#they probably ripped her dress or something dumb

[thedarknesssings]

The Faebies: Roc, Strix and Harpy.

[cressidagrey]

Lightning in a Bottle - Prologue

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was actually pretty much useless. The only thing she wanted was to be somebody's first choice for once in her life.

Also known as: Azriel's shadows decide that if he doesn't treat his mate right... they'll just do it for him.

Warnings: 

Kinda Elain Bashing?, Low Self Esteem, Mention of Cauldron induced torture...

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

As far as cauldron-made went…Eira Archeron was pretty much useless. 

She had neither the power of Death nor of Divinity. 

She was neither the prettiest one, that title belonged to Elain…nor the smartest one, which was undoubtedly Nesta. Or the strongest one like Feyre…And if she had tried to hunt like Feyre, it would have been more likely that she would have accidentally killed herself instead of bringing home any meat. 

As a human, she had been limited to cooking and cleaning and laundry, all of it with limited supplies and even more limited experience. She had tried. It had never been enough. 

So maybe it shouldn’t have surprised her that her uselessness continued on even when she was no longer human.

So if she wasn’t beautiful or strong or smart…what was she then? 

The dumb one? 

When the cauldron had burned every bit of humanity out of her…when it had ripped away all her hopes and dreams…when it had been so angry with Nesta after whatever she had done to it that Eira was just…Eira was just an afterthought, something it could hurt in response to her sisters and then leave gasping on that stone floor feeling like she was dying…

She had done her best to accept her lack of humanity afterwards. Nesta had raged…Elain had said nothing, suffering silently in the bed…and Eira…Eira had tried. 

Tried to make it better…tried to make it easier for everybody around her. She had tried. 

She hadn’t wanted to put even more on Feyre’s shoulders, not with the threat of impending war…and so she had done her best to be supportive and make no trouble…be agreeable and quiet and be helpful…

But she couldn’t be helpful. 

She was nothing but a useless appendage. With no powers, no great destiny stretched in front of her…

Not even a limb. Not even a fucking pinky finger. 

More like a skin tag. 

Completely useless. If cut off, it wouldn’t even bother anybody. 

They had made that clear to her over time. 

They had made clear what they thought about her, again and again, and now…now she finally realised it. She was a slow learner…but by the gods, she did learn. 

It started…slow in a sense. Comments, made offhandedly, that probably weren’t meant that way anyway…sometimes said to her face…sometimes overheard. 

“Stop your screeching, girl, I am getting a headache.” Amren. After she had finally…after months felt like singing again as she fixed the hem on one of her sister’s dresses. She had stopped singing then.

Amren had never brought it up again. But then Amren had never been particularly nice to any of them.      

“Don’t come crying to me if she bites off your head. I warned you.” Rhysand had told her drily when she insisted on visiting Nesta at the House of Wind every week after all of that had gone down… 

“Don’t you have anything better to do? Like make another ugly dress?” Seethingly said by Nesta…pitted against the one thing she liked to pretend she was good at…the one thing she could do and make money with…

It cut. Of course, it did. But it wasn’t even the worst thing thrown at her head by Nesta…so why was it the one thing that stayed in her mind? 

“We don’t need Eira. Quite frankly, it’s better if she doesn’t go. Elain is the prettier one, anyway.” Cassian…overheard by Eira before the rest of them had gone off to Hewn City. Eira left behind because…well the contrast of Elain badly dressed was enough, no need for Eira to…be what? A distraction?  

And it was true too. Elain was the prettier twin sister. 

Eira was just…common as muck as her mother had liked to remind her…Nesta was the smart one, the one who would marry a prince…Elain would marry for love and beauty…and Eira…well, she would make a good farmer’s wife as far as her mother was concerned.

Not pretty enough to garner a richer man’s attention…not smart enough to drag herself up the echelons of society on her own…To easily content as far as her mother was concerned. 

“As far as cauldron-made goes, she is pretty much useless.” Morrigan. Said in jest. Eira was quite sure of that…still, it had hurt. Because it was true. She was useless. 

No magic sparking at her fingertips…Using her magic was like pulling teeth…painful and a long process…And it never did what she wanted anyway. 

“Eira, find somewhere else to be. I really have more important things to do,” Feyre had said with a sigh…after she had brought her sister cookies and tea…after she had only tried to get Feyre to take a break from her work. 

Eira hadn’t tried that again either. 

And then the one that clinched it: 

“At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!”

Said by Elain…by her twin sister. She was frozen in place, staring at Elain wide-eyed as her sister sneered at her. 

 That was the last drop into an already overflowing bucket. 

Stress. Right? Just stress from wedding planning. Elain would have never said that usually. 

She wouldn’t have…

It was just…it was just stress…Just stress. 

Elain didn’t mean it like that. 

Right?

Elain flounced off…her wedding binder in tow…leaving Eira alone, sitting there, in the dining room, her chest aching. 

Eira was in a trance as she carefully put all the plates into one tidy stack…as she was thankful that it had just been her and Elain, every other person in their family busy with their mates or something else…Feyre and Rhysand gone with Baby Nyx for the evening…Nesta and Cassian off at the House of Wind…who knew what Mor and Amren were up to…

Or even Azriel. 

A sob threatened to take over, as she thought that name. 

She walked up the stairs…to her room…Her room. She locked the door with shaky hands. 

“At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!”

She collapsed on her bed, burying her face into her pillow and let the tears stream. 

Ridiculous puppy crush. 

All of that said because she had tried to talk to Elain about her choice of flowers for her wedding. Because lilies wouldn’t be in season when she married Lucien in Day Court in less than 2 months. 

And then Elain responded with that, because Eira clearly wanted to ruin her wedding with that factoid. 

“At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!”

The worst part of it was that it was the simple truth. 

Azriel was never going to pay her a second glance. 

He had always been more interested in Elain than Eira…he had on more than one occasion asked Eira questions about her twin sister…had made sure that Elain was comfortable and cared for…and Eira had sufficed as a source of information and nothing else. 

And after Elain and Lucien had become serious…well, Eira ceased to be interesting too. He hadn’t sought her out again. 

If she sat next to him at dinner, he was polite and quiet, bordering on silent. And then she tried to fill the silence and probably only annoyed him in the process. 

He didn’t want her. He never would. 

She starved down the sobs that wracked her body. 

It was probably high time that she accepted that, right?

High time to get over herself. 

High time that she reminded herself that…that she was never going to have him and that staring at him in ill-hidden affection only made everybody else make fun of her and probably made him deeply uncomfortable. 

So maybe it was better that she just…

At least he had never called her useless, she supposed. It could be worse…even when he never would want her. 

She felt the touch on her hand first…soft like velvet…like kitten fur…never warm, never cold. massive and somehow not… definitely not human. 

The shadows. His shadows. 

Sometimes they came to keep her company. At the start, she had thought that maybe he had sent them but nowadays she was quite sure that they had just liked her quiet singing while embroidery one afternoon. So quiet that nobody would hear.  It had taken her months to coax them out of their corners after that. They probably had just taken pity on her. 

Just like they did now. 

“Please don’t,” she choked out. She never wanted him to find out how she was feeling about him…never wanted to feel the pain of him outright turning her down. 

 And if his shadows came to check on her, they would report back in what they saw…and they didn’t need…didn’t need to worry about it. 

They never talked to her. Just sometimes they came and listened to her softly talk to them while she was sewing in the evening, about this and that...

It wasn’t right how she talked to you, the shadows whispered. 

They didn’t talk to her. Never. 

And now they did. 

Hell, even his shadows were feeling sorry for her, weren’t they? 

“Please don’t tell him,” she begged. 

He should know, they disagreed softly. Everybody should know. She should apologise to you. 

And what would that give her? Nothing. More embarrassment because everybody else got to hear all about her fledgling little feelings? Feelings she should bury deep and never examine again? 

“Please,” she begged again and the shadows seemingly surrendered, curling themselves up against her hands so that she could touch them. 

Don’t cry, they soothed her softly. Don’t give her that. 

Elain hadn’t said anything that was untrue. That was the worst part. It was true. And that hurt. 

Is there anything we could do? the shadows asked Eira softly. Anything at all to make this better? 

“No,” she whispered, choking out the words, another sob. Not anymore. There was nothing anybody could do. 

It hurt. It hurt so badly.  Just like the cauldron had.  Then she had wished she would die. 

Now…now she wondered the same once again. Maybe then it would stop feeling like this. 

She cried her eyes out, as the tears kept pouring over her cheeks…as she sobbed until her throat was raw and everything hurt. And finally, she just laid there…the shadows still swirling worriedly around her prone form. 

“Don’t you need to work?” she asked the shadows listlessly, tears tracking over her cheeks. “Don’t you have something more important to do than to try and comfort me?” 

Maybe take care of him?

You are important, the shadows snapped. 

Eira could argue that point. She was useless. So what did it matter? It didn’t. 

She wiped away the tears, but new ones just came pouring over her face and she stopped trying, let them run down her face and wondered how long she could stay in her room and never come out again. 

Would you like something to eat? the shadows tried again. So sweet. Trying to give her something, anything to comfort her. 

“No, thank you,” she whispered. Alone the thought made her want to throw up. 

She didn’t want to eat. 

She didn’t want to get up and talk to anybody. She didn’t want to even look at another person anymore. 

She didn’t…

What would you like then? The shadows tried softly. Would you like to plot revenge? they suggested. 

It was so stupid that she choked out a laugh. 

“For what? Elain saying what everybody else is thinking?” Eira asked, her heart painfully restricting. 

Nobody here actually wanted her around. If she disappeared forever she would do them a favour. Him especially. 

Elain had only said what everybody else was thinking. 

All three of her sisters had found their mates, just not Eira. All three of her sisters had some kind of power…just not her. All three of them had found some kind of place for themselves…and then there was her, living with her youngest sister, half seamstress, half nanny for her child, an unwanted appendage that was taken care of out of some feeling of duty and no other reason.

Elain had just voiced what she was thinking. The truth. 

It had been the truth. Plain and simple. And Eira maybe didn’t like to hear it but it didn’t…it didn’t matter. 

It was the truth. 

Elain had two men willing to marry her and spend the rest of their lives with her…and nobody wanted to spend any time with Eira. A husband wasn’t even something that had ever seemed to be a possibility. 

Even if everybody else is thinking, that doesn’t make it right. The shadows disagreed quietly. Your sister said that to hurt you and not for any other reason. 

“She’s stressed out with wedding planning,” Eira whispered. 

It had just been that. Probably. Maybe. 

That doesn’t make it right, the shadows disagreed again, twirling tighter around her wrist. We could ruin her wedding. Lilies and all, they suggested brightly. 

She shook her head. No. Elain should have the wedding she dreamed of. Eira wasn’t going to ruin it for her. 

“Don’t do that,” she said weakly.

We could at least steal her wedding binder, they told her mulishly, and Eira wondered if they disagreed like that with Azriel too.

Azriel…

What did it say about her that she fell head over heels in love with the first man who treated her with polite indifference? That she was so desperate to be loved that that was all it took? 

Did it matter? 

No. 

Elaine was right. He would never spare her a second glance. He was just as unreachable as any other male.

Nothing was enticing about Eira.  Neither her body, nor her mind, nor her magical power. What could she possibly offerany male? 

All the nightmares she had on a near-daily basis? All the fear and anxiety that swirling around her gut every day? 

She could sew on any buttons he lost along the way, she supposed. That was something.

The knife that plunged into her womb and twisted, took her by surprise. 

It shouldn’t have.  

Of course. 6 months had passed once again. 

“Don’t tell him this either,” she begged in a whimper. This was too embarrassing. He didn’t need to know about her cycle. 

Nobody did. She was the most modest out of all her sisters. The one with the most human ideas of what was considered to be decent, left…the only one who…

The only one left with her maidenhead intact, because everybody else was mated or married or very much in love and it had never mattered in Prythian anyway. 

Just Eira was left. 

Without a mate. Without a husband. 

Without ever having even been kissed. Nearly 26 and that…hadn’t happened for her. 

It probably would never happen anyway. 

Why today of all days? 

Why did her cycle need to torture her today?  How did she deserve this? Why not in a week…Though at least now she had a reason not to leave her bed for a few days.  

She could just stay here. 

Mope in her own Misery and self-pity…wallow in the pain that she knew would come…

Of course, it would. She had always had a horrible time during her cycle even as a human…as a Fae, it had become her very own personal torture. 

Maybe a bath would make you feel better, the shadows suggested softly as she already curled herself together in pain. 

She needed to get up and sort herself out before it got even worse…made sure that she wouldn’t get blood all over the sheets, but she couldn’t…She didn’t want to. 

And a bath…A stab of pure fear.  

“It’s like the cauldron,” Eira whimpered. Just like the cauldron. 

She didn’t bathe…she used buckets of water…even years later…still standing water was not something she could stand. Not without being reminded of her humanity being ripped away and traded for whatever this existence was. 

What if we make sure that it isn’t? the shadows asked her softly. It will be nothing like the cauldron, we promise. 

A bath…a hot bath that would help against the soreness of her muscles…that would maybe ease the cramps…

It did sound nice. So nice. 

So Eira just weakly nodded. 

That seemed to be all the agreement the shadows needed as they whisked her to the bathing chamber, in the blink of an eye.

She watched as they flitted about the room, turning on the water, dotting candles around the room, making it brightly lit with faelight and candlelight both. 

Lots of foam and bubbles appeared in the bathtub as well as numerous concoctions being poured into the water. 

She slowly toed off her shoes and opened the laces of her dress. Eira hesitated and the shadows disappeared, letting her undress in privacy…letting her walk to the bathtub and test the temperature…stare at it for a moment. 

It couldn’t look less like the cauldron if it tried. 

She waited for a stab of fear but nothing came. 

So she slid into it, let the warm water envelope her, the perfect temperature… A few tendrils of shadows came to keep her company, touching her chin so that she tipped her head back and they started to wash her hair for her. 

Eira couldn’t even remember the last time anybody had done that for her. 

And they did that…without even asking…just…just for her. 

“Thank you,” Eira whispered, not daring to close her eyes, but staring at the ceiling. “Are you sure you don’t have anything more important to do?” she asked weakly. “Isn’t your master going to be angry at you?” She didn’t want them to get into any trouble, just because they…they were taking care of her. 

You don’t want Master to find out, so he won’t, they said easily. Would you like some pain potions? 

If they gave them to her, she wouldn’t need to walk downstairs and maybe face her sister or gods forbid, Rhysand…and ask them for Madja. 

Nobody would need to know. She could have her privacy and her dignity left intact. 

“Yes, please,“ she breathed in relief as the shadows poured something or other over her head. One shadow brought her a vial, wrapping around her wrist as she uncorked and downed it. 

A bitter taste but it left her blissedly numb and tired nearly immediately.

“What’s that?” She mumbled as they hushed her, massaging her head.

It tasted differently than whatever Madja usually gave her…telling her that pain and discomfort were normal and that her potions would ease it…It was like pouring a bucket of water over an inferno. 

While this…this was quenching everything. Leaving her numb. 

Just a rather strong pain potion, the shadows promised her. You’ll sleep for a bit…We’ll talk more then.

Sleep… Sleep sounded nice…

She didn’t even think about feeling self-conscious when they pulled her from the water, rinsed her off and wrapped her in warm, fluffy towels. 

They laid out her favourite nightgown so she only needed to pull it on and pull back the sheets of her bed so she could slide beneath it. 

Even a hot water bottle was waiting for her…

Everything so that she would be as comfortable as possible… everything for her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, tears pricking in her eyes as she climbed between her blankets, the shadows fluffing her pillow and pulling the blankets as high as they went. 

It was weird…to have the shadows doting on her, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. Eira was too selfish to protest this bit of attention…the only positive attention she had in years. 

They promised not to tell, so she wouldn’t either. Not when this was the sweetest thing anybody had ever done for her. 

She fell asleep between one breath and the next, safely and warmly ensconced in her bed. Deep dreamless sleep…When she woke, it must have been the middle of the night…and still, the shadows were there immediately. 

She whimpered at the cramps that were ransacking her body…and the growling of her stomach in hunger. 

She hated these cycles. Hated how weak they left her and how she wanted nothing more than to cease to exist. 

Are you hungry? You’ll need to eat before you can take another pain potion, the shadows told her worriedly. Not a lot, just a little bit, they promised. 

“I don’t want to go down into the kitchen,” she answered weakly, biting her lip. Not that she thought that she could safely traverse the staircase anyway. 

Eira just wanted to stay here…alone. Maybe with the shadows for company, as long as they wanted her…

We’ll get you something. What would you like? They assured her immediately. 

Everything in her body ached for something human, even when she knew that their food would taste like ash for her. She always wanted human things. The things she would never have again.  

“Maybe some soup?” Eira asked finally. “If that’s not too much trouble?” 

Of course not. 

They fluffed her pillows and helped her sit up…and then soup appeared…a bowl filled with clear broth with bits of vegetables and chunks of chicken and noodles…cooked to perfection…better than anything she could have ever produced and by the gods, she had tried…All of it, arranged on a tray, with two slices of perfect crusty bread and another pain potion. 

She took that first, and it made her pleasantly numb and tired…and so she weakly spooned as much soup as she could in her mouth afterwards… mopping up the last of her soup with the bread. 

She finished as much as she could before she was too tired and the shadows tucked her back into bed, curled up on her side…so they could fuss with her hair which was a mess as always. 

She felt like a child being fawned over and she couldn’t help but relax into it…let them do with her whatever they wished if they just kept being so…nice to her. 

Feeling better? they asked softly and she hummed. 

If you could be anything…do anything... what would it be? The shadows wondered quietly. The movements of them were lulling her to some space of safety and warmth and Eira considered the question. 

If she could have anything in the world…what would she want?

A heady question. 

“When I was…young,” she said softly… “I wanted a dashing knight to come rescue me, and whisk me away from that horrible cottage,” she said weakly. “That’s what I wanted since I was old enough to want anything.”

A stupid children’s dream. 

But sadly there were no knights in Prythian and even if there were any, they wouldn’t pick Eira. 

And now? The shadows pushed. 

“Somebody that loves me,”  she admitted quietly. “A husband…children.”

All of that…she wanted all of that. 

And she was never going to have it. 

We could find you a husband, the shadows finally said quietly. If that makes you happy…we could help you.

“Who could possibly want me?” Eira asked, her voice breaking. Who would want her? The answer was easy: Nobody. 

Only because Master is an idiot, doesn’t mean every male is, they told her tartly. 

She wanted to laugh but it ended in a sob. 

“He isn’t an idiot,” Eira disagreed. “He just knows that…I am not good enough for him.”

Not pretty enough, not smart enough…not enough period.

That’s ridiculous, the shadows hissed. 

It wasn’t. 

“He’s in love with my prettier twin sister,” Eira snapped. “I shouldn’t want him anyway. Why should I want to be his second or even third choice?  Maybe for once, I want to be somebody’s first choice! Maybe for once, I want to be treated like I matter! That my feelings matter…that I matter!” It burst out of her. The tears burned in her eyes at that admission. At…how unfair it was. 

What had she done to deserve this? What had she done? 

Eira immediately regretted that outburst though. “I am so sorry,” she blurted out.

They didn’t deserve to be pulled into her feeling unfairly treated. She should stop complaining. It wasn’t going to…

For what? the shadows snorted. You are absolutely right. You deserve to be somebody’s first choice. You deserve to be treated like you matter. 

She didn’t. 

Maybe you should go shopping, the shadows suggested with a sigh. The suggestion was so sudden that she stared at the tendril of shadow still wrapped around her wrist. 

“Why?” she asked with a sigh. 

The Morrigan does that if she feels bad. The shadows told her earnestly. Then she buys shoes and feels better. 

Ah. 

She highly doubted that shoes were going to solve any of her problems. A pretty pair of shoes wasn’t going to make anybody fall in love with her. Or want her. 

“What am I supposed to buy?” She asked quietly. “Just shoes?”

Stuff. The shadows answered easily. Whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy, they assured her. All your sisters have more stuff than you. You make them dresses and other things. But you never make yourself anything, the shadows said quietly. Nobody would say anything if you wanted things that are yours. 

Right. She had never bothered with that. Not after she had lost all her things together with her humanity…there had been some piles of necessities sent to them by Rhysand…and that had been that. 

She had never bothered to get more than that. She still wore those dresses of the very first weeks… and while she had made dresses for all three of her sisters…as human out of necessity, as Fae out of habit…she hadn’t made herself any in years.

Not since becoming Fae. Her new body felt…she hadn’t wanted to look at her new body for long enough to figure out how something should fit onto it. How it had changed….

These godforsaken ears were enough. 

Buy things for yourself. Like a new dress! Or earrings! Diamonds! The shadows suggested. Whatever you find pretty. 

“My ears aren’t pierced,” she said quietly, a yawn taking over her face. 

That brought them up short.

Master bought you pearl earrings, the shadows said suddenly, sounding perplexed. 

He had. Beautiful. Impersonal. Unwearable for her…a far cry from all the little trinkets he had given to Elain…

Still, for months she had stared at them and found them oh so beautiful…safely kept in their box in her drawer at her vanity table. 

Maybe that alone should have told her everything she needed to know about the state of Azriel’s affection for her. 

Namely it was non-existent when the spymaster of the night court didn’t even bother to check if she even wore earrings. 

And the earrings…well…they were only…one thing. Her room at the River Estate that she had been supposed to furnish to her liking…that was another. 

In the end, it had consisted out of her getting a set of the same bedroom furniture as every other guest room and her walls were painted cream like in every other room Feyre hadn’t gotten to yet. It was still as impersonal as it had been when she had moved in. 

She knew that Elain had stuff to litter her bookcases with…gifts from Azriel or Feyre or Lucien, her mate…even Eira had gifted her sister things. 

But all Eira had…were the dresses she had on commission laid out on her desk. Which she would need to return to the shop where she worked as a seamstress at soon enough once she was finished with her alteration on them…and well, that was it. 

No books, because her reading was absolutely atrocious…no little trinkets from any of her sisters…no paintings or art or anything really. 

Just…her sewing and embroidery supplies and that was that…and even these weren’t…held in one of these pretty little wooden sewing boxes on legs that would keep them tidily kept away…

Do you need money? The shadows asked her seriously. 

“What?” Eira asked weakly.

She made some money with her job. Not a lot…but some. All of it carefully stashed away to buy birthday or solstice gifts from…or little trinkets she saw in a shop and thought one of her sisters would like…that Nyx would like. 

Do you need money? They repeated patiently. To buy stuff? For yourself? 

“No, I have money. And I don’t want to owe anybody anything,” she answered quietly, her eyes slowly closing.

 She didn’t want to end like Nesta… were in the end, her habits were used to bludgeon her with…she didn’t…

You wouldn’t. The shadows assured her. We have our own line of credit. 

What? 

“How does that work? Do you have your own bank account?” she asked curiously, and she could nearly feel their amusement. 

We like playing the lottery. Everything we win, we put into Master’s Bank Account, they explained to her earnestly. He never uses it anyway. We could just put our winnings in yours instead. Master wouldn’t care.

It was so ridiculous that she couldn’t help but giggle. 

“Really?” she still asked weakly. 

Really! they assured her seriously. Enough for you to have a shopping spree! We like shiny things, they told her, making her laugh. Master never buys any. We’ll pick up some mail-order catalogues for you and then you can spend tomorrow ordering some things. Maybe some curtains to spruce things up a little. It’s awfully empty in here. 

Still, she couldn’t help but ask. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

Nobody should be treated like you are, they told her fiercely. Nobody should feel like they have no place anywhere.

[star-whores-a-new-hoe]

The Comfort of Strangers //Padawan! Obi-Wan X Fem! Reader

A/N: Well...Hi! I haven't written in two years! I'll post a little update soon but I was INCREDIBLY horny inspired after seeing the Phantom Menace in theaters! Hope you enjoy this lil smutty Padawn Obi fic!

Summary: You and all of Queen Amidala's handmaidens are stuck on Tatooine waiting for Qui Gon to get the hyperdrive parts you need. With all the stress and anxiety of escaping Naboo, the good-looking Palawan stuck on the ship with you looks like a good distraction.

Warnings VERY IMPORTANT: I know Padme and her handmaidens are pretty young, but for the purposes of this story READER IS OVER 18!!!!! That being said, this fic contains, smut, kinda a hookup, using sex with a stranger as comfort, risk of being caught, P in V action, unprotected sex, pull-out method, handy, some finger-banging action, dirty talk, some implied Qui Gon x Reader x Obi-Wan action for a minute there oop, and probably some spelling and grammar mistakes!

Word Count: 2.8 K

With the whirlwind of events that was the invasion of Naboo, one would think that boredom would bring some welcome relief. They would be sorely mistaken. 

The rush of adrenaline that had flooded your veins as you and the other handmaidens frantically dressed sabé, hands, and hearts a flurry, before chasing you up the ramp of the starfighter with gunfire at your back had finally subsided. Now, with the monotonous heat of Tatooine creeping into the ship, there was nothing but dull numbness left. 

Padme had left over a day ago to experience this strange outer-rim world you all had landed on. That left the rest of you with nothing to do but worry. Senator Vancil regularly sent updates urging Queen Amidala to contact him. Each of his messages was more dire than the last. News of your people in camps, starving, dying, surrounded by those damned battle droids, those disgusting Numoidions watching gleefully from the high walls of the Theed palace. 

You could practically feel all of the handmaidens' hearts sink in tandem with each new update. That young Jedi, Obi-Wan, simply reminded the Queen, (or who he figured to be the queen) to send no reply. Had he no empathy?! Obviously, none of you were dumb enough to risk the safety of your mission, the safety of your people, in transmitting any kind of message but could he not for a moment let down his Jedi knight persona and give you all some grace?

Jedi learner actually, I suppose. You thought to yourself. Curled up in an out-of-the-way nook, the hood of your orange handmaiden dress hung limply down your back. Normally you were grateful for the thick velvet robes in space, but even with the ship's cooling systems still online it seemed that they were no match for Tatooine. The oppressive heat sat thickly in the stale air, leaving everyone on board anxious and irritable. 

You couldn't lie to yourself. Between your fear and anxiety, the sight of that young padawan was a welcome distraction. You were positive you weren't the only one who thought so, you had definitely caught your fellow handmaiden's eyes flick over him from under their hoods. There was just something about him. Maybe it was the cocky banter he had shared with his master, even in the flurry of battle, or maybe it was the way the collar of his Jedi robes opened just enough for you to want to see more. Or perhaps it was the way you could imagine tugging on that padawan braid as- 

“Oh, apologies, I didn't realize there was anyone back here.”

You start, ripped from your thoughts by the man himself. He stood, palm braced against the doorway to your little hideaway. He’d discarded his Jedi cloak, leaving him the tan robes. 

“Sorry,” You say sheepishly. “Just…taking a breather.” Truth be told, in a ship this size there wasn't much space for ‘breathers.’ There's a beat of awkward silence before he clears his throat. 

“I assumed you would be with your queen and fellow Handmaidens in the royal quarters.” You resist the urge to scoff. Little did he know your queen was off in the deserts of Tatooine. 

“I think we’re all just processing that last message from the senator. I just needed a moment to myself I guess.” He gives you a tight-lipped smile.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” He turns to walk away and you scramble for anything to keep the conversation going. 

“What’s it like being a Jedi?” You cringe at the question. He looks back over his shoulder at you. 

“Well, Padawan.” He corrects, sheepishly.

“Right, yes. What’s it like to be a Padawan?” He turned to face you full-on, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorway. 

“It’s a life of service and peace.” He says simply. “I am devoted to the service of the Republic and the force.” You hum in response. 

“What’s it like being a handmaiden?” He asks, a teasing edge in his voice. From this angle, with you still curled up on the floor, he towers over you, looking down at you with a seductive smirk that makes your stomach do cartwheels. 

“It’s a life of service and peace.” You repeat. “I am devoted to my queen, my people, and my planet.” 

“My, my, sounds like we have quite a few similarities.” You crack a weak smile. 

“Why not take a seat?” You offer, motioning towards the cramped bit of floor in front of you. “I highly doubt you have anything better to do.” He raises an eyebrow at you before obliging. “You must live in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, right?” You ask as he squeezes into the cramped space, his knees knocking against yours. 

“Indeed, Coruscant has been my home for as long as I can remember.” 

“I've always wanted to see Coruscant. My family went when I was very small but I don’t remember it. I always meant to visit. I just never thought it would be under such…dire circumstances.” There's another beat of silence. 

“How are you and the others fairing?” You pause, debating your response. None of you had discussed it with each other. Your grief was so profound, deep, and shared in the way only sisters know. There had been no need to speak of it. But perhaps voicing it would help. 

“I think this is going to be the hardest part. At least I, we, were all doing something by escaping the planet, almost getting shot down. But this, just waiting… maker it’s eating me alive.” He nodded solemnly. 

“I understand.” 

“Do you?” It’s not meant to be a cruel question, but definitely a pointed one. “I thought Jedi didn't do emotions?” 

“Jedi don’t do attachments. We are encouraged to feel emotions, they bring us closer to the force, closer to all the living things around us.” Maker, you wanted him closer. 

A part of you hated yourself for wanting distraction, for seeing the first person in front of you, and wanting to find that special kind of escape and comfort. But a bigger part of you craved the young man in front of you, the release from this monotonous boredom and anxiety. 

“And what about…entanglements?” You purposefully tap your knee against his, letting a sultry gaze flood your eyes. He straightened slightly, his quizzical gaze raking you over. 

“Is that really what you want?” His question wasn't accusative or disgusted but genuinely curious, soft, and gentle. The seductive fire in your eyes dies down slightly. Your eyes flick down to the floor.

“Is that so bad?” It comes out barely louder than a whisper. A gentle hand lifts your chin till your gaze meets baby blue eyes, nearly the same shade as the lightsaber you watched him wield earlier. Oh how his hands had moved with such skill and grace, you couldn't help but imagine how those calloused, practiced hands would feel running over your body. Obi-wan smiled. 

“If that's what you feel, then it’s not bad at all.” Abruptly he pulled back, the sensation of him leaving your bubble had you feeling cold even in the burning ship. “Yes, Jedi are allowed to have entanglements.” 

“Oh.” you flash him a sly grin, confidence slowly seeping into you. “Good to know.” 

“Indeed.” His eyes bore into yours, the tension between the two of you was electric.

“Well if you ask me,” You say, placing a hand on his knee. “We have quite some time to kill before your Master gets back with the parts we need, don’t you think?” Obi-Wan’s hand came up to play with the hem of your skirt. 

“I’d be inclined to agree.” 

“Why don't we kill some time then? Hmm?” Obi-Wan’s face lights up in a devilish smirk as his hands glide up to your waist.

“Doesn't sound like a bad idea to me.” 

You lean forward, a soft smile on your lips that matches his before the young Jedi captures your mouth with his. It’s not the quick frantic touches one would expect of a hidden tryst. It’s soft and comforting like you both know you need the solace of another, the soothing touches of a lover not the hard and fast pace of a quick fuck. 

You sigh against him, melting into his touch. Your hands slide over the expanse of his broad chest up to rest on his shoulders. One of Obi-Wan’s hands slides up over your spine, sending shivers through your body before he tenderly cradles your neck. His tongue teases the seal of your lips and you gladly let him in, pulling yourself closer to him as his tongue explores your mouth. 

Pulling you fully into his lap, you can feel the bulge in his pants press against you. Simply the thought of it makes you wet. You grind your hips against him testingly and he hums his encouragement. One of Obi-Wan’s hands moves to your knee. Ever so delicately he slides his hand upwards over your thigh, the hem of your dress pulled ever upwards with his movements. His hand resting on the bare skin of your upper thigh, he gently moves you to grind against him again. 

As you rut against him, Obi-Wan’s lips leave yours to place open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down the expanse of your neck, and over the limited bit of collarbone exposed by your dress. You expose your neck to him with a sigh, letting your head fall back into the reassuring weight of his hand cradling your head. 

This was it. What you so desperately needed. The reassuring touches of another that sent electric currents through your body. The safety of being held in someone's arms. Here, in this little nook with Obi-Wan, even if it was for just a moment, was paradise. 

Your hands sneak their way between the two of your bodies. Reaching for his hand that gripped the pillowy flesh of your thigh, you guide him to rest it on your breast. Taking the queue, Obi-Wan gives your tit a gentle squeeze, smoothing his thumb in little circles over the fabric right where he knows your nipple is. 

You practically whine at the sensation, grinding against him even harder. Your hand comes to rest on his crotch. 

“Help me take these off?” Your voice comes out much more sultry than you expected. He flashes you a smile that makes your heartache. 

“Why of course.” Together, you work him out of his trousers so that his erection stands tall and proud, a tiny bit of pre cum already beading at his tip. Your mouth waters at the sight. Without another thought, you spit in your hand before reaching down to grasp the base of him. He sighs at the contact and without missing a beat you begin to slowly move your hand over the length of him. 

“Is that alright?” You ask, his hands slowly wandering over your thighs, ever closer to where you crave him. 

“A-a little harder if you don't mind darling.” A part of you swoons at the pet name, and a bigger part of you smirks at making such a fine, confident man stutter. 

You oblige, squeezing a bit tighter as you work his length and Obi-Wan throws his head back in bliss. 

“Oh yes, just like that.” Seeing an opportunity in front of you, you lean forward to kiss his exposed neck, his padawan braid tickling your nose. A small blush creeps up his neck and over his cheeks as you continue to pleasure him with your hand. 

Obi-Wan’s wandering hands finally reach under the skirts of your dress, his fingers dragging along the center of you, feeling the wetness that undoubtedly stains your undergarments. 

“Oh my, all this for me?” He teases.

“Just shut up and touch me please.” You groan. Obi-wan places a sweet peak to your cheek.

“How could I say no to someone as lovely as you?” If you weren't flushed before that comment certainly did it. His hands push aside your drenched undergarment, letting two of his fingers leave teasing touches across you, never once letting them brush your aching clit. 

“If I’d known you'd be such a tease I would have approached that master of yours.” You tease. Obi-Wan scoffs. 

“I’m not a tease, you’re just impatient.” He replies slightly breathlessly. “Besides,” He adds finally drawing little circles in your clit. He leans in close to whisper in your ear. “You must be very naive to think Qui Gon Jinn wouldn't be a merciless fuck.” 

For a brief moment, the thought of both of them pleasuring you enters your mind. The older Jedi taking you from behind while he instructs his learner on how to fuck your throat. You’re pulled from your thoughts by Obi-Wan capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, rougher than the last, full of need and lust. 

“Obi-Wan,” You pant breathlessly, pulling away from his kiss. “Fuck me.” He groans, taking his cock in his hand to line it up against your entrance. You shimmy forward, knees on either side of him before sinking down. 

You both sigh in unison, inch after glorious inch fills you up, stretching you out perfectly. He’s barely inside of you before you start moving, grasping his shoulder to help lift yourself on and off his cock. He grasps your waist, helping you move as you work yourself open on him. 

the two of you build up a steady rhythm, it’s all you can do to bite your lip and keep from your moans of delight escaping the room. Obi-Wan hits a certain spot inside of you that sends a sudden gasp from your lips. His hand quickly reaches up to cover your mouth.

“Careful now, wouldn't want the other handmaidens hearing, would we?” You whine quietly in agreement. He smirks. “Think you can handle yourself without me keeping you quiet?” You nod eagerly. “That's what we like to hear.” He practically coos, his hand leaving your mouth to work at your clit, heightening your pleasure tenfold.  

Every stroke of his cock inside of you leaves you a bigger mess than the last. You grind against him desperately, hungry for every touch, every current of pleasure he sends through your body, every sensation that takes you further and further from the predicament you’re currently stuck in. Everything was building up, threatening to spill over at any second. 

“M-make, I won't last muc-ch longer.” Obi-Wan sighs. His movements on your clit are frantic, his thrusts sloppy like that of a man on the edge. “Please, need you to cum for me.” He practically begs. He slots his head between your neck and shoulder, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. “Need to feel you come around my cock.” 

He hits the perfect spot inside you as he whispers his filthy words in your ear, sending you right over the edge. Wave after wave of pleasure courses through your body, your cunt squeezing him like a vice, his ministrations on your clit never ceasing. 

“Oh yes, just like that.” He works you through your orgasm, not even ceasing as you slump against him. It’s only when you push his hand away from your overstimulated pussy that he ceases. Reluctantly, you move yourself off of his cock, taking him in your hand and watching with immense satisfaction as he falls apart, spilling his seed over your thighs. 

You both sigh, sweat beading both your brows and the air between you hot and heavy with a mixture of your previous actions and the stale Tatooine air. 

Swallowing dryly you break the silence. “Thank you.” 

“Sincerely my lady, the pleasure was all mine.” He nods to the evidence of such on your thighs which raises a chuckle from you. You produce a handkerchief from a tucked-away pocket and start cleaning his cum from your thighs. 

A content quite settles over the two of you as you tidy up, helping each other straighten your clothing. As you tuck Obi-Wan’s padawan braid behind his ear, the high-pitched beep of a comlink interprets the tender moment. 

“Obi-Wan, are you there?” His Master’s voice sounds through the device on Obi-Wan’s belt. He gives your hand a slight squeeze as he picks up the com with the other. 

“Yes Master, any luck acquiring the part for the hyperdrive?” 

“I'm afraid the situation has grown more...complicated.” Obi-Wan sighs. 

“Why do I sense that we’ve picked up yet another pathetic life form?” Obi-Wan casts you an apologetic glance as his master continues. Tucking your hair back into your hood, you give him a small smile and nod for him to go. With a soft smile of his own in return, he turns toward to cockpit, the comlink in his hand updating him on the situation. 

With a sigh, you turn and walk back toward the quarters where you know the others will be. The dull ache of the tragic events around you was still present, but somewhat subdued thankfully. Who knew you could find so much comfort in strangers? 

Taglist:@rentskenobi @mysteryofkokoro @highpriestessrebek @sarapixieelliott08 @princessxkenobi @dexthtoyounglings @book-hoardingdragon​ @cosmic-rich​ @laserbrains @hugmekenobi @penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories @profkenobi

[theemporium]

in need of wolfstar smut ideas?? say less!!

wolfstar x reader where wolfstar gets hit on by two girls who are older than reader and reader waits for them to say something to the girls but they kind of like seeing reader get all riled up and when she leaves to go dance they smirk at each other before they see her take off her jacket and walk onto the dance floor where like all the guys start flirting/dancing with her and they make eye contact with each other and JEALOUS BATHROOM SEX SCENE! okay sorry🤭🤭

i found this in my docs from last night? so apparently i came back from a night out and wrote it and don't remember it? anyways lowkey shit but i am too lazy to fix it😭thank you for requesting!🖤

.

It was stupid. 

You had no reason to be insecure about your relationship, and you weren’t. Not in the slightest. You knew that your boys wanted you. You knew you were the one they loved. You knew at the end of the night, you would be the one that would go home with them.

But the girls all over them didn’t seem to know that.

It wasn’t an unusual sight to see girls flanking all over your boyfriends and you honestly couldn’t blame them. They were both absolutely gorgeous in their own rights. Remus with his sandy brown hair, broad shoulders and thick arms. Sirius with his pretty face, charming smile and irresistible charm. 

Your boyfriends were fucking models and everyone in this stupid club agreed, especially the girls that had been giggling and laughing with them for the last five minutes at the bar. 

Now, you weren’t dumb. You knew exactly what game your boys were playing at because they had endlessly teased you on how cute you looked when you were jealous. The way your nose would scrunch up and your eyes narrowed into a glare. The way you looked downright murderous but it was probably one of the hottest looks they had ever seen on you. 

Because they liked getting you jealous, because they liked seeing you possessive and territorial of them. Because your boyfriends were sneaky bastards who liked to find ways of riling you up so your attention was fully on them. 

But tonight? You didn’t want to let them win tonight even if every cell in your body wanted to storm over to the bar, nuzzle yourself between your boys and make it really fucking clear to everyone in this club that they belonged to you.

No. You were going to give them a taste of their own medicine. 

You could feel their eyes on you the second you stood up from your seat at the booth, their watchful gazes intense and familiar. You tried to bite back your smirk as you shrugged off the light jacket you brought with you, dumping it in the booth before you made your way towards the dance floor whilst staying in their line of sight.

The boys had complimented you endlessly on your dress before you had left the flat. The way the colour contrasted against your skin, the way it clung onto your body just the way they fucking adored. And they loved how confident you were in it, the way you felt gorgeous in it. 

However, what they didn’t enjoy was the way everyone’s eyes were on you the second you started dancing to whatever song that was thumping through the speakers. 

Your arms were in the air, your eyes were closed and the smile on your face was pure fucking mischeif as you danced to the song, knowing full well that both of your boyfriends were watching you—knowing that the girls around them were the last thing on their minds at that moment. 

Remus and Sirius were already on edge the second they saw you walked onto the dance floor, but it was a man—a stranger—putting his hands on you that made them move. You barely felt the touch on your waist when they were ripped away from you, the familiar scent of Sirius’ cologne overwhelming your senses as he dragged you against his chest. 

“Sirius–”

“Quiet,” the boy grunted in your ear, a look shared over your head with Remus before they were both flanking you—guarding you—away from the dance floor and towards the bathroom. 

You didn’t even get a chance to open your mouth before you found yourself in the bathrooms, the door locked and your body pressed against the cool ceramic sinks as the light flickered above you. 

“What were you playing at, love?” Remus murmured, his eyebrows furrowed together as he stood in front of you, cupping your face in his hands. 

“Doin’ what you were doin’,” you grumbled with an adorable pout on your lips. “Did you even tell those girls you had a girlfriend?” 

“Doesn’t mean you go shaking that pretty arse of yours like it doesn’t belong to us,” Sirius sniped, his body warm against your side as he moved your hair to the side, head ducking down to press kisses against your shoulder as he moved the strap of your dress out of the way.

“Then they shouldn’t touch what’s mine,” you snapped back, your eyes falling shut as you felt Sirius’ teeth scrape against your sweet spot, but Remus squeezed your cheeks to grab your attention again.

“You’re ours, baby,” he murmured, his lips close enough that if you just shifted your head up a little you could kiss him, but it was impossible to do with the hold he had on you. “And we’re yours.” 

“Are you?” you asked, your eyes narrowed in defiance as you felt Sirius’ hand creeping up your skirt as he pressed lazy kisses against your skin. “Maybe that man out there will actually—”

“Be careful how you finish that sentence,” Remus growled, his eyes darkening as he watched you closely. 

“Think our girl needs a reminder,” Sirius chimed in, his hand squeezing your upper thigh as the fabric of your dress bunched against his wrist. 

Their hands were all over you, touching you and overwhelming you and manhandling you in a way you shouldn’t like but you really fucking did. The way Remus’ kept one hand on your throat, the other with his fingers threaded through your hair to keep your eyes on him. The way Sirius all but ripped the flimsy material of your panties off you, his hand tucked between your thighs as his fingers worked magic you never quite understood. 

You were theirs and they were reminding you. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” you moaned, your voice a little whiny as you tried to roll your hips against Sirius’ palm but Remus kept you still. “Please, I—”

“You what, baby?” Remus’ voice was gruff and low, his eyes watching in delight as you squirmed when Sirius slowly pumped one finger in and out of you, the pace too slow and the girth nowhere near enough. “You want more?” 

“Please,” you choked out a sob.

“You want us to make you feel good?” Remus cooed, tugging your hair a little until you let out a whimper. “You don’t want the bastard outside, do you?” 

You shook your head, whining. “No, no—just yous, just want my boys.” 

“Just us, lovie?” Sirius murmured, his lips brushed against your ear. “Want us to fuck you like the dumb slut you are?” 

You nodded helplessly. 

“Say it,” Remus bit out. “I wanna hear you fucking say it or you’re getting nothing.” 

“I want you to fuck me dumb,” you begged, your eyes glossy and cheeks flushed. You were like a rubber band just waiting to snap but they weren’t giving you anywhere near enough to do so. “I���m your slut, just yours.” 

“Yes, you are,” Remus growled before pressing his lips against yours. 

You didn’t even get a chance to reply. Not when Remus had roughly spinned you around, your stomach pressed against the ledge as he bent you over the sink. Not as he shoved the fabric of your dress up, slapping your ass sharply. Not as he slid into your soaking cunt, listening to way you moaned and mewled but gave you no more attention as he turned to Sirius, fingers wound in his hair as he gave him a passionate kiss. 

“Gotta earn it like a good girl,” Remus groaned, listening to the way you whined for attention like a little slut. “Gotta fuck yourself on my cock to show me you fucking deserve it.” 

Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink, your tits falling out of the confinements of your dress as you fucked yourself back on his cock like a desperate whore. But no matter how much you moaned or begged, Remus didn’t give in. 

He didn’t give you any attention. He didn’t let you come. He didn’t do anything but watch you fuck yourself feverishly on his cock, your eyes desperately finding Sirius’ in hopes he would help, but your other boy just watched with a smirk and his hand around his cock. 

“C’mon, sweetheart, gotta put on more of a show for us if you wanna come tonight,” Sirius chided, his eyes gleaming in delight in such a way that you knew it was going to be a long night even after you left this bathroom. “We want this whole fucking club to know who you’re a slut for.”

.

[robiinurheart33]

Soap likes it when they’re alone.

Don’t get him wrong, it’s fun when 141 are all together, the four of them kicking ass on a mission. But when it’s just two of them on a mission, it just feels.. different. Like he has Ghost all to himself. They work wonderfully together as a duo, which is probably why Price never separates them. Also probably because Gaz is his favourite, that prick. (He misses them.)

They’re currently on a stakeout, and Soap was supposed to be asleep 2 hours ago.

He’s sitting across from Ghost, dressed in his sleepwear which was a sweater and old sleeping shorts he used to wear back in secondary school. Ghost was wearing a large hoodie, some sweatpants and the mandatory balaclava. They were both sitting in front of two windows next to each other, the wooden blinds pushed open and moonlight illuminating them both. The cooling air seeps into the room, and soap breathes in deeply. He glances down towards his journal, a finger stuck between the pages, the other hand twirling the pen around. It’s quiet.

His journal is far from neat, pages sticking out waywardly and the leather ripping off from one side of the cover. Soap resists the urge to pick at it. It’s filled with notes from missions, sketches of his loved ones. Mostly sceneries of places he’s stationed at.

He looks up at Ghost staring out of the window. Soap turns his head back out the window, wondering what Ghost was specifically looking at, what he was thinking at the moment, whether he would scold soap if he said he wanted to slip out to buy some supper because he’s hungry. Soap flips back open his journal, and can feel ghost attuned to his actions, even if he wasn’t currently looking at him. Soap likes him for that. He pays attention. Soap wants to return the favour. He wants to know his ins and outs, wants to pay attention. He’s always been an attention-seeking child, which meant that most adults and classmates would ignore him. Endless nights of young dumb teenage John Mactavish sobbing into his pillow about insecurities, his future and the people around him. The things he used to do for attention, each one more drastic than the last. He can’t count the amount of times his Ma had to bail him out, the amount of stress he caused her, his dear Ma.

He likes the natural attention the army brings him, big brute having the green light to legally kill people for a living. It was liberating for a while, but eventually that too died out. At the not-so ripe age of 30-whatever, Soap learns to savour the portions of attention and praise he’s delivered, especially when he joined 141. Maybe in another universe he would be just a little easier to love, little easier to endure. It’s not something he really dwells on nowadays (lie), but he would have preferred somebody be actually interested, not just for the sake of taming him.

Soap looks back on the half-filled page of his journal, clicking open his ballpoint pen, and starts to sketch Ghost. He’s a pretty good subject, not really needing to focus a lot on anatomy since most of his face is covered anyways. He’s familiar with the strokes. He eventually gets lost in it, thoughts fading away and autopilot coming to take over the wheel, the skktch of pen on paper is repetitive and soothing to his ears. It’s the only sound between them now, the crickets and wind opting to stay out of their safe little bubble.

So when Soap looks back up again and sees Ghost looking back, he physically bristles. They lock into a strange sort of stare-off, Ghost’s eyes upturned slightly in a way Johnny knows that he found it amusing. They look at each other for about a solid ten seconds, enough time for him to memorise his blond eyelashes and his eye shape, clocking in internally on how to draw him even better, tempted to just look down and sketch them as fast as possible, so he wouldn’t forget. Ever.

“…Wha’?” Johnny’s fine with breaking first.

“You’re looking at me.”

“Astute observation, LT. Is it still night time?”

“Wha ‘ave you got for us?”

Soap covers his journal in a sort of bashful kind of way, feeling like a schoolgirl covering her diary.

“Didn’t know you got yourself a little diary.”

Soap tsks. “It’s a journal.”

“Right.” An indignant huff.

“Am’ no lying!” Soap feels heat rush to his cheeks, strangely defensive of his pride in front of his lieutenant.

“Never said you were. Drawin’ me now?” His manc accent was suddenly getting very annoying. Ghost’s eyes skirt down to his hands covering the pages, and suddenly Johnny is very aware of the skin wrapped around the muscles of his hands, down to the bone. He feels the dirt under his fingernails, the ink smudged against his fingertips and palm. He wants to turn his hands in and out, inspecting them himself to see if they’re worthy of being looked at by Ghost. Acutely aware of the sheer pressure, the weight of ghost’s attention on him, his skin gets all prickly and he wants to hide.

Is he doing that on purpose?

“Yer a good subject, never movin like a statue. It’s good for practicing my still life.” Soap’s ring finger twitches, and he knows he’s been given away.

Ghost’s eyes glint in the moonlight. His eyes are almond shaped, bigger than most. His pupils are dilated, dirt brown, like the whisky he likes to choke down. His eyelashes are long, so blonde they’re almost white. they shine so brightly soap wants to reach over and close them, just to calm his poor heart a bit. Soap wants to jab his pen into his eye. Soap knows how many strokes it takes to draw Simon’s eyes.

“…. At least get my good side, Sargent.”

“Full o’ shite, you.” he chuckles, the spell breaking as soap rests his knee up on the table and placing his journal against it. It would be a little harder to sketch ghost now, but it’ll be a cold day in hell if Ghost ever sees what he does with his journal. (Would probably be more inclined to call it a diary, old fuck.) Although, he can’t help but admit that it’s a beautiful night in this particular day. It doesn’t count that Ghost and Soap’s legs are in between each other’s under the table, just short of touching each other. It doesn’t count that Johnny pointedly ignores the way that Ghost is still looking at him from the corner of his eye. It doesn’t count that Simon allows Johnny to draw him out when he would break the neck of anyone even trying to look into his eyes too deeply.

It doesn’t count that here, in their little fake apartment with one bed, sniper gun concealed under the window, two toothbrushes side by side in a cup in the bathroom, that they allow themselves to be Simon and Johnny.

They fall back into comfortable silence, Johnny 2 hours and 30 minutes over his allotted time to sleep.

Ghost’s pov

[moneymartin]

MAY I REQUEST FOR LOTTIE WITH A SKATER GF HCS

🦌-lottie with skater!gf hcs

k this has been sitting in my inbox for like a week im sorry zzz also pulling stuff out of my ass cuz im so sleepyt

rich girl yes, she def buys you your gear and shit

if you ask her for a new deck she will literally get it for you no hesitation even if she already got you one

even the clothes and shoes like okayyyy (all brand name clothes for skating r so expensive too omfg)

offering her some help cause she wants to learn just for you

one day before she asked for it though she came home with scratches and a few bruises here and there cause she was trying to learn while you were out of the house :(

cannot balance thats why it happened

when you do end up teaching her though she is gripping onto you so tight it feels like your shirt is gonna rip 😭 she’s terrified of falling in front of you it is literally her biggest fear

teaching her tricks is a whole new level like she cannot pop up the tail properly and always holds on to you cause she sux!

you probably get her the skate trainers so she can do them when you’re gone ☹️

idk if ppl are gonna know what i’m talking abt but having her stand on the board while you hold her hands and she jumps so you can make the board underneath spin

please tell me you guys know what i’m talking abt or i’m gonna sound fucking crazy…

when she gets what she considers good she always calls you out so you can see her do a silly lil pop shuv or a strawberry milkshake 😭

when you sucked at skating you would get hurt ALL THE TIME!!!

lots of blood thats for sure.. lottie tending to your wounds and calling you ‘stupid’ for not wearing a helmet

you tell her “it looks dumb on me” and she ends up smacking you in the area where it hurts just so you know not to do it again and wear the damn helmet no matter how dumb it looks 😒

makes up for that tho fs! kisses your little scratches and bruises while you sleep so they magically feel better in the morning

definitely gives you massages too like she is such an angel oh my god

i think if you broke her arm or leg she’d FREAK!!!

she sees your hand twisted in that weird way but you’re just sitting on the floor holding up your wrist while she’s literally sobbing and calling an ambulance 🤧

same thing with the leg me thinks… your ankle twisted or something like that

when you get your arm casted up she helps you do everything like dress and cook and all that shebang

also she writes all over the cast like she makes it hard for the other yjs to sign it cause all there is on there is her name a bunch of times and a million hearts and doodles

one space on there where the yjs have their names cramped up while lottie’s is everywhere 😕

when it heals and you start to skate again lottie makes you wear a big ass sweater with a shit ton of padding underneath

probably makes you wear big old pants too so she can pad them up as well

gets you a big dumb helmet too so you don’t get hurt

but in reality she just cares about you too much and hates seeing you in pain 🙁🙁🙁

[c4nd1xz]

ANTI-WASMO ROLE SWAP AU!!

I don't have an official reference sheet for their characters yet but when I do I'll post them!!

Basic rundown:

The role swap au is basically as it sounds, role swap. Anti-Wanda is the ruler of the anti-fairies and intelligent, while Anti-Cosmo is the dumb and silly one

Their relationship is based of the swap mfm(midfightmasses) au! RS (role swap) Anti-Cosmo is way more affectionate and touchy than regular Anti-Cosmo would be. But the same goes with RS Anti-Wanda, she is more outward with her affection, but most of it is to be satisfied.(We'll get to that later) She does love her husband deeply, but she in some way uses/depends on him.

Some basic info about them:

Anti-Wanda:

Anti-fairy/succubus

Big fangs for ripping into flesh

She's a cannibal because praying mantis love>>

Her clothing style is a mix of vampirism and victorian goth, often depicted with lots of ruffles and in dresses(she will occasionally wear a Morticia Addams style dress)

She's always got something up her ruffled sleeves(it's either a dagger or a coupon who knows)

She is constantly dealing with bloodlust, always needing to feed on some form of flesh or blood

Little bit of a sadist 😋

Chubby😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍

Anti-Cosmo

Stupid silly dumb dumb

Anti-fairy/Vampire

He still needs to wear his monocle but doesn't because he thinks he looks like a dork

He absolutely HATES having his sleeves rolled down, so he either has them rolled up or is in t-shirts (the only exception is during winter)

VERY high pain tolerance

Masochist

He basically dresses like Cosmo in anw

His fangs are wayyyy to big so they look goofy sticking out of his mouth, but he doesn't really care

Can regenerate his body very fast(and does it often)

Is so in love with Anti-Wanda he doesn't care what she does to him

He doesn't dress fancy, so he has a crown like everyone else

GORE WARNING‼️

So before how I said RS Anti-Wanda depended on Anti-Cosmo, well the reason is because she eats him 🎉🎉

Now, it's not always a sexual thing(sometimes who knows) but because of Anti-Wanda's bloodlust and need for flesh and because of Anti-Cosmo's high pain tolerance and regeneration, he just let's her do it.

She can tend to get carried away at times, eating too much, but Anti-Cosmo never seemed to mind. Unfortunately, this is the prime way she shows affection. Though not the best, she's still trying?

There is a difference when she's dealing with bloodlust and then just displaying affection

Bloodlust: Affection:

Fun silly facts:

You probably saw, but RS Anti-Cosmo often calls Anti-Wanda "Shawty"

Where's Foop? This au takes place during BF(before Foop)

There's are a lot of scars all over both of their bodies

Anti-Wanda has reading glasses

Anti-Cosmo despises tea

They both have very sharp nails

Anti-Wanda's favorite part of the body to eat are thighs or forearms. Though she does agree palms are the tastiest, she feels guilty for eating his hands

Anti-Cosmo is bi, Anti-Wanda is omni!

Anti-Cosmo flies into wall cause he can't see

FANART BY MY FAVORITE MOOTIE WOOTIE @ragdollwuzhere!!

GORE WARNING!!!

[luminouslywriting]

i'm so sorry to hear about your health problems, definitely sending all the good vibes your way, sweet friend!

i was wondering if you could make a drabble or headcanons about bucky walking in on his girl trying on his sheepskin jacket with lingerie underneath? like she was going to surprise him, but he came home early. i can just picture his heart eyes looking at her getting all dressed up for just him

Hi sweetheart! Thank you so much for your support and kindness :) It means a lot to me! I would LOVE to do this request for you! Reminder that my asks and requests are open so keep sending me all of these fun things :)

Cut for length, spice under the cut!

-To set the stage, it's likely his birthday and he's supposed to be getting home from work at a certain time

-You've been getting everything ready the entire day because you want this sweet man to be spoiled rotten and know how loved he is on his birthday

-You've gotten the table nice and pretty, with a lacy tablecloth and candles, a few flowers scattered around the table, his favorite meal has been prepared, and you've got some presents you want to give him too

-But BY FAR the thing that he looks forward to most is the birthday sex okay??

-So you went shopping and you got something a little more daring than you normally would get. And that being said, you want to make sure that it looks good and that he'd actually like you in it.

-There you are, putting it on and looking in the mirror

-And you spot his dumb sheepskin jacket hanging on the chair and it's just a little cold throughout the house, so you grab it and put it on

-You wanna talk about confidence building? Wear lingerie and that jacket together. Alternatively, just the jacket and he'd be like a kid in a candy store.

-And hot DAMN you look good, so naturally you're having a little bit of fun with it. You did intend to wear a nice dress that you haven't had much occasion for wearing, but you don't even get that far

-Because what you didn't notice while you were upstairs and getting ready is that this man came home early since his work knew that it was his birthday

-He was already excited when he saw his favorite meal and all of the time and dedication that you've put into making him feel special

-But when he comes upstairs to find you in sexy lingerie and his jacket? His heart is BURSTING and so are his pants lol

-So of course he has to sneak up behind you and start kissing your neck

-And WOW YOUR THIGHS (listen he is a thigh-man and you can't convince me otherwise)

-He's a greedy little kid who wants to forgo his dinner and have it later because he wants his actual meal now

-Suddenly your hips are being lifted up and you're trying to get the jacket off

"The jacket stays on."

-He's talking dirty to you and ripping things off with his teeth, but he's absolutely right, that jacket stays on the entire time and he probably won't ever be able to wear it again

-But it looks better on you and he says so himself

-And he's definitely having you top in this situation because he enjoys looking at you in that jacket so much

-He definitely loses control and both of you are up there for hours before food is even remembered or the fact that he had other birthday presents haha

"All of this for me?"

-Overstimulation for both of you

-And at the end of it all, you're still curled up in his jacket in the crook of his arm and everything was absolutely perfect

-But either way, i's probably the best birthday he ever has and it's the best sex you've ever had

-The jacket has seen some things (like the conception of ALL of the Egan children).

[neko-naruto]

we might just bite underneath the moonlight

Summary: Chilchuck can't help himself from helping Marcille on the rebound of Falin's death, even if he knows that's all he'll ever be to her, the rebound

Tags: heavily suggestive themes, wound cleaning, the hot springs itself isnt sexual but the making out is, complicated relationships, check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: "Ace write a normal fic for dunmeshi please" fuck ya life, femme4butch lesbian marchil with a brief meijack cameo at the start. in all seriousness the marchil fanart is fucking fire and i had to write *something* for ya'll, it ended up much longer than it was meant to be. hope ya'll enjoy and if ya do consider dropping a reblog or checking the Ao3 port, it really means a lot

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56221963

"Being butch is being chivalrous," Chilchuck explained when his first daughter was old enough to ask why he never dressed like a gal and always wore tape around town.

"Right..." Meijack said, only a hint of confusion on her voice.

"It's like an honour code," Chilchuck said, a bit firmer this time, "A way to confirm that you'll always be the fists they need in a fight, or the one to foot the bill on a date- you're too young to get it."

"Dad, I asked a question, now answer it." It's almost a demand, proof that she is old enough to get it. Proof that she could leave any day now if he wanted it or not, which he really doesn't.

Chilchuck sighed, "It's not something I can teach, it's something that you fall into if you're meant for it."

-/-/-/-

Taking the hit is a reflexive thing, he still hates himself for it. Throwing himself in harms way for the femmes and letting the men take it head on is how he is whether he means it or not.

Blood bursts from the wound along his shoulder but he tries to strafe back into the dodging regime before anyone can register he took a hit for Marcille. He wipes down the wound and oh, yep, that's an arrow lodging itself in his spine. It has enough force to make him stumble and trip and fall, banged against a column and ears ringing.

Death by living armour.

This one is new.

He can hear it clunk as it steps ever closer and closer, fun. He sacrificed himself for Marcille, the girl who wouldn't even spare a second glance at the butch who won't see sixty. Humorous. Ironic. Tragic...?

No, no, not tragic, not tragic for Marcille. She couldn't care less about him, she couldn't care less about men. And to her, he's part of men. He's something so well disguised he'd never be clocked as anything but another dumb guy.

And he can live with that, that might just be the pre-death clarity talking-

A scream is ripped from his throat with the sword plunging deep into his flesh. As mortality is ripped from his body his hands fly to the blade and then he's gone.

-/-/-/-

The bandages wrapped tight around his chest are stiff now, he supposes that they've been down for long enough without a window to change them that they would get nasty. He's pretty sure it's giving his clothing the funk what with the sweat and blood seeping into it that he can't wash out while still wearing it.

He hitches his backpack a little higher up as they reach floor four. Cool air washes over him comfortably as the slow and lazy flow of the water bounces back and forth. It's comforting, he never thought he'd yearn for floor four. Full of sirens and kelpies and deception galore, seemingly calm but full of danger.

Senshi's laying down a pot already and Laois is probably drooling over whatever it is that their latest companion is cooking. And Marcille is brushing her hair, undoing the braids slowly and letting it fall down over her shoulders and Chilchuck isn't allowed to stare.

He wouldn't dare stare, not without her permission at least. That's sacred to her, her hair, her magic, it all ties into one thing that's the core of her existence. It'd be kind of obscene to catch a glimpse of that without her permission, even if Chilchuck is a rogue, a thief, and a cheat he has standards.

"I'm gonna wash off!" Before he gets a response he's trudging over to a sharp corner to slip behind.

The ledge sort of crumbles off the further he strays from the initial landing of the floor. Turquoise glow casting up from the water below, it's scary to expose himself in a false isolation. No one is watching, it's fine, no one is going to walk on over. Well, maybe Laois, but Laois is a dumbass who absolutely would.

First the scarf comes off and his breath hitches as it rises over his head. He should've changed his wraps before coming down to the dungeon, he should've known better. He's been doing this adventuring shit since he was a kid how did he not figure something so simple by now.

He kicks off his socks and shoes next, lining them up next to his bag. In an effort to avoid the inevitable, he retrieves his towel and fresh bandages. They're dropped near the edge as he proceeds to disrobe.

The leather armour slides off much easier then the scarf did, so much easier. With the first step taken, everything afterwards becomes so much easier and he supposes it's that way with everything. Even so he's hesitant to slide off his gloves and reveal scarred flesh to no one but himself and the gentle glow of the lake.

He'll never be able to tell what's harder to take off be it the pants or the shirts, but he still shucks off his pants first. He's starting to feel the nausea, the insecurity, the fear. Of what? He's not quite sure but he swears he's breaking a code of conduct of some sort by stripping down and washing off to save himself from potential infections.

Chilchuck steps down from the ledge onto a raft before taking off his shirt, only then does he dare even think about the bindings wrapped so tight around his chest. He doesn't even have anything to bind, god, why does he even bother. His ex-wife was the only one who could see through the facade and want for what he is anyways, not like he'll luck out with some bi chick again.

Slowly he sinks into the light blue waters, arms rested on the planks of the raft as the stiff gauze soaks. He's slow to unravel the binding and he can only give a stiff exhale because wow, he forgot what it's like to have chest weight. Familiar but foreign, something he barred because he was sure he didn't get as many jobs looking like a girl.

A cigarette would go great with having a soak and relaxing a bit despite all the stress. He doesn't have any of those so instead he dunks his head and washes off, same refreshing feeling. It's nice to get off a couple days of grime, just relaxing enough that he zones out to the point he doesn't register the outside world until Marcille drops her staff.

Oh, fuck.

"Marcille," Chilchuck begins, back still turned to her.

"Y-Yeah?" Marcille asked, trying desperately to beat down the red up to the tips of her ears.

"How much did you see?" Chilchuck asked.

Marcille doesn't answer.

"How. Much."

"Enough." Marcille choked out.

"Look, just toss my down my clothes to the raft and I'll get dressed. Let's act like this never happened, for both of our sakes." He's screaming at himself for saying that. This is his chance, his one, singular chance, and he's butchering it.

Marcille does as told and averts her eyes.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you that it's rude to peep on a lady?" Chilchuck has the gall to ask it as he drags himself out of the water and towels down. He hears a small squeaky sort of sound from Marcille in response, he shrugs it off and tugs back on his pants.

"Well, yeah, of course they did."

"Lemme guess, you didn't think I was this?"

"Yeah." She tugs down the hem of her sleeves a bit, "Did you properly disinfect any wounds?"

"Don't be an idiot, I don't have any wounds to disinfect, and I would've if I had." He's lying, he didn't have the time to reopen a scabby one that had bits of gauze stuck inside, merely skin deep but still an issue. His gloves slide on back with ease but he has to tug just a bit to ensure that they cover all the scars properly.

"Are you almost done? Senshi sent me to get you for dinner." Marcille tapped her foot anxiously on the ground. Very briefly, she wonders if Chilchuck can hear the fact that her heart is racing. She wonders if her heart could just stop right here and now to save her from the shame of it all.

"Hold your horses," Chilchuck answered with. He hisses as gauze comes to lay atop the wound again, he'll tough it out.

Before Marcille can stop herself she whips around to face him, "I knew it! You are hurt..." Her enthusiasm peters off and the red on her face intensifies as Chilchuck scrambles to cover his chest.

Chilchuck's sputtering a bit, scrambling for words to try and get across the exasperation, "I told you to be patient!"

For a brief moment there's silence.

And then.

"Do you want me to clean the wound?" She speaks almost too quietly for even Chilchuck to hear.

"It's fine, I'll manage." He keeps wrapping the gauze as he speaks, when Marcille steps closer he stops. With a heavy sigh, he speaks, "Look, you weren't supposed to find out, no one was. So let's forget about it. Let's both just forget this ever happened so you can go live your good life with Falin, sound good?"

Marcille shook her head, "I can't, I can't let you risk getting an awful infection and dying a slow death."

"Oh yeah? How come?" Chilchuck questioned as he watched Marcille step forward again. He tries to step back but he's been thoroughly cornered to the ledge, he knows that if he steps any further he'll fall in.

"You're my teammate."

"You never spared a glance at me once."

"I didn't know you were, were, you were-"

"A woman?"

"You weren't supposed to be."

"Yeah, I don't get as many jobs with my tits out."

The crassness makes Marcille go even brighter red, it makes Chilchuck smirk. She waves it off, "Just! Let me help."

He hesitates, "Fine."

And with slow motions he undoes the wraps just enough to let the wound be exposed. It lays below the clavicle and Marcille's hands are soft as they trace over his skin far too slowly. He tenses as well kept nails brush over the edge of the scab and pry the bits of gauze and discoloured dry blood.

His blood is red and her hands are pale. The contrast is staggering and he tries his best not to watch because this isn't right. Something is screaming at him that this isn't right or good or lawful because she wasn't supposed to know unless she asked. And he wasn't supposed to be walked in on while he was washing off and changing his wraps-

"Do you want me to call you she?"

Chilchuck goes rigid, shoulders raising and eyes widening.

"Got it, not she."

"You're the second person to ask me that after my wife."

"Oh."

"You haven't earned the right yet." A choked sound slips out as the magic weaves through his flesh and purges it of the potential infection. She retracts her hands and he tries not to reach out for them in response to the motion, "Not yet at least."

Her eyes aren't on his, he can't tell if they're cast to the floor or not. He reaches to fully wrap his chest up again, gauze unfurling to lock himself back up again. The way he should be, it's safer, it's better, it got him three kids who he misses dearly and more jobs than he'd ever needed.

"You look pretty," Marcille confessed, ears drooped just a bit. She feels like she shouldn't be saying it.

Chilchuck gives an amused huffing sort of laugh, "Ya think?"

She nodded.

"It's not just because I'm shirtless is it?" As he speaks he tugs his shirt back on, along with his scarf. He just stuffs his leather over armour in his bag, too stuffy to wear it now that he's hot under the collar.

That gives her pause, "Well-"

Chilchuck sighed, "Think before you speak, don't give an older gal hope."

-/-/-/-

There's an undeniable itch deep inside of Chilchuck's bones and he can't place his finger on it, can't tear himself open to satiate it. He just feels nauseated, vaguely dizzy, and his stomach is in intensive knots no matter what he does to quell it. Cramps? No, no he took his contraceptives.

Did he?

Fucking hell, did he?

He can't remember and he can't ask Senshi to cook up something that'll help with cramping because he'll lose respect if he's outed as a woman. He thinks. He presumes. Senshi's a nice guy, has lots of respect for Marcille, a classically womanly woman.

Chilchuck? Not a classically womanly woman. He'll be disowned, or called a fraud, something awful is bound to happen. But someone is bound to notice that he's lagging behind and in what can only be described as agony, and if its Laois, he'll definitely be diagnosed with a deadly disease of some sort.

Please let there be a natural hot spring somewhere, anywhere nearby. He won't be able to actually have a soak if the guys insist on joining but at least the heat would be a comfort.

Chilchuck dropped down next to the fire, "Hey, Senshi, what's for dinner?"

"Sautéed vegetables, it's a simpler dish compared to what we usually have. But sometimes a light dish is good after excessive amounts of complex dishes." As he speaks he tosses in a handful of diced herbs, "I might check for mushrooms around the springs once Marcille is done in there."

"There's actually a spring down here?" He sounds a bit more excited than he should, not even a floor back did he take a soak. But he yearns for the warmth like a cat yearns for the sun.

Senshi gives a nod, "Yep, great place. Two pools with a bit of a stalagmite barrier between them, quite nice. I set up some lanterns a while back, it's a quaint little section."

"Call me when dinners done, I'm taking a soak." He hiked up his backpack before trotting off to where he can hear Marcille's heartbeat and the slight ripple of water. Sure, he has to strain to hear it a bit, but he picks it out.

-/-/-/-

"Chilchuck, is that you?" Marcille asked from behind the stalagmite wall.

A pause, "Yeah."

"You don't have to be on that side, what if Senshi or Laois comes by?"

"I still have my shirt on, I'm just enjoying the heat."

"Oh."

"Lemme tell ya one thing about being a butch, Marcille." For a moment he wonders if he should give her the spiel he gave Meijack, but he chooses against it. No, no Marcille would know by now. Surely she's met normal butches before? Regardless, he sits against the stalagmite border and speaks, "After sixteen plus years of keeping your real self effectively hidden, you learn better than to make such basic blunders."

She sinks below the water briefly and the silence makes Chilchuck almost uncomfortable.

"I appreciate the concern."

"You can do that on this side of the divider."

"But what if Senshi or Laois arrived? Wouldn't look very good if I was peeping on ya, that'd ruin my reputation."

"But-"

"Marcille. I'm fine not getting in the water."

She stands up and ah ha, she's taller than the divider. And when Chilchuck tilts his head back to face her he can see so much of everything above the belt. Red rises to his face faster than it should and for some reason he can feel his jaw go slack as he stares.

Before even more precious seconds can pass he's jolting away. She leans on the border as best she can, arms crossed over her chest. He swallows thickly as he glances up again to meet her eyes.

"You're in pain," She declared.

"So what if I am?" He countered.

"Look, I read somewhere that Half-Foots get it particularly bad compared to other races due to their size influencing pain tolerance and durability. I've seen you hobble and you curl up in a ball and grovel when you're trying to fall asleep."

"Are you asking me to get naked and take a dip with you?" He tries to cut down his own embarrassment with vulgarity that usually makes Marcille squirm.

"So what if I am? It's only to try and help you out, I'm a girl too ya know."

"I know."

"Then how come you're so hesitant?"

"Reasons."

"You're still not over your wife."

"Don't pry, Marcille, it's rude."

Marcille steps back and sinks back into the water, "Whatever."

Only a brief moment of pause has to pass before Chilchuck stands up and walks over to the divider. He leans on it for a moment, "Look, I guess I could join you."

Marcille spins around to face Chilchuck, "Really?"

"Yes, really. Just, don't make such a big deal out of it."

-/-/-/-

It happens so much faster than he can keep track, maybe he's getting too old for this 'falling in love' thing. He's got three kids, he's definitely too old for this.

Maybe the heats clouding his mind, the temperature a comfort soothing his frayed nerves. His wraps are still on but they're coming off, slowly unfurling as the heat threatens to suffocate him with the way it's tied too tight. And Marcille is staring, mostly submerged, but eyes just above enough that she can watch.

"Marcille, don't make it weird." It's more of a demand than a plea but he can't tell if the heat on his face is from being perceived or from being in the hot spring.

"Sorry," Marcille mutters the word as she presses herself against the ledge, hair scattered around her like tentacles or silk woven from gold.

Chilchuck can't decide which comparison works better.

...

. . .

Marcille gives a short hum, "You look pretty."

The heat is stripping away his inhibitions.

"You look pretty too, unfairly so."

She edges ever closer to him, not sliding along the rocky bench-like formation of the spring, but pushing off.

"You think?"

Chilchuck nods, watching as Marcille glides closer with the grace of a mermaid.

"I don't think," He said, voice slow, voice low. Dropped lower than usual, a slanty smirk on his face. He leans forward a bit, "I know."

"You know?" Closer, closer, closer. She's so close but she's so far and the clock is ticking but time is coming to a screeching halt.

"Oh believe me I do, Marcille." He slinks down from where he sat to meet her halfway across. It's a small basin anyways, but it feels so much larger when the tension and the steam blends into one and he goes blind. He keeps his hands to his sides instead of reaching out because if he missteps with his motions then everything will go downhill.

She isn't afraid. That or she's just not thinking properly. Her hands are soft when they come to rest on his shoulders, one sliding up to the side of his neck. He leans into it a little bit, "Then that would make you one of the hottest ladies I've met."

Chilchuck laughed, "You thought I was a guy, do I really count, Marcille?"

"Now you do."

As she leans forward her hair falls, caging Chilchuck in and locking the door but hey, who is he to complain when it feels so good to give in? To get what he wants, it feels so good. Like fire. He's drowning in flames.

Her other hand works its way to the small of his abdomen and slides up to unfurl the gauze fully. It shocks a gasp out of him and further she presses onward, no inhibitions, no fear, no hesitance. What is she running on right now? What is in her head? What the fuck is making her do this, but holy shit, he does not want her to stop.

Eventually her hands are in her hair and pulling just a bit but her hands stray just a bit and he lurches back. Shoving her off at the shoulders and stumbling, he scrambles to retrieve his wraps.

"What the fuck, Marcille!" Maybe he's a bit louder than he needs to be but he needs to get the point across, "There are, there are boundaries."

It takes her a moment before her face goes bright red and her ears droop, "Oh god."

"It's not fine, but, it's not bad either." Chilchuck is rebinding himself as he speaks but he's still trying to ease the shattered mood, soften the blow. Don't be a douche, you can turn someone down nicely, but he isn't trying to turn her down either. He just needs to slow this down, way down, to a snails pace.

"I don't know what got into me, Chilchuck, I'm so sorry-"

"Marcille! It's alright." He steps close enough to reach out, hands held above the water. He gives a small nod and she places hers atop his, "It's okay, I don't mind fucking, but can we not do it right now with zero warning?"

Marcille nods, "Sorry."

"Stop saying sorry, it makes you sound like a coward," Chilchuck said, voice firm but with a hint of affection lacing it, "And you're not."

A small smile tugs at Marcille's lips, "Alright, thanks, Chilchuck."

-/-/-/-

Chilchuck sleeps without his wraps that night because they got soaked and he was running low anyways. When Laois asked Chilchuck didn't answer, when Senshi asked Chilchuck didn't answer. He didn't owe them an answer even if their assumptions would probably be way off.

They just come up to him one morning and offer to cut his tits off, he'd probably keel over laughing if that happened. His wondering of what's going to happen is very brief when he finds Marcille standing next to his bedding. She drops down to her knees, fingers curled to press nails into palm.

"Yeah, Marcille?" Chilchuck asked gently as he sat up. He stretched his arms over his head and fuck, his spine hasn't felt like that in years.

"Could we share a sleeping bag tonight?"

"What?"

Marcille stands up, "Nevermind."

"No, Marcille. What's wrong? Tell me what happened," He speaks sluggishly, a tired inflection to his tone.

"It's dumb."

"We almost had sex in the hot springs, that was dumb."

Marcille drops to sit down next to Chilchuck, "It was about Falin, we couldn't save her."

"It'll be fine, we're gonna save her. I promise." He's making wild promises. Ones he can't pull through on. But ones that he needs to make to get through the night breathing easy.

He places his hand on Marcille's back and she leans heavily into him, "I miss Falin."

Oh.

He's a rebound.

That's... fine, he knew from the start it'd never work out anyways. Why hope that it might because she kissed him? Why hope for something farther out of reach than the stars? He's dumb, he's an idiot, he isn't even a hopeful one.

This dungeon is getting to him, to fall for Marcille and be stupid enough to think that she'd mean it in any way more than deprived desperation. He still steels himself and hums along, "I miss her too." It feels like he's being stabbed as a much delayed realization hits him, the words falling out of him feel like blood being hacked up.

[strawbrygashez]

Caldre YURI hcs!!!

These r some hcs for yuri/girl versions of cal & andre,,. I’ll call Andre, Avery and Cal, Callie :)

I’ll start of with some gereral hcs of them both

Avery

•This girl is the perfect example of the tall, awkward, and autistic lesbian trope.

•She dresses basically the same as Andre does. She never really does anything fancy with her hair besides a quick pony tail or letting Callie braid it. She doesn’t wear makeup either because she doesn’t care for it on herself and she just thinks it takes too long. Her mom bugs the crap out of her sometimes asking her to try wearing more ‘feminine’ clothing. Like her mom will buy her a sundress or something even tho she should know that Avery is just gonna toss it somewhere in her closet to never be seen again or give it away to Callie.

•Speaking of makeup, I feel like Avery would have acne like Andre. And she gets picked on for it but as I said, she still doesn’t try makeup to cover it up. Especially probably because her skin is already sensitive enough as it is. So she just rolls with it. (Not saying the bullying doesn’t get to her tho)

•She has soooo many band posters around her room of female bands/singers like Hole, Kittie, Garbage, Otep, No Doubt, Evanescence, Jack Off Jill,& L7 for example.

•Doesn’t deny that she’s gay to herself as much as Andre does. Shes known she’s hated guys for as long as she can remember. She thinks they are just loud, dumb, annoying, and gross. She tried going out with a guy once in like middle school, and it only lasted about half a month. She was too uncomfortable with him & doing things like holding hands.

•has a ‘resting bitch face’ all the time. The only time she doesn’t look ready to rip someone’s head off is when Callie is talking to her.

•She’d be a riot grrrl. If you’ve seen the documentary ‘Dirty Girls’ she reminds me a lot of it.

Even tho I think she’s a total feminist, she’s kinda contradicts herself often. Like when she argues with Callie, she’ll tell her to go fuck off and join the braindead, blonde sluts on the cheerleading team :/ And she just makes fun of popular girls in general, even the ones who are nice because she’s insecure about herself. If a pretty popular girl who’s never said anything mean to her started to talk to her, she’d be blushing and anxious tho.. she’s just a big ol’ mess.

•Steals magazines that are like full of chicks in swim suits. She hides them under her bed. Her mom accidentally found one once and later that night, Avery took all of the ones she owned and burnt them all in a small fire outside💀 she restarted her collection tho at some point when the embarrassment died down.

•Even tho her mom goes on and jokes about her finding a nice boyfriend, it’s pretty obvious to everyone she’s a lesbian. Her room doesn’t help, the magazine she had, the way she never seems interested in male celebrities and actors, the way she ignores guys, it just all adds up.

Callie

•Avery calls her Barbie because of the blonde hair and thin body. But she also goes by Cal :)

•You can really tell how artsy she is by the way she dresses. I guess the best way to describe it is like grunge fairy core. Lots of lacy things, light greens and browns, flowy skirts, lots of jewelry, and etc. She also draws on her hands a lot in permanent marker. She’ll draw ‘tattoos’ on Avery too if she asks.

•I feel like female Cal would be pretty popular? But not like, popular popular. Just like loser/weird girl popular because she’s so pretty. Like I’m sure annoying guys try to get with her but she always comes across not interested at all. She’s happy with just Avery and Rachel.

•Just like canon Cal, everyone thinks she’s super innocent and can’t do any wrong because of the way she looks. But she’s just like canon Cal. Manic episodes, depression, and all. She hides it even better than canon Cal does because yknow, no one expects such an innocent, sweet looking girl to hold the kinda thoughts she does at all.

• Cuts and has body issues.

•Loves when Avery lets her give her makeovers. Not because she thinks she needs it at all, and she will tell her that, but because she just likes putting together outfits and looks! She paints her nails sometimes too so they match :)

•I think if she wasn’t so depressed to where she saw no future for herself, she’d maybe look into a job that has to do with fashion or writing. Something artsy.

YURI CALDRE TIME :)

•They both find each other so beautiful and interesting. Callie feels so safe and truly seen with Avery and Avery is so greatful for Callie because she was so lonely before.

•Initially, I think Avery was a bit intimated by Callie though because all she knew was she was really pretty and blonde so she was like ‘ugh. Another cheerleader 🙄’ in her mind but when Callie actually spoke to her, and Avery found out she’s really cool and they relate a lot, she kinda fell head over heels quickly.

•They both HATE Brad because he makes jokes about how they should kiss in front of him because it would be hot 😐 Or how Callie or Avery should stop hanging out with each other and hang out with him instead. Hes a total douchebag.

•Callie honestly has no doubt Avery is into girls because of multiple reasons but she won’t say anything really about it. When she does want to drop hints that she’s into chicks too, she’ll say stuff about how a girl lead singer is hot. Avery is kinda clueless tho so she’ll just be like “oh haha. Yeah I guess anyone would find that singer hot” to herself. Smh. They’ll even joke argue one time about who would get to be Courtney Loves groupie if she said only one of them could be and it will just go over Averies head.

•Callie has caught Avery looking at her putting on lipstick a bit too intensely once or twice. She thinks it’s cute :) I think once maybe she’s even kissed her cheek so it would leave a kiss mark. Avery of course got all red and said it was gross and how she had to go wash it off now and blah blah blah but probably had to actually fight for her hand to move to wash it off in the sink later.. cuz she saw herself in the mirror and went 😳

•They also joke around by pretending to be guys who are flirting with them with each other. Like Callie will put her arm around Avery in the car while they are parked somewhere and will try to copy Brads voice and say “Hey baby. It’s just me and you now. Am I gonna get lucky tonight?” They both find it amusing to laugh over guys.

•Avery uses cheap shots when they are play fighting. She punches Callie in the b00b because she’s flat anyways. Callie threatens to use her long nails to scratch out Averie’s eyeballs.

•Avery sent Callie the music video to All the things she said by TATU once but thought Callie didn’t get the point of sending it.. because Callie didn’t say anything about how it was gay 😔 she just said it was a nice song.

Also Avery cries to that song a lot.

•They would have been less pathetic than Cal & Andre and would have actually fr kissed before they did what they did.

•Callie loves listening to Avery rant. Especially about how she hates everyone and how unfair life is lol.

•Callie steals Averie’s band shirts. It first started at a sleepover where Callie’s shirt got ruined so Avery offered her a Kittie one. Once Avery saw her and how she looks exactly like a girlfriend a rockstar guy would have, she knew she was even more done for.

•I think if Callie thought Avery had a specific type, based off the pictures she has up on her wall of women and whatnot, she’d lowkey try to make herself look a little more like that type. Like if she thought Avery likes gothy looking makeup and clothes, she’d try more looks like that. She wouldn’t totally change her style but she’d play around with stuff that she thinks Avery would like.

•If they got together, I think Avery would open up more about how she feels ugly or uncomfortable with how she looks. It breaks Callie’s heart even though she could already tell Avery was not very confident in herself sometimes. she’ll go on about how Avery is absolutely gorgeous to her and she’d share how she has her own body issues too and Avery would be like “??? What? What the fuck? You’re literally perfect. What are you talking about.” And Callie would tell her she feels exactly the same when she hears Avery say that kinda stuff about herself.

•Avery definitely thinks Rachel is out to steal Callie from her. She knows Callie could easily fit in with the ‘normal’ crowd if she wanted with Rachel so she’s always worried she’ll get persuaded into leaving Avery behind. It takes a good amount of deep conversations before Avery can calm down about it and believe Callie won’t leave her.

[alaydabug2]

Dexiana one shot cause I have issues 🤭

Dex (pov)

Dex attempted to straighten his tie, but when he looked into the mirror, it was still crooked. He fiddled with it a moment more before giving up and ripping it off.

It was the night of the Foxfire Ball. He wanted to ask Biana to it, but he kept chickening out. Now it was too late and he didn't have a date to the dance. But he couldn't just bail because he was sulking about it. So he continued to get ready, finally clipping his cape around his shoulders.

Thankfully, it was only for the older levels, so the triplets wouldn't be there to embarrass him. He was more than capable of doing that all on his own.

He stepped into the leapmaster and called out "Havenfeild". Everyone was meeting up there before heading to Foxfire. When he glittered at the pastures, Sophie, Keefe, Tam, and Linh were already there. He was almost relieved Biana wasn't there yet.

He went to go greet his friends. Linh was jumping up and down with excitement, which was understandable. She had never had the chance for something like this before. Sophie, on the other hand, looked miserable in her frilly yellow dress. Dex couldn't help but laugh.

Unfortunately, Biana and Fitz showed up a moment later. He couldn't even look her in the eye without breaking out in a nervous sweat.

She was dressed in an extravagant lavender gown. Her hair was swept back into a half up half down hairstyle. Pink lip gloss on her lips. She looked gorgeous. Meanwhile, he hadn't even managed to put on a stupid tie!

Maybe it was for the best he kept chickening out. She was totally out of his league. There was no way he'd be able to compete with the other guys who'd want to be with her.

Plus, she was a Vacker. He was just a Dizznee. Both their families had reputations, but for the exact opposite reasons. There was absolutely no way a mix like that could happen.

He realized he'd been staring a second too late when Biana turned and made eye contact with him. Her beautiful smile lit up, but thankfully, Marella appeared in the pasture next, saving him from coming up with an excuse on why he was staring.

Everyone lept to the dance after that, and he was stranded in his own again. Biana went off with Marella, Fitz and Tam went straight to stuff their faces with food, and Keefe took Sophie by the arm, dragging her onto the dance floor with her laughing.

He was almost jealous watching them laughing and giggling with each other. He'd gotten over his crush on Sophie a long time ago, but he still wanted a relationship like they had. With a certain someone in particular.

Dex glanced around the room but stopped himself.  Someone had probably already asked Biana to dance. He wasn't going to make a fool of himself, so he went to go join Tam and Fitz by the punch table.

He took a sip of his punch but nearly choked on it when Fitz asked, "So, when are you asking my sister to dance with you?"

Dex coughed the juice out of his lungs and placed his cup on the table. "You said what now?"

He eyed him. "You heard me. When."

"I-I don't think I know what you're talking about."

Fitz took a sip of his juice. "Mm-hm. Fine then, play dumb if that's what you want. That's not going to get you very far, though."

Dex rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Wonderboy." He walked off to the middle of the crowded dancefloor.

He saw Biana out of the corner of his eye. She was talking to some brunette boy. Exactly what he was expecting. Stupid to think he had a chance.

But Biana said something and turned away, with the boy looking slightly disappointed. She smiled when she spotted Dex and quickly made her way over to him.

"Oh, hey," he fumbled. "Watcha up to."

She shrugged. "That dude asked to dance, but I wasn't really interested. I appreciate him shooting his shot, but I've never seen him before in my life. If I actually knew him, I'd probably give him a chance. I feel like everyone deserves a chance. Well...as long as that's not the only time I've ever seen you in my life, you know."

Dex nodded with flushed cheeks. He wanted to kick himself for thinking he had an opportunity. She obviously wasn't talking about him. But...it wouldn't hurt to get the humiliation out of the way, would it? Then it could be done and over with.

"So...Biana." He looked into her sparkling teal eyes.

She tilted her head, studying him. "Yes."

He cleared his throat. "Would you...wanna give me a chance to dance with you, perhaps."

She processed that for one second. Two. By the third, he wanted to accept he'd been rejected right then and walk away.

But then a grin that brightened the room spread across her face. "I'd love to!"

She took his hand and brought him out to a spot with fewer people as a slow dance turned on. They locked hands. Biana leaned her head onto his chest, tucked under his chin. They swayed together until the song was over. Dex was probably the happiest guy on the planted in that moment, with Biana tangled in his arms.

After they pulled away, Biana had a slight blush on her cheeks. Dex was sure his were pink, too. It got even brighter when Biana leaned in on her tip toes and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you for the dance. I'd like another one before the night is over, if you don't mind." She winked at him and walked away. He was too dumbfounded to respond.

He stumbled to the punch table. Keefe must've joined at some point because he stood with Tam and Fitz.

Keefe had a smirk on his face and held out his hand for a fistbump. "Nice job."

All the color drained from Dex's face as the realization hit him. "Don't tell me you saw any of that, did you?"

"All of it."

"Yup," Fitz agreed, laughing. "So much for not knowing what I was talking about."

Dex could help but laugh either. "Yeah, yeah. Now can it."

Keefe gave him a look. "You realize that Biana is probably uploading all of that to Sophie, Marella, and Linh, as we speak?"

"I can dump juice on his head if you'd like," Tam offered.

"Please do."

But in reality, Dex was over the moon. He didn't chicken out. He should've manned up a while ago, but he was just grateful it worked out in the end. And that's all that mattered.

[mangoshorthand]

Arrow of Time: Chapter 4 [Five Hargreeves/ F Reader]

(Hard Feelings Part 5)

SUMMARY: When the mother of all teenage tantrums causes time itself to fracture, Five has to travel back to 1831 to repair the damage. But will he be able to cope with what he finds there?

On to Chapter 5 >> << Back to Chapter 3

Five makes plans to rescue you, but it's been far longer for you than for him.

Chapter 4: At Home With Reginald Hargreeves

Five chose a Glock 19 and filled his jacket pockets with as many spare pre-loaded magazines as he could carry. At 33 rounds each, he prepared to leave sitting on a respectable level of firepower; he just hoped he wouldn’t need it .With any luck, he thought, he’d arrive in something like the early 2000s and she’d be there waiting for him. He hoped for the best but prepared for the worst.

The heavy coat was a just-in-case choice. He knew from bitter experience: a decent coat was worth its weight in gold if you were stuck in some wasteland away from people. On the off-chance that Five wouldn’t be stuck in some wasteland away from people, some of Reginald’s gold antiques could be easily sold to help him get by. While Five was in the armory, Diego had searched him out a spyglass, what looked like a snuff-box and a pocket watch, all in gold or gold and enamel. 

“That should keep you going, hermano,” he said, giving Five’s shoulder a squeeze. Apparently, he’d chosen to forget Five’s meanness earlier. Despite Five’s favourite taunt, Diego wasn’t dumb: just then, he could see past his brother’s bluster of confident action to the just-veiled panic within. 

“You’ll find her.” he said, reassuringly, “she’ll probably be standing right on a street corner in 1970 or somewhere yelling about how Nixon’s a fascist.”

Five had cracked a smile at this before looking down again at his shoes.

“Diego…I don’t know for sure what’s going to happen. And…”, he’d sighed fitfully, indecisively,  “what the hell am I doing? If I go, she could be losing both parents.”

Diego squeezed the hand still on his shoulder. 

“If you don’t go, she could die. We all could. You know it, Five.”

Green eyes met brown as Five looked up.

“If we don’t come back, then-” he couldn’t finish the request, voice squalling as he choked on the words. 

Diego shook his head, laughing softly at the fact Five thought he even had to ask. 

“Like she’s our own. Tu hija es mi hija .”

Five nodded, some of his worry removed and, in a move as rare as it was heartfelt, hugged Diego. They broke apart after much throat-clearing and back-slapping. 

“Come on, Number Two,” Five said then, throwing off gravity with as much irony as he could muster.

Back in the study, Lila was trying her best to extort a smile from Aoife- to keep her relaxed despite Uncle Luther’s grave expression.   

“Honestly, sweetie, that’s got to be the most epic teenage meltdown in history. Whacking your Mum through a rip in time? That’s genius : that’s the stuff of teenage dreams. I just wish I’d thought of it when I was your age.”

As Five and Diego walked in, her father dressed to leave, Aoife began to leak from the eyes again.

The others tactfully averted their eyes as Five beckoned her to him for one final hug, giving them a little privacy .Aoife whispered unintelligible apologies and Five loving reassurance. Though it was mostly in Italian, the tenderness in Five’s voice was enough to let them know that this was for his daughter’s ears alone.

Five tried to put as much as he could into that hug: years of love, guidance and comfort that he might now never be able to give her. 

“ Ti voglio bene. Tua madre ti ama.”

“Dad, I’m sorry!”

“Stai sempre al sicuro, sappi che ti amiamo e comportati bene. Sono orgoglioso e non smetterò mai di esserlo, ok?” 

He held her tight for a few more precious moments before letting her go and stepping backwards. He was nervous or, more accurately, terrified. He hadn’t wanted to suggest that Aoife may not be able to replicate what she did; he didn’t want to plant even a shred of doubt in her mind. He knew it was entirely possible that she wouldn’t be able to send him after his wife but he had to go on pretending: for himself as well as for their daughter.

“Go on, cara,” he said, mustering a grin as if this was just a game of soccer and she was preparing to take a penalty against him, “send me wherever you sent Mom. Just do exactly the same thing.”

“Okay.”

She took a couple of deep breaths and shook out her limbs, bracing herself against the floor.

“That’s my girl.”

She rubbed her hands together and he felt her power up. This was a good start. 

“Come on now,” he encouraged, buoyed himself, “just a big push and we’ll be back before you know it.”

She nodded, fervently, eyes still sparkling with tears. Did she believe him or was she nodding with the force of how much she wanted it to be true? She closed her eyes and sprang at him.

He breached the film-like seal easily. She’d done it: he spiralled into senseless static storm. He fell (or maybe falls?) through time, screwing up his eyes against the turmoil. 

And he lands, amazingly, on his feet. His knees buckle only slightly. Straightening his back, he looks over his shoulder at the tear, watching it disappear in a sag-like collapse. No problem: it’s still there, only invisible.

He hurries out of the alleyway, brain much cooler than he’d imagined it would be, and scans the crowded street for a glimpse of his wife. Nothing. A setback, but only a slight one. He calls her name experimentally. Nothing but a few haughty looks from passers-by. Okay: reconnaissance time.

It’s old-timey times, that much is clear. He doesn’t know much about fashion but if that woman’s hat is anything to go by, it’s certainly pre-20th century. Carriages on the road: definitely 19th century. There’s a chill in the air: so winter, maybe early spring? He’d be thankful for the warm coat were it not attracting so many stares. So where is he? 

He strolls into the street, still scanning the pedestrians for a glimpse of your face. The accents of the passers-by certainly sound American and this is clearly a city, so he decides to work on the assumption that he’s traveled further through time than he has space. Those accents weren’t precisely what he’d expect from local New Yorkers, but he knows enough about linguistic change to know that accents shift over centuries. If these people sound a little more Irish or English or Italian or whatever, it’s to be expected.

He takes off the coat and drapes it over his arm. In exposing his suit, he hopes to look slightly less out of place than he does in the coat with its obviously modern fabrics. At least a suit will be a recognizable garment to these people, even if he’s wearing one that looks completely bizarre to them.

Though Five doesn’t know it, his next move mirrors yours when you arrived here, although he has less care for being polite. Across the street, a man slightly more down-at-heel than the relatively affluent people around him carries a newspaper under his arm. Five blinks across to him, appearing directly in his eyeline and causing him and several others to call out in shock.

“Is that today’s newspaper?” Five says, abruptly. He’s unwilling to tread softly: he wants to find you and get the hell out of here.

The man nods and Five holds out his hand expectantly. He thrusts it towards him and hurries away. Five knows he and the others will already be trying to rationalize what he saw: of course that strangely dressed man didn’t appear out of nowhere, he just stepped out from behind that carriage extremely quickly.

Five shakes out the front page. It’s a copy of the New-York Evening Post, dated March 6th 1831. That answers two questions: yes, he is in the nineteenth century and yes, he is still in New York. But none of this answers the more important question of where the hell his wife is.

Stuffing the newspaper into his back pocket, he blinks back to the alleyway, checking the walls for the hope of some sign: some calling card you might have left. Nothing. 

Hell, is he in the right place? Did Aoife somehow send him somewhere else? He didn’t think it was possible but he would have expected to have seen something by now if you were here. You knew how things went down in Dallas: you knew how he’d had to find his siblings like a trail of more-or-less idiotic breadcrumbs. You’d leave him some way of finding you again, he knew it.

Tracking people down was never a huge part of his skill-set, either when Dad was training them or when working for the Commission. Indeed, the job that had made his name in the Commission, (Paris: 1938) had been notable because he’d had to improvise after being unable to track the target down in time. Nevertheless, he’d had enough experience with it to know how to begin in a situation like this. 

He walks back to the alley where he arrived and puts himself squarely in your shoes. Knowing you almost as well as he knows himself by now, he’s at an advantage: it’s time to reconstruct your first moments here.

You were a first time time-traveler without the aid of a briefcase and his supportive arm…you’d be disorientated. You’d have fallen onto the cobbles. He crouches down, trying to get to the level you’d be at. You’d be scared, obviously. He looks into the sky behind him, where the portal would have just disappeared: you’d be looking for help, looking for him… but clearly he wasn’t there.

Still immersed in your headspace, Five looks around into the street. You’d probably panic, maybe run into the street and cause a stir. People would stare at you like they’d stared at him…except you were in your pajamas and robe: braless and exposed…you probably wouldn’t get much help from people on the street. They’d think you were mad.

His stomach lurches at this. If there’s one thing he knows about the 1830s, it’s that mentally-ill people were not treated well. So that puts asylums firmly on his list, unless he can find a better lead. Shit, a woman on her own in 1831? 

The realization makes him pause, blood running cold; if you’re here, then you’re probably in serious danger. He needs to find you, and quickly. He doesn’t want to think about what might happen if you’re here alone for even a few days. He bats away the thoughts for now and returns to his process. 

Vulnerable, unsure where (or when), you were and attracting stares from people dressed like a period drama. He crosses his arms over his chest as you would likely have done, to hide prominent nipples. Inside…you’d want to go inside and get off the street.

He hurries into all the establishments on the street: he blinks from church to pawnbroker and bookstore to butcher: neither the preacher nor the store’s clerks can recall a woman of your description. 

In the pawnbroker, he makes his first mistake. He’s so distracted by first enquiring after you and then selling the antique spyglass that he doesn’t notice something in the window: something that could lead him to you much more quickly. As it is, he walks straight past that item, folding the two hundred and ten dollars he got for the spyglass and placing the notes in his jacket pocket with two of the Glok’s spare clips.

If Five hadn’t been concerned with concealing the ammunition, he might have caught the sparkle of rubies and spotted your engagement ring in the window for sale. 

He’d initially overlooked the Milliner’s shop right beside the alley entrance. When he blinks inside unexpectedly, the two women comparing the shade of ribbon on two bonnets give little screams of surprise.

Ignoring them, Five focuses his attention purely on the shop’s startled proprietor:

“Did a woman come in here? She’d be dressed strangely. In a pair of pajamas and a robe?”

“Pajamas?” said the clerk, clearly not understanding the word.

Five tries to keep his frustration under the surface, “Like a cotton shirt and pants? With a floral pattern and a white robe on top? Probably panicking.”

There’s a spark of something like recognition in her eyes. Her disposition towards him, (already chilly), seems to cool even further on learning of his association with her.

“Yes sir, though it was a long time since.”

“How long?” 

“About a year now, I’d say.”

A year? Five rubs a hand down his face. A year? While he collects himself, the clerk looks him up and down.

“You wouldn’t be her husband, would you?”

His eyes snapped back to hers, heart leaping,

“Yes. What did she say?”

“As I say, it was a long while ago now and I’m afraid I shooed her out right quick. I can’t say I can remember all she said.”

Five leans threateningly over the counter.

“Well, think.”

The shop’s customers behind him whisper among themselves. He ignores them, eyes boring into the clerk’s. She stammers slightly as she responds,

“I didn’t set much store by it. She seemed mad to me, I’m sorry to say. She was raving about being separated from her husband.”

Five tries extremely hard not to snap, “She was separated from her husband. What else?”

She quails under his look, backing up towards the door to the back of the store. 

“S-she said to tell you where she was staying if you came enquiring for her.”

He raises his eyebrows expectantly. Why this woman can’t just get to the point , he has no idea.

“Yes, and where was she staying?”

“At the tavern,” the clerk said, as if this was evidence in itself of his wife’s ill-repute. “The Bull’s Head. It’s a block away and it’s got one or two rooms overhead.”

As the church clock strikes four, Five starts to lose his cool; he found the Bull’s Head and the owner had remembered a woman matching your description stayed a few nights until she could no longer pay and then vanished without a trace. He’d pressed the guy as much as possible, but that’s all he seems to know. Combing the immediate area had also yielded nothing. He has no leads: nothing, zilch.

…and after all the time he spent packing ammunition, he forgot his pills. No Zoloft or Prozac in this time period. He’ll need to go cold turkey.

He’s spent one of his dollars on a night’s room and board on the understanding that he may be staying longer. He’d asked specifically for the room you hired: he doubted it would help, but it makes him feel closer to you somehow. The bed is saggy, the mattress filled with some kind of husk and the thin feather-filled bolster on top does little to compensate. Sure, the room isn’t exactly the Ritz, but Five’s had worse accommodations in his time. He’s spent most of his life without plumbing; at one time, he’d have thought pissing into a chamber pot the height of luxury, and the latrine in the yard out back meant that he at least didn’t have to bury his shit. 

He was used to slumming it, but you weren’t. In your fifteen years together, Five had never known you to be anything other than prissy about your bathroom habits. The reflection made him feel a strange squirm of amusement and pity. How you’d cope in this environment, he had no idea…but you would have adapted; you’d have had to.

Now, he drums his fingers erratically on the bar, drinking beer that tastes like warm piss. He shifts uncomfortably, realizing that he’s sitting on the newspaper still in his back pocket. He’s exhausted all his options for today: it can’t hurt to scour the news for some sort of clue.

He’s surprised by how much of the paper is taken up by advertisements. The entire front page is full of bullshit like: ‘Doctor John Ashton’s most efficacious elixir for relief from ladies monthly courses’ and how ‘Miss S. Campbell is pleased to announce her opening of a store for the wholesale and retail of fine silks and muslins’ but Five scours through them all nevertheless, hopeful for anything, anything at all.

And then, when he gets to the ‘society’ page, his prayers are answered and his worst fears confirmed in one fell swoop:

As the church clock strikes four, Five starts to lose his cool; he found the Bull’s Head and the owner had remembered a woman matching your description stayed a few nights until she could no longer pay and then vanished without a trace. He’d pressed the guy as much as possible, but that’s all he seems to know. Combing the immediate area had also yielded nothing. He has no leads: nothing, zilch.

…and after all the time he spent packing ammunition, he forgot his pills. No Zoloft or Prozac in this time period. He’ll need to go cold turkey.

He’s spent one of his dollars on a night’s room and board on the understanding that he may be staying longer. He’d asked specifically for the room you hired: he doubted it would help, but it makes him feel closer to you somehow. The bed is saggy, the mattress filled with some kind of husk and the thin feather-filled bolster on top does little to compensate. Sure, the room isn’t exactly the Ritz, but Five’s had worse accommodations in his time. He’s spent most of his life without plumbing; at one time, he’d have thought pissing into a chamber pot the height of luxury, and the latrine in the yard out back meant that he at least didn’t have to bury his shit. 

He was used to slumming it, but you weren’t. In your fifteen years together, Five had never known you to be anything other than prissy about your bathroom habits. The reflection made him feel a strange squirm of amusement and pity. How you’d cope in this environment, he had no idea…but you would have adapted; you’d have had to.

Now, he drums his fingers erratically on the bar, drinking beer that tastes like warm piss. He shifts uncomfortably, realizing that he’s sitting on the newspaper still in his back pocket. He’s exhausted all his options for today: it can’t hurt to scour the news for some sort of clue.

He’s surprised by how much of the paper is taken up by advertisements. The entire front page is full of bullshit like: ‘Doctor John Ashton’s most efficacious elixir for relief from ladies monthly courses’ and how ‘Miss S. Campbell is pleased to announce her opening of a store for the wholesale and retail of fine silks and muslins’ but Five scours through them all nevertheless, hopeful for anything, anything at all.

And then, when he gets to the ‘society’ page, his prayers are answered and his worst fears confirmed in one fell swoop:

AT HOME WITH SIR REGINALD HARGREEVES Newcomer to the Manhattan set, Sir Reginald Hargreeves, will be entertaining to a select group of Ladies and Gentlemen on March 9 at his home in LeRoy Place. Though one of the latest of an increasing number of British arriviste, Sir Reginald has made quite the impact on Manhattan society, and is already acquainted with the finest people. The evening will be devoted to music, dancing and social chat and promises to be a most fashionable occasion...

It makes him double-take. He can practically feel the blood draining from his face and into his extremities. Dad? Here? Throwing a party!? It just seems too much of a coincidence to not be significant. And how? How old was he? He knew he’d been around in the 20s, but to be here nearly a century earlier? 

He knows time’s in a fragile state right now, and if there’s one place he shouldn't go, then it’s that party, (the last thing he needs is to kick off another Sparrow Academy scenario), but he also can’t not go to this party. His Dad and his wife, appearing in a timeframe where neither of them had any business being? This wasn’t a coincidence: it simply couldn’t be.

…but he couldn’t just burst in and scream: ‘Hey Dad, where’s my wife and what are you doing here?’ It was essential to travel under Hargreeves’ radar and if he was going to do that, he had to be disciplined. No blinking, no yelling, nothing that could make him stick out. He hoped this ‘select group of ladies and gentlemen’ wasn’t too small so he had half a chance of blending in.

And if he were even to have a quarter of a chance of blending in, he needs to look the part. 

Then, Number Five makes his second mistake: He tears the society page out of the newspaper, folds it and hurries to the bar to ask for the nearest tailors or gentleman’s outfitters.  When he hurries out of the door, he leaves the rest of the newspaper on the table. If he'd kept reading to the personals section, he would have seen something even more useful than the piece about Reginald.

NUMBER FIVE - If a certain gentleman wishes to correspond with an old acquaintance, then he might apply to the editor of this newspaper.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88, @nevillescomslut (sorry for double tag Nev this is just to aid with my creation of the next post!)

On to Chapter 5 >> Masterpost

[randomperson99sworld]

Ruffled Feathers 🪶

~ Part 5 ~

Summary: Julia Morgan, Bobby's niece, has always been a royal thorn in Dean Winchesters ass since the day they met 1 year ago at Bobby's memorial. She wants to be a hunter, he thinks she's a dumb kid playing dress up. Will she always be seen as an unwanted load in Dean's eyes or will he see something more?

Pairing: Dean x OC

Warnings: Age gap, language, sexual themes (used lightly), physical abuse (Not by Dean).

Word Count: 944

A/N: This is my first story ever so please go easy on me. Also, this story is cross posted on Wattpad, I made a last minute decision to share it on here too. Happy reading! ♥️

The Impala cruised down the highway, the sound of the engine filling the silence that hung heavy between them. Sam flipped through his notes again, while Julia stared out the window, her hands fiddling with the hem of her jacket. She was trying—trying not to let Dean's attitude get to her, trying not to snap back like she used to. It was Bobby's voice in her head, telling her to keep her cool, to focus on the job and not the people who doubted her.

But it wasn't easy.

Especially with Dean.

She glanced up at the rearview mirror, catching Dean's eyes for a brief moment before he looked away, his jaw clenched like it always did when she was around. It had been a year since they first met, and no matter what she did, no matter how much she tried to prove herself, Dean still looked at her like she was the same inexperienced girl he'd met that day at Bobby's memorial.

"So," Julia began, trying to break the tension, "you think this werewolf sighting's legit? Or just another crazy local seeing things?"

Dean scoffed, not bothering to look back at her. "Probably another local with too much time on their hands. But we'll see."

Julia bit her lip, keeping her voice steady. "Right. I'll keep an eye out for anything strange."

"Yeah, you do that," Dean muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe stay out of the way this time, huh?"

Sam shot Dean a warning glance, but Julia spoke before Sam could intervene. "I can handle myself, Dean. You don't have to keep treating me like I'm a screw up."

Dean's grip on the wheel tightened, and he shook his head. "It's not about treating you like a screw up. It's about not getting us all killed because you think you're ready for something you're not."

Julia let out a slow breath, forcing herself to stay calm. "I've been on hunts with you guys for a year now. I've trained with Sam. I'm not saying I'm perfect, but I'm not clueless either."

Dean's laugh was humorless. "Right. You've been on a handful of hunts, Julia. You think that makes you a hunter? That you've got it all figured out?"

"I don't think I've got it all figured out, but I'm learning—"

Dean cut her off, his voice harsh. "Learning's not enough. This isn't some college class. You screw up out there, people die. And I'm not gonna sit back and watch you get Sam—or me—killed because you're too busy trying to prove something."

Julia's fists clenched in her lap, but she kept her voice steady. "I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm just trying to do the right thing. Bobby saw something in me. I don't know why you can't."

Dean's jaw twitched, and for a moment, there was silence. He wasn't going to get into the Bobby argument—not now. Bobby's faith in her didn't change what he saw right in front of him: someone who wasn't ready.

Sam, sensing the conversation was about to go south fast, jumped in. "Julia's been doing good, Dean. She's held her own. You've gotta give her some credit."

Dean shot a look at Sam, his eyes hard. "Credit's not gonna stop a werewolf from ripping her throat out."

Julia opened her mouth to respond, but Sam put a hand on her arm, giving her a look that said, Not now. She bit her lip, turning back toward the window, trying to ignore the sting of Dean's words.

The rest of the ride was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. Julia stared out the window, her thoughts racing. No matter what she did, no matter how much she tried, Dean wasn't going to see her as anything other than a kid playing hunter. She'd saved his ass more than once, and yet he still looked at her like she didn't belong.

And maybe, deep down, that was what hurt the most.

Not his harsh words, not his constant belittling, but the fact that Bobby—the man who had meant so much to all of them—had believed in her, and Dean couldn't even try.

They pulled into the small town a few hours later, the sun setting low on the horizon. The streets were quiet, too quiet for a town supposedly dealing with a werewolf problem.

Dean parked the Impala outside a local diner, killing the engine. He stepped out without a word, slamming the door harder than necessary. Sam and Julia followed suit, the air still tense between them.

"So, what's the plan?" Julia asked, trying once again to break the ice, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach.

Dean glanced around, his eyes scanning the area. "Sam and I'll talk to the sheriff, see if there's any truth to the sightings. You..." He pointed toward the diner. "You stay here. See if anyone inside's heard anything."

Julia blinked, caught off guard. "You want me to sit this one out?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "No, I want you to question the locals. Just keep it simple. Stay out of trouble."

Julia swallowed her frustration and gave a tight nod. "Fine. I'll ask around."

As she turned toward the diner, she couldn't help but feel the sting of his words again. Dean didn't think she could handle more than asking a few locals some questions. But she'd prove him wrong. One way or another, she wasn't going to screw things up.

But as she walked away, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that no matter what she did, it would never be enough for Dean Winchester.

[sapphic-agent]

"Please keep cooking🔥" Will do! 😊 Thank you for the compliments, that was very nice of you! Consider this a 2nd part to the Momo rewrite anon, thing. Next up, a redesign for Momo's hero costume. I actually really like her hero name, Creati. It's very cool, and fitting for her character. As for the nature of Momo's rewrite design, I was thinking of something along the lines of street fashion. While she dresses more conservatively. Considering a lot of the items she makes look like they probably would weigh a ton, she would probably need more comfy, and light-weight clothing. She'd wear a crop top (like a decent, normal one. She's 15-16.) She would wear long pants, but through all of her pants, there's zippers everywhere. On the back of her crop top, there's an open compartment to use because for the "surface area" she uses her back more, anyway. Also for design points, I gave her some fingerless gloves. They can have a practically purpose to. Like maybe her gloves gives a boost to whatever she's creating. Let's say she creates like a gun or something, the bullets will pack more of a punch or something. I gave her like you know translucent, visor glasses? She has those has a way to communicate with other heroes and team members. Momo also has certain pockets if she needs whatever material, and better than that bulky, ass belt she has going on. She wears more sneakers, more comfy, light weight. Lemme know what you think!

Listen, anything is better than canon. As long as you're focused on functionality. That's the center of Momo's hero gimmick. She's supposed to be a rational, functional person and her suit should reflect that.

Me, I would have given her an open back (since she often has to rip her suit to summon things from her back anyway), a zipper, and gotten rid of that dumb bookcase on her back (maybe replace it with a visor like you said) and then called it a day. As long as her quirk is still functional, anything works

[meow--or--never]

Witchlight characters described by someone who is a second-hand member of the fandom (idk the difference between canon and partner's headcanon)

@scary-spaghetti-enjoyer

Torbeck:

- Straight jacket

- Sad

- Wet skrunkly meow meow.... thing(?)

- Idk what they are

- Owlbear? Homebrew? Bugbear? Kobold with a hair condition?

- Experimented on in past

- Little spoon (rip Frost's eyes)

- Based on looks alone, they're either very smart or very insane

- I think they look like a swell fellow :)

- "[Torbeck] look like if you do so much as breathe a single molecule on them theyll disintegrate into a small puddle of tears"

- "they look like they make the laminated sheet wobble sound unprompted and constantly"

- I originally was using he/him for them, but then I copy/pasted the tumblr meme and thought they/them fits them, so personal hc time

- Idk I just like characters that have gone through so much hurt that they no longer feel like they have a gender or romantic/sexual orientation (projection)

- I know nothing about what experiments happened to them, but either way the scientists probably weren't nice and probably referred to them as an object or something

- Maybe it/its, but only if you're close and they trust you

- I JUST REALIZED BUT THEY KINDA LOOK LIKE LUDO'S (LABYRINTH) WEAKER LITTLE SIBLING

Morning Frost:

- Tiger (of the gay variety)

- Dating Torbeck (gay)

- Wore suit to autistic test (gay)

- A (gay) sorcerer (I thought he was a monk??? Or at most a fighter?? Apparently he's not though, the (noncanon(?)) temple thing he went to was not for monk)

- "This is my boyfriend Torbeck, and this is Torbeck's boyfriend Gideon."

- Chronic pain (especially in his knees)

- This is a personal hc but I feel like he's either GNC or just dresses feminine every-so-often :3

- Breaks the laws of big cats and purrs

- I looked it up and tigers can communicate with their ears, so I'm imagining he wiggles them lots when happy

- I think Brutus told me this, but I also saw that tiger saliva is antiseptic, so he can literally kiss all better

Gideon:

- Married to Kremmy (Idk if this is canon or not)

- Hot (Fire genasi)

- Hot (I've seen fanart)

- Probably a fighter or barbarian

- I think he looks like Hellboy kinda

- He also looks like if my human AU version of Remus Sanders (Sanders Sides) was a demon

- So I can't help but think "Dumb stupid himbo🥰" whenever I see him

- Everyone else has an angsty thing, so this is from my own thoughts, but he probably has body/muscle dysmorphia

Kremmy:

- Has cane

- Rich looking

- Crocodile (or alligator, idk)

- Lets Frost use cane when his knees hurt extra

- I have no clue why, but I think he's an artificer or something, idk

- Maybe a rouge, because his fanart gives con-man vibes

- I want to look it up, but I must stay strong (so my partner can tell me instead:3)

- Angsty thing: he has no lips how he gonna kiss kiss :(

Gricko:

- When in doubt (Grico or Griko) use both (Gricko)

- "A single [dad] who works two jobs, who loves [his] kids and never stops"

- "The reason I've always felt so outcast in my friendgroup is bc apparently they're all in a polyamorous relationship and i didn't know"

- Commitment issues (canon)

- Idk anything else

- Whenever I imagine him, I just see Nott the Brave from Critical Role (has never watched her campaign)

[dumbass-tumbler-cryptid]

I love your Story Mama's Boy.When will we get a new Chapter?

So Mama's Boy is on hiatus until I finish Cabin in the Woods. Once I finally finish that beast expect the next chapter of Mama's boy a week or two later depending on how quickly I write it. I do want to get on some kind of week to week release schedule when I get back to that fic which in my mind is writing two or three chapters ahead and posting them one by one most likely every Monday.

That being said I have been seriously missing that fic recently and like the day before you sent me your ask I had been thinking about writing a Mama's Boy Christmas special. So thank you so much for giving me an excuse to do that! Hope you enjoy it!

Note, this has details in it for things I planned way down the line in that fic probably at least 10 or so chapters down the line so...yeah lol.

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

December twenty fourth and fifth never failed to stir up a myriad of emotions among the R.D.A personnel.  Some of course longed for their loved ones, left behind on there dying world. Others, with little tying them down, would celebrate without a care in the world. And then there were the ones who partook in other winter holidays or none at all. For them it was business as usual. Just another day. In years past Miles had fallen into the later category. Christmas meant nothing to him religiously or socially, so why should he stop his important work just to put on a display of fake jovialness for his subordinates. But this year was different. His whole world was about to change. 

       Miles sat at his table in the dining hall picking at, but not eating, his Christmas dinner, his eyes trained on the room's entrance waiting for her to arrive. Paz had been keeping a low profile since she started to show, only coming to meals towards the end of service. He had never waited for her before now. It was too much of a risk to be seen even looking at Paz for too long, let alone speaking to her. But tonight he would have to risk it.

     Finally, when hardly a soul was left in the room Paz strolled in, shoulders back, head held high, brown eyes blazing with the fury she would unleash on anyone dumb enough to say a word about her pregnant belly. She was only in the middle of her second trimester and yet she looked ready to pop. At some point, Miles didn’t know exactly when Paz had ditched her typical fitted jumpsuits for loose flowing dresses. Tonight she was dressed in deep green. And she looked absolutely radiant in it. 

     “Socorro,” Miles barked out. Paz startled and turned, clearly surprised that he was even talking to her after everything. She fixed him with a quizzical look, “there something important we need to discuss. Follow me.”

     Paz’s eyebrows raised, her head tilting to the side slightly as she scoffed at him. “Can I at least eat first before this oh so important discussion?”

     “There’ll be plenty of time for that. Follow me.” He strode past her, knowing she’d be hot on his heels, to at the very least, rip him a new one for daring to talk to her like he had. He led her to a cart that she eyed defensively but climbed in all the same. Miles quickly drove off.

     After five minutes of riding in silence Paz spoke, “What are you taking me far away to murder me as an early Christmas present to yourself.”

    Miles shrugged, “that’s too much work. The clean up alone would be a nightmare. Then I’d have to invent some cover up and fill out stacks of paperwork. It’d be a mess. No thank you.” She snorted a little laugh, looked away and covered her smile behind her hand. Miles kept his gaze fixed ahead of him but was smiling just the same.

    They finally came to their destination on the south side of Hells Gate. This wing was far from the main areas on base, largely used for storage. Paz glanced around curious as to what was about to happen. Miles placed a hand on her back leading her to a door. With no preamble he opened it. Paz’s eyes grew wide as she slowly walked inside. “Miles…” she gasped. It had taken a herculean effort to get everything together. Twisting Parker’s arm for permission. Drafting the plans. Building the place and everything in it. And it all felt like nothing compared to the efforts of the women staring in awe at her new apartment. “When did you do all this?”

    Miles shrugged, “in my free time.” Paz huffed a laugh as she walked farther into the room taking it all in. Miles had had the place constructed against a large observation window, the glow of the Pandoran night illuminating the living room, the light glinting of the polished dark wood of the living room set Miles had made. Off to the right was a kitchen, the cabinets loaded with pots, pans, utensils, plates, mugs, and small appliances, the fridge and pantry already fully stocked. 

     Paz made her way down the hall, Miles silently following behind her. The first door on the left was a bathroom. The next door led to a small work room. Miles had heard that Paz had been spending a lot of time in the base's small textile workshop and so had brought the shop to her, an industrial sewing machine on one side of the room, a bookshelf and computer on the other, cans of paint placed in the middle of it all for Paz to decorate her new home to her taste. Paz was surprised by the space, looking between Miles and the room. He just smiled, gently turning her to face the other side of the hall, opening the door furthest to the right. Paz’s room.

     The observation window took up the far wall. The rest of the room was fairly simple, queen size bed, night stand, dresser, wardrobe. Miles had had Lyle and Z go to the barracks and Paz’s ship to gather up all of her things, carefully placing it all in the corner of the room for Paz to organize however she pleased. They moved on to the final room of the apartment. The baby’s room. 

     Miles knew he would never be able to raise his child. He couldn’t stand the shame that always lingered in the back of his mind knowing he was going to be a deadbeat. But if he wanted to keep his position and actually stay on Pandora with his family, then he’d have to keep them at a distance, watching over them but never being with them. Building his future child’s cradle, sanding it so smooth the wood felt like velvet, patiently carving the nature motifs he knew his lady would love, it had helped alleviate his guilt a fraction. He couldn’t be there for them. But he could at least build them a home and keep them safe through his work.

     Paz slowly walked the room awestruck beyond words, her fingers trailing on the details of the furniture. She opened the toy chest in the corner, carefully inspecting the toys Miles had carved. He just watched her, Paz’s wonder filled eyes shining like jewels from the bioluminescent light just outside the window. He wanted to ask her, do you like it, but before he got the chance, she approached him, kissing him gently, so reverently tender that in an instant he missed her despritaly even with her being right in front of him. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice shaking ever so slightly.

    He wrapped his arms around her, holding her as close as he could, “it was the least I could do.”

    They stayed like that a moment before she pulled away, “I have something I wanted to give you too,” she said, “well, give might not be the best word because I know you wouldn’t be able to keep it but…” she reached into the pocket of her dress, taking out a carefully folded picture and handing it to him. He opened it, suppressing his gasp, “…that our baby boy.”

    Miles' head shot up, “a boy!” Paz nodded, smiling. A son. He was going to have a son. The news brought him more joy than he ever thought possible. He took one last look at the picture of his son, then handed it back to Paz. “Thank you for that,” Paz didn’t say anything in response. Her soft smile never wavered but Miles knew when she was analyzing him, waiting for his next move. “The whole base is in the hangar bay gettin’ drunk and partyin’. I sure as hell won’t be missed. I’ve got a roast goin’ in the oven. Should be about ready. We could have dinner together…”

     “Maybe you could spend the night?”

      Miles smiled, “yeah, I think we could get away with that.”

———————————————————————————————-

      So it’s Christmas Day and I must have been a very good girl this year because look what Santa brought me….the camera panned to show off her new apartment, “….the place definitely needs some color. I’m thinking about painting your room green. What do you think? I know for a fact I’m painting my room purple. Maybe a blue would look good in the living room. It’ll definitely glow at night with the forest lights. We’ll get some plants in here too. And I took up knitting to make you socks and sweaters and all that but I think I can make some funky blankets for in the living room. I don’t know. I’m just throwing out ideas. I’ve never really had a home before so I’m probably gonna go overboard with the decorations. But oh well, at least it’ll have personality, right kid….

     Spider watched the video of his mama, his heart hurting seeing her so genuinely excited, knowing perfectly well that the home she gushed about wouldn’t be her’s for long. Wouldn’t be theirs for long. He turned off the monitor, rising from his spot. 

    He moved from the old lab into the hall, wandering around until he found Quaritch, lifting weights in the old hangar bay while Lyle spotted him. “Hey,” Spider yelled.

    Quaritch grunted, completing another rep. “What!”

    “How come you haven’t taken me to mama’s old apartment?” The question caught Quaritch off guard, hurriedly completing the rep he was in the middle of before setting the weights back on the rack, sitting up to face his son. Spider stood there annoyed, “we’ve been here for weeks and you never even mentioned it!”

   Quaritch stood, wiping his brow, “never came up.” Spider groaned. “Fine y’a want to see the old place? Let’s go, right now.” He stormed past him, without looking to see if Spider was following. They walked through the dilapidated halls of Hell’s Gate, going well past the point Spider had ever been allowed to go. This entire section of the base had been sealed off back when he had lived here because they had only had enough resources to keep the labs and surrounding living quarters powered. Now back under the control of the R.D.A Hell’s Gate was fully powered once again but for what reason Spider couldn’t tell. They didn’t pass a single person on their entire twenty minute trek across the base.

     “Here,” Quaritch said when they reached the room, opening the door wide for Spider. He stepped inside as if walking into a dream. His mama really had over decorated. And he loved it. She had ended up painting the living room a deep burnt orange, accenting the space with brightly colored knitted throws and pillows, painted pots that he imagined once held healthy green plants, random knick knacks and tons of pictures of the two of them together. In the middle of the room was his play pen, colorful wooden blocks and stuffed animals still waiting for the baby that used to play with them to come back. His heart stopped in his chest. In another life this would have been his home. And he knew without a doubt that he would have been really happy here.

     Quaritch awkwardly moved inside, going towards the record player on display just underneath the living room window. He picked up the record still on the player, cleaned it, then set it back down, moving the needle into position. To Spider’s surprise it was nothing but relaxing piano music.

     He said nothing to his father as he moved down the hall opening the first door on the right. His room. Mama had ended up painting it a light green that fit beautifully with the carved wooden furniture stained a dark mahogany. Inside his crib was another knitted blanket and an adorable viperwolf plushie. Quaritch appeared in the doorway looking comically large in such a small hallway. “I built this place for the two of you. Had to kick up one hell of a fuss with the higher up to get’ et  approve but they did in the end. No one wanted you and your mama in barracks after all. But they refused to give me money or resources to make it happen. I had to get creative with what was available to me. I spent every spare minute I had buildin’ this place, makin’ the furniture and all that…”

     “It’s really nice,” Spider said, though his voice sounded far away. 

     “Your mama did somethin’ similar. She spent nearly all her time sewing up clothes, and bedding and toys for y’a out of whatever scraps she could get her hands on. Did a damn fine job too as you can see. She got real creative too. She’d ask people goin’ out to bring her back different fruits and flowers and what not to make dyes so you wouldn’t be stuck wearin’ nothin but white, black and army green. I thought it was silly at times but seeing the two of you together standing out like sore thumbs but looking so happy…”

     “Stop,” Spider said, tears pricking his eyes. It hurt enough to see this place. To hear about the lengths his parents went to just for him, knowing they threw all that out the window for the sake of their mission- it was too much. “Thanks for showing me this place. But if you don’t mind, I'd like to spend some time here alone.

     Quaritch nodded sadly, the disappointment clear on his face, “if that’s what you want son.” Without another word he left.

      Alone now, Spider made his way into his mother’s room. Just like the rest of the place it was vibrantly decorated yet very well organized. Spider peeked inside the drawers of the night stand, dresser and wardrobe. Aside from her clothes in the wardrobe almost everything was empty. Or at least he thought so until he went to close the nightstand drawer only to hear something rattling around. He opened it again slowly, finding a small wrapped package with a note. To Miles. From Papa. Spider sucked in a breath as he unwrapped the gift. Inside was a small knife carved for a child. He turned it around in his hand marveling at it. 

     Slowly he found himself sinking to the floor taking it all in. His parents had fought so hard just to have him. Worked so hard to provide the best that they could. He knew that they loved him. It was so obvious from his mother’s videos and the recom of his father’s awkward attempts at parenting. And yet it hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t been enough to make them stay with him. To abandon their fight, and betray the R.D.A so they could live as a real family. It hurt. There were no other words to describe the thoughts in his head other than it hurt. So, so badly.