers aren’t just throwing things. it’s kind of hard to explain what they are exactly but uh. trust me here when i say it’s amazing.

ok onto some lighter ones!

My Job Is To Take Care Of You by michals

one-shot, completed

luther survives the apocalypse because the moon didn’t blow up originally! so now he and five have to survive the rest of the apocalypse. it’s so nice and makes me very happy. love me some big brother luther content!!

Who You Gonna Call? by @himbohargreeves

multi-chapter, completed, part of a series that is a WIP

diego has to solve an unsolvable murder to keep his job. luckily, he’s got a brother who can see the dead! it’s not as easy as just that though, especially when klaus doesn’t want to see the ghosts. very nice and good and funny story and it made me laugh a lot which happens surprisingly little. it’s part of a series but i haven’t read the other parts yet because i keep forgetting but im sure they’re great too!

as the shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn by galaxyowl

one-shot, completed

this is the only romance-centric one i will be including bc. it’s patch/lila! how can i not! that is all i am saying for this one idk what else there is to say. it’s a fun one :)

Common Sense by @buildhogwartsthenwewilltalk

multi-chapter, WIP

klaus is clairvoyant which if you’ve been around long enough you know I’m a big fan of clairvoyant!klaus!! it’s been a while since i read this one and i also don’t know how to explain it but it’s VERY VERY good and i like it a lot.

trans diego & child five by iamnotalizard

series, WIP but it feels complete

title says it all! ftm diego and five is his kid. very sweet and nice with a little angst sprinkled in. no powers AU as well.

backstreets back, alright! by Karturtle (karturtle)

one-shot, completed

gonna use the actual fic summary for this one: ‘The Umbrellas address the Sparrows. Klaus addresses Ben. Everyone gives up, quite literally.’ its. very funny

ok ill probably think of more later but i’m not gonna edit the post lol. i will add links in a reblog ASAP!

[aelaer]

The Blood in My Veins: Pt 4

Heyyyy I'm back. Now that one of my big fic projects is done/being rolled out I can concentrate on getting this finished (as well as other prompts). Here are the earlier parts if you can't remember what happened in this long-running prompt fic, since my last update was like, the summer.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Prompt (via @ironstrangeprompts that I can’t tag for whatever reason qq): Kidnapped to play doctor for a still unseen other prisoner; Stephen realizes there is only one person on the planet who would have palladium in their blood.

The Warnings: Okay guys, I want to cover all bases for this part and all parts henceforth. The bad guy I've written here really really sucks. He's a complete asshole. Part of his assholeness can include behaviors such as racism, sexism, homophobic remarks, religious bigotry, and overall just being a terrible human being. This terrible human being is not a typical representative of his nation/culture and is very thankfully fictional. There's plenty of Canon-Typical Violence around, too. All of the above are not be in this specific part but could be in future parts (I'm writing this as I go so I truly don't know, I just know he’s a dickwad). I didn't know this section was gonna happen until I finished Part 2, for instance, otherwise I'd have put a note at the beginning. I'd consider the fic a heavy teen fic, if you're looking for a rating, so it shouldn't get to graphical violence beyond what you'd see in high teen rated content. Also, there's going to be Medical Procedures in the future, though more clinical rather than graphic. Hopefully that covers everything, please ask me anything if you have a question.

I always put these longer writings on tumblr into "read more" cuts, but the mobile app does not always work correctly if you're looking at the original post from my tumblr, so I apologise for the length if you're on the app and viewing the original and said cut is not working. Still unbetaed, all errors are mine.

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

Part Four: Seeing Red Again

Another three days passed with little change in Stephen’s schedule. He went for his sleep shift at 12:30 a.m. New York time, and was woken up by one of the others between 5:20 to 5:30 a.m. It wasn't enough time for even two full complete sleep cycles, but everyone there—perhaps with exception to Steffen Baar, who was a chemist—had gone through grueling schedules during medical school and residency. So they were, in some ways, used to it.

After waking up, he had fifteen minutes to shower, shave, and change into the clothing about his size, provided for by his captors. From there, he then got to work. His sleep shift ended about three hours before dinner came—about 8:30 a.m. New York time—and a small snack arrived at what he assumed was this place's midnight, but was 2 p.m. according to his watch. Breakfast came twelve hours after dinner, at 8:30 p.m. in New York, and he went to bed again half an hour after midnight. Apparently while he slept, another snack break came for those awake.

The one small blessing in all of this was that the people holding them realized the power of caffeine and provided black tea and coffee every time they brought them food. He didn't think there were any cameras in the showers or toilets, either, which was—hopefully true. There was nothing obvious and, truth be told, he didn't really want to look much further for evidence.

Throughout his waking day, Stephen largely helped prep samples for blood analysis. He tried to strategize with Summer about how to best utilize their resources, should a surgery be required, but they had little to go on. They had yet to receive better X-rays of their patient—of Tony Stark, which still baffled Stephen—so much of their planning was about logistics.

"Doctors in the United States are required to complete a surgical rotation in their third year of med school," Stephen said, "so Jada will know basic surgical procedures. Do you need to do the same in the UK?"

"Yes," Summer answered. "All doctors go through the two-year Foundation Programme which always includes training in general surgery. So Dr Mahajan will be able to assist us as well."

"They can serve as our nurses and techs," Stephen muttered. "But what about Dr Baar?"

Summer pursed her lips together. "No medical training—but I would rather have him on hand than not. If we said we can't use him…"

Stephen grimaced and nodded. "Point. He can certainly hold a retractor." He blew out a breath. "We'll need a heart-lung machine. Those aren't easy to come by."

"None of this machinery is," she pointed out, jutting her chin to the advanced machinery scattered around the room. "I don't think that will be an issue for us. Whoever these people are, they have resources."

He pursed his lips together. "We also need an anesthesiologist."

She paused at that and sighed. "Yes. Yes, we need one of those. Unfortunately, I think we're going to be working with someone on their team if the surgery happens."

Stephen made a face. "What makes you think that?"

"When they first showed me the X-rays, I told them I would need another surgeon for the spinal area—you—and an anesthesiologist. They only spoke about finding me a surgeon, so they must have their own medical team that includes one."

He sighed. "Of course they do. He better be competent."

Summer shrugged. "Not much we can do about it. And there's not much more we can plan on this hypothetical surgery until I have better X-rays."

And so that ended that discussion and, three days later, there were no changes on that end. No new X-rays had come in, so both he and the other surgeon were stuck helping prepare samples and input data. And Stephen hadn't been so bored in years.

One wouldn't think that being captive would be boring, especially if one was doing medical work during that time. But when said medical work was repetitive lab work he hadn't done since med school? And doing it for about fifteen hours a day for three days straight with no music, no reading, no nothing to help bring some distraction or variety to his work? It was absolutely mind-numbing. A small part of him wasn't entirely sure if he could survive like this for—how long did Jada said Stark had to live without a cure or intervention? Two months? He couldn't do this for two months. He was going out of his mind after three days.

It was about halfway through his shift on the fourth day that he regretted ever thinking that he was bored.

He was typing up results from various tests performed by Jada when the door to the room was suddenly slammed open. Startled, Stephen immediately turned towards the sound, only to see five men enter, all of them with guns pointed to the rest of the room. Beside him, Jada immediately threw her hands on top of her head, and he quickly followed suit.

"Come quietly! Do not fight!" said one of the men. Stephen couldn't even begin to guess his accent; maybe it was Eastern European? Russian? Former Soviet bloc in Asia? Somewhere in that rather wide region of the world, which wasn't particularly helpful information considering there were some twenty to thirty countries there.

Summer was the doctor currently asleep, though looking over his shoulder, Stephen saw that she had woken up to the sound and was pushing herself up. But he couldn't look at her or the other doctors long as he was grabbed by one of the men and forced to walk. The gun the man carried quickly negated any ideas of retaliation.

They were led down a hall; he could see Steffen, Meera, and Jada in front of him, all being led in the same rough manner he was going through. The walk itself wasn't very long, perhaps a minute, but to Stephen it felt like every second was dragging. Despite his best efforts, his heart was starting to race at this new development.

The man with Steffen finally stopped in front of a door and unlocked it, then shoved the chemist inside. Within seconds, Stephen was at the door and being pushed forward himself. He took a quick look around, as much as he could without moving much: a large room with concrete walls and no windows, just like where he and the other doctors were being kept. Cot in the corner. Table with a computer and covered in bits of wires and electronics that he couldn't begin to label. Two other men armed with enormous guns—some sort of automatic rifles—and then one man who was crossing his arms and staring at him and his fellow doctors with a look that immediately put Stephen on edge. This man, this man radiated the air of a person in charge.

And then there was him. The famous Tony Stark, or Iron Man as he was calling himself these days. He looked like a former shadow of himself, being several pounds thinner and bearing a sickly pallor that Stephen immediately noticed, even during these circumstances.

A look of surprise was upon Stark's hollow face, but even as Stephen focused more upon him, it was quickly replaced by the cool anger of a man biting his tongue.

All five doctors were maneuvered to face Stark in a line before being forced to their knees. Stephen bit his lip to hold back a grunt of pain from his knees hitting the concrete floor.

"You say you are 'calling my bluff' with your medical team," said the man. He pushed himself off the wall and passed out of Stephen's line of sight. "Here they are." He started at Stephen's right as he went through the doctors. "Steffen Baar, chemist." A step closer. "Jada Ferguson, hematologist." Another step, and he heard Doctor Mahajan inhale sharply. "Meera Mahajan, pathologist."

Another step, and the man was behind him. To Stephen's utter horror, he felt cold metal press against the back of his head. "Stephen Strange, neurosurgeon." The metal then left his head and he heard another step. "Summer Weston, cardiothoracic surgeon." Another step, and he could see the man in the corner of his eye again, this time on his left.

Tony Stark kept his lips pressed in a tight line as their captor went through the line. When he finished, the billionaire swallowed and looked at them all. "Good job keeping me alive this long, docs," he said.

"Not good enough, Stark," the man snapped. "Their solution is only a band aid. They give you but a few more weeks. They are called the best doctors in the world, and they cannot yet make a cure?"

Stephen forcefully held back his retort regarding the man's utter ignorance. It was an outright miracle they found any sort of solution as quickly as they did to delay the spread!

Stark, it seemed, agreed with him, and had no such reservations with holding back. "That's insane, Yusifov. It takes teams of doctors months, if not years to create what you're looking for."

He couldn't see it, but Stephen could almost feel the sneer from their captor, this Yusifov. "In that case, you don't need this many doctors, do you?" A couple steps and he was again behind Stephen, further to the right. "I'm no doctor, but as far as I can tell, these two both look at blood and try to fix the problem. Neither of them fixed it, not fully. So who do you want to keep, Stark? The black American or the Indian Brit? One less woman won't make a difference."

Stephen dared a glance to his right when he heard quick breathing. Doctor Mahajan was visibly shaking and starting to hyperventilate; to her right, Doctor Ferguson was quiet, but her lips trembled and tears pricked her eyes.

Stark stepped forward, and several guns rose at the action. He stopped but held his ground, raising his hands. "Don't do this."

"Why not?" the man retorted. "You refuse to work because you are dying. They have failed you and one will pay the price. Perhaps both; they are both from lesser races."

As Stephen processed the fact that he heard a comment like that in fucking 2010, Doctor Mahajan's breathing accelerated into full on hyperventilation. His medical mind noticed it immediately.

But another was quicker to the draw. "Breathe through your nose, Meera," Summer said lowly. "Try to inhale for one-one thousand, then exhale through pursed lips. You can—"

"Shut up!"

Doctor Weston was smacked on the back of her head hard enough to send her sprawling to the floor.

And Stephen snapped.

Now, if one were to ask Doctor Stephen Strange, he would by no means consider himself heroic or noble. His role as a doctor was one of service, but even within his relatively short time as a neurosurgeon, he had already gained a prestige that recognized his rising star and already people in the medical community were considering him in the top ranks of neurosurgeons. Soon, demand for his expertise would be large enough for him to have the option to turn away those who weren't worth his time, and he felt not a lick of guilt for that. His skills were valuable.

But to hear this brute of a man first throw slurs at two of the most brilliant women—no, the most brilliant doctors—in their fields followed by an outright assault on the other caused a protectiveness Stephen hadn't felt since his sister's death to completely overtake him. He saw red.

He leaped up at Yusifov in a fiery anger, no particular idea in mind except stop him from hurting anyone rushing through his head. At this point there was little thought, only adrenaline and a near primal fury running through his veins. It wasn't like him to be so hot-headed; he was a man who kept his cool under the most stressful of circumstances. But perhaps several days of poor sleep combined with the stress of the situation finally got to him. When he thought about it in the aftermath, even he would admit he had no idea what he was thinking.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision he would come to regret.

In one moment he managed to knock the pistol out of Yusifov's hands and punched him in the face. He recognized screaming, shouting, fighting in the noises behind him, but he was focused on his own target.

Stephen hit him twice more before someone threw an arm around his neck and dragged him back and began to choke him. He clawed at the arm, which did nothing, but then he aimed his heel down right to the sensitive part of his attacker's instep. The man grunted in pain and the grip around his neck loosened. 

A shot shattered through the enclosed space, causing Stephen to freeze in surprise—and that proved to be his downfall. He saw Yusifov raising his pistol just before he was whipped across the face with the weapon. The hit threw him off balance and he fell to the floor and lay there for a second, stunned. He felt wetness on the side of his head.

As Stephen attempted to push himself up, a kick to his back sent him back to the floor. An involuntary grunt of pain escaped him. He closed his eyes, pausing for breath, but was given little time to recover as he was grabbed by both arms and dragged up to his knees. From his new position, he could see the rest of the room once more, and Stephen's heart skipped a beat at what was before him.

There were several alarming sights: Tony Stark on his knees just like him, nose bloodied. One of the gunmen near Stark with a screwdriver sticking in his neck and very much dead. Summer in the corner of the room, holding a shaking Meera against her chest.

And Doctor Steffen Baar on the ground, bleeding out from his stomach as Jada desperately tried to stem the blood flow with her sweater. The red dripped through the fabric and onto the concrete.

Stephen felt ill. He instinctively reached forward towards Steffen, to try and help, but the grip on his arms tightened and kept him in place.

Stark was the one to speak first. "Let them help him. I won't fight further. I'll do what you ask."

Yusifov came back into Stephen's line of sight as he stepped in front of him, though his gaze was on Stark. He said to the engineer, "You killed one of my men. A life for a life—that is fair, wouldn't you say?"

"He did nothing," Stark hissed, pulling against the hands that held him down. Stephen could see the men pull him back and tighten their grip in response. "And he's needed. You wouldn't have brought him here otherwise."

"He didn't do anything," Yusifov agreed, then turned to Stephen. "This one did." He then sent a sharp kick into Stephen's stomach, causing him to double over in pain as far as the men holding him  allowed. He almost missed the next statement. "And I should kill him for it. But the surgeon will be needed. The chemist, though? He failed to make a cure for your ailment with a month of time, and you don't have much longer to live, Stark. The chemist failed, and at this point, he's a waste of medical resources."

Then Yusifov nodded at one of his men, and he grabbed Jada by the arm and yanked her up to her feet.

"No—please, no, don't do this!" she shouted as she was dragged away from Steffen. Their captors ignored her and Yusifov walked up to the wounded man. He aimed his pistol at Steffen's head.

"Don't do this!" Stark shouted.

A shot rang through the room. A loud sob came from the corner before it was muffled. Stephen's ears rang, half deafened from the sound. His stomach churned; he felt like he was going to vomit. He hung his head and closed his eyes, trying to breathe slow breaths through his nose.

All he could smell was blood. He forcefully suppressed his gag reflex. 

Stephen missed whatever conversation came next, too busy trying to calm his breathing, trying not to throw up, and not having the energy to make out the words beyond the ringing in his ears. But then the world was moving as he was pulled to his feet and shoved out of the room, leaving behind Tony Stark and the body of Doctor Steffen Baar.

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

I was stuck on what I wanted to do with this part with a handful of ideas and consulted my beta for ideas. She suggested death which I wasn't even thinking of because I'm very bad at killing off characters. I blame her fully :P

Tag list (just let me know if you want to be added/removed with a comment - still not on AO3!): @sobeautifullyobsessed, @tashacumberbitch, @babywarg, @nishtha3012, @ragingstillness, @walkin-in-the-cosmos (I think the reason I can’t tag you is because you’ve flagged your tumblr for sensitive media, possibly), @lafourmii20, @asexualchemist, @iveneverbeenmorestressedinmylife, @oo0-will-of-the-wisp-0oo, @animefanfreak45, @rulerofthefandomsnow, @killaspyglass, @renlybaratheon-tyrell, @symmetria42, @kay-lock-key-lock

[ironwoman359]

Love Song for a Siren

Summary: Life aboard the pirate ship The Sea Serpent is as perfect as Roman, Patton, and Logan could hope for, but a startling discovery turns their lives...and their hearts...upside down. 

Ships: Established Moralogince, eventual LAMP, side Dukeceit

Content Warnings: Mentions of whaling, piracy (the swashbuckling kind), sympathetic deceit, sympathetic remus, general fear/anxiety, being trapped/captured.

Word Count: 5,407

Read on AO3 here

My Fic Masterlist Commission Info Ko-fi

A/N: @vintage-squid, surprise! I’m your secret santa! I’m so glad you enjoyed the story, I had a blast writing it! Thank you to @theinvisiblespoon for beta reading this fic, you’re the absolute best! I have at least two more fics for this AU planned, a prequel that tells the story of Roman and Remus coming to be crew members aboard the Sea Serpent (cuz boy howdy is that a tale), and a sequel that pits our now established LAMP boys against an external threat. Both elements were ideas that I had for this story/universe that just didn’t make it into the final version due to time/length, so let me know if you’d like to be tagged in those future stories, or if you’d like to be on my general writing taglist. As always, comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated. Love you guys! -Taylor <3

--- --- ---

“All hands on deck!”

Roman grinned and scampered down from his perch in the crow’s nest, his boots hitting the deck with a satisfying *thud.* The sky above him was clear and bright, and a cool ocean breeze rustled through his hair, granting him a reprieve from the heat of the sun. The gentle sway of the ship, once so strange and foreign to him, was now a familiar, soothing motion, and Roman’s chest swelled with confidence. He pulled his rapier from his belt and swiped it through the air with a flourish, winking at the ship’s navigator who was standing nearby.

“Just once, I’d like to see you answer Patton’s call without all your typical fanfare,” the man said, raising an eyebrow at Roman.

“What? My brother, pass up a chance to be dramatic?” a cheerful squawk called out, and then Remus was beside them, throwing one arm around Roman and jostling him playfully. “That’ll be the day.”

“Indeed, the one that we all long for,” the navigator agreed, and Roman pouted before letting his features slide into a smirk.

“Oh, come on Logan, you know you love me,” Roman crooned, and his smile widened as Logan’s cheeks became dusted with pink.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he said as Roman wriggled out from Remus’s grip to peck him on the lips. “However did I let that happen?”

“Okay you two, cut it out!” Patton chided as he walked over. “You’re both too adorable and it’s not fair, ‘cause I very much want to kiss you both, but we don’t have time right now!”

“Later, my love,” Roman promised, blowing the ship’s quartermaster a kiss of his own. Patton pretended to catch it out of the air and held it close to his heart, winking before he turned and addressed the larger crowd of sailors that had gathered on deck. 

“We’ve adjusted course to intercept a ship, prepare for boarding!” Patton called. “And standby for the captain’s orders!”

As if on cue, the captain stepped out onto the deck, surveying his crew at work for a moment before turning to Patton.

“What’s the target?”

“It looks like a whaling ship,” Patton said with a grimace, and the captain snarled.

“Right. The captain should be worth a half decent ransom then, plus there should be plenty of valuable cargo on board. We’ll disable the ship when we’re finished then leave the rest of the crew to their own devices, if they aren’t idiots they should be able to survive long enough to make whaling seem like a very unattractive occupation to their buddies back home.”

Patton nodded, then turned back to the crew.

“Ready about!” he called to them, then nodded to Roman. “Ro, take point on the first raiding crew.”

“Oooh, Dee, your mask!” Remus suddenly cried, before dashing into the captain’s quarters without another word. He emerged a moment later, handing over the mask before planting a kiss on the captain’s cheek.

“Oh, so you have time for kisses, but I don’t,” Roman teased, and Remus stuck his tongue out at him.

“Captain’s privileges,” Dee said with a smirk before sliding the mask down over the left side of his face, carved features and painted green scales covering the burn that marred his skin.

“Ro, come on!” Patton called again, and Roman turned his attention to the whaler that was still approaching them, not yet realizing that the innocuous looking Sea Serpent was actually a pirate vessel.

“Heave to!” Patton shouted, and Logan pulled on the ship’s wheel until the Sea Serpent was directly in the path of the approaching whaler.

“Ready canons!” Dee called, and Patton relayed the order to the gunmen below deck. “On my command! Ready?”

Roman gripped his sword hilt, a smile growing on his face despite himself. Right here, standing on the deck of his ship with a sword in his hand and his two loves by his side, was exactly where Roman wanted to be.

“Fire!”

--- --- ---

It didn’t take long for the crew of the whaler, called The Carlotta, to surrender, and before long, Patton was leading a small party through the ship to look for anything worth looting. As soon as he stepped below decks, however, he had to stop. He waved the other crew members on ahead of him and leaned against a nearby support beam, taking in several deep gulps of air through his mouth. Unfortunately, that didn’t do much to alleviate the stench.

The cargo hold was full of dozens upon dozens of barrels, and a foul, fishy scent clung to the air around them like mold. The smell was bad enough, but that combined with the thought of what was actually in the barrels was enough to make Patton gag on the spot. He, like Dee, was not fond of the practice of whaling, but while Dee would still bring the whale blubber onboard the Sea Serpent so they could sell it themselves and turn a profit, Patton would just as soon dump the whole batch back into the ocean so he didn’t have to think about it for too long. He was just grateful that they hadn’t come upon The Carlotta when she’d taken a fresh kill; money or no, message or no, Patton was not about to deal with looting a ship floating beside a dead whale carcass.

“Quartermaster!”

Patton looked up to see one of the younger crew members coming towards him, their eyes as round as saucers.

“What is it, kiddo? And I’ve told you, just Patton is fine.”

“Right, yessir–I mean, Patton. But, um, you need you see this!”

“What is it?” Patton asked again, following the young sailor deeper into the hold.

“I...I don’t know, sir, you’re just...going to have to see for yourself.”

Thoroughly intrigued now, Patton let himself be led into the back corner of the cargo hold where he was met with a peculiar sight. What appeared to be a large iron kettle, which Patton recognized as part of the tryworks that whalers would use to boil the whale blubber down into oil, was sitting in the middle of the open space. The kettle itself wasn’t what struck Patton as odd though, it was its placement below decks. The ship had clearly recently brought in a new whale, and Patton remembered seeing the other kettle in its proper place on top of the furnace up on deck. What on earth was this doing down here?

The other thing that was confusing was the large slat of crisscrossed iron bars that had been laid haphazardly over the top of the kettle. If Patton had to guess, he’d say that the whalers had taken the door off the ship brig and used it as a sort of cap, and for extra measure, a few canon balls had been placed on top to provide additional weight. Three other crew members were standing around the kettle, looking inside with something akin to awe on their faces.

“What’s going on?” Patton asked as he approached, and the crewmen just pointed, stepping back so Patton could peer into the kettle himself.

He didn’t know whether to be amazed or horrified.

“Get the captain,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He needs to see this.”

The sailors nodded and hurried off to find Dee, leaving Patton alone to stare at what they’d found in growing disbelief.

Lying tangled in a net at the bottom of the kettle in about a half-foot of water was...some sort of creature. At first glance, Patton had thought the long, slippery tail belonged to a strange fish or eel, but as his eyes traveled upward, that thought was quickly dismissed from his mind. Halfway up the creature’s body, the scales gave way to smooth purple skin and a surprisingly human shaped torso, despite the fins on the creature’s sides and elbows. A set of gills was visible on the side of its neck, and a shock of dark hair fell around the creature’s ears, or at least, the wide, fan-shaped fins that protruded from where the ears would be on a human. It’s chest was rising in short, quick bursts, and Patton didn’t need to be a medical expert to tell that it was having trouble breathing.

Despite growing up in a port town and being around seamen for most of his life, Patton had never really put much stock into superstition, or the wild tales of sea monsters and magic that sailors brought back from their ventures out onto the open ocean. Sailors in his hometown tended to drink as much as they talked, and while their stories made for good entertainment, he’d never really believed any of them. And yet, staring down at the creature in the kettle, he knew now that some of the tales had to be true.

“What is it?”

Patton turned at the sound of Dee’s voice, and he found that there was only one thing he could say.

“Dee...they have a mermaid.”

As if on cue, the mermaid stirred, twisting in the kettle and letting out a muffled hiss as it strained against the net that had its arms pinned against its sides. Dee and Patton looked down, and Patton bit his tongue to keep himself from whimpering.

The eyes that met their gaze were wide with fear, but they narrowed in an instant as the mermaid hissed again, flaring out its fins in warning. Patton was sure that if it were able, the creature would be baring its teeth at them, but somehow the net had gotten tangled in such a way that it was wrapped around its face and digging into its mouth. If Patton had to guess, the mermaid had tried to bite its way out of the net and only succeeded in trapping itself further.

Patton looked up at Dee, who still hadn’t said anything and was staring into the kettle with a blank expression, which Patton knew meant he didn’t want to give away what he was thinking.

“Dee, we can’t just leave him here,” Patton said quietly.

“What other choices do we have?” Dee asked, raising an eyebrow. “Cut it loose and throw it back into the ocean?”

Patton glanced down at the creature again, his eyes traveling over the places where the net was digging into its skin. One of the sections was wrapped so tightly around its tail that it was cutting into the flesh, and Patton shook his head.

“He’s hurt...if we just threw him back into the ocean as is who knows what could happen to him? He needs time to recover.”

“So what do you propose? We can’t haul the tryworks onto the Sea Serpent while on the open ocean. And even if we could, if healing is the main goal, I don’t think curled up tight in a pot would be the best place to keep it.”

Patton chewed on his bottom lip, thinking.

“They haven’t finished fixing that damaged dinghy belowdecks yet,” he offered. “But she should hold water.”

Dee blinked.

“Are you suggesting that we fill the dinghy up with water like it’s some rich landlubber’s bathtub and...what, just keep a pet mermaid in it?”

“Not pet,” Patton insisted. “More like...patient.”

“You’re deflecting the rest of the question, Quartermaster,” Dee said, raising an eyebrow, and Patton raised one right back.

“And you’re avoiding giving me an order, Captain.”

Dee chuckled, then his eyes flicked back and forth between the kettle and Patton before he sighed.

“Alright, have it your way then. But Patton...if this creature turns out to be dangerous...if he ends up hurting one of the crew? That’ll be your responsibility, you understand?”

Patton nodded firmly.

“I do.” Then he grinned, and threw his arms around Dee in a quick but tight hug. “Thanks Dee!”

He let go and hurried above deck, hearing Dee mutter something about “reputation” as he went, and stopped when he ran into Remus sticking his head to look inside the (thankfully) unlit furnace the whalers kept on deck.

“Remus! I need you to do something for me,” he called, and Remus grinned.

“Anything you say, Mr. Quartermaster sir!”

“Can you get a couple of the crew to fill the dinghy belowdecks with buckets of seawater?”

“How many buckets?” Remus asked cheerfully, and Patton shrugged.

“As many as will fit. Oh, and Remus. I want the water dumped out into the dinghy. I’m not asking for a boat filled with buckets, I want a boat filled with water, okay?”

“Aww, now you’ve spoiled my fun,” Remus said in a mock pout, but then he winked and practically pranced back towards the Sea Serpent, nearly knocking over Roman as he skipped past.

“What’s he so happy about?” Roman asked, frowning as he watched Remus leave the deck of the The Carlotta.

“I gave him a weird order,” Patton said, sliding up next to Roman and sighing happily when Roman snaked an arm around his waist and planted a kiss on top of his head.

“Anything interesting in the cargo hold?” Roman asked, and Patton froze. “What?” Roman asked, pulling back and frowning down at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Patton said quickly, pressing a kiss to Roman’s cheek. “It’s just…” he glanced back towards the cargo hold, chewing on his bottom lip. “You’re going to want to see this.”

--- --- ---

“You found a what?” Logan asked, staring at his boyfriends in growing disbelief.

“A mermaid, Specs,” Roman said, and Logan resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“We’re serious, Lo!” Patton insisted. “Why would we make something like that up?”

Logan raised an eyebrow.

“I saw Remus looking entirely to happy to be carrying buckets of water back and forth from the cargo hold, and you expect me not to be at least a little bit suspicious.”

“Okay, maybe I should have had someone else supervise setting up the dinghy, but to be fair, I knew that Remus wouldn’t waste a lot of time asking me why I wanted him to do that,” Patton said with a shrug.

“Listen, while ordinarily your suspicion might be slightly warranted–”

“Slightly?” Logan asked, and smirked when Roman spluttered indignantly.

“Really, Logan,” Patton said, his voice quiet and earnest. “We found a mermaid, and he needs our help. Come and see, okay?”

Logan frowned at Patton’s sudden shift in tone before he nodded slowly. Patton flashed him a grateful smile, then turned and led the way into the cargo hold. Logan had to admit, he wasn’t sure quite what he was expecting to see as he followed Patton down the stairs, but the Sea Serpent’s beat up dinghy filled with water hadn’t been high on the list. He opened his mouth, but as they approached the side of the boat, the question died in his throat. His eyes traveled over the purple skin, gills and fins, and wide eyes with slit pupils.

“Oh.”

“You can say that again,” Roman said, raising an eyebrow.

Logan elected not to speak again, noting the way the creature shrunk back at Roman’s loud voice, choosing instead to take a step closer and get down on one knee beside the dinghy so he was eye level with the creature. It thrashed and hissed as he approached, though whether the hiss was a sign of aggression or an expression of pain as the net dug deeper into its flesh, Logan couldn’t be sure. Either way, the first move clearly had to be removing the net.

Logan pulled his knife from his belt and the creature thrashed again at the sight of the blade, and it bumped the side of the dinghy, sloshing some of the water over the side.

“Be still,” Logan said in as soothing a voice as he could manage. “We need to get that net off you, and if you struggle you could become injured.”

Logan had been speaking more with tone in mind than with words, but to his surprise, the creature cocked its head at the words before hissing again, more deliberately this time. Logan froze, staring into the creature’s eyes.

“Can...can you understand me?” he asked, and the creature moved its head up and down.

“Did he just nod?” Patton breathed, and the creature tried to nod again, hissing in pain as the net around its face dug deeper into its jaw.

“Don’t try to move,” Logan said, holding up his empty hand in what he hoped was a placating gesture. “You’ll only hurt yourself further. Could you blink your eyes once for yes, twice for no? If you can really understand us?”

There was a beat of silence as they all held their breaths, and then the creature slowly blinked once.

“Was that a yes?” Logan asked to confirm, and the creature blinked once again. “Wonderful. I’m going to cut this net off of you, is that alright?”

The creature didn’t respond at first, eyeing Logan warily, and Logan frowned.

“Do you wish to remain tangled in the net?”

Two blinks.

“Are you currently in pain?”

One blink.

“If you let me remove the net, we can see about tending to your wounds. But if you continue to thrash about, I may accidentally hurt you...and I do not want that to happen.”

The creature eyed his knife again, and Logan tried to imagine things from its perspective. It had been captured by humans and transported from ship to ship like so much cargo, and now a human was crouching next to it brandishing a knife...all things considered, Logan supposed he would react similarly if he were in such a situation.

“Are you worried that I will hurt you?” he asked.

One blink, and Patton made a quiet, distressed noise behind them. Logan ignored the urge to soothe his boyfriend, knowing that Roman was there to provide comfort if needed. Right now, getting this creature to trust him was the top priority.

“We have had ample opportunity to do so already,” Logan pointed out bluntly.

“Lo…” Roman’s voice was uneasy, hesitant, but Logan pressed onward. He could only hope that this creature was capable of logical reasoning.

“Whether it was on the ship you initially were held captive on, or in transporting you here, my comrades and I have had the opportunity to cause you pain intentionally. Have we taken it?”

Two blinks.

“Would it not make more sense, if hurting you was my intention, to simply move forward in an attack rather than wait for your permission.”

One blink. Logan smiled.

“So logically, we must not want harm to come to you. Quite the opposite. But if you don’t hold yourself still, more harm may occur. Now, may I approach?”

Time stretched out between them, and Logan waited patiently as the creature’s eyes flicked back and forth between Logan, the knife, and Roman and Patton standing behind him. Eventually, he blinked once, and Logan smiled again.

“Alright. Keep very still now…”

The mermaid (or merman, if the top half of his anatomy was comparable to that of a human) squeezed its eyes shut, long webbed fingers curling into fists as Logan began to cut away at the net. He’d scarcely been working a minute before a soft, pleasant sound filled the cargo hold, and the merman’s eyes snapped open.

Roman was humming, a quiet, soothing tune that Logan recognized as one of the lullabies that Roman would sometimes sing to either of his boyfriends if they were having trouble sleeping. The merman’s face changed from one of shock, to curiosity, to something bordering on contentment, and by the time Logan had managed to cut away the last bit of rope, the tension had drained from the merman’s shoulders almost completely.

“There, finished,” Logan said with a small smile, standing up slowly and taking a step back.

The merman took a moment to stretch his limbs out, opening and shutting his jaw (which, Logan noted, had rows of sharp, needle-like teeth) and swishing his tail.

Patton made a cooing sound, and Logan knew that the shorter of his partners was completely enamored by the creature.

“Better?” Logan asked, and the merman looked up at him. For a moment, Logan was expecting another blink, but then the creature opened his mouth.

“Yes. Thank you.”

His voice was low, slightly raspy rumble from the back of his throat, and Logan told himself that the flash of excitement that ran through him was because of the discovery that such a creature could talk and nothing more.

“Are you hurt very badly?”

A quick glance at Patton revealed that Logan was not the only one who had suddenly been struck with a reminder of just how gay he was, but to Patton’s credit, he seemed to recover quickly.

“I…don’t know.” The merman ran his hands over the gash in his tail, wincing, and Logan hummed in sympathy.

“I think it would be best for you to remain here for the time being, at least until you have healed sufficiently.”

“What?” the merman’s head snapped up, his eyes growing wide. “No, you can’t just keep me here, I–”

“It would not be permanent,” Logan assured quickly. “Only until we are sure that you’re well enough to return to the ocean. If you were to return now, in your weakened state, your chances of fully recovering would be slim.”

“Yes, we wouldn’t dream of imprisoning you here like some sort of animal,” Roman chimed in. “Not like those dreadful whalers did.”

“If you really don’t want to stay, kiddo, we won’t force you,” Patton added. “You can make your own choices, after all...we just want to make sure you’re okay.”

The merman looked between the three of them warily, before glancing down at the cuts on his body and nodding slowly.

“Alright then.”

“Oh, yay!” Patton squealed happily, causing the merman to jump slightly. “My name’s Patton, and these are my partners Roman and Logan, do you have a name?”

For a moment, Logan thought the merman wasn’t going to speak, but after a long moment of silence, he opened his mouth again.

“Virgil.”  

Logan gave him a small smile.

“Well Virgil, welcome aboard the Sea Serpent.”  

--- --- ---

Virgil was very confused. When he’d initially been caught by the human whalers, he’d been sure he was going to die. He saw what they were doing to that whale corpse, and when the humans had hauled him onto their ship and thrown him into a cramped metal pot, he was certain that he would be the next to be chopped into pieces. For three days, he’d tried to untangle himself to no avail, and by the time that Patton had found him, he’d all but given up hope on making it out alive.

But instead of hurting, these three, strange humans were helping him. He’d been on this ship for what was close to a month now, and not once had any one of the crew been hostile towards him. The boat, while not the most spacious of homes, gave him enough room to get himself in virtually any position he wanted to, and he found himself now floating on his back and absently sucked on a fish bone, (the last remnant of the food that Patton had brought him that day) reflecting on the three humans he tended to see the most.

Patton had been the first to visit him frequently. Virgil had honestly been so hungry directly after Logan had gotten the net off of him that he would have accepted anything offered to him, but Patton had asked him what he ate, and when he simply said “fish” brought him three different kinds to choose from, even apologizing for not having more choices. Patton was like a sunbeam incarnate, warm and bright and full of the promise of life, and despite how terrified Virgil had been when they’d first locked eyes, he found himself looking forward to all the times Patton would drop by to see him, not just the ones where he was bringing food.

More confusing was Logan, who should be far more intimidating, with his blunt way of speaking and his detached approach to the world. And yet, Virgil found his words calming, an anchoring grip in the middle of a current, and Virgil began to miss Logan’s soothing, steady voice when he wasn’t around. Even the numerous questions about everything from what Virgil ate to how he learned to talk to whether there were other mermaids besides himself and what their societies were like, were somehow endearing instead of unsettling when they came from Logan. Virgil knew Logan didn’t want to hunt his kind down or dissect them, he was just...curious. Brightly, passionately curious, and that curiosity was infectious.

Virgil found himself asking Logan questions about humans, which Logan was all too happy to answer.

And then there was Roman, loud, boisterous, impossible Roman. If Virgil were honest, the first few times he’d dropped by, Virgil had been annoyed. Roman talked too loud, too fast, and Virgil shouldn’t enjoy his company, he really shouldn’t...except Roman sang nearly everywhere he went, and Virgil couldn’t help but be drawn to the sound. His own song was bottled up inside of him, itching to be released into the world, but Virgil didn’t want to know what might happen to the crew of the Sea Serpent if they suddenly heard siren song coming from inside their own ship. But one day, Roman was packing something up at the other end of the cargo hold, singing a soft and familiar tune as he worked, and Virgil couldn’t help himself.

He sang softly so that none of the crew would hear him, closing his eyes and losing himself in the harmony, ducking and weaving around Roman’s voice as it steadily grew louder–

Virgil’s eyes flew open and Roman was only a few feet away, his work forgotten in the corner.

“Roman, snap out of it!” Virgil cried, and Roman blinked at him in confusion.

“Snap out of what, Vee?”

“I...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Virgil said hurriedly. “I didn’t think you would hear me, I didn’t mean to lure you, I promise–”

“Lure me?”

“My song,” Virgil explained. “You heard me singing.”

“Yes I did,” Roman said with a smile. “It was lovely.”

“Yeah, well, if a human hears my song they get sort of...bewitched? You’ll see your heart’s desire, and have no choice but to follow it. So I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” Roman asked with a laugh. “Newsflash Virgil, I was only coming over because I wanted to hear you sing more. I didn’t see my heart’s desire or anything, I just saw you in your boat, like always.”

Virgil’s heart just about stopped beating right then and there, but he forced his face to remain blank.

“Oh...alright then, I’m uh. I’m glad you’re okay.”

Roman smiled his big, boisterous smile at him, but it suddenly turned shy, and Virgil frowned.

“Do you think you could...do it again?” Roman asked, and Virgil raised an eyebrow.

“Sing with you?”

Roman nodded, and slowly a smile spread across Virgil’s face.

“I’d love to.”

--- --- ---

It had been just over a month, and Virgil’s wounds finally seemed to be completely healed. Logan had looked them over and declared them sufficiently healed, and Virgil swore up and down that the cuts no longer pained him, though there were thin lines of scar tissue up and down his pale purple skin that would forever serve as a reminder to the terrifying ordeal he’d been through. Roman had half a mind to find the crew of The Carlotta again and exact vengeance on behalf of his beloved siren.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Roman’s face turned bright red, and he tried to push it back down into whatever crevice in his heart it had crawled out of, but it was too late. The thought was released into his mind, and now that it was free it was determined to be as loud and noticeable as possible.

Beloved, beloved, beloved.  

It was the day Virgil was going to back to the ocean, and Roman didn’t want him to go.

One look at the expressions on his love’s faces as they all gathered on the deck to say goodbye was all he needed to know that they felt the same as him. They had been together long enough to easily tell what the others were feeling, and they all three were painfully aware of how much they would miss Virgil when he was gone. A tiny selfish part of Roman said that he should stay here on the Sea Serpent forever, but unlike his first unbidden thought of the day, this one passed like a wave across the sea before he even had time to process it. For as much as he might want Virgil to stay, he wanted him to be happy much more. And Virgil could never be happy living confined on a ship like this. He deserved his freedom, and Roman’s heart would count itself privileged to have known Virgil while it could.

“Are you ready?”

Logan’s tone was careful and even, but Roman knew his boyfriend well. His voice was too clipped, too measured. He may not be as obvious as Patton trying to hold back tears, but he was just as upset that Virgil was leaving as Roman himself was.

“I think so,” Virgil said. He spoke with so much more confidence now than he had the day they had met, and Roman let himself feel proud that they’d been able to break through Virgil’s rough exterior in the time they’d had to know him.

“Thank you. For everything,” Virgil added, and Roman nodded.

“We’ll miss you, Virgil,” Patton said tearfully, and Virgil smiled softly at him.

“I’ll miss you too, Pat.”

Patton knelt down to hug him, then stepped back so Logan could grasp his hand.

“Thank you for teaching me so much, Virgil. I must admit, I will miss our talks.”

“Me too, Lo,” Virgil said, and then he looked at Roman.

Roman stooped and pressed a kiss to Virgil’s cheek before he could stop himself.

“So long, Dark and Gloomy.”

Virgil looked stunned, but he managed a smile back.

“So long, Princey.”

Virgil looked at the three of them one last time before he turned and pulled himself up over the railing of the ship and disappeared with a splash into the ocean below.

“Oh gee, I’m gonna miss him so much,” Patton sighed, leaning onto Logan’s chest.

“As am I, Patton,” Logan agreed quietly.

Roman did not speak, but he knew he didn’t need to. He turned instead to go help his brother haul the water out of the cargo hold, hoping that the distraction would keep his mind off his feelings.

But before he made it very far, there was a great *splash* behind him, and he turned just in time to see Virgil land back on the deck with a rather comical flopping sound.

“Virgil!” Patton cried, and Virgil took a deep breath.

“Ifitsallthesametoyouguysidliketostayhere,” he rushed out, and Roman’s heart leaped with hope.

“I...I’m sorry, did you say…?” Logan looked confused, but a teensy bit hopeful as well, and Patton was outright beaming.

“Did you say you wanna stay here, kiddo?” he asked, and Virgil nodded, his cheeks flushing a dark purple.

“It...it doesn’t have to be in the dinghy all the time,” he said. “I can swim in the ocean sometimes, catch my own food, that kinda thing. But um...yeah. I’d like to stay with the Sea Serpent. With...with you guys, if that’s okay with–”

“Nothing would make us happier,” Roman said firmly, and Virgil looked up, a shy smile spreading across his face.

“Really?”

“Really,” Roman said, just as Patton squealed and dropped to the deck to wrap Virgil in another hug.

“Get down here, you two,” he ordered, and Roman smiled as he and Logan knelt beside them and allowed themselves to be pulled into the hug.

It was a little bit crowded, and Roman’s shirt was getting wet from where he was pressed against Virgil’s back, but he didn’t care. Right here, sitting on the deck of his ship with the sun overhead and his three loves in his arms, was exactly where Roman wanted to be.

--- --- --- 

Sanders Sides Taglist (pt.1): @lizethemotherlycat,  @coffeestudylive, @logically-asexual,  @migraine-marathon, @princeyssash,  @idontevenfreakingknow22, @tree4life25, @spacevirgil, @virgiltheanxious, @thebaagelboy,  @msu82, @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2, , @thesleepyraziel, @bobolovesoze,  @littlemiracle05, @pattson,  @nerd-in-space, @thesides,  @stay-in--place​, @ravenclawunicorn1​, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes​, @michealawithana​, @anotherfandomtrasher​ , @fandomsofrandom​,  @a-deliciouslyfadingcollection​, @nightmarejasmine​, @xxfoxit​, @quoth-the-sparrow​, @katatles-the-fish​, @misty-the-mysterious​, @alyssadashrub​, @punkassplonker​, @noctisvalex​, @i-sold-my-soul-to-thefandom​, @funsizedgremlin​, @vigilantvirgil​, @nonamefightergirl​, @thomasbemyfriend​, @starsinger​ , @milomeepit​, @justabookworm39​, @shortandfantastic​, @thesilentbluesparrow​, @royallyanxious​, @mirror2thespirit​, @coffee-stains-paper-and-ink​, @silverrhayn​, @mooksie01​, @backatthebein​, @nye275​, @anastasialestina​, @callboxkat​, @a-lexicon-of-words​, @emeraldfoxface​, @peachie-keeen​, @llamaly​, @witch19​,  @heythereprincey​, @bring-it-on-perra​, @nienna14​, @bubblycricket​, @thomasfandersunite​, @slightlyobssesive​,  @logicallyanxious​, @apologetically-anxious​, @keys117​, @digitally-analog​, @ocotopushugs​, @warping-reality​,  @grey-lysander​, @your-username-is-unavailable​, @hikariyukino​, @theresneverenoughfandoms​, @virgil-sanderssss​, @violetmcl​, @thatfandomfollower​, @nothingelsemattersme​, @cdragontogacotar​, @narniasfinestavengingsociopath, @absentmindedproff​, @fantasyandfairfolk​, @virgilsblogofanxietys​, @your-average-outcast​, @sanderstalker​, @galaxy-warping​, @queen-of-all-things-snuggly​ @a-little-bit-of-ace​, @faithfreedom-art​ @therealhmmlingle​ @xxladystarlightxx​, @morgan-the-art-girl​, @stormcrawler75​ @wowitsmyblog​, @romanssippycup​, @lunalikesgamesandstuff, @lamp-calm-sanders​, @musikasworld​ @cyberpunkjinx​, @mauvelavender​ @samathekittycat​ @black-out-wonder​ @i-read-by-lamp​ @ravenclawicecream​ @nashiraneko​ @lucifer-in-my-head​ @ladyartemisia28​ @awesome-and-unique-username​ @zoalis @entpscarleharrrr @raygelkitty @zeldahadasword @gubbalupagus @musicphanpie-b @virgilssweaterpaws, @faacethefacts @a-simple-fryingpan @pinkeasteregg @punknerdmusings @imantisocialgetoverit @anuninspiredpoet  @awkward-avocado-of-death, @poison-lyra @modcarbz, @thisrandomperson102,  @skydiamcnds @just-another-starfish, @thepoolofthedead,  

[javier-djarin]

Como Me Duele: Chapter 12

Ship: Javi x Reader

Rating: M

Word Count:  3,557 words

Warnings: Language, Smut, Soft!Javi

Masterlist

(Gifs by @pascvl)

Summary: Life after Pablo finds you and Javi in bliss. Javi adjusts to his new title of fatherhood. You and Javi talk about the future of your family.

A/N: So, this is the last official chapter! (cries for days). Thank you again for all the love and support! Please, please, PLEASE let me know what you think. Please let me know if you want to be on my tag list for any future fics! I have a few lined up. I will be writing an epilogue to this so you know what lies in store for them in their future. As always, the translations are at the bottom.

Your POV

“What do you mean you have to leave?” you asked, sitting up.

He smiled at you as the sheet you wrapped around your front barely left anything to his imagination. “They want to review my case, which means talk about my involvement with Los Pepes.”

“Which means they could send you to jail, Javi,” you said.

Javi shook his head. “They would have come after me sooner if that was the case. As soon as I get there, I’ll get ahold of my lawyer.” He smiled and tried to pull the sheet off you.

“Seriously, Javier?”

He laughed at you and nodded. “If I’m not worried, you shouldn’t be. Now, I’m not going to leave for the airport for a few hours. So, let’s finish what we started.”

You smiled at him and wrapped your arms around his neck. “I knew you’d be trouble when I first met you.”

“Por siempre y para siempre, hermosa.”

He deepened his kiss, gently pulling the sheet down. His hands danced across your skin, sending chills throughout your body. You smiled and laughed into his kiss as you ran your hands through his hair, giving him a slight tug. He growled and moved his lips down your neck and jaw, stopping at your already tender breasts. You let out a sigh, as his warm mouth was a welcomed surprise. He nibbled at one before moving to the other, his fingers already finding their way to where you ached most. He followed them soon after, kissing the inner parts of your thighs. He gently placed your legs over his shoulders as he laid down in front of you, his palms resting on your lower abdomen enough that his thumbs massaged you - running in slow methodical circles as Javi enjoyed the rest of you with his mouth.

As soon as his tongue came into contact with your body, you let out a loud moan. God, his tongue could do magical things to you. No, that man could do wonders. Your hand traveled down to grab his hair while the other had a death grip on the sheets. You felt him growl against you, sending a wave of pleasure through your veins. “You taste so fucking good, hermosa.” 

He felt your legs start to shake and close around him. You were close. Your breathing became more labored as you moaned his name, begging him for more. He moved his hand so he could use his fingers while his mouth moved to your clit. He rubbed the inside of you in those same, slow circles while he curled his fingers, running them down your walls. You lifted your hips and cried out as you arched your back. You cried his name, each syllable falling off your tongue like a sweet plea.

He finally came up for air, your orgasm glistening on his face; the sexiest and most arousing thing you’d ever seen. Javi wiped his face and cleaned his fingers off before returning to your mouth. He stopped moving for a moment and looked down at you. “What’s wrong?” you said, placing hands on either side of his face. 

He let out a long breath and smiled at you. “Nothing. I just can’t believe that this is real. That you chose me.”

You felt your heart ache for Javi. He knew exactly how to tug at your heartstrings, and he wasn’t even aware of it. “And knowing everything we’d gone through to get here,” you kissed him, “I’d choose you a thousand times over again, mi amor.”

He smiled at you and kissed you deeply as you felt him slide into you as far as he could go. He was the only man who could ever take your breath away and make you feel so alive at the same time. You gasped into his kiss as you felt him fill you completely and you both held onto each other for a moment. “Never leave me again,” he said.

You laughed. “You’re the one who sent me back here.”

He kissed you again. “I was a fool.”

“Javi,” you said, running your hands down his face. “I believe you said it best: ‘They’ll have to kill me before I leave you’. And you should realize, I’m too stubborn to die.”

He grinned at you. Since you woke up in the hospital, you’d never seen him smile so much. And you wanted to keep him smiling forever. “Never stop this,” he said.

“What?”

“Loving me this way,” Javi whispered. 

 You wrapped your legs around him to pull him deeper into you. He groaned, but never broke his eye contact with you. “I will love you this way for the rest of my life.” 

He slowly pulled back before thrusting back in at the same, excruciatingly slow pace. You let out another moan and whimper. He’d never felt so good before, and you never wanted this to end. When you moved to Colombia, you weren’t looking for love. You were looking for a way to find yourself. Find who you were without Michael. Little did you know you’d find yourself Javi. Javi, the man who brought out the real you. The “you” that loved taking risks. That woman, you discovered, loved jumping in feet first, knowing fully well that she could catch herself, but was hoping someone else would be there to catch her. And you couldn’t imagine that someone being anyone other than Javier Peña. He showed you a life of love and happiness that was beyond anything you’d ever experienced or believed to exist outside of stories. “Te quiero, mi Javi.”

He kissed you even deeper as he moved. Your hands moved to his back as your hips moved into him, your body beseeching him for more. “Te quiero, mi hermosa,” he said, “Eres más de lo que podría soñar y todo lo que siempre quiero.”

You felt a few tears stream down your cheeks, and you saw one glisten his. You grabbed his hair as he craned his face into your neck. His velvety skin moving against yours was almost enough to send you over the edge again, thanks to your heightened nerves. “Javi,” you breathed. You felt his muscles tense as you said his name, running your hands all over his body. “More.” You said. His slow pace was torture.

He looked into your eyes and moved just a little faster. You felt yourself getting lost in his eyes, his touch, his scent, his movements. You could feel your body start to quiver and clench around him, drawing our low moans and growls from him. His noises always aroused you even more. But what you loved the most was his attention to detail. When you were close, he knew exactly how to send you over the edge by adding his thumb to add just the right amount of pressure and friction, and then he’d always say to you, “Come for me, hermosa.”

You cried out his name, loud enough that it echoed off the walls. You felt his hips start to move faster, helping you ride out your euphoria. Your body felt hot and cold as he continued thrusting and moving his hips in just the right pattern that left you feeling weak when he was done. You came again, just as he finally had his own release, breathing your name into your neck before kissing you and giving you your breath back.

You held him in place just for a little bit, because you loved nothing more than the feeling of having him inside of you. When he finally rolled over to pull you into his arms, you sighed and rested your head on his chest. He lightly ran his fingers up and down your side and kissed the top of your head. “I was thinking,” he said, “I really like the name Marcela.”

Your heart swelled. Since you’d been back in the States, you hadn’t really talked about what life would look like with the babies. And the fact that he was thinking of names made you love him even more. “That’s a beautiful name, Javi.”

He smiled at you and shrugged. “I just read it in a baby book the other day.”

You rolled over and leaned against his chest so you could look down at him. “You read a baby book?”

Javi laughed and started to blush. “I bought a few, actually. Look, I have absolutely no idea what to expect. Some of these books go into…” he cleared his throat and looked horrified, “detail. I had no idea a woman’s body could do so much.”

You laughed even harder and kissed him. “And think, I’ll be pushing out two of them that day.”

His eyes grew wide, almost as if he was reliving a horrific memory. “I’m so sorry I did this to you.”

You curled up against his side and ran your nails over his body. “I’m not. I already love them so much.”

Javi held you tighter and kissed your head. “You’re stronger than I’ll ever be,” he sighed, “there’s no way I’d survive childbirth.”

“You’re going to have to, because if you pass out in that room, I will kick your ass after I push them out,” you said, looking into his eyes with all seriousness.

He grabbed your hand and brought it to his mouth, gently kissing it. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

You settled back against him. “So Marcela for a girl. Any boy names?”

He shook his head. “You’re having a girl.”

“Javi,” you laughed, “I’m having two. We can’t call them both Marcela.”

“Well, I did half the job. You think of another name.”

You glared at him. “I get to spend the next seven months making them.”

“To be fair,” he smiled at you with his adorable, boyish grin, “I contributed to that as well.”

You hated that his grin could get you to agree to almost anything. “I like the names Santiago and Francisco, but I had another idea.”

He cringed at both of those names. “Please tell me your idea is better than those names.”

You lightly slapped his chest. “They aren’t that bad! I also like the name Jaime.” You watched him smile at you again. “Anyway, my other idea was we call him Javier.”

He laughed. “You want to name our son after me?”

“Why not?” You asked, rolling over to look at him again. “It’s a good strong name for a son to grow up and be a perfect example of a man, just like his father.”

You saw tears form in his eyes as he leaned down to kiss you. He let his head lean back against the pillow as he let out a deep breath. “Holy shit,” he laughed, “we’re going to be parents.”

You laughed with him. “Everything is going to change so fast,” you said.

You felt his body tense around you. “We don’t have anything ready. No crib, no nursery. Oh god, the nursery. What colors do we want to paint it? We need car seats. Fuck. We have to buy two of everything.”

You leaned against him and kissed him to calm him down. “Tranquilo, mi amor. Todo va a estar bien.” He looked up at you, and all of the worry in his eyes was gone. “Connie is throwing us a baby shower where we will get a lot of that stuff. You and I will need to go register at places to pick out things we want, but they will take care of it all. And, while we do that, we are also doing our wedding registry.”

He let out a deep breath. “Oh.”

“Besides, we are painting the nursery gray with teal-blue accents.”

You felt him relax under your touch and lean up. He rested his hand on your stomach and smiled. “I want to go with you to your next appointment.”

“I have one next week,” you smiled, resting your hand on his.

He kissed your stomach lightly. “Marcela and Javier.”

“Mi amor,” you said, “we need another girl name, just in case there are two girls in there.”

“Julieta or Mariana,” he said.

“You’re oddly good at this.”

He smiled. “I just know you’re having girls.”

“Are you ready to be a father to two girls? Two mini-me’s running around.”

He looked at you for a minute, almost like he hadn’t considered that. “I’ll be so outnumbered.”

You giggled at him. “They’ll give you these same eyes,” you said, making your trademarked doe-eyed expression he loved to hate, “and you’ll be wrapped around their fingers.”

“Dios ayudame. If we have two girls, you know we aren’t stopping there until I at least get a son.”

You pulled his face to yours again, kissing him deeply. “We’re going to need a bigger house, then.”

“Lo que quieras, mi hermosa.”

His POV

They were sitting at the dinner table over a meal Javi attempted to cook. The further she got into the pregnancy, the more he picked up around the house. It was getting harder for her to carry things, bend over, or even move. For the last several weeks, she waddled everywhere. She hated everything about her appearance, but he loved it. She’d never looked more beautiful to him than when she did her tired waddle up the stairs for bed. Every night, he’d taken the liberty of massaging her swollen feet to help her go to sleep. Sadly, the twins would keep her up for most of the night kicking and moving. “I’m ready to get these kickboxers out of me,” she said.

He set a plate of spaghetti down in front of her and some poor excuses for meatballs. “They’re not as good as yours, but…”

She stopped him and reached for his face for a kiss. “They’re perfect.” She rested the plate on her belly and leaned back in her chair to eat. “So,” she started, “are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

He stared at her for a moment, unsure what to say. On multiple occasions, she had referred to herself as said elephant, and on each of those times Javi had the wrong response. This time, he decided to wait for her to continue. “Cali?” she added.

Javi dropped his head. “I can’t leave the three of you here. God knows how long I’d be gone. I told them no.”

She sighed. “Then take us with you.”

He shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. Did you hit your head so hard you forgot what happened?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Javi, ever since they offered you that job, you’ve been restless. If you want to go, I won’t stop you.”

His heart stopped. “Hermosa,” he paused, trying to find the right words, “I’m restless because I’m about to be a father of two. I would never leave you to go running back to Colombia.”

“Do you want to do this? Answer me honestly.”

He thought about it for a minute. He hated those motherfuckers and everything they stood for. So, the answer was easy. “I want to see the Cali Godfathers rot in a cell.”

“Then take the job.”

“Without you there, I’d be miserable.”

“Then take us with you. You’re running the office. You won’t be doing field work like last time. I saw the pamphlets on the apartments near the Embassy. They’re much nicer than the one we lived in before. Besides, we will be closer to the Embassy. No one is going to touch us. The girls will be young enough that we won’t have to enroll them in school, so I’ll be with them all the time. Besides, we could really use the money.”

“What about our wedding? Most of it is already paid for, and we can’t get those deposits back.”

She took a deep breath. “We will fly back for the wedding. Connie and Steve can step up in their duties for us, but for the most part everything is planned. We haven’t booked a honeymoon yet, so there’s no need to worry about that. We can take a honeymoon after you bring down Cali. Besides, that is eighteen months away. For all you know, we might be back home by then.”

He shook his head at her. “I just don’t want to relive what happened.”

“I know you’re scared, mi vida, but I also know that you want to bring those fuckers down. You and Steve both.”

He sighed. “I don’t know why they didn’t ask him,” he said.

“Javi,” she said, “if things get so bad that you’re afraid for our safety, I will fly back here and stay this time. I promise.”

“No, I will resign. End of story.”

She smiled, but that quickly turned into a look of pain. “Oof,” she said, setting her plate on the table and resting her hand on her back.

“What?” he asked, half panicked, because he already knew.

“Is the overnight bag packed?” she asked.

“It’s sitting by the door.”

She nodded and took several deep breaths. “Good. We need to go.”

“Oh shit,” he said, “okay. Um, do you need me to help you walk?”

She shook her head and stood up. She started rapidly moving to the door, faster than he had seen her move in a long time. He followed behind her, grabbing the overnight bag. 

***

Her parents rode with Chucho to the hospital. They’d been staying in town the last few weeks, waiting for their grandchildren to be born, and Chucho offered his guest room for them. Connie and Steve moved to Laredo when Steve was stationed there after Colombia, and Kate had been staying with them, doing what work she could from here. They were all waiting for them at the hospital by the time Javi and the nurse wheeled her in that direction. Javi stopped when Steve approached him to give him a reassuring hug. “I hope you slept good last night, because that was your last peaceful night,” he said.

Javi laughed. “I’m just glad you moved so close. Connie already offered free babysitting whenever we need it.”

Steve's face instantly changed and he looked off at Y/N being pushed down the hallway. “Free. B-babysitting?”

“It comes with best man duties,” Javi added, slapping his back.

“Javi!” she barked.

“That’s my cue,” he said, running after his hermosa. He caught up to her and grabbed her hand. “You ready?”

She smiled at him and kissed his hand in hers. “With you at my side, of course.”

Ten hours of intense labor, birth, and what he was sure was a broken hand later, he was holding one of his daughters in his arms. He couldn’t stop looking between the little bundle in his arms, the bundle in hers, and her. “They’re perfect,” she whispered.

“You’re perfect,” he said, kissing her softly. “I didn’t think I could be more in love than I am right now.” A few tears ran down her face. “And, you were right.”

She smiled. “I always am, but what about now?”

“They’ve already got me wrapped around their little fingers.” He kissed Marcela on her forehead. “And you’re not dating until you’re in your thirties,” he said to both of his daughters.

Y/N let out a soft laugh and cradled Mariana closer to her. “So,” she said, looking up at Javi. “Cali?”

He gazed down at the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen, wanting to remember this moment for the rest of his life. “Are you sure you want to go all the way back down there for more bullshiiiiii-of what we went through with Escobar?”

“Nice save, mi amor,” she laughed, “and te seguiría hasta los confines de la tierra.”

He sighed. “I’ll let them know in the morning.”

Marcela whimpered and Javi held her closer to him. “Hey, mi hermosita, it’s alright. Daddy’s got you.” He lightly rocked her back and forth until she calmed again.

He then leaned down to kiss Y/N. “You are magnificent,” he said. His heart swelled so much, he thought it would burst. “Te amo más de lo que las palabras pueden describir y amo a nuestras hijas más que a nada.”

“Te amo, el amor de mi vida. Te amo mucho más que a nada.”

“Todo mi mundo está en esta habitación, and I don’t know what I would do if I lost it.”

She smiled at him. “Lucky for you, you’re stuck with us.”

Javi smiled wider than he ever had. He was filled with so much love and happiness, and the fact that she chose him over any man she could have meant everything. He really did love the three of them more than anything, so much that it hurt. This pain, though, was a good pain. He felt like his heart would bust open, overflowing with love. He looked over and saw her asleep with Mariana on her chest. He was so proud of her for being the strong, amazing, beautiful, and perfect woman she was. If he could take a picture of this scene, he would. He wanted to remember this beauty, this perfect image of unconditional love forever. “Mis hermosas,” he whispered as he kissed her head before sitting down in the chair next to her, cradling Marcela against his chest.

Translations

Por siempre y para siempre, hermosa. - Forever and for always, beautiful.

Eres más de lo que podría soñar y todo lo que siempre quiero. - You are more than I could ever dream of and all that I could ever want.

Tranquilo, mi amor. Todo va a estar bien. - Relax, my love. Everything is going to be fine.

Lo que quieras, mi hermosa. - Whatever you want, mi hermosa.

Te seguiría hasta los confines de la tierra. - I would follow you to the ends of the earth.

Te amo más de lo que las palabras pueden describir y amo a nuestras hijas más que a nada. - I love you more than words can describe and I love our daughters more than anything.

Todo mi mundo está en esta habitación. - My whole world is in this room.

Tag List

@magneticbucky​ @larakasser​ @pedropascalownsmyheart​ @wander-lustbabe​ @frietiemeloen​ @wickedfrsgrl​

[christinaroseandrews]

As I was scrolling through the dumpster fire, I came across your review for 'Born to be Bound'. I loved it! It was an absolute delight to read with some of the best burns I've seen in a long while. If I had the funds to purchase books, I now know to not buy that particular one. Thank you for suffering through the incessant, hoity-toity babble to warn the rest of us.

I get by on limited income, books are a luxury I can rarely afford. Fanfiction fills my need to read and consume written stories. And now I can't unsee the asexual erasure in the A/B/O tag on Ao3. I'm moderately pissed off at myself now.

I'm a disgruntled fanfiction writer. I will do what I do best. Say, "I can fix that." Then write it into existence. I'm going to add an asexual Alpha/Omega couple to my current A/B/O fanfic. I'll use a popular ship that is a minor background pairing.

On a related note, how do you keep your sanity alive reading badly written books for a living? Are magical abilities granted to editors? Like, does some higher power descend upon you saying, 'Congrats! You're strong to survive the trials of terrible wording inflicted upon the English language. Take this level up and go forth!' ?

Hi!  I’m glad you messaged me. Nice to meet you!

Awww! I’m blushing from your praise. That was only for chapter 1 and there are 10 chapters in this, so I’ve got a lot more to go through. I’m hopeful it will get better. 

I really understand not being able to buy books. That’s pretty much me all the time. LOL I’m a disabled, chronically ill person who can’t work a regular 9-5 job so I do other stuff to pay the bills. There’s a few ways to be able to read original fiction for free. The first is that a lot of authors will offer books for free as reader magnets. The second is that publishers of all stripes will send out ARCs of books to people with the understanding/hope that they will review the book. This is how I get most of my more recent releases. Finally there is reading from the library. I’ve been utilizing both Overdrive and Hoopla. And fanfiction is a wonderful thing. A precious thing. I am 100% here for fanfic, especially since I still write it myself. LOL

Don’t be pissed off that you missed the lack of ace rep on the tag. Be proud of yourself that when it was pointed out your first thought was “How can i fix this?” Because that speaks volumes about you as a person. And you’re a good doobie. I think it’s awesome that you’re going to add more asexual rep to the ABO tag. We need that. There are not nearly enough characters on the Ace spectrum and it really runs the gambit. I’m a demiromantic/bisexual myself. There needs to be more Ace rep out there. Good on you!

So you want to know how I keep my sanity when reading bad books?

So here’s the thing, most of the books I edit aren’t badly written. They really aren’t. Even those that if they were published in the form I got them in would be called “badly written” have potential. They’re unpolished. They have flaws. They need work. And it’s my job to help the author get their book into the best shape that I can.

Also most books, even Addison Cain’s Born to Be Bound have something good about them. Something. And one person’s yuck is another person’s yum. This book happens to be hitting a lot of my yucks and there’s some structural, logistical, and tonal problems with the book. That being said, I can say that from the one chapter I’ve read I wouldn’t have guessed that the story started its life as a Batman fanfic featuring Bane/Original Female Character. So she filed the serial numbers off well, I guess.

The other thing that keeps me sane is a philosophy I have about editing/life. No effort is wasted if you learn something or help someone else to learn. I wanted to be a teacher before I hit some pretty big obstacles and had to switch gears. And in my heart, I still want to help make the world a better place. And if that means that I help others create beauty, then that’s a good legacy for me.

I also have a good support system and invest in self care. That can be reading a good fic, watching something fun, or even playing a game for a little bit. I also don’t edit constantly. I take breaks. Edit for an hour, take a 20 minute break. This keeps me more focused and allows me to not get dragged down. Plus it works better for my disabilities since that’s a thing.

Additionally, I 1000% agree with the maxim that any problem in a book can be fixed in the editing process. It just takes a lot of work and a lot of suppressing of the author’s ego and the author has to be willing to do that. That last one is the toughest, because these books are their babies. Their children. It’s hard to hear that their child isn’t perfect. And editing can feel like an attack if you aren’t used to it. I do a lot of hand holding. I make sure that they know that just because I’ve found something I need to change that it isn’t a reflection on them. The only time it becomes a reflection on the author is when they have been told something is a problem and they choose to ignore that anyway because it doesn’t fit with their vision. I’m a pretty hard core editor. I tend to give it to my clients straight. And I think my clients know that I honestly and truly want them to succeed. Because I do. Honestly, a well-edited successful book is like a huge piece of advertising for me as an editor. Like straight on. I want my clients to succeed because then I’ll succeed. It’s a very symbiotic relationship.

Now there are books that I’ve edited that are absolutely horrible. Books where I’ve gotten them in the copy edit phase and I’ve wondered why the acquisitions and content editors are letting this subject go to press. But in the end, I have to remember what my job is. When that happens, it’s the self-care route again.

But seriously, most books have something good in them. It’s a question of finding it and drawing it out.

[sargentr]

my fave drarry fics of all time, part one

so, after discovering i’ve officially been reading drarry fanfic for 4 years now, i decided to show my (quite big) list of favorite drarry fics. there are 46 in total, but i’ve listed 10 down below. the first three are my absolute favorites but the rest are equally as good

most of my notes are fresh from when i wrote them post-reading. i’ve changed some, seeming less like a crazy unstable bitch, but fuck these were all emotional as fuck. enjoy

ps: i dont really know how to tag people i dont follow. i cant try and tag the authors later. soz!!

pps: most of these i read when i was really into a bottom!draco phase, so most of them contain that, some are switch tho (as it should be, yikes past me)

1. Everything That Happen is From Now On / ~43K 

After surviving a brutal assault, Draco tries to navigate the tumultuous waters of his mind, and embrace a bit of love and trust in his life. After all, the smallest steps forward can begin to heal the most fractured of souls

okay so before i get in to how beautiful this story is, i wanna say that it does touch on rape quite explicitly. i cried like an idiot reading the entire thing, because draco’s pain is navigated in the most beautiful and realistic way. it touches on a subject very risky for me, very personal, and i still can’t think of a better drarry story. draco’s very draco about it all, and harry is very harry about it all. it’s just perfect, and messy, and tender, and sad. i’ve reread it more than any other fic, and it doesn’t disappoint. 

2. Pocket Full of Starlight / ~46K

When Scorpius Malfoy and Jamie Potter meet at Quidditch camp, they take an instant dislike to each other. Then they discover their lives are more connected than they could possibly imagine.

ah yes. the magic of kid fics. the TASTE

parent trap au. i read this one recently, like 3 months back, and absolutely fell in love with everything about it, partially because the parent trap is legit one of my top 10 favorite movies of all time. its just. the essence, the IDEA, is soooo mf beautiful. i cant get enough of reading when harry or draco finally meet the other twin, or how they cant stop loving each other even after 11 years. my heart clenched throughout the whole thing. 

3. Temptations on the Warfront / ~180K

Draco Malfoy is forced into hiding with the Golden Trio and dragged into their search for horcruxes. What ensues is a journey of redemption, unexpected friendships and an unwanted, turbulent romance with Harry Potter. Warnings for swearing, sexual content, and dark themes. 

this was the first drarry fic ive ever read, and before this mf i HATEDDD this pairing. so you can imagine how much it took to convince me otherwise, bc i was 100% scorbus before this.

to be fair, horcrux hunting with draco involved is, possibly, my favorite trope ever. its unique. theres tension, both sexual and life threatening. in some ways it romanticizes the war, but fuck it it aint a real war. 

slowest of burns. amazing. life changing. long as hell. nothing else to be said except read it right now i demand it.

4. Clouding the Senses / ~58K

As everyone returns to Hogwarts for a final eighth year, some people are coping better with the aftermath of the war than others. After encountering a very drunk Draco Malfoy one night, Harry realises that maybe those that lost loved ones aren’t the only ones trying to escape the war. Blaise Zabini seems to think Harry can help Malfoy, that the Slytherin might actually listen to him. Harry is not so sure. Dependence is a tricky thing, and one addiction can quickly shift to another.

everyone that reads drarry loves 8th year fics, but this ones just kinda different from all those normal (yet entertaining) ones. draco’s an alcoholic in this, and one night harry tries to help him and whoops, one thing leads to the other and they start having casual sex. its really, really amazing how both draco and harry navigate the addiction, i really cant say it has any flaws. 

i know the author got a lot of hate on their fics and thats why they took them down, but they’re truly one of the best drarry authors out there. i’ve reread this a couple of times, and the tenderness, the love and confusion is all very on character. a+

5. Restraint / ~153K

Someone casts the Imperius curse on Draco Malfoy, and whatever the instructions may be, Harry finds himself an unwilling target. The encounter leaves him torn between pleasure and revulsion. As they fight in the aftermath, a tense game begins. Harry fights to convince Malfoy, and himself, that he was not affected by that initial encounter, or any of those following it.

Faced with a series of escalating encounters, Harry must come to terms with desiring things he never thought he could, things he wishes he didn’t respond to. They each use signs of arousal as weapons against each other in a mad struggle to finally shame the other into backing down for good. 

But it’s only after the game is over that Harry starts to understand.

this is by the same author of clouding the senses, and i read this just this week. at first, it’s shocking, because it plays around with consent in a very unsettling way. when communication comes in, and its starts getting healthier, you can really understand where the author found the idea of playing with consent. it is, in my opinion, 100% characteristic of how they would behave post-war, with that grief and confusion. it’s also dom/sub in some parts, and that’s mf hot. 

it also has my favorite tropes in it, but it’s a spoiler to say which one. i’ll probably mention the trope in the list along with a bunch others, but when u finish reading you’ll know which one ;)

6. Humbug / ~30K

Draco has been taking his casual relationship with Harry for granted. Visits from four key ghosts the night before Christmas just might shake up his priorities in life.

(felt like it was valid to just paste what i wrote in my notes app after reading this)

(FUCKKKKKK HOW TO EVEN START?!!!?? just a fucking bonus, draco is THE best bottom o ever exist i love my bottom son so much. this story isnt only amazing it’s excruciatingly painful to read, harry and draco have been sleeping together but harry is completely in love with him. draco doesnt see how much harry cares for him or how much hes hurting harry by treating their fling like its just that, a FLING. with that, draco is haunted by three ghosts. one of the past, the present and the future, AND THEY SET THAT IDIOT STRAIGHTTTT 1800000/10. the gays DO KEEP MF WINNING!!!

7. in your arms, rests my world / ~24K

Harry presses his mouth to Malfoy's forehead; he wants to tell him that he’ll never leave, that he wouldn’t dream of it.

“You make me feel safe, Potter” Malfoy whispers. “You keep me safe.”

the friends with benefits trope doesnt ever disappoint, top 5 tropes fr, especially if its also 8th year. harry and draco get into their little thing, but of course nothing ever is simple between them. by the preview, you can clearly see how much draco likes harry (also another 10/10 trope, the ‘i’ve been in love with harry potter since i was 11′ one). my only tiny issue with this is that harry fucks it up just a tad, but it of course adds up to the drama of it all, which i absolutely love.

noting it also touches on non-con/rape and, and all in all, is extremely angsty. one i was tense from beginning to end. but i am gonna say it ends amazingly and v happily.

8. Playing the Hero / ~29K

Nobody kissed me like Harry did. He kissed like he flew; he kissed like he duelled - with his whole being, not caring about anything else. I had never felt as vulnerable as I did when he kissed me, seizing all and any control I had over myself. But when Harry kissed me, I felt free...

so the thing about angst is that it ignites that mf feeling side u that even tho it hurts you cannot get enough of. this fic was EVERYTHINGGG. it made cry and laugh and smile. also another trope i absolutely adore is them breaking up and not being 100% ok with that, bc ding ding!! YALL STILL LOVE EACH OTHER!! 

i cant describe how i felt, honestly. i would just paste my notes (i wont bc spoilers) but it looks like i went thru sum shit. deadass

9. fine i’ll hold my breath / till i forget it’s complicated  / ~ 15K with the two parts

Harry and Draco become friends with benefits, and Harry thinks it's more complicated than it actually is.

u know, fluff is a drug. i dont know if its beucase 90% of drarry fics are about angsty get-togethers, but i had butterflies in my stomach when i read this. its adorable. draco is so clearly in love, he jusT SMILES A LOT I CANTTT. 

its cute. i love it to death. have some fluff before starting your day.

10. Un Noël très parisien / ~14K

When Draco crossed paths with Auror Potter at a political function in Paris, he was not expecting their former animosity to change into something rather more intriguing. But he could be certain their casual flirtation would not last more than the night, couldn't he?

look. i know i named a lot of my favorite tropes here, but i cant end this without mentioning how much single dad draco affects me. i love scorpius and how much he changes draco in every fic he appears. i love parent draco and i shant be silent about it (especially when scorpius is legit just a year old in this. i died)

as it states, harry and draco have a one night stand but draco thinks thats it, that it was all he was ever gonna have. he’s wrong of course, and the path it takes, with both scorpius and harry there, just melted my mf heart.

well kids that’s all i have for now. imma work on a part two with 10 other fics i really love!1

[andiandyandee]

We Are Going to Be Friends Pt. 1

Woo! A prequel! Kind of.  (Title is a White Stripes Song. All the titles are gonna be Punk songs. Deal with it) This takes place while Logan, Roman, and Remus are in high school! It’s the story of how they met up until they get together. I’m not sure how long it’s going to be yet.  Words:  1133 

Tag List: @princemesscharming @datfearlessfangirl @cas-is-a-hunter (i haven’t tagged you in the last few but you did ask to be tagged in the original. Let me know if you want to stay on the tag list, I don’t mind either way.) @illogicalthinking  Let me know if you want tagged!

The Series on Ao3  | Last Words Pt. 1 & Pt. 2  |  Run From What’s Comfortable  | The Kids Will be Alright, Eventually. 

Okay here’s the Fic.

    Logan was 14 when Roman and Remus Sanders appeared in his life. He was a freshman in high school, unnaturally tall and trying his best to be intimidating in his brother’s hand-me-down leather jacket and worn-out boots.

    “This is ridiculous, Larry.” Logan was pouting a bit, trying to keep his hair from his face. It hadn’t been cut since the middle of the last school year and was hanging messily around his chin. His brother laughed at him, tossing an arm across his brother’s shoulders.

    “First of all, You can call me L, Lo. Literally the only ones who actually call me Larry are Mom and Dad. And Dot, but she’s cute, so it’s okay.” L winked at Logan, shoving the younger teenager a bit towards the freshman hallway. “You’re going to be fine, kid. You know where your homeroom is?” Logan nodded. “Perfect! I’ll see you at lunch, okay?” Logan didn’t get a chance to agree before his brother disappeared into the crowd, lifting up who Logan assumed was Dot. He sighed and turned into the hallway, trying to find his locker. He was sure it was supposed to be here, he had found it during orientation, but there was a small crowd of sophomores laughing and pushing each other in front of where he thought it was. He steeled his nerves and cleared his throat.

    “Excuse me, I believe you’re blocking my locker.” The crowd, who Logan realized consisted of not only sophomores but juniors and seniors too based on the letterman jackets they were wearing, looked at him, all of them with a bit of amusement in their eyes. Now that they had turned, Logan could see his locker, directly behind two of them who were either twins or brothers who looked incredibly similar. Logan pointed at them. “You two, the locker behind you is mine. I need into it.”

    “Is that so?” The one with the green t-shirt on asked with a smirk. “Ro, I think we’re blocking tall, dark, and angry’s locker!” The one in red, Ro, pretended to look surprised.

    “Oh, my goodness, Re! We wouldn’t want to block Specs here from dropping off his trapper keeper!” Ro put a hand to his chest dramatically. “How would he ever survive!” Re laughed a little. Logan rolled his eyes and took a step into the crowd. These were obviously a combination of Jocks and theater kids, some with both patches on their jackets. Logan figured it was probably a dumb idea to piss them off this early into the school year, but he really couldn’t care less about it. He came into the school with a reputation as a trouble maker from middle school, and had been warned by the disciplinary officer that his attitude would not be tolerated here. With his shaggy hair and new growth spurt putting him at just over six feet tall, he didn’t expect this year to go much better. He was strong, actively working out four days a week with his brother, but his growth spurt left him looking lanky and thin. He placed one hand on each of the brother’s shoulders, easily pushing them away from his locker. They looked surprised. “Damn, pocket protector. You’re stronger than you look.” Ro said, sounding slightly impressed. Logan ignored them, opening the locker and tossing his notebooks and folders into the top shelf, hanging his jacket up on the hook, leaving him in just his Eddie & The Hotrods hoodie and plain white t-shirt. He slammed the door and stepped through the crowd that was staring at him with identical looks of confusion. He stomped past them and into his homeroom without giving them another thought.

    That was, until fifth period, where Re and Ro were sitting in two desks at the front of the room, loudly arguing about something that Logan didn’t care enough to listen to. He sat down in one of the two remaining chairs in the front row, right next to the far wall. He pulled out a notebook and tapped his pen against the desk, waiting for the teacher to come in. The two jocks didn’t seem to notice him, engrossed in their argument. When the teacher came in she glanced at the class and hummed.

    “Remus? Would you mind moving to the other side of your brother? I assured Simon they could have the seat closest to the door.” She asked, smiling at the green twin who nodded and stood up, turning towards the other open seat. The seat just next to Logan.

    “Oh! Specs! Aren’t you a freshman? Why are you in this class?” Remus sat down, his grin almost unsettlingly wide.

    “Oh, I uh-” The teacher answered for him.

    “Logan is one of the six freshmen who started taking high school classes in their last year of middle school. Part of the Highest Honors Diploma Program.” Logan nodded in agreement, glad to not have to talk more than absolutely necessary.

    “Nice! Maybe you’ll be able to help me figure out what the hell anything in this class means then.” The teacher raised her eyebrows at that.

    “First of all, watch your language. Second of all, you passed last year’s class with no problems, why would you expect this class to be a problem?”

    “I stole a copy of the syllabus,” Remus admitted. “I hate Shakespeare, and we have almost an entire semester about the old nutcase.” Ro squawked indignantly at that.

    “Shakespeare was a genius! You’re literally an ACTOR, how can you not like him?”

    “Wait, how did you get a copy of the syllabus I JUST printed them-”

    “Sorry, bro, Shakespeare is an overrated plagiarist who was too lazy to learn real words so he made a bunch up to make himself sound cooler.” Remus shrugged. “Anyway, Logan, was it? You look like you’re a competent tutor, so what do you say? Will you teach me about the King of the Shadows?” Logan glanced over at the teacher, who still looked completely flabbergasted.

    “I… suppose so, if it becomes necessary, yes.” Logan agreed, albeit hesitantly. “It does seem that your.. brother is quite knowledgeable in the subject, however. Would you not prefer to have him help you?” Roman nodded earnestly.

    “I am very knowledgeable!” Remus snorted.

    “Roman gets distracted by passing dust motes. He would make a horrendous teacher.” Roman made a vague noise of offense but did not argue with his brother’s statement.

    “Speaking of teachers,” The English teacher said with fond exasperation, “Can this one actually start the class, or are we all going to have to listen to you three for the rest of the hour?” All three of them blushed and turned to the front of the classroom. The teacher, who’s name was apparently Mrs. White, began explaining the syllabus to them.

-

Pls reblog, like and reply. I crave human interaction.

[thewriterwhowrites]

So, being a Harry Potter fan, I read Harry Potter fanfiction. But Ron Weasley being my favourite Harry Potter character, if not, my all time favourite, I look for Ron centric fics. So, every time I get the chance, I go to Archive of our Own and check out the Ron-centric tag.

Now to me, the Ron-centric tag is a safe place where the Ron Weasley fans can go without needing to worry about seeing any kind of bashing and character assassination of our lovable redhead.

That was until yesterday morning when I saw this:

That’s right, a Harry Potter fanfiction that was tagged with both ‘Ron centric’ and ‘Ron bashing’. Now, at first I was confused and I asked myself, “Why is there Ron bashing in the Ron centric tag list? Ron centric means good things, doesn’t it?”

I then wanted to see what this was about. Which was a stupid idea because I only read a few paragraphs and I was shaking with rage. I have seen a lot of Ron bashing in the two years I’ve been in this fandom, but never in those two years have I ever seen the oxymoron paradox that is this work of absolute rubbish!

I didn’t read the whole thing, but I did skim it because, at first, I wanted to put a comment on this fic to counter-argue everything that this person had written. Now, I have read a lot of books, and even more fanfiction, in my 18 years of life. I am a diehard Ron Weasley fan and he has been my favourite since I watched movie one. Yes, movie one. I hadn’t even read the books yet and he was already my favourite character. But then I read the books and I loved him even more.

I could tell, just by skimming this fic, that the writer didn’t like Ron. And that’s fine. There are more people in this fandom who hate him than like him and I’m used to it. I have seen so much Ron bashing that it makes me sick to my stomach. I have seen fanfics that are tagged with Ron bashing and fanfics that aren’t. However, I have never, in all of my time in this fandom, seen a fanfic that has been tagged with both ‘Ron Bashing’ and ‘Ron-centric.’

I wanted to explain to this writer that “you can’t have both tags for the one fanfiction because it’s misleading.” Ron fans are already having a really hard time in this God forsaken fandom to find fics that respect Ron and stay true to his character. That is why the Ron-centric tag was invented. So we could stay away from Ron bashing fics because we have just had enough of the needless hate this character gets. The Ron-centric tag was a safe space and this person violated that space.

The first few paragraphs already give us a Ron that doesn’t exist outside of fanon. The canon Ron was fit, so he wouldn’t have gained the pudginess this person claimed he’d have. And just because he was a teenage boy who was growing continuously into a six ft adult back in Hogwarts and was eating a lot - or so the movies depicted as that’s where this writer seemed to be getting their inspiration from - doesn’t mean he’d still be eating that same amount when he’s thirty and has stopped growing by that point.

I know height. I know growing pains. I know you eat more when you’re having a growth spurt. I used to eat a lot and now I don’t because I am no longer a young teenager who needs food to grow. Also, I may not be as pudgy as I was back when I was younger, but I still am because of my solid build. Ron, however, has constantly been described, in the book, as lean and lanky. I doubt he’d let his body go that much. Especially before he was even thirty. Also, this writer even mentioning his weight at all was pretty pointless.

I got the vibe that Ron thinks Hermione is having an affair. And from what I read, his suspicions were justified. But then this writer depicted it as Ron just being a “jealous, possessive jerk who doesn’t trust Hermione” and then goes ahead and sends Ron to a strip club in Knockturn Alley!

I don’t care what this person writes, I really don’t because I have seen tripe as bad as this and worse. But it’s easy to ignore if it doesn’t violate my safe space. However, this fic violated my safe space big time and it made me so mad I felt sick, my whole body was shaking with rage, and I couldn’t focus on anything else. Nothing in my whole entire life has ever made me this mad.

I thought I should warn you, fellow Ron fans, in case you go to the ‘Ron-centric’ tag one day and see this here. Don’t read it. It is probably the most potent of Ron Weasley bashing I will probably ever see. And to add insult to injury, it’s a Dr*rry fic with Dr*co M*lfoy, of all people, being treated like a victim, and Harry and Hermione standing up to “Big Bully Ron” who is apparently being antagonistic towards “Poor wittle Dwaco” who deserves nothing but contempt for how he treated Harry, and Harry’s BEST friends, for seven freaking years!

Some of you Ron Weasley defenders may be able to articulate better what I am trying too but can’t. Especially @vivithefolle, who has probably been my greatest inspiration for standing up for a character who has done nothing wrong.

Seeing Ron bashing, and other character bashing, makes me wonder how these people, who bash for no reason, treat people in real life. I mean, Ron is your ever day guy who just wants to survive another day in school, hang out with his friends, play sports, and not have to worry about bullies who hurt his and his friends’ feelings while also insulting his family in the same breath.

Thank you for coming to my first, but hopefully not last, Ted Talk.

And Ron fans, stay safe out there, it is still quite brutal in this fandom.

- Dani

[elareine]

Reasons to be jealous

Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, one swear word Relationships: Tim Drake/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Damian Wayne (side) Additional Tags: Pining, Misunderstandings, Jealousy, Undercover as a Couple, Future Fic, 5+1 Things, Brotherly Bonding, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff Batfam Bingo Square: 5+1 AO3: /18872404

One

“Well, that’s one arsonist behind bars.” Dick closed his laptop with a sigh of deep satisfaction. “Good job, Timmy.”

“Warm in here today,” he remarked absently, still focused on his own screen but knowing that Dick liked a bit of chatter once the tension of a case lessened.

“Oh, yeah, Jay and I were talking about it recently and it just reminded me of how much I like coming home to a warm room.”

Tim actually turned his attention to Dick. Dick and Jason… they talked, sure. The years had even smoothed most of the stiltedness out of it. He would go so far as to call them family.

But they weren’t friends. Tim couldn’t imagine them talking about room temperatures.

“You were?”

Dick laughed. “Weird topic of conversation, right? But you know how boring stake-outs go.”

Tim nodded in a heartfelt manner.

“It’s just a childhood thing. Circus trailers aren’t exactly known for great insulation. And Jay….”, Dick hesitated. Close to two decades later and still none of them liked to think about that child trying to survive on Gotham’s streets.  “Well, he knows cold, too. I thought it would be nice to have it warm if he stops by, is all.”

That was the second time Dick had called Jason ‘Jay’. Tim had thought he was the only one of their family who called Jason that. The only one who regularly saw Jason, too. Apparently not.

He ignored the twinge in his gut and asked, “So you’re getting along better now?”

The smile on Dick’s face was small but genuine. “Yeah.”

“Hey, did you set something on fire? Usually I’m close to freezing in here. See, this is why I bring the food,” Jason joked as he dropped the containers with said food on the kitchen counter.

Tim’s neck felt hot as he moved to take out some plates. “I thought it might be… nice. To be warm.”

It wasn’t a good excuse, he knew that.

Jason’s gaze sharpened. “Nice.”

Tim shrugged as casually as possible.

He thought Jason might ask again - give that man a hint something was up and he would follow it to its bitter end - but the other man finally relaxed into a smile. “Well, it is. Nice.”

When they moved to the couch for their weekly session of greasy food and terrible TV, Jason took his jacket off. Again Tim felt that unease in his gut. He had assumed that Jason kept the jacket on as form of a safety blanket, to hide his guns or even just out of a sense of style. But no, he’d just been freezing because Tim never really noticed the temperature of a room he was in and tended to keep it on the chilly side.

Some detective he was. He’d been doing this - this thing with Jason for years now, being partners, brothers, friends even, but he hadn’t seen something so simple about him. But Dick had.

A knee nudged against his. When he looked up Jason’s eyes were concerned.

“You alright, babybird?”

The nickname, as always, made Tim want to smile, but he just said: “Tired, sorry.”

Two

It was one thing to know that Dick and Jason were getting along better now; another entirely to watch it.

Patrol with just the four of them was always tense. It didn’t happen often. Babs had made plenty of comments about all-men groups being ‘way too testosterone guided’ and Tim absolutely conceded her point. But she was busy and Steph and Cass were away, as was Bruce. The announcement of an upcoming Arkham breakout hadn’t left them with much choice but for the four of them to work together.

Still, Tim had expected it to be tense because Dick and Jason were sniping at each other and Damian at everyone, not because Jason and Dick were goofing around and it was weird.

Dick was laughing and slinging an arm around Jason’s shoulder innocently. Tim knew that move intimately - any moment now Dick’s hand would move under Jason’s right arm and flip him over bodily. He’d done it to Tim and Damian about a thousand times.

Dick’s hand moved and pulled.

Nothing happened.

Jason was grinning under his helmet, Tim was sure. “Bit heavier than you remembered, Nightwing?”

Dick pouted.

Before he could reply, however, he was interrupted by a sharp voice. “Are you done being a distraction?”

Damian was being even more pissy than usual. He’d donned his Batman cowl in Bruce’s absence, but it couldn’t hide the perpetual scowl on his face this night. Tim didn’t need to guess what had caused it. The brat (which was what Damian always would be to him, a head taller than him or not) had always been possessive over Dick, and didn’t Tim know it.

Still, for once, Tim actually agreed with him. They were very distracting.

Luckily, the first inmate chose that moment to break through security forces, and soon they were all too busy for any more flirting.

“Why are you here and not in the shower?” Dick waved a hand in the direction Jason had disappeared to.

“I need to write a mission report,” Tim protested.

“We can do that, right, little D?” Dick smiled at Damian, who grumbled but acquiesced. “Go ahead and have an early night, dude. You look beat.”

“Uh. Thanks.”

Tim made his way to the unofficial changing room they sometimes used after missions, where Jason was just coming out of the shower, a towel around his hips.

He smiled when he saw Tim. “You’re done?”

“Looks like it.”

“Wanna go for some pancakes?”

“Sure.”

With a quiet sigh of relief, Tim peeled out of the tight suit, grimacing mentally at the sweat that made his skin stick to the material. Jason moved next to him to get dressed.

Tim didn’t realise how quiet he’d been until Jason’s hand reached out to poke his newly uncovered cheek. “Something on your mind, babybird?”

“It’s weird,” he admitted, “seeing Dick and you get along.”

Jason laughed. “I bet. Don’t worry, it probably won’t last.”

“What brought the truce on, anyway?”

“Nothing special. Guess we just decided to, to quote a certain Tim Drake, ‘grow up and talk’. Though alcohol was involved. Obviously.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. Jason wasn’t looking at him and his tone of voice was relaxed, light, even.

He was lying. 

Three

“If he’s coming to Wayne functions now, we might as well make Jason officially a part of the family again.”

“Bruce doesn’t know how to ask and he thinks Jason will say no.”

“He might not.” But Tim was aware that Dick’s attention wasn’t really on their quiet conversation.

Dick was loosening his tie. Tim, curse his brain, couldn’t help but notice the way his throat was flushed, how he swallowed like his mouth was dry.

See, this was the kind of situation where Tim mentally cursed every bit of detective training he’d ever had. He’d really rather not know that his brother was becoming aroused in the middle of a very public ballroom, thank you very much.

Tim followed Dick’s gaze to where Jason and Damian were talking to a group of socialites, the two of them towering over everyone else. Without any conscious input from his brain, his own eyes strayed to where the suit jacket stretched just so over Jason’s broad shoulders, to where the coat flared, perfectly accentuating his waist, down to his thighs just barely contained by the slim suit pants…

Dick’s voice recalled him to the present. “Well, you would know better than anyone else.”

Apparently not, Tim thought. Apparently I don’t know anything about him. If he didn’t even tell me about you…

It was hard to speak around the bitterness in throat. “I know that if he keeps throwing Damian to the wolves like that, he won’t live long enough to answer Bruce.”

Dick laughed. “Aww, you know Damian only means his death threats 30% of the time these days. Still, I’ll go rescue him. Coming?”

Tim waved him off, knowing all three of the official Wayne brothers together would draw a crowd. Worse, it would draw Cass. As much as he loved his sister, he didn’t want her to see the ugly feeling clawing through him.

For a minute, he just watched Dick move through the crowd, a kind word here, a flirtatious smile there, always working his audience. The golden boy. Tim had thought he was over that old jealousy - over fighting for the cowl, for Bruce’s love, for a place in their family, always compared to the first Robin - but now it looked like Jason would be just one more thing he’d lose to Dick and he couldn’t stand it.

There was a familiar presence sidling up to him. For such a big man, Jason could be quite stealthy.

Tim took a deep breath, composing himself. He couldn’t afford to act weird around Jason. Again.

“Hey,” he smiled at him, “Alfred got you into a suit?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to wearing something this expensive.” Jason rolled his shoulders back, stretching the shirt even further. Tim had to look away. “You make it look so natural.”

“I’m always terrified of spilling something.” Tim suppressed a shudder, remembering his mother’s less than understanding attitude when he’d ruined one of his outfits as a child. Alfred, of course, would never do more than cluck disapprovingly, but…

“Well, then you’d better put that glass away and dance with me.” There was a roguish grin on Jason’s face as he offered Tim a hand.

Tim, however, didn’t even really have time to consider that offer before Jason just went and took his hand anyway, his other setting down Tim’s glass on a nearby surface before pulling the younger man to the dance floor.

“Jason,” Tim protested, laughter threatening to break through as Jason pulled him into his arms and began leading him into a quickstep.

“C’mon, the longer we dance, the longer we don’t need to talk to anyone else.” Jason grinned down at him. “Mrs. Quickshaw was already making her way over.”

Now Tim did giggle. “In that case, feel free to whisk me away anytime.”

He thought he saw Dick watching them from the corner of his eyes, but Jason chose that moment to twirl him around and he forgot all about it, breathless with laughter.

Four

“Grayson and Todd.”

Tim looked up from his screen at the cave to the masked crusader sitting next to him. “What about them?” Last time he’d checked, the two were out and about on their usual routes. Jason had even texted him about a particularly funny incident involving two sex workers and a fourteen-year-old wannabe client four minutes ago. Surely even he hadn’t managed to get into trouble in the meantime?

What was he thinking, this was Gotham.

Damian made an impatient gesture. His expression implied that Tim should know exactly what he was talking about, but he deigned to say: “They are closer.”

Oh.

“Yes.” Tim did his best to sound disinterested. There was no way he would bare this wound to Damian.

Damian was frowning up a storm now. “I’ve seen Grayson experience romantic and sexual attraction to someone he believes is out of his reach before. He’s exhibiting all the signs now.”

Tim considered that. In a way, Damian certainly knew Dick better than Tim. (That still smarted a bit, by the way.) The brat had certainly become better about people’s emotions through the years. If Damian said that Dick was in love with Jason, Tim believed him.

For a second, he considered the possibility that it was one-sided with something like joy. Then he squashed it ruthlessly.

It was Dick. How could Jason resist him? Why would he want to? Everyone loved Dick. It didn’t matter that Tim had invested years of his life into supporting Jason through the most difficult times of their lives, into building a relationship that was founded on trust instead of violence. He had never kidded himself that it made Jason obligated or even likely to love him.

It didn’t matter, because who wouldn’t want Dick?

Dick might be pining now, but soon, he would get what he wanted. He always did, in these things.

Tim just hoped for Jason’s sake that Dick wouldn’t get tired of him once he had him.

Shoving the thought away, he said tiredly, “Maybe it is for now.”

There was a loud crack as Damian set down his cup with enough force to split porcelain. “You’re not helpful, Drake,” he spat, jumping up and exiting the cave in his usual dramatic fashion.

Tim watched him leave and wondered why this felt like giving up.

Five

“Oh, I see you have booked our honeymoon suite. May I offer my felicitations?”

Jason smiled and pulled his partner closer into him. “Thank you.”

“Our suite offers everything you need to make it the experience of a lifetime. The rooms include a kitchenette, a secluded balcony with a sea view as well as a whirlpool. I’ll have an attendant bring you a bottle of champagne,” the clerk smiled, “on the house.”

Dick beamed. “Oh, thank you, that’s very kind of you!” He turned to kiss Jason on the cheek. “See, babe, I told you this hotel is the best.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Grayson. Now, our restaurant serves dinner between six and ten, though I’m happy to give you recommendations if you choose to dine elsewhere. Room service is available by calling…”

“Will she never stop talking,” a voice in Tim’s feed cut her off.

Tim frowned. “You’re supposed to be working, Robin.”

He could practically hear Damian’s eyeroll. “Not much to do as a valet, you imbecile. I’m assigned to take their luggage up,” that was going according to plan, then, Tim thought, how nice to know, thank you, Damian, “but they are too busy flirting to actually do something.”

“That is what they’re supposed to be doing,” Tim reminded him.

“Tch.” Damian’s feed cut off.

Jason and Dick were finally wrapping things up at the reception desk. Tim watched through the security cameras as they turned towards the elevators, their eyes seemingly never leaving each other.

These days, Jason was the logical choice as a partner on these missions if they wanted to keep it in the family. Mostly because people didn’t know he was family, so they could use their actual names to get into luxury hotels and the like. O was busy and Bruce on another planet, so it made sense that Tim was running the backup side of things. Sure, Dick had been a bit quick to volunteer to be Jason’s partner on this one, leaving Damian to infiltrate the labor side of things, but Damian was still a bit stiff in undercover situations like this one. The entire set-up was entirely logical.

Still, as Jason’s hand dropped down to squeeze a generous handful of Dick’s ass, Tim started to see Damian’s point.

The honeymooners made their way up to their room. Separating as soon as the door closed behind Damian, they silently began to case the room.

Tim let them work for it for a minute, then spoke into the mic. “There are no outgoing signals apart from my camera from your room.”

Jason looked up into said camera and smiled. “Thanks. How are things on your end?”

“Uneventful.”

Dick asked, “Where’s Damian?”

“Making his way through the rooms. He’ll hand your note over to the mark in about five minutes.”  

“Better get undressed then,” Dick said, winking at Jason. “Gotta give her a show, right?”

“You actually want her and Damian to walk in on us?” Jason sighed dramatically. “Tim, you’ll rescue me if Damian tries to kill me, right?”

“I don’t know,” Tim replied drily around the bile in his throat, “if you make me watch you two have sex, I might help him hide the bodies.”

“Ouch.” Jason pressed a hand to his heart. “I’m wounded.”

Dick rolled his eyes and pulled his shirt over his eyes. “Just get undressed.”

“Since you’re asking so nicely, darling.”

“Just for you, honey.”

Tim decided to turn his attention to Damian’s feed, instead.

And one

To say the aftermath of the mission was tense was to make an understatement. They had drawn out the mob contact they’d needed and locked away an entire branch of a drug-smuggling cartel, but Jason and Dick had barely made it back to the cave before Damian had appeared to whisk a confused Dick away, throwing acidic looks at Jason all the way.

Jason, weirdly, didn’t seem to take that to heart at all. Instead, he was grinning at Tim. “Got the brat all upset, huh?”

Tim didn’t know what to say. That Damian had good reason to be upset? That both of them couldn’t stand this new relationship that had been on display so obviously during this mission? ‘He’ll come around’, knowing fully well it would be a lie?

Abruptly, Tim stood up from his chair. Then he didn’t know what to do next. His instincts were screaming at him to get of here, to get away from Jason until he had himself under control again, but he couldn’t just storm past him, could he? Then Jason would definitely know something was wrong.

And this was what he had wanted all these years, right? For Jason to be a part of their family again. To be happy.

(For Jason to happy with Tim.

But he should’ve known better. Who could compete with Dick Grayson, after all?)

“I’m happy for you and Dick.” Tim could say it, but he couldn’t make himself look at Jason as he did.

“Tim.” Jason’s voice was soft.

Tim’s eyes stayed stubbornly on the ground even as he heard Jason move closer to him.

Then there was a large hand cupping his left jawbone, gently tilting his head up.

“Oh, babybird, I’m-“ there was just the slightest brush of Jason’s lips against his own. Then Jason’s mouth moved up, pressing gentle kisses to his cheekbones, the arch of his brow, his forehead.

Tim had to close his eyes against the sudden burn in them, and Jason kissed his eyelid, too.

“I’m sorry,” Jason told him earnestly. “I didn’t realise the acting would affect you. I didn’t think you-“

“Well, I do. Love you, I mean.” Tim stopped himself. “Wait, that is what we’re talking about, right?”

“I was hoping.” Jason kissed him again. This time, it lasted a lot longer, just their lips gently moving against each other, Jason’s hands on his neck, Tim’s hands on Jason’s shoulders.

When he finally moved just fractions of a centimetre away, Jason said, “I do, too.”

Tim wanted to believe, to just let himself give in to Jason, drown in his affection, but he had to open his eyes, had to ask. “But… you and Dick…”

To his surprise, Jason chuckled. “When would that even happen? I’m pretty sure I spend every waking hour of the day either with you or texting you or talking to you on the coms, Tim. I was probably texting you during the stake-out when Dick and I were talking about the ideal room temperature that you were so weird about.” He paused. “We were talking about the ideal room temperature, babybird. How does that scream romantic relationship to you?”

Tim was full-on blushing now, he was sure. “You’re very comfortable with each other. And you did do way more touching than necessary on the mission.”

“Okay, number one - we’ve been in this business long enough to know to never go undercover as a couple with someone you actually have feelings for. They will be exposed and it will be a mess and someone will probably be watching. Number two - I just enjoyed annoying the shit out of Damian.”

Tim actually pulled back a bit to look at Jason. “Wait, that was intentional?”

“On my side at least.”

Some of the interactions Tim had had with Damian fit that, he just hadn’t thought it was reciprocated - oh. Dick’s flush at the ball. Oh. “So Dick is-“

“I knew Dick was fucked the moment Damian turned out to be that tall.”

Tim groaned in exasperation. “How did I miss that?”

“To be fair, I didn’t really know before I mentioned to Dick that I’m, you know, with you and he proceeded to have a slow meltdown about Damian in front of me. There was alcohol and crying involved. Wasn’t pretty, believe me.”

“That’s what broke the ice?”

“Yeah. Pretty difficult to get annoyed at someone after you’ve seen them sobbing with guilt about being attracted to the demon brat.”

With an exhale, all the tension Tim had been carrying for weeks now left his body and he slumped forward into Jason’s embrace, hiding his face in his neck.

“Can we please stop talking about our brothers now?” Jason asked plaintively even as his hands started rubbing soothing circles on Tim’s back. “Because I’m kind of stuck on the part where you said you loved me and let me kiss you, here.”

The smile that rose on Tim’s face was slow to unfold but so very, very happy. “You’re right. You should kiss me again.”

Jason did.

Tim had no occasion to think about Dick Grayson again that evening.