#this is one of those 'rating subject to change' fics

[sabraeal]

at home with the glass half empty, Part 1

[Read on AO3]

It’s not that Nanami expected fanfare when he returned to the realm of curses and sorcerers; they hardly have time to mourn their dead, let alone celebrate the living. It’s only…

There should be more to it than this. More than Gojo-senpai’s crooned, ‘Nanami-kun’ crackling over the speaker of his phone, rousing him before even the sun's bothered to heave itself over the horizon. More than the mission brief being a location and time couched in a stream of that idiot's nonsense, more than showing up at to the rendezvous as the sole adult not wearing his high school uniform--

More than the situation going pear-shaped at the moment of contact. At least, that's what he'd thought there'd be when he still trained under these people. Last minute texts seemed normal when he was just some shitty teenager; when he was just some student called in as an afterthought once instructors had deemed the situation safe enough to stand in for a lesson. He'd assumed that when he was an adult, when he finally became a peer rather than a pupil, he'd finally be privy to all the secret strategies the other sorcerers seemed to know down to their bones

Now he'd just settle for a plan before they turned a children’s park into a battleground.

Cursed energy drips off his knuckles, liquid in a way real fire never could be. It flickers with the same frantic rhythm as his breath, a flare of flame before it extinguishes itself on the concrete. That had been the reason he’d left, wasn’t it? That there never had been a plan. That their only way of fighting the creeping tide of humanity’s apathy was to throw more bodies at the problem until it was solved.

Even if those bodies were children.

“Threat neutralized,” he pants, quenching the cursed energy licking over his shoulders. They tense in its wake, braced for a fight long over. “…Gojo-san.”

“As expected from my reliable kouhai!” A lanky arms slings itself over his shoulders, drawing him far too close to that smug smile. “Tell me, was it fun? Is it just like old times?”

“I’ve been doing this for a year.” And Gojo-senpai— intolerable, as always— never changes his script. Unbelievable that they gave this man dominion over children. “It’s shit.”

He nods, sagely. “Just like old times.”

Isn’t that the truth. Nanami plucks his blazer off the carousel's rail, slinging it over his shoulders. “If there’s nothing else…?”

“What? You’re not going to stick around? Reminisce about old times?” Gojo’s lip juts out, wounded. “Come on, Nanami-kun—”

“I told you not to call me that.” They’re work colleagues, not classmates.

“You were a salaryman, weren’t you? You know about post-work drinks. Happy Hour?”

He hadn’t gone to those either, not once it was clear he would make more money on overtime than schmoozing for a promotion. “It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Lunch, then,” Gojo-senpai decides far too quickly. As if he’d already planned— “I made bento!”

Ah, there it is. The metal teeth snapping shut on this trap. “All right,” he sighs, slumping under his senpai’s weight. “Show me this…bento.”

*

The paper bag should have been his warning. It’s rumpled, like it’d been pulled out of the bin, the top not even neatly rolled down but merely clenched shut in Gojo-senpai’s fist, like a cartoon bank robber making his getaway.

“I made your favorite,” he says, so saccharine Nanami’s teeth ache. “What is it you always get now? The casse-croute.”

The casse-croûte is a light meal— a snack, really, though a substantial one— an idea that includes but is not exclusive to sandwiches. What he prefers is the jambon-buerre, the parisien, a baguette slathered in butter and layered with Paris ham— or more often, prosciutto— lettuce and brie. But the konbini around here don’t make a distinction between the two, and by the terrible mockery Gojo-senpai’s mouth makes of a French accent, neither will he.

He takes the bag anyway, top pinched between two of his fingers. Between the grit of his teeth, Nanami manages, “Thank you for the meal.”

What he finds inside is…unspeakable.

“Is this…?” His mouth works, at a loss. “Mozzarella?”

“Nice, isn’t it?” Gojo-senpai’s nose wrinkles above his own egg salad, pressed sloppily between two slices of white bread. “Better than that stinky stuff they usually put on. You know it has a rind?”

The bread squishes beneath his fingers— not a baguette at all, not even a French loaf, but some sort of mass-produced bread-like product. A...sandwich roll, shoved into a plastic bag with a half dozen other of its ilk, sold for cheap and then bought by this absolute fool to be split in twain and abet this blasphemy trying to pass as a sandwich. The lettuce is soggy and— he’s pretty sure— shredded. Maybe even iceburg.

Even still, his mouth salivates. Not for this abomination, but the superior sandwich it apes; the same way cursed spirits shuffle, mere shadows of the human fears that birth them. One sitting behind a glass case, wrapped in crinkling film, crusty bread glimmering enticingly beneath the bakery’s lights. He can taste it, the funk of the cheese and the crispness of the lettuce, the baguette shedding sesame as it yielded to his teeth. And the girl behind the counter—

It’s much better than the konbini’s, isn’t it? The curse coiled on her shoulder cocked its fly-head to match hers, as if it had a share in her pride. As if it were anything more than a leech, sucking the life out of her sip by sip, until only a hollowed-out shell remained. He’d gotten rid of it; his last gift to the world he’d left behind. To the girl who made the perfect jambon-buerre.

A year ago now. His mouth twists. A lot can happen in a year. Do her shoulders still sit so proud? So easy? If he went back, would he find her still smiling, or would there be another one of those worms wrapped around her neck, squeezing tighter every night. Killing her day by day, unchecked, no sorcerer to—

Nanami balls up the bag, sandwich and all, and throws it into the nearest bin. That has nothing to do with him now.

“What’s the matter, Nanami-kun?” Gojo sing-songs, impossibly long limbs sprawled over the bench, taking up as much space as his smile. “Don’t like the sandwich? What’s wrong, too much mayo?”

Mayo. He pinches his nose, adjusting the way his glasses straddle it. “I don’t like anything about this.”

The sandwich, the job. The growing amount of cursed spirits spawning around the city. The strange way Gojo-senpai smiles when he asks about it. Gojo-senpai in general.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Gojo's must as well; he slips his out from his trousers, brows knitted as his eyes scan over the message.

“Lucky us,” he drawls, smirk stiff as a carcass across the spread of his lips. “Another cursed spirit, and only a few streets over.”

Nanami frowns as the man unfurls from the bench, casual as a cat on its way to batter yet another mouse. “There’s more now, aren’t there? That’s why you were all so happy to have me back.”

“Whatever do you mean, my dear kouhai?” Gojo swings close— too close, his mouth all teeth. “Clearly we missed your scintillating personality.”

“It’s gotten worse.” He doesn’t need to see the man’s eyes to know how tightly he’s holding them, not when the rest of him is strung as taut as piano wire. “You think they’re going to overrun us, the way they did when Geto-san—”

“See? There he is.” One of those long hands reach out, patting him on the cheek. Slapping, really. “That’s the kouhai I missed so much. Nanami-kun, always so positive.”

“Don’t call me that,” he grunts, shrugging him off. A tug fixes the sit of his blazer of his shoulders. “Come on, let’s get going. I’m not about to put in overtime for you.”

Gojo rocks back on his heels as he walks away, taking in a deep breath. Despite the clear skies, a thunder rumbles through the city.

“It’s a lovely day for walk, isn’t it?” he hums, the words dogging Nanami’s heels. “How lucky for us.”

*

The cursed spirit might only have been lingering only a few streets away, but it’s a slippery one, leading them on what Gojo calls a ‘merry chase’ to the other side of town. By the time they corner it, writhing and helpless now that senpai's patience has run out, his stomach is empty enough that even that war crime of a sandwich seems appetizing.

A good thing that he’d put it in the garbage, then. Nanami would never be able to live with himself if he ate mayonnaise with brie. He had never been to France, but he would one day— if only for the food— and they certainly wouldn’t let him in after that.

Gojo-senpai doesn’t stick around to offer another; he’s got to go back to his class, to the children he’s teaching to sacrifice themselves before they even know who they might be. That’s what they’d wanted him to do when he’d first come back. Even had a promising crop of scouted talent, still wide-eyed from having the veil thrown back, the way he had been when he’d first enrolled, but—

But he’d just laughed. Told them to leave all that to Gojo, a man who tasted death and liked the flavor. They had his number; he’d come when they called.

So there’s no reason for him to be here. No reason for him to be idling next to this awning as rain pours down, pelting umbrella he’d bought from the konbini a street over. His old one; the shortest jaunt from his last apartment, closer still to the building where he used to work. One that still didn’t have casse-croute in the case.

But she would.

It’s busy now— the dinner rush, now that the salarymen have been turned out from their offices, ravenous and eager to avoid their empty apartments. Or worse yet, the filled ones— the kind with the children their parents wanted and the wife that begrudges their existence just as much as they begrudge hers.

A red beret blazes behind the counter, but even through the plate glass, it’s outshone by the smile beneath it. She’s been doing well, it seems— it had only even been her at the till before, but there’s two other employees working behind her now. They’re laughing as she tallies up an order, one of them wiping tears from his eyes.

It’s…nice. Good even. More camaraderie than he’d ever seen on the front lines of the stock market. More than he sees now, despite how close these missions fly to death. And that should be enough for him, to see proof of her success, but—

But that fly-head cocks its head, its unblinking stare settling on him through the glass. A larger one than the last. Makes sense; it’s had a whole year to siphon off its sustenance.

Nanami heaves a sigh, and with a nudge of his shoulders, opens the door.

The bell rings, the same bright chime he remembers, but the shop is so full, so lively, that no one bothers to look at the man stepping off to the side, letting another glut of customers through. He collapses his umbrella, careful to keep the extra water from dripping all over her floor. Even from here, he can hear that damn thing chittering on her shoulder, teeth clicking at every twitch of his fingers.

There’s nothing to be done about the thing from back here— he’s not Gojo-senpai, he can’t simply exorcise a spirit from annoyance alone— but he can’t bring himself to join the crowd. To hop in line and simply be yet another customer, not when she could look up and know—

But she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He’d been a regular for only a few months more than a year ago. There’s no reason for her to remember his face, at least not enough to see past the new set of glasses on his face.

It’s better that way.

One of her employees passes behind her, leaning down to murmur in her ear, and her eyes jerk up, scanning the back of the shop. Not casual, no— that gaze is sharp, focused. Searching. It skims over him— once, twice— then catches, the tense lines collected at the corners of her eyes easing.

Oh.

She does remember him.

Her mouth opens, a hand lifting to a wave— only to flounder in empty air as the next customer shoulders his way to the counter, spitting out his order. She blinks, attention dragged back to the mundane, to the only reality she knows, and—

He should have never come. What difference did it make if he rid her of that curse? Oh, he can pretend it’s altruism, that all he cares about is gaining one small foothold in this war of attrition, but this isn’t about her. No, all this— it’s about him. About his pride. About proving to himself that these small victories meant something-- that even if he fell protecting this world from the horrors they’d never see, he’d leave a mark. That he'd have done something to make is better.

And now Nanami has his answer: he can push these boulders up this hill all he wants, but they’ll always fall back down. It’s only a matter of time.

He should leave.

The rain is still coming down outside, hard enough it bounces off the awning, splattering his already half-soaked blazer. A cluck catches between his teeth, trapped tight as he wrangles his umbrella open. An unremarkable black, one that will disappear into the sea of identical canopies; one more body in the surging tide, and—

And the bell rings. “Wait!”

He’s too close to feign ignorance, to pretend that he can’t hear her as easily as the heart pounding in his chest. That he can’t see her panting where she leans against the glass, rain dripping onto her chef whites. “This is for you!”

It’s the second time today that a paper bag has been foisted on him, but unlike the last, this one is crisp, a clean white with a neat fold at the top. And when he unfurls it, glancing into its pristine depths—

It’s his usual. The jambon-buerre. It’s a miracle his stomach doesn’t growl. “I didn’t…”

Order anything. He shouldn’t even be here.

“I know!” If he’d thought her smile was bright behind the counter, it is blinding this close. He squints into it, half-surprised it hasn’t burned the clouds away. “I keep one in stock, just in case you stop by. As a thank you!”

He blinks down at the bag. It’s been a year, he doesn’t say.

“Your neck,” he manages instead. “Does it still bother you?”

“Ah…!” Her eyes pulse wide. “Yes! How did you know?”

The fly-head chitters on her shoulder, and if it were possible for it to know what danger it was in, Nanami might have called that beady gaze a glare.

“Could you step closer?” His request isn’t breathless, but it is soft; softer than he’s ever spoken. She follows before he’s even finished, quick enough to leave his mouth strangely dry.

His movements are not practiced like he’d thought they’d be. Before he’d been relying on memory, on the feel of how cursed energy collected in his palms, but now he’s used to the way it sits there, to the way it tingles against his skin. He brings up his hand too fast, expecting the weight of the cleaver, but it doesn’t matter— the cut is same with an edge or without, his fingers honed just as sharp when it comes to little pissant curses like this one. It explodes over her shoulder, like a fly beneath a swatter.

When she breathes in, it’s with noticeably more ease, the tense line of her shoulders softened to a more natural curve. Funny how such a little thing could carry so much weight.

“Ohhh,” she sighs, eyes fluttering shut. Her hand raises, rubbing at where it sat, and he— he has to look away. “That’s so much better.”

“Thank you.” The words are foreign on his lips. “For the sandwich.”

For remembering. He turns, umbrella resting on his shoulder. It’s time.

“Wait!”

Fingers tangle in the sleeve of his blazer. Small, insignificant things, grip so weak a hard breath might break it. But it’s enough. This time, he turns back.

“How…?” Her face scrunches, head shaking. “No, wait. I asked last time, but I don’t think you heard me.”

She plucks her phone from an apron pocket, waving it with a smile. Not a shy one, but hopeful. “Can we exchange contacts?”

He stares. Not…forbidding. Simply…blindsided.

“No pressure,” she tells him brightly, despite the pink flush across her cheeks. “If you drop me a line the next time you’re around, I’ll make your sandwich fresh. No charge.”

That, if anything, tempts him. But still— he should go. It’s not good to make connections among the mundane. It only hurts them when they get caught up in his world.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He smiles to ease the sting. “Thank you, though.”

This time when he leaves, she doesn’t call after him.

*

Nanami waits to eat until he’s home, setting the bag on the counter, right beside his keys. There’s a part of him that’s reluctant to eat it, to take advantage of her kindness when the best he can do is walk away. But the famished part wins out, salivating at the very memory of its taste, of how the butter and brie meld into the most decadent expression of flavor, and—

And he might get a plate, at least. A luxury; he’d always eaten it on the run, trying to finish before he went back to the office, putting more hours in on the clock. Watching his life tick away through rows of a spreadsheet.

He sits down too— ah, what a dream this would have been back then, to sit and savor each bite. To not just cram as much into his mouth as he could before the elevator finish twenty-four flight climb, spitting him out into yet another soulless lobby. He unfurls the bag, extracting the sandwich with exquisite care. There’s a napkin wrapped around it; it flutters to the plate first, and he nearly leaves it there, but—

Sayo, it reads, followed by a string of numbers. Ten of them, to be exact, grouped two, four and four.

Ah. Heat flares where his collar rests at his neck. A phone number. That’s…persistent.

He stands up, skin tingling the same way it does in battle, but there's no curse energy to blame. Only the strange beat of his heart, and the even more foreign sensation of heat beneath his collar. He paces the kitchen, once, twice, trying to expend the tremble in his muscles, to still the half-formed thoughts racing in her head, and--

And with a delicate swipe of his hand, he guide the paper into the bin. Sayo, it still reads, and a number after it. Right there, on top of all his rubbish.

Nanami turns away, taking the plate with him. He’ll eat on the couch tonight.

[copperbadge]

I was making breakfast and listening to an episode of Just King Things this morning, which is a podcast I do recommend -- two very smart English teachers are reading the books of Stephen King in publication order and discussing them. This could go extremely awry except they're both highly conscious of his failings as well as his skill, so they do really well handling a lot of his less salutatory content.

They've hit the point in King's ouvre (this episode was about Hearts In Atlantis) that follows his recovery from the car accident that very nearly killed him, where he was struck by a van while out walking. One of them pointed out that it seems as though he came back from nearly dying determined to write the wildest shit imaginable and only write what he wanted, which struck a chord in me this time despite having listened to this episode before. Perhaps because I was thinking about my own writing and where it's going in the short term (there are a couple of short stories I want to do that I don't quite have a way into yet). I generally don't think about the drift of my creativity in the long term because when I do I usually draw the wrong conclusions.

I don't really classify my life, the way some people who've had high-impact injuries do, as before-TBI and after-TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury -- the fairly severe concussion I had in January of 2020). For one thing, given I had to cancel a trip to NYC because of it, it may have saved my life; I almost certainly would have caught COVID as someone with known lung issues in New York at the time. For another, the TBI was way scarier to almost everyone else; for me it was just one more dumb injury I gave myself and I didn't even remember most of it so it hardly registered. I used to open the story of it with a joke about waking up not remembering going to bed the night before, but nobody ever found it funny.

It's true that there are changes it wrought in my life, though. Even practical stuff like making sure my living space doesn't have tripping hazards and continuing to wear a fitbit even though I don't really need to (the fitbit told us, the morning after, exactly when the concussion happened, because it registered a heart-rate spike when I fell). For weeks after, I had to move slowly and put off making important decisions because I couldn't trust my physical or intellectual judgement; I didn't even jaywalk in my own neighborhood because I couldn't be sure I was judging the cars' speeds properly. For about a year after I had periodic post-concussion syndrome which basically just slammed me back into concussion space, which wasn't painful or upsetting but was definitely inconvenient.

And it's also undeniable that my writing shifted after the injury. It's not necessarily because of the injury, since my initial recovery from the TBI and the declaration of quarantine happened at roughly the same time, and anyone who tells you that a years-long global pandemic didn't impact their artistic expression is selling you a line. But the last thing I wrote before the TBI was the first draft of Six Harvests, and aside from the Six Harvests publication draft, which had fairly minimal changes, almost all that I've written has been blue-sky, light-hearted, PG-rated romance. It's been on my mind that I've been writing different subject matter from what I used to, but the timing of it didn't strike me until just recently.

I don't mind, really. I love fandom and I support fanfic in whatever expression it comes, but I'm also happy writing my own stories. While I'm aware it's been years since I've meaningfully written fanfic, it doesn't bother me per se, as long as I'm writing. It bothered me much more when I could write fanfic but not original fic, especially in those last few awful months at my last job. I'm proud of the literary and non-genre fiction I've written in the past, but it's also much more trying and frustrating to write at times, so I'm enjoying having a different sort of challenge that feels more fulfilling in the process. I'm sure at some point I'll go back to literary fiction -- there are ways in which it's hard to avoid turning the later Shivadh novels into literary fiction, being honest -- but for now I like what I'm writing, and I'm writing primarily to please myself and without regard to what's necessarily rational or linear.

Just struck me, is all, that it's by far the most noticeable major shift in my work. I do sort of wonder what will be next.

[court-jobi]

Unsee

((Banner by me! I don't own Horikoshi's work/characters))

Pairing: Bakugou x reader (biker!prohero reader, afab pronouns used)

Words: 5.1k

Rating: T+

Warnings: CH 362 SPOILERS, Pro-Hero! Bakugou x reader, angstttt, HURT/COMFORT, light PTSD, anxious stomach/vomiting, discussions about death, lots of comfort, est.relationship and lots of softness + trauma sharing

Summary:

When you love someone, you love their past, present, and future selves-- even if you were not part of their story for the hills and valleys that have made them who they are. This was the way of heroes: risking it all, even to death. You should know this threat by now, as it's the life you make for yourself as well-- but it's so much harder to keep the mentality when it's your loved ones on the line. You learn the extent of one of the biggest trenches in Katsuki Bakugou's life, and it shakes you to your core.

A/N: since I first envisioned my lil biker! reader, I've had this exact interaction on loop in my head. Making it the internet's problem now. apologies in advance for the feelings I've dumped in this fic. Signed, "Bakugou would hold your hair back" Club President

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on Ao3

Weekday mornings pass by generally uneventfully nowadays, leaving you with not much to do except to wait for calls for hero pickups when the shifts change over. It makes you feel like a bit of a taxi service, but the relaxed vibe makes up for the emergency response times you’re faced with in the dead of night when you get a message from the on-call line. 

After a brief stop by your office space to glance at your inbox, you take a lap around the Service Lab in order to catch up with Hatsume. 

There’s no one better fit to upgrade your helmet models and even take a special interest in how to bulk up your hero costume in order to protect you better. That’s a revolving topic from Bakugou’s lips as well, so your bringing up the idea wasn’t a foreign one– a revelation that touched you, deep under the professional front you keep here in the office. 

Hatsume is highly sought after nowadays. Time in her own lab is where she should be calling home, but given her sporadic interest in all things support tech, she has been prone to taking outsourced Technical Outsource calls for nearby agencies– especially when said agencies employ her dear old schoolmates. 

When you join her today, she’s busy talking shop and ropes you right into the conversation by pulling you right into her personal space. As far as subject matter, it’s hit or miss if you can contribute anything to the conversation, though today you’re pleased to see that she's in full ‘Dynamight’ mode. 

A favorite topic of yours– and of all the tech assistants in the room. Mei, however, holds a far more casual opinion of Bakugou out of familiarity. They’re hardly on a first-name basis as you are, but hearing her peel back details about the larger-than-life sweetheart of yours is both fun and enlightening to hear. 

Through your visits with her over the last year or so, you’re still not one hundred percent sure she actually knows what he means to you, because she barely looks you in the face as you cut your attention over old footage of him across all of her schematics monitors. Had she studied you as much as she studies Bakugou’s shoulder cannons, she’d spot your particular brand of appreciation by the tracing of a finger on your lower lip. 

"Yeah it's kinda nice sometimes to jump back to basics with Blasty,” Hatsume drifts into a relaxed state back at her table, “Simple fixes like this -darn thing- hmmmthere we go!- Yep, some things never change! Always smart to figure out how to store more sweat, defer more exhaust. Lil harder now that it used to be, having to worry about the magnets."

“Magnets,” you throw in a word, catching up to her thought process, “What, on his belt?”

“No, those clip into place! The way he complains about ‘em with his gloves though, I should probably look into making them easily detachable, too.. But no, I mean the ones he used to have across his chest, back when we made the first suit edits at UA: Year Three,”

Hatsume keeps a long, archived track record with Bakugou, if her nearby drive bogged down with version files is indication of how many changes she’s made to his hero costume and support items…

“-- because we were trying to offload weight from his arms, I tried to strap ‘em to his torso. Only we learned pretty quick the strength of magnet grade was affecting the charges where it was hitting along his chest.”

"Charges–” you pay more attention now, inspecting what she’s doing. Hatsume doesn’t look your way, but is listening, “In the grenades?" 

Do they go off at any second?? You assumed Bakugou’s smaller bombs were pulled in traditional fashion with a pin, as you’ve seen him use them in action firsthand. Hatsume has hard work, if she’s having to check each and every one of those, too…

"Oh! Haha no!" she chuckles brightly, "Sorry hun, shop term: ‘electromagnetic charges’! Each baby bombie has them, even when they’re not in use– but they don’t go live unless triggered. But in the rare event of a preemptive ignition, I didn’t want the chain reaction settin’ off his heart! Couldn’t use the strap anymore after that hoo-hah; too close to the loop device in the ‘ole ticker~"

Now that she’s talking organs, you start to get a pang of nerves. 

You know Bakugou’s quirk is biometrically dangerous, but till now, you’ve not worried about the risks it would cause him in that way. Even more, you didn’t know of any internal monitoring device he’d have to check for that sort of activity. Bakugou went to the doc here in this building, when he’s in too rough shape to handle himself. But beyond that, you’re stumped.

"Whyyyy would that matter? What’s inside him, again?"

Hatsume handles the internal wiring of Bakugou's cannons with ease-- now that nothing is connected to an active, explosive vial of sweat. With her outfitted eyes set on the tiny soldering work, Hatsume's got Bakugou’s chart up and briefly  flicks it over to the shared screen. 

"'Dat one, 'hurr," the a teeny tool in her teeth drops at her need to speak, "I pull a read on his heart monitor whenever I come around to keep tabs on things- same as the core staff here does! Works like a charm with the new heart, now that he's had time to build up muscle around it~"

You look for yourself at the screen as she chatters-- and are horrified at what you find there in a continuous crawl across the screen.

Can't move. You can't breathe. 

Can't understand how the hell Mei is still talking with such pep in her voice, when these pictures are taking nearly all of your composure away:

Nothing in your career prepared you to see stills of Katsuki lying stock still and caked with blood. 

You're pale as the ghost you're looking at– as gutted as he is in this photo: frozen in time. The archive thumbnails are mostly drone footage, but this much you can see clearly- and wish with everything in you that you could unsee it.

The reference photos on his hero account don't show the extensive medical layover you see here in his technical file. You run through every tiny detail in the stills above you on the screens. 

He's incredibly young. The soil around him, plants barely peeking out from the battle-torn ground; it's gotta be the big fight he rarely talks about. It's where he's got certain scars across his arms, chest, and the one cutting across his face; that much he's told you. They’re scars you’ve kissed and shown love and care for in his quietest moments, in which he felt the need to tell you why they stand out more than the others. In that much, Katsuki was honest… but not enough about this.

He never once mentioned organ replacement. 

He's never told you his arm was torn to shreds by his own doing. 

He never told you he’s living his second chance at life at the expense of another Pro Hero he’d never mentioned either--well, third if you could the brief blip while he was on the operating table after the battle. Didn't flatline for very long, according to these surgery notes, but still...

Surgery notes. Plural. There's many here. Wires sustain his oxygen and bloodflow, putting color back in his face. There's streaks across his cheeks- marred with tracks of soot and old blood, mixing with what must have been tears of pure exhaustion and rage and resolve. Yours sting at your own lash line. Every nerve ending clams up in your body: worse than the wreck that almost put you out of commission.

In your mind, Dynamight’s professional headshot is a flat, grumpy one. No smile to be found, but at least there's a spark behind the eyes.

He's not dead. 

He literally brought you a can of coffee this morning. 

He stopped you from getting up from the dining table too soon, needing to turn the clasp of your necklace around first because it was 'pissing him off'.

You know he's not dead– but you wish you'd never set foot in this room.

That old coffee's turned to lava in your gut.

"And these boots of his– they make too much noise! Talk about stealth-”

"Scuse- me, Hatsume.."

"--I know he’s not necessarily a known stealth hero, but– hey, when did she leave??”

He may not like how slick they go on when applied, but Bakugou had to admit it, these counterirritant patches were the best dang thing to ever happen to his shoulder blades. Menthol flooding his senses by heat activation, he was feeling better already after his first catch of the day.

After getting the note from Hatsume that his gauntlets were ready to pickup from R&D, he traipsed into her room while texting you. Just a short n’sweet message, hoping that he’d be able to cross paths with you before he’d need to go out again. The messenger app showed you were active within a few minutes ago, but you haven't responded to his messages.

He comes in, half listening to Hatsume’s rant to the staff technicians once again. He catches sight of his file, streaming up at the top of her video wall.

"Ugh, this again?” Bakugou barks out, “What am I, a sideshow to you science freaks?!"

"Hardly when we're the ones you need, Blasty," Hatsume huffed his way, "and besides, I think you better watch who you're talking smack to about this stuff anyway! And it wasn't online for my freaks, anyway. They know your work orders inside and out~ you should be nicer to them!"

You tell him as much, in his more crotchety moments… and you are always right. 

Bored of the medical records, he turns to his completed support items out on the reception table, "Then what're you blasting all this shit for? Haven’t had any arrhythmias for months."

“Just because you haven’t had any doesn't mean it’s not a good idea to circle back and check. We can learn plenty from stable periods, just as much as emergencies, ya know!”

Bakugou simply rolls his eyes, throwing a grumbly word of thanks to the technician who brings over the case for said equipment, and starts packing it into place. 

Hatsume slips her goggles up her face. Trying to read the Pro Hero before her wasn’t a hard task; he usually deflects when his weaknesses are on full display. 

"You want my advice Mr. Murder God?” Hatsume turns more solemn– an attitude she rarely radiates. 

“Sounds like you’re gonna give it anyway.”

“I think your teammates outta know what all's happened to you, cuz it sure isn't obvious to everyone. ‘Specially the ones who hang around you all the time… I think it’d be smart if they kept an eye out any emergencies, too- like your transport queen around here– Joyride, isn’t it?"

Katsuki flinched. He turns back from the table -past Hatsume- and centers back up to the full view of the record up on her computer. 

He’s not so irritated by its presence anymore… but rather worried about how long it’s been up there, in full view of the room.

"...She saw all this?..."

"Mmmmyea, pretty sure?" Hatsume was already engrossed in her current project, "Was in the middle of your pieces when she came by. She normally doesn’t as so many questions, but she sure was today till she-”

Kaminari slides into the lab -winded and nervous as all getout- nearly colliding with the reception table altogether. He almost hit Bakugou square in the face, since the hothead had turned ready to bust out of the room himself.

"Oh geez, (heh) there you are, Bak- (heh) listen-- your girl's barfing her brains out! You know if she's sick or something??"

Bakugou grimaced and seethed at his own negligence-

"fuuuUUUCK," he hissed rounding the table, before he remembered Hatsume- "YOU, DUMBASS-"

"Scuse you???!"

"TURN THAT SHIT OFF, AND WHEN I GET BACK, WE'RE HAVIN' WORDS-- AND YOU-" Bakugou yelled back to Kaminari, carrier of bad news as he was, "WHERE. IS SHE."

"Bathroom by the rec room- but, hey man, it's locked!!"

Bakugou didn’t take time to listen more as he books it down the hall, making a beeline to where you'd be.

Down the hall just a few corridors away, you hadn’t made it far to take your leave. Bakugou approaches where a couple sidekicks hear you coughing behind a door, and are presently failing to be let in. The sound is heart-wrenching, hearing you sick, but he’s in full protective mode and ready to take out the door himself if need be. 

He’s breathing hard, and scares them as he snaps and points harshly for them to move. They do, but not without one of them looking soured that he's getting in their face when they were only trying to help.

Coming to the door, Bakugou tries the handle despite Kaminari’s clear warning that it is indeed locked. He immediately rears up to bang his announcement, but rotates that fist to use just knuckles and taper his knocks down to a reasonable level. He's no less frantic in speech though, calling for you hoarse and breathy -mindful of his audience, only at first-

"Joyride...hon', it's me. Open up."

You're crying on the other side, but gasp when you hear him speak. An urp of a gurgle hits you in the quiet that follows, then another stomach-churning cough.

The rant of expletives that runs through his mind is enough to turn Bakugou’s own stomach... He palms his face for a minute, before letting his forehead drop to the door and speaks again.

"I can't help you if I can't see you, sweet’eart. I… know I got a lot to answer for." 

The chances of him greeting a furyless version of you all gone, Bakugou accepts his fate. 

"-And I figure if you're gonna yell at me, you should do it to my face. Please open the door."

After a sniffle and an incredibly uncomfortable beat of quiet where Bakugou is staring at the doorknob below him -gripping it in wait to open the second he hears the upper safety lock move-... he finally does, the moment you release it.

Bakugou steps in the single stall room -deftly fast- then locks it right up behind him. The girls on the other side fuss again, but he doesn’t give a spare thought to their efforts.

Down on the floor, not even fully sat back yet from your reach to catch the door, you're the most miserable sight. Stuffing a used-up paper towel that’s in reach by your stash, you're folding the unsoiled side to try and clear off your face and blow your nose for good measure.

What's worse, you can't bear to look at him.

With a careful sigh, Bakugou knows he's got a world of explaining to do- but has a greater worry over your slumped self on the tile floor. He’s seen you with the flu, and you weren’t this sick.

"Baby–"

One word and you're crying again, head down into your knees. Bakugou can only imagine what headspace you’re in, and the list of what he thinks he can say to console you is now down to zero. Actions it is, then. 

Bakugou kneels down, swiping your hair back into a rough pony by teething off a hair tie from his wrist to secure it. Just in case you feel sick again, it wouldn’t hurt, he reasons. Once freshened, he takes away your trash bucket next without a word. Collects all the used bits of your attempt at cleanliness into the trash, barely a care for how many there were to clean up. Whatever he’d need to do -whatever you’d allow him to do- that’s how he’s determined to serve.  

Finally, he shifts from a kneel to a sit. The blonde crisscrosses his stance under him, bringing you by both arms to pull you forwards, into his lap. 

At first you're confused at his hands' insistence, but since he's made himself in prime position to hold you, he's glad to see you fall to the open invitation even in a dire time like this. A little shaky, but still you clamber over to his lap on your knees until he can get you settled the rest of the way himself.

Chest to chest, legs astride him, he'd hoped he'd catch a better look of your face as you came over-- but no such luck as you duck your head in. His chance at helping you remains though, as you’re holding him tight around the neck and shoulders and clearly aren’t averse to him. Frightened enough for one day -maybe even a lifetime- Bakugou lets you cling on, and simply holds you tight in return.

All that matters to him is that you're positioned as close as humanly possible. Protected. Safe to cry and ready to just absorb it. He knows it's what he deserves, and considers himself your personal sponge.

To your hiccups making you jump against his chest, he just pets through your hair quietly hushing you to stillness.

"I'm here." He takes a tepid breath. "I’m not there, baby, I'm right here."

You stutter, but simply try to control your own breaths.

"i--... I'm so.. so.. 've never been so upset.."

"I know."

"I feel so'sick.. y’looked–"

The impulse to kick aside that damn puke bucket is raging within him-- but knowing your possible need for it, he brings it close instead. 

"I know, babe.”

He'll get you set before you head out on patrol today. If you ever settle… but for now, he's focused on the one thing he can control, and that’s getting you as comfortable as possible.

From here, you can't look at him, but you can look straight ahead- which shows you Bakugou's full back in the mirrored wall. The movement when he breathes, his neck craning as he lowers his head to sink over your shoulder. How you're being held so tightly it shows in each muscle group.

You can't see it, but feel it: cold breath blown from his lips, to comfort onto your heated neck. Bakugou's lifted up your haphazard ponytail, trying to introduce some cool touch to you in this small space.

You gather it's an apology, done his way-- seeing as he's unintentionally created this catastrophic response in your body.

As you've told him in your most private moments, you've only really felt this raw outlash of emotion in the workplace once before: the day you found out your sweet brother in arms, T’challa, passed away so expectedly. You suppose that's why this is jarring you so strongly now; losing him was the first major loss in your life, years before you met Bakugou.

This is so different, but all the same. A core figure in your support system- your inner circle– here one minute and gone the next. This was the way of heroes. You should know it by now, but it still breaks your tender heart. Even looking at snapshots of Katsuki at his lowest has you heartbroken and shocked.

You're a dichotomy of strength: tough enough to ride headfirst into a mission, but also prone to such intense emotion in your most private moments that you retreat into yourself and deal with an anxious gut all by yourself. Anything to protect the image you keep.

Only today, that exterior means nothing to Katsuki. Not when he alone can try and hold you back together while you try and fix yourself enough to speak coherently.

He's been holding himself together solo for far too long, too; you’ve known this from the first day he out and out confessed ‘I’m bad at this’ when he asked to simply hold your hand in public. You can feel it in your conjoined breaths, cycling back and forth for comfort. He’s unsettled, too– his new heart’s going far too fast.

“Did you actually die out there?” you manage in broken whispers. 

Tell me I just thought the worst.

“... I did,” Bakugou answered calmly, “But I didn’t wan’ you to see how. Not alone.”

“Would you have shown me? Ever?”

“Doesn’t exactly come up at the breakfast table, angel.”

‘But it should have by now.’ 

Bakugou senses the retort and simply pets through your hair again, another apology written by touch. 

“But… I coulda picked any other time, by now. You know everything else. I swear.”

Everything meaning injuries, you hope to God… “No more?”

“No more surprises. I promise.”

Secure enough to take a deep inhale, you try to lift your sights heavenward. 

Such a sobering thought you have to operate in on the daily, knowing hero work is among the deadliest professions. You could lose your best friends at any time, anyone you love. In that vein, you are trying your best not to be selfish with your need for Bakugou’s safety…. Yet you still hold that small hope that as long as you have each others’ backs, you have a shot at staying ahead and staying alive- together. 

Back then, you didn’t know each other. Katsuki Bakugou lived an entire life before he met you, one you were still learning.

"I didn’t know how bad it was for you…” you remember the site of the attack, what surrounded him- or rather, what didn’t. So much of that battlefront had been laid low. That told you as much as the injuries, how bleak everything looked.

Bakugou takes a centering breath himself. His grip on you never lessens. 

"It was the worst day of my life,” he shares, “I fought the world's greatest villain. Almost watched my hero die… Almost lost my best friend, all on the same day. Bad memories all around, for all of us."

Memories that seep into sleep.

"S'that what you dream about? When it gets bad?"

Taking the shot at Shigurake, sent flying back by his own ricocheted blast, giving it all- fruitless as it might have been in the moment when every bone in his body felt like it was bleeding out of every pore. 

You know somewhere in that event, the best friend Katsuki speaks of must have been on the brink of death in an emotional full-circle moment, for he never speaks ill of him in all the ways that matter. He’s a dork, but he’s his dork. You identified their relationship as special from the moment you’d met Izuku Midoriya but… in a deeper way than you’d found the words for yet. They’re twin stars, bound by something stronger than you even think you share with Katsuki some days. Or maybe it’s just different– not one bond that’s better than another. 

You've heard him waking in a panic those nights: how he calls for Izuku, and wakes up in tears. Even in recent months, he doesn't always explain why he’s crying, only that he wants to bury it for the night… and that you help him do that. 

On the subject of those nightmares, today’s discovery of that era of Bakugou’s past becomes painfully clear.

And so, he answers honestly, "...yeah." 

“That’s so scary, Katsuki. You were so young.”

He feels around with one hand between your crammed bodies- for yours. Your head's still hung over his shoulder, but you crane back to watch what he's doing.

 He puts it in place over his heart, forehead knelt to yours.

"Here. This is me, now."

The heartbeat under your palm is strong- a little fast, at the moment.

"They asked me if I’d do it again, if given the chance. N’for the longest time, I woulda said ‘yes’. That’s what I figured heroes say, in the face of the unknown.”

Before you can let that thought gut you again, you feel Katsuki press his thumb in one singular spot: your empty ring finger.

“But I faced the unknown. It was– really light, actually. But all I wanted was more time. I wanted the time to say words. Say more, or- do more. I had to make it right to the ones who mattered. I’m still trying to make it right. And I was given that chance to raise hell, and won. So when I see that shit, I’m grateful. I’m stronger now because of what happened then.”

You look to his face now; the older, stronger, seemingly immovable version of that younger self that still makes its appearance when he’s more pensive. He is still stuck on the look of his thumb where your third knuckle should be…

“Looking at it today though, there is more that war gave me than just making me the hero I am now.”

You press into his heart, “What’s that?”

“If I’d stayed dead,” he treads carefully, “I wouldn’t have you. I wouldn’t have someone who– cares for me, like you do. Who would care about that shitty kid who just barged ahead, even with warning signs going off everywhere.”

With a raise to kiss your hand, Bakugou lets his voice go raspy.

“You looked at that idiot and threw up- all because you cared,” he sniffs with a laugh, “Got a second chance at life, and got a complete knockout who gives a shit about me.”

Abrasive but honest; you laugh in full force. The odd thought passes you: why people watch gory, scary movies for ‘entertainment’ makes no sense to you. If they want horror, just take a gander at a pro-hero’s medical file. 

You cradle Katsuki’s head in for good measure and lay an appreciative kiss on his head. 

“Of course I give a shit,” you say hoarsely, “tho I prefer to say things like that with honey than vinegar, Kats.”

“Yeah, I know ya do… I count on it.”

When you hug him now, it’s a gentler connection. Bakugou still rubs his hand up and down your back, but out of affection instead of dire comfort. 

Finally you feel assured enough for now: you reconciled his past enough to have confidence in his present. He’s bold and never short of giving his all, but to know he acknowledges this living on extended time and has a unique appreciation for the cornerstones around him gives you calm again. 

Bakugou truly is your hero– who you know will drop everything to make sure he protects what’s closest to him first and foremost. 

When you sniffle and lick at the corner of your mouth, it still tastes sour and you finally register a pang of self awareness. You have to smell foul talking so close to him right now.

“I shoulda thought about gum or something..-sorry.”

“Would you stop,” Bakugou droned, taking out your insufficient ponytail now that you finally seemed settled, “I’m with you just about every morning the second you wake up, and I don’t give a fuck.”

Sweetly you silently thank his efforts with a sweet nod to how he put the hairtie back on his wrist. “Still, don’t mean to make it your problem.”

The hint of a smirk starting to come back to his face, you couldn’t completely eradicate his worry with one little bat of the eyes. 

“You are my problem. One I’m happy to fix up when I break it. We’ll get you freshened up when you’re ready. And only when you’re ready.”

You notice your position now on the floor of this bathroom and find it endearing how he managed full cuddle mode in such limited space. Surely the locked door was the straw that secured this.

But the knock was sure to halt it–

“Hey man, leave them alone!-”

“Um, hey ‘Joynamight’?~” Kaminari tested from the other side, “Haven’t heard any hurling in a while, are y’all good?”

“We’ll be GOOD when I SAY WE’RE GOOD!” Bakugou fired back, “HOLD YOUR DAMN HORSES, SPARKPLUG!”

Muting all laughter at the old school rivals was a challenge, but you did so while trying to gracefully detach from your loving partner. He let you with a steadying set of hands to yours to help push yourself up. You offer him steadying arms to pull him back up as well before putting your trashcan back to where it belonged. 

A rinse of your mouth later, you fan your face as best you could in a last-ditch effort to look like you haven’t been bawling like a baby. While he awkwardly stood to the side to give you a minute, you caught Bakugou thumbing at his waterline, too, with a stiff upper lip to get himself back in business. 

Once you rejoined him for a last hug, he readily accepts you with a rush of kisses to your forehead– just how you like it. It’s the mushiest he gets with you physically– guaranteed to get you back to your happy-go-lucky self. Once done, he smirks back at you pleased, petting your hair perfectly back into place. 

“You good?”

“I’m good~”

“OKAY, WE’RE GOOD, SHITTY HAIR!”

“Hey I was the one tellin’ him to lay off you guys!!”

“YEAH AND I CAN HEAR YOU SNICKERING FROM HERE.”

“Damn, for a guy with hearing loss, he sure can pick you out pretty well-”

Bakugou finally swings the door open, pissy as usual, “I HEARD THAT!!”

While Kirishima and Kaminari jog on, Bakugou pockets his hands and holds back for you. Once you exit, you figure you better brave a trip to the kitchen and make a round 2 of breakfast. 

“Something easy, ok?” he warns gently.

“I will. Won’t go fainting on ya~”

Knowing you’ll be on the roads later, Bakugou will impress a stable diet on you more than most.

“And no coffee.”

“Well, tie my hands completely, why doncha, Dynamight?” you sigh dramatically in the doorway.

He takes your chin in a bossy move, “Hey- m’lookin’ out for you, dummy.”

He sounds gruff and looks like he means it in the coolest of ways… but you hear everything in between the fussy brows and piercing eyes:

I care about you-

I’m sorry-

I know you’re this way because of me-

Never again-

Find me if you need me-

I love you- I love you- I love you-

“I know you are, Blasty~”

“UGH, she’s still calling me that shit too?!” Bakugou recoils further, shooting daggers down to the Tech Room, where he knows Hatsume is the one who fed you that old nickname.

You giggle as he stomps away, but he still throws back a last threat that you need to drink a fucking water before you go the fuck anywhere.

[lathalea]

Entangled 4/10

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Dwarf OFC (The Hobbit) Rating: G (subject to change) Warnings: ANGST Summary: Arranged marriages are common among the dwarven nobility. After reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, the Kingdom Under the Mountain needs to be rebuilt. Thorin agrees to marry a lady from the Blue Mountains, securing a mutually beneficial alliance with the Broadbeam Dwarves. Lady Mista is said to be a practical and hard-working dwarf-woman, willing to give him an heir who would secure the line of succession. A decent queen material, his advisors say. If only Thorin could let go of his past… You can find this fic on AO3 (search for lathalea).

A/N: First of all, sorry it took me so long to update this story but your comments and messages kept me going! TRSB and Real Life™️ hit me hard, but I haven't forgotten about this story. In fact, I have a treat for you: an XXL-sized chapter as a thank you for your patience 💙 Special thanks to @legolasbadass and @absentmindeduniverse for your help. You are amazing and you made this chapter so much better than it originally was! 🤩🙏💙 -*-*-*- KHUZDUL: ‘Urdêk - ereborean variant of Lonely Mountain (referring to the Halls within the mountain) Nadad - brother Nan’ith - little/young sister Zabdûna - the Queen Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain Khagal'abbad - Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains Azsâlul'abad - the Lonely Mountain (both the mountain and the dwarven kingdom known among Elves and Men as Erebor) Tumunzahar - an ancient dwarven city in the Blue Mountains rebuilt by the Broadbeams in this story. The Elves call it “Nogrod”. Gabilgathol - an ancient dwarven city in the Blue Mountains rebuilt by the Firebeards in this story. The Elves call it “Belegost”. Thorinuldûm - Thorin’s Halls, the settlement of the refugees from the Lonely Mountain in the Blue Mountains Iglishmêk - the sign language widely used by all the dwarves -*-*-*-

✨ Chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4... ��� Entangled Masterlist

Thorin opened his eyes with a gasp. That cursed dream again. Those eyes…

Several deep breaths helped to banish the haunting afterimages from his mind for good. Deep inside the Mountain — much deeper than the Royal Chambers — the mine bell struck eleven times. One hour before noon. It was later than he expected.

Thorin’s head was pounding, and the bitter aftertaste of rowanberry brandy in his mouth made him yearn for a mug of water. Slowly, he rose, noticing that he was not in his bed but in his armchair, still wearing some of yesterday's clothes. His finely embroidered undershirt and similarly adorned trousers — now crumpled. Parts of his wedding attire. His wedding.

He truly needed a drink.

The only thing he found in his chamber was an empty brandy bottle that lay forgotten on the floor. For a moment, Thorin wanted to ring for a servant, irritated at the fact that he slept so long — and his usual breakfast tray was nowhere to be seen. Had they overslept in the kitchens as well? What could have been so important that… Of course. His wedding.

He grunted. There was not going to be any breakfast tray and no servants. Not until he rang for them, at least. No one would disturb him in the morning after his wedding night. Frowning, Thorin managed to recall that a celebratory dinner was scheduled later that day — not only for the people of ‘Urdêk, but also for the whole royal family and the family of the bride. His wife.

Thorin ran a hand down his face. He was a married Dwarf now. A husband. Years and years ago, in another lifetime, that thought would have made him enormously proud — and happy. And yet, on this very morning, the only thing he felt was that bitter taste in his mouth — and shame; his foolish dreams of youth long forgotten. The weight of a new braid in his hair, the marriage braid, was not a symbol of perfect, eternal love he had foolishly envisioned as a youth. This braid only denoted the contract between the two dwarven houses: the Longbeards and the Broadbeams. 

A memory from the previous day appeared in his mind: pale, small, pale fingers nervously sliding through his hair, braiding a pattern that was unfamiliar to him. The personal pattern of the lady who now occupied the adjacent bedchamber — Lady Mista. The woman he had barely met and knew nothing of. His wife.

He should have felt something about this image, anything — sadness or perhaps the satisfaction of yet another duty he fulfilled as the King; hope or disenchantment. There was nothing — only a gaping hole deep inside him where his feelings should be. He stared with disappointment at the empty brandy bottle in his hand, and placed it on the table beside him with a clank. 

Perhaps everything was as it should be. His was an arranged marriage, after all. The Kingdom Under the Mountain needed an heir to the throne. The future and prosperity of the realm depended on it. It was Thorin’s duty to fulfil, and time was of the essence. As the ancient scriptures stated, only the firstborn son of the firstborn son — of the current king — had the right to the throne of this realm. The Book of Law emphasised that it had to be the direct descendant of Durin — as the line remained unbroken since the beginning of time. If the direct line was to be lost, the next in line was the second son and his progeny. Thorin closed his eyes and Frerin’s kindred face appeared before him — and quickly disappeared. That future perished more than one hundred and forty years ago beneath the East Gate of Khazad-dûm before it even had a chance to come to fruition. As for the other possibilities… they were just as painfully non-existent.

“Is there truly no legal way to name Fili or Kili as my heir apparent, Master Maldur?” Thorin crumpled a piece of parchment in his hand.

“I am afraid not, Sire.” The elderly scholar adjusted the emerald pince-nez on his nose. “They are both the sons of a daughter of Durin.”“Besides, since Fili is married to Lady Fridvi of the Firebeards. According to the treaty between our houses, their firstborn child will rule in the Blue Mountains,” added Balin with an apologetic smile.

“Aye. Even if it’s a daughter,” Thorin said and added, as if to himself, “I have always thought the Firebeards to be more sensible when it came to the laws of succession.”“Yes, well, Your Majesty…” Master Maldur cleared his throat in ill-disguised disapproval, shuffling some parchments in front of him. “The Longbeard laws, however, clearly state that if no male heir is procured by the current king before his 200th birthday, the next Dwarf in line — albeit one who is not a direct descendant of Durin — would be the grandson of your Grandfather’s brother, Grór, the firstborn son of his firstborn son, Nain, your…”

“I do know the lineage of my cousin, Dain Ironfoot, quite well, thank you,” Thorin remarked curtly. Genealogy, lineages, and recounting endless familial connections always made him irritable.

“And hypothetically speaking, if your revered cousin was not there to claim the crown of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, may Mahal give him long life,” Maldur spoke in his hoarse voice that made Thorin think of crumbling stones, “the next in line would be, of course, Lord Balin, the firstborn son of Fundin, the firstborn son of Farin, who, in turn, was the firstborn…”

“Thank you, Master Maldur.” Thorin nodded to him, having heard enough, and then turned to the firstborn son of Fundin. “Balin, how would you feel about becoming the next king?”

“I would rather not. Unless you and Dain plan to drink your way to the Halls of Awaiting together anytime soon?” Balin chuckled, shaking his head. “I have other plans, laddie, and besides, I’m not getting any younger.”

“And yet your wit is as sharp as it was one hundred years ago,” Thorin offered him a half-smile.

“Your Majesty, may I take this opportunity to point out how crucial it is that a direct descendant of Durin sits on the throne of Azsâlul'abad?” The frown on Master Maldur’s forehead deepened. “Additionally, the unfortunate discord between Your Majesty’s Grandfather and his brother, Grór, is vividly remembered by your subjects. Sadly, because of this, Lord Dain is quite an unpopular personage here. Not a favourable position to be in for a prospective ruler. If such an event were to happen, of course.”

“Of course.” Thorin sighed. “Any more ideas, Balin? Lord Bori?”

Balin slowly shook his head.

“May I remind you, Your Majesty, that we have received several offers of alliance through marriage?” said the white-haired chancellor, who — until that very moment — remained silent. Lord Bori always picked the perfect moment to strike.“Very well.” Thorin stood up, signalling that the meeting was adjourned. “It seems that we have run out of heirs. Balin, would you be so kind as to discuss the matter with my sister? I entrust you both with choosing a suitable royal consort for the King Under the Mountain.”

A thud brought him out of his reverie. It came from the adjacent bedchamber. Thorin heard two distinct voices, although he could not quite make out the words. It must have been Lady Mista discussing something with her maid, he suspected. He clearly recognized the soft lilt of his spouse’s voice, so characteristic among the Broadbeams. Perhaps she was readying herself for the day, as he should as well. Thorin was about to ring for his servant when a resonant voice reached his ears despite the thick door between their rooms.

“Why doesn't it surprise me, Mista?!” The voice was definitely feminine. “You had one job…” “Let me explain…” That was Lady Mista speaking. Thorin was able to recognize only one or two words.

“There is nothing to explain!” The first voice returned. “It was your wedding night, for Mahal’s sake! Couldn’t you have made an effort? Just look at yourself! For once in your life…”

“Mother, you don’t understand, I…” Lady Mista’s words trailed off. She sounded tense.

The pounding in Thorin’s head intensified. He glared at the door.

“Have you forgotten how hard your father and your uncle worked to achieve this?! Is that how you repay your family, Mista? By ruining everything? On the very first night?”

Without thinking, Thorin placed his hand on the door handle and pressed. He had heard enough.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he demanded.

In the silence that filled the room, just after he stepped into Lady Mista’s bedchamber, he saw Lady Mista sitting in her bed. Her face was as pale as the bed linen, her eyes wide, and her quilt pulled up to her chin. She looked at him as if she wanted to disappear underneath it. With her hair tousled and her slightly skewed spectacles, she looked more like a defenceless young maid than an adult Dwarf-woman.

Next to her bed stood a corpulent red-haired matron in a fashionable green-and-gold gown, her hair immaculately dressed, her neck and wrists adorned with elegant jewellery, her fisted hands resting against her hips.

“Your Majesty.” The matron executed a customary curtsy, offering him a sweet but artificial smile. “What an honour to see you in my daughter’s bedchamber. I believe…” “Lady Milva.” He gave her a curt nod of recognition and graced her with a cold stare. “You will have to forgive me, madam, but I do not intend to reciprocate. I, for one, cannot understand why you would choose this particular time to visit Her Majesty the Queen.”

“Ah, but Your Majesty would surely understand that I wanted to see to my daughter’s comfort on the very first day of her rule.” Her smile widened.

“Do you wish to imply that I am incapable of such a feat, madam?” Thorin hissed.

“Oh no, Your Majesty, not at all!” The matron attempted a giggle. “On the contrary, I believe it is my daughter who failed to see to your comfort.”

Thorin’s head seemed to be pounding even more than before.

“Mother, please…” He heard Lady Mista’s strained voice behind him.

“Enough, Mista, you should be apologising to His Majesty for disappointing him!” Lady Milva turned to her daughter and Thorin decided that he had heard enough.

“My lady, you are disturbing me and my spouse in our private chambers. Only because you are my wedded wife’s mother, My Lady, I am going to ask you kindly.” Thorin hissed. “Leave now.”

Silence filled the chamber for several heartbeats. Lady Milva’s gaze moved between her daughter and Thorin before she spoke again. 

“Very well, Your Majesty,” she replied stiffly, abandoning her insincere manner. “Mista, I will return later, to prepare you for dinner.”

“Is that what you wish, My Lady?” Thorin turned to Mista.

“I… Thank you, Mother,” Lady Mista’s words were a mere whisper as she clutched the quilt, “but I think I will manage on my own this time.”

Her mother stood there for a moment longer, her brow furrowed, and then she replied, “If that is what you wish.”

She made another curtsy to Thorin, and then, in a swift flurry of her opulent gown, she stormed out of the bedchamber.

“Forgive me, My Lord, have we woken you up?” The bedclothes rustled, making Thorin gaze at Lady Mista — the woman he wed yesterday. As she left the bed, he caught a glimpse of her bare feet, so much smaller than his, and so dainty. Her sleeping gown flowed elegantly down her body, hugging her figure and revealing patches of smooth skin that only a husband was allowed to see. Quickly, he looked away. He did not feel like one.

“I was already awake,” he offered, glancing around the chamber. “Have you broken your fast yet, My Lady?”

“No, My Lord,” she replied. “I’m afraid I lost track of time. I was reading.”

Thorin followed her gaze to the thick tome that lay open on the bed. It looked like something from the Royal Library of Erebor, but he did not recognize the cover.

“I’ll ring for breakfast for you then. You must be famished,” he offered. 

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” Lady Mista replied, her words barely audible, like the chirping of a frightened little bird. “Would you… would you like to join me?”

Thorin shook his head decidedly. 

“I am expected elsewhere. The meeting of the Guildmasters is going to be held quite soon,” he was amazed at how easily this half-truth slipped out of his mouth. That meeting was on his general agenda, but no one expected him to join it, not so soon after his wedding.

“Oh, I see,” Lady Mista’s voice wavered, but she continued after a pause. “In that case, allow me, My Lord, to thank you for your… intervention. My Mother can be tempestuous at times, but she means well.”

“Forgive me, My Lady, but her behaviour was out of place,” he said, attempting to ignore the insistent pounding in his head. “You are not only her daughter but — first and foremost — the Queen. No one is allowed to treat you so, no matter the circumstances. No one. Not even her.”

Thorin took a deep breath in order to rein in his temper. He was abrupt, his words far from courteous, but his patience was wearing thin. The last thing he was willing to endure was a lady on the verge of tears, bullied by her own kin. A half-forgotten memory surfaced in his mind: those sobs, that lavish but abhorred wedding dress, and his sister’s words: “You can’t help it, nadad. This is women’s lot in life.” 

This time, unlike that other time, Thorin could help it — and so he did. That was the least he was able to do for this terrified woman. His wife.

He did not find the strength to look into her face once more and see those glossed-over eyes and those trembling lips. Instead, he excused himself under the pretence of procuring breakfast and left her bedchamber.

He found his reward in the form of a full jug of water in the adjacent parlour. Quenching his thirst, he rang for a servant. Katla, Lady Mista’s new maid, arrived soon after. She was one of the maids who worked for their family when they lived in the Blue Mountains. Now, however, Dis decided that Katla was exactly the person Lady Mista would need. The girl was unusually agitated, and as soon as Thorin asked about Lady Milva’s presence in the Queen’s bedchamber, her countenance wavered. 

“Forgive me, m’lord,” she curtseyed, her gaze lowered reverently. “I had no means to stop Her Ladyship, I asked her not to disturb Your Majesties, but she said that she was the Queen’s mother and the Queen would dismiss me right away if Her Ladyship was not allowed to enter, and I thought…”

“Thank you, Katla, I understand,” he said. “You are not going to be dismissed. However, Her Majesty does not need such disturbances. Should someone attempt to storm into Her Majesty’s private chambers without her consent again, do not hesitate to call the guards.”

“Of course, m’lord,” Katla nodded stiffly. “And… Thank you. For not dismissing me.”

“My Mother, the Dowager Queen, always spoke highly of you. Now, I need you to take care of the new Queen in a similar manner. This is her new home, and we need to make her feel like it. Can I rely on you?”

“Always, m’lord.” A hopeful smile appeared on her face. “Does the Queen need anything now, m’lord?”

“She is requesting a hearty breakfast,” he ordered.

“I’ll be right back with her tray! Shall I bring one for you as well, m’lord?”

“No, thank you. I have matters to attend to.”

With these words, Thorin directed his steps to the Royal Baths. Hot water and steam were exactly what he needed at that very moment. A sizable pile of documents waited for him on his desk, but he needed to clear his head first.

***

“Here you are, nadad! I’ve been looking all over for you!” Dis’ voice made him raise his gaze from a parchment.

“Where else should I be?” Thorin tilted his head, observing his sister as she approached his desk. There was only a handful of braids in her modest hairdo — her wavy strands as dark as his own — and she wore a simple day dress. Yet, Dis looked more elegant than many other ladies in their finest gowns. She inherited her noble bearing and facial features from their paternal grandmother, after all.

“Where should you be? Let me see…” she tapped her mouth with her index finger and then asked innocently. “Perhaps with your wife?”

Thorin cursed inwardly. Dis inherited their grandmother’s wit, too.

“If only those trade licences could somehow sign themselves…” he grunted.

“And while you are drowning in parchments, your newly-wed wife is halfway through the second volume of The Golden Age of Azsâlul'abad,” she grunted back.

“The second volume?” Thorin’s eyebrow rose as he recalled the size of that monstrous twelve-volume work. He never managed to make it past the first one.

“Yes. Apparently, Mista finished the first one during lunch. Which she ate alone.” Dis folded her arms on her chest. It had never been a good sign when Grandmother Birgit folded her arms like that.

“I ate my lunch alone as well.” He pointed at a plate with a forgotten piece of dark bread left, half-covered by a couple of documents.

“On the first day of your marriage,” Dis retorted.

“These licences are vital for…”

“Thorin…” His sister rolled her eyes.

“Dis…” He sighed. “You know what I mean.”

“Some things need time,” he heard himself say.

“I know, Thorin,” Dis stepped to him, placing her hand on his forearm. “Of all the people in the world… I know.”

“At least you knew Vili before your wedding,” Thorin put his quill aside.

“Vaguely. While you managed to spend a whole evening with Mista in Tumunzahar.”

“Which apparently happened a long time ago — and of which I remember nothing.” He admitted with a frown and then drummed his fingers on the desk. “Nan’ith, I may have made an utter fool of myself yesterday.”

Dis sat heavily on a chair beside him, “Let me hear it.”

“Lady Mista was convinced that I remembered meeting her at a feast. Apparently, we danced and talked, and she expected me to…” He sighed. “I don’t know. The problem is that instead of playing along with it, I told her that I did not remember it at all.”

“Nadad, I have always admired your disarming honesty, but…” Dis paused and then grinned. “Well, it looks like you have figured it out yourself. You are an utter fool.”

When she elbowed him, as if they were smooth-cheeked youths again, Thorin simply had to elbow her back.

“Thank you, dearest sister. I know I could count on you.” He let out a lukewarm chuckle.

“How did she take it? Is that why you are hiding in here?” Thorin shook his head, “Lady Mista did not seem offended. I’d say she was perhaps… surprised? Disappointed?”

“I would be too if my future husband first sent me a letter in which he spoke fondly of our meeting years ago and then admitted to not remembering it at all,” Dis waved her hand in despair.

“A letter?” Thorin’s frown deepened.

“The letter. Don’t tell me you haven’t read it.” A frown appeared on her face as well. “Balin and I spent half a day composing it before it was sent along with the marriage contract.”

“For which I am very thankful. I have no head for this sort of letters, as you know.” “That was precisely why you were supposed to read it before it was sealed, Thorin.” She rolled her eyes.

“I knew I could trust you with its contents. Dis, we were rebuilding the Forges at that time! I barely had time to eat or sleep; that letter was hardly on top of my agenda.” 

His sister let out a long sigh.

“It is not me you should explain yourself to. What happened, happened. Tell me, do you truly not remember anything from that meeting?”

“This was one of many feasts I was obligated to appear at. Amicable relations with our allies, and all that,” he offered.

“We were there together, you know.”

“Were we?” Thorin searched his memory. To no avail. All those feasts seemed like a blur in his mind.

“Balin was there, too. And Dwalin, I think.” Dis added. “And Mother. She wore that emerald green gown.”

He tried once more. Still nothing.

“There was lots of food, lots of political scheming… Oh, and there were quite a few mothers flaunting their offspring at me and you. Mostly at you, the Crown Prince,” she snickered.

“You have just described most of the feasts I have attended in the past.” He ran a hand over his face. “Every time I felt like game during hunting season. Did I really spend the whole evening with Lady Mista?”

“Quite a bit of it.” Dis nodded. “You were seated next to a matron who insisted on making you dance with each of her daughters — I think she had two or three of them — and then you did what you usually used to do. You disappeared. When you returned, Mista was with you already, and then you danced. That matron, together with her cronies, was of course appalled, because you never even looked at anyone else. And Mista was not even formally out, she was maybe a few years over half battle-age at that time!”

“It seems that I scandalised the matrons of Tumunzahar and nearly robbed a cradle. What an achievement. And I cannot even remember it.” Thorin smiled wryly, although an image or two flickered before his eyes. A handkerchief with his monogram in a lithe hand. Grey-brown hair adorned with pearls.

“At least no one bothered you afterwards,” she put her hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Now, I hope you find a way to make amends with your wife, nadad.”

Thorin gave her a nod, “You and me both. I simply do not have the slightest idea how to talk to her. I feel as if she is afraid of me.”

“We both know that you are not the greatest charmer when it comes to the matters of the heart,” she offered him a smirk. “And neither am I. I can only tell you what Mother told me once. Marriage is like the endless forging of a sword. If you want to make a great blade, you have to keep the fire going, and work the metal every single day. Draw it, shape it, and then keep on tempering it so that it never breaks.”

“She knew her way around the forge,” Thorin admitted fondly. He liked to think that he inherited his bladesmithing skills from their Mother.

“She knew how to deal with Father, too. I took her words to heart, and it worked for me — for us. Vili and me…” Dis cleared her throat. “We had nothing in common — or so I thought at first.” 

A sad smile softened her features, and Thorin covered her hand with his. 

“He was even younger than me,” she continued, “so rowdy and boisterous, and talked only of mountain goat races and throwing knives. Remember how terrified I was when I had to braid his hair?”

“You? Terrified? You were as decorous as Grandma Birgit would,” he said.

“That was because I knew Grandma Birgit would have been appalled if I fainted halfway through the ceremony. You cannot believe how mortified I was before the wedding night!” His sister chuckled.

“You asked me for two pints of the strongest malt beer we had,” Thorin offered lightly. It was good to see her smile.

“I only wanted to take the edge off things!” Dis grinned. “How was I supposed to know you spiked it with Dwalin’s horrible brandy?”

“You weren't. And you and Vili were supposed to drink them together. How should I know he would down them both at once?” He shrugged as if he had not seen it coming.

“I think I was the first bride in the history of Arda who spent her wedding night listening to her new husband’s loud snores.”

“You should talk with Bombur’s Ronja,” he quipped.

“Nadad! I shall not discuss their wedding night with her!” Dis feigned outrage only to burst out in laughter.

“Be glad that you did not hear his snores during the Quest. Every. Single. Night. He even made us think a storm was coming! And once, in the Misties…” It was so easy to fall back on the anecdotes from the past, and Thorin was awarded with another bout of laughter. Since Dis arrived back to the Mountain — their home — for the first time in years, it was easy to make her smile. There was a new spark in her eyes too, one that Thorin saw in countless eyes these days. A glint of hope for their reclaimed homeland they were rebuilding — and for their future. Was the same glint present in Lady Mista’s eyes last night? He could not say.

“Thank you”, Dis startled him, pecking him on his cheek.

“For what?” He met her eyes.

“For many things… like not terrifying your bride too much.”

Thorin swallowed, “What do you mean?”

“You know how you can be sometimes.” Dis patted his hand.

“Are you going to tell me once more that I scare others away with my ‘brooding’, or whatever you call it?” He rose from his chair and looked down at her.

“Not at all! Brooding is not as loud as snoring.” Tilting her head up, she winked at him. “Do you know you sometimes come off as quite intimidating?”

“I have never heard of such a notion,” Thorin let his lip curl up. “Especially from you.”

“What about that agreement you managed to hammer out last week with those stubborn donkeys, the Guildmasters?” Thorin knew better than to offer a reply.

“I heard your voice all the way to the warehouses! And when the Masters left the council chamber, they were meek as lambs, even the fiery Master Karg!”

“I simply reminded them that the world did not revolve around their coin pouches. Loudly.”

“I am glad you made use of it this morning.”

“You heard about what happened,” Of course. His sister had a knack for knowing things that did not happen in her presence.

“A word or two.” “Lady Mista’s mother needed to be put in her place,” Thorin quickly recounted his confrontation with Lady Milva. 

When he finished, Dis pressed her lips in a thin line.

“What a viper,” she huffed. “Now I know why Mista looked so shaken today. But we are in luck. The whole Broadbeam delegation is leaving in a week or so. We will manage.”

“We have managed worse.” He finished the thought, their private saying, one that they used since the vile Smaug ravaged their kingdom. Last time they spoke it happened just before the Quest to reclaim their homeland. Now, both the current circumstances and stakes felt vastly different, and Thorin could not help but wonder — would he manage?

“I must say you did wonders with the Queen’s bedchamber in such a short time.” Thorin admitted in a hasty attempt to change the subject. “It looks quite… comfortable. Especially with that tapestry from Grandmother’s chambers. And to think it survived Smaug almost untouched…”

“Oh, so you did spend some time with Mista after all?” Dis raised an eyebrow, her eyes twinkling. “Were there two pints of malt beer involved or not? Don’t you make that face at me, nadad! This was your wedding night and everyone will jest about it, whether you like it or not!”

Sadly, she was right.

***

Dis’ prophetic words proved true in the evening at the celebratory dinner. It was held in the largest cavern under the Mountain, the Great Hall. It was as tall as several levels of the Dwarven kingdom, making it easy for people to freely join and leave the festivities, catch a glimpse of the royal family or listen to the music while feasting in their local quarters. Thorin remembered that this natural formation in the depths of the Mountain was where all the largest festivities happened when his Grandfather, King Thrór, ruled. He himself did not expect to celebrate his royal wedding in these legendary chambers as well. After all, marriage had not been a part of his plans for the future.

Upon entering the Great Hall, it was difficult not to notice all the lavish adornments he remembered from the day before, countless tables filled anew with various dishes, lanterns and candles that cast their golden glow on the walls, brightening everyone’s faces — and the fact that all the eyes were now set on Thorin and his new royal consort. They were both clad in matching attires made especially for this occasion; every detail, pattern, and jewel on those black, silver, and gold garments was supposed to symbolise the imperishable beauty and opulence of the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Judging by the reactions of his subjects, the newly-wed royal couple made a favourable impression on them. 

Casting a sidelong glance at Lady Mista, Thorin expected to see the joyful or perhaps even triumphant smile of a new queen. Instead, he noticed the strained lines of her face, the paleness of her cheeks, and her bespectacled gaze set somewhere above the heads of the guests. Only the crown over her temples softened the solemn impression somewhat and lent her a regal air. Lady Mista’s palm rested stiffly on his forearm as Thorin led her through the chamber towards the royal table. He could feel how stiff her muscles were, as if she was a wooden doll controlled by an invisible puppeteer.

Thorin made an effort not to look at Lady Mista’s kin, who had already gathered at their side of the royal table. After what he experienced with the members of this family so far, it was not at all difficult to infer what face — or rather, faces — that puppeteer bore. 

That poor, terrified girl. His wife. The new Queen Under the Mountain.

“Our people are curious about you, My Lady,” he whispered just as they walked onto the stone dais where the royal table was placed.

“Oh?” Quickly, she turned towards him, her eyes wide. “About me?”

“They do not know you yet, and many of them are wondering what they can expect of you, their new Zabdûna,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer to her.

“Of… of course I will do my best to care for them,” she lowered her gaze and a blush darkened her cheeks. Then she added, “There is no Kingdom without its people.”

The last time Thorin heard those words, he was barely a youth, and his days were filled with endless studies and training. One of his Grandfather’s sayings — words of Dagur Sture, an ancient philosopher from Khazad-dûm — spoken in the trembling voice of a Broadbeam lady from the distant Khagal'abbad, the Blue Mountains. 

“Indeed,” he said, shaking off the surprise as they both turned towards the guests, an endless sea of faces before them . “Pray, show it to them, My Lady.”

“But how?” Lady Mista blinked, adjusting her spectacles on her nose. “I do not know what to do…”

“Simply greeting them will be enough,” Thorin attempted to say these words with an encouraging smile. “Acknowledge your new subjects.”

Lady Mista nodded slightly and swallowed, lifting her gaze upon the crowd. He felt her right hand tighten on his forearm, but then her left hand rose into the air, and she waved to the gathered crowd. An avalanche of cheers went through the cavern; some of the guests responded to her greeting in turn, their faces brightening.

Thorin chose this moment to greet the gathered Dwarves in the same fashion, enhancing their jubilation even further. All it took was a wave. A simple trick his Grandfather taught him a lifetime ago, but one that never failed.

When he glanced at Lady Mista’s face again, there was a new glint in her eyes and a timid smile on her lips as she took in the enthusiastic response to her gesture.

“They like you already, My Lady,” he whispered, nodding to her in approval and seeing her features finally soften when her lips curled up slightly. A welcome change, he thought. People needed to see their rulers glad, especially on such an occasion. Appearances mattered more than one’s true feelings; he had learned that bitter lesson well.

After the customary welcoming speech — Thorin somehow managed to keep it short — he led Lady Mista to their chairs at the centre of the table, and then the feast began. Soon, he found himself in a lively conversation with Glóin, Dwalin and Lord Taran, Lady Mista’s uncle, discussing the strategy applied in the siege of an Orc stronghold that happened during the Great War. Various pieces of golden tableware turned into numerous units of dwarven troops, a nearby platter with fruit acted as a mountain range, the octagonal brass salt cellar became the stronghold, and leftover pheasant bones served as Orcs.

“What a battle it was! We hadn’t slept for three days in a row!” Glóin announced as the culinary re-enactment of the battle came to an end. “When we were done with the Orc scum, Thorin looked every bit as tired as he looks now after one night with his bride!”

Thorin grunted.

“Aye, he does, but can ye imagine his state after three nights of storming her stronghold?” Dwalin roared with laughter.

Thorin glowered at his friend, who, in response, laughed even harder.

“With such a meek lass like our Mista, he doesn’t have much storming to do!” Lord Taran bellowed, the tattoos on his cheeks stretching in a wide grin.

Thorin clenched his fist. 

Dis threw him a meaningful glance from across the table. We will manage. Mahal, give him strength. Casting a fleeting look at Lady Mista, Thorin saw that she was deeply immersed in a conversation with Balin, who at that very moment patted her on her hand.

“May Your Majesty strike a gold vein quickly so we have a new reason to celebrate soon, a naming ceremony!” Lord Tair, the new Queen’s father, raised his goblet, meeting Thorin’s gaze. “May Mahal bless this union with many children!”

Other cups shot into the air, and the toast echoed across the hall, countless eyes set on the royal couple. Thorin gritted his teeth. This was not a purely well-meant wish, not in Tair’s mouth. The Broadbeam lord, who negotiated the marriage contract himself, alluded to its crucial clause: children from this union meant prosperity for both of their houses. On the other hand, no offspring by Thorin’s 200th birthday meant the dissolution of the marriage, the end of the vastly profitable trade agreements for the Broadbeams, and the end of the direct line of Durin for the Longbeards — and Thorin. The stakes were high for both houses.

Decidedly, Thorin grasped his own goblet and returned the gesture. A quick glance to his left told him that Lady Mista followed his lead, her fingers stiffly holding her goblet’s stem. He felt her eyes on him, but he found himself unable to reciprocate her gaze.

Another toast came after the first. This time, it was Dis wishing the newly-wed couple a long and happy marriage. A couple of toasts full of platitudes followed, and when everyone in the Great Hall drank their fill, conversations returned. Thorin’s sister was talking with Lady Mista now; he thought he heard them speak of a library when a sonorous voice reached his ears.

“Such a match happens once in a lifetime, Lord Balin, wouldn’t you say?” Lady Mista’s mother gave the older Dwarf a charming smile.

“As you say, Lady Milva. And it is a prosperous one, too,” Balin nodded with a twinkle in his eye.

“I am truly overjoyed that I had this idea! I told my husband: ‘Remember that winter feast we had in Tumunzahar, love? The one when Prince Thorin — for His Majesty was merely a prince then — danced only with my dear Mista?’ He only had eyes for her that night! So many mothers had fits of jealousy, because he did not even spare a glance for any of their daughters!” Lady Milva chuckled.

“That must have been quite an event,” Balin admitted. 

Thorin gritted his teeth, acutely feeling the weight of his crown on his head — and the eyes of his subjects on him. Instead of addressing a few curt words to Lady Mista’s mother, he took a large gulp of wine.

“So it was, Lord Balin, so it was! If you only had been there to see it!” She dabbed an invisible tear from her eye. “They danced, and danced, and afterwards my sweet daughter would sigh, and dream away, and ask if Prince Thorin would attend the next feast! So when the Lonely Mountain was finally reclaimed, I told my husband: ‘My love, if you are not going to send that marriage proposal to King Thorin, I am going to take her to Azsâlul'abad myself!’. And do you know what he said?”

Thorin’s old mentor declared, “I have not the slightest idea, My Lady.” 

Neither had Thorin. He refilled his goblet. Beside him, Dis asked Lady Mista a question he did not quite hear, but she received no answer. Lady Milva’s daughter, the new Zabdûna undu ‘Urd, sat unmoving, staring at her empty plate, her lips pressed into a thin line, while her relentless mother kept on talking. 

“Well, my dear Tair said ‘No need to do that, my dearest, for I have already sent the proposal!’. I swear, we act and think as one, is it not so, my lord husband?” Lady Milva turned to her spouse and loudly pecked his cheek.

“You speak the truth, my dove,” her husband replied, running his hand down his thick silver beard braid with clear contentment. “It was a great honour that His Majesty agreed to our offer this time!”

“Oh, hush, my gem, no need to bring that up, it happened such a long time ago,” Lady Milva waved her hand. “It is of no consequence now.”

“May I ask what you mean, My Lady?” Óin put his fork aside and brought his hearing trumpet to his ear. “Is there another layer to this charming love story?”

“Indeed, there is! I can tell you in confidence,” Lady Milva clapped her hands, leaning towards Óin, although Thorin noticed that she did not bother to lower her voice, “that we sent a marriage proposal to Thorinuldûm a few years later, but we were informed that King Thorin was not interested. I must admit that we made a grave error that day! You see, dear Lord Óin, we offered the hand of our daughter Adla in marriage instead of Mista! Therefore, it was not at all surprising that His Majesty was not interested. She was simply not the right daughter! The whole Blue Mountains wondered why he would not marry our Adla — for you must know that she is considered one of the greatest beauties of our clan — nor any other lady for one hundred years!”

“A true mystery indeed,” Óin agreed with a chuckle.

Thorin glared into his goblet. It was not a mystery to him. He clearly remembered the day the first proposal arrived. This missive from Tumunzahar came together with another letter from Gabilgathol, the city of the Firebeard Dwarves. The city he vowed never to return to. The memories he buried on the bottom of his mind, never to revisit. The eyes he would never look into again.

“...so when we sent our second offer,” Lady Milva placed her goblet on the table with a loud thud, “the answer came swiftly. And now — just look at these two, My Lord, and tell me this was not a match carved in stone.”

“May Mahal grant them happiness!” Óin said, lifting his goblet.

Lady Milva did the same, stood up and added loudly, “Let us drink for their long-awaited reunion! Will our royal lovebirds sweeten the toast with a kiss?”

“A kiss! A kiss!” Several voices from among the guests were heard at first, and then more and more of them joined in the chant. “King and Queen! King and Queen!”

What a viper, Thorin cursed inwardly. So that was her revenge. He should have seen it coming. At that moment, he could no longer pretend that he had not heard Lady Milva’s words. Neither had Lady Mista. Their gazes met; her spectacles slid slightly down her nose, uncovering a pair of brown eyes — wide open and terrified.

Thorin leaned towards her, whispering into her ear in order to be heard despite the continuous chanting.

“Forgive me, Lady Mista. This is not how I…” He paused, searching for the right words that did not seem to come. “I am afraid that we may need to make a little spectacle of ourselves, if you do not mind.”

“Kiss! Kiss!” The chanting grew louder, just like Lady Milva’s vicious smile, as people started clapping their hands, stamping their feet, and banging their goblets against the tables.

“I understand. I apologise for my mother.” She signed discreetly in Iglishmêk. Her fingers trembled when she added, “Let us turn it to our advantage and give our people the fairy tale they expect.”

Our people.

“Very well,” Thorin signed back, offering her his hand, palm up, and trying to empty his mind of all the importunate thoughts. With everyone in the Great Hall staring at them expectantly, they had to do it. There was no other way. Lady Mista took his hand, and it seemed to him that in that very moment, a spark of understanding passed between them. This was something they had to do together, something they were expected to do as the King and Queen Under the Mountain. A duty. Nothing more.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The guests continued to chant.

Thorin stood up, waiting for Lady Mista to gather her skirts and do the same. A moment later, they stood, arm in arm, before the gathered crowd, their hands joined. The continuous chanting echoed against the ceiling of the Great Hall when he turned to face her. Their gazes met; in the candlelight, her eyes looked like molten amber. The new Queen nodded almost imperceptibly, her fine hand gave his a little squeeze, and he could not stall any longer. Thorin lowered his face towards her and his nose bumped against hers,  so he tilted his head further, mindful of her spectacles, and let his lips gently brush against hers. 

Her breath hitched, and he carefully moved to press his lips against hers, and she must have stood up on her tiptoes because he met the softness of her lips much sooner than expected, and she smelled, or perhaps tasted, like an apple orchard, sweet and innocent, and—

An enthusiastic storm of cheers washed over the Mountain, drowning all the importunate thoughts of his for a long while.

To be continued...

✨ Chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4... ✨ Entangled Masterlist

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[graciereadshannigram]

hey fam, welcome to the November round up of all my favorite fics i read this month!!

as a reminder: the ingredients for a five star rating typically (but not always!!) include some combination of a.) believable characterizations of both Hannibal and Will, b.) compelling plot and/or character arcs, and c.) high quality smut.

that being said, my judgment of the aforementioned ingredients is powered almost exclusively by vibes and as such, it's incredibly subjective.

you can find past recs below:

February March April May June July August September October

you can now also find ALL of the five star fics in my 5 Star Hannigram Fics collection on ao3 :))))

and if you have any recs of your own for me, PLEASE SHARE.

without further ado, and in no particular order, let's go!

~

WET by agarina_amigara

Word Count: 5652 Summary: the prompt for day 5 of fcktober: "wet"Post-Fall. The water filtration on the boat sailing Hannibal and Will to freedom sucks ass. Thankfully Will is good with his hands. So is Hannibal.

i desperately need more 'Will being good at fixing boats' fics lolol this was so good!!

Only One Night? by onmywayhome

Word Count: 3203 Summary: It had been 20 minutes of him laying down with his eyes closed, still awake. The only thing that caused his eyes to open was the feeling of his psychiatrist wrapping his arm around his stomach. He pulled Will in closer, Will could hear the faint noise of snoring, ‘Is he asleep?’ he thought to himself, he suddenly felt something poking his backside as Hannibal pushed closer. ‘Oh.’-OR-Hannibal and Will have to share 1 hotel room (and 1 bed ;)) which brings out some intense feelings in both of them

oooooooooookay, i saw the "only one bed" tag and blacked out, love love love love. (it's just PWP, what more do you want from me?)

The Corpse-Angel's Blessing by @dbmars

Word Count: Summary: Will Graham is the omegan prince of the kingdom of Gaulemagne. Despite being the eldest child of the murdered king and queen, he cannot take the throne - the crown is reserved for alphas only, and his brother Matthew will rule once he comes of age. In the meantime, Will and beta princess Alana are under the guardianship of the Regent, their father's first cousin: Frederick Raul de Brûler, Earl of Chilton. Gaulemagne suffers under Chilton's rule. Will's only method of resistance is writing anonymous pamphlets about omegan rights and getting them into the hands of those who can affect change. Chilton knows this brilliant omega is trouble, and arranges a marriage for him with Alpha King Hannibal, the sovereign of Eidermark, the last "civilized" kingdom before the Northern Wastes - a tundraland filled with dangerous nomads uniting under the banner of a man calling himself the Great Red Dragon. Will is sold to King Hannibal the Vicious, traded along with a herd of cattle and casks of wine for weapons and armor. He travels to Eidermark determined to stand up for his beliefs and resist any way he can. And yet... there is more to King Hannibal than anyone knows...

this was a TREAT!!! (idk what else i'd be expecting from dbmars though) the tag 'hannigram is very very horny for eachother but they have to wait for the wedding' is what initially got me and wowow.

Safehome by @dbmars

Word Count: 27798 Summary: On the run, Will and Hannibal lay low for a month in a safehouse in rural Iowa.“We could disappear now. Tonight. Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana, and never see her or Jack again. Almost polite.”Will’s mind railed against the words. His resistance was powerful at first, like the failure of a mighty dam holding back a river, the water pounding down to the valley below. No. Of course not. Hannibal had to pay for what he’d done to Abigail Hobbs. Jack Crawford was his friend and on the right side of the law. The plan to betray Hannibal would go down exactly as they’d plotted together.But then...Will opened his mouth to artfully refuse.Instead, he heard himself say, “Let’s go.”This is a finished, polished version of my DoMAYstic 2023 prompt challenge completed with twitter x threads. I was saving it to publish in May of 2024 with more smut and better writing, and then suddenly I realized IT'S JUNE AND I FORGOT TO POST IT.So, anyway. If you're looking for a comfort fic, this is pretty damn sweet. And if you've ever lived in the Midwest, well... you get it.

oh oh oh oh this was so freaking good. it was beautiful, it was poignant, it felt like home (hi hello, i am from the upper midwest), it felt like a hug. i love them so much.

Strangers with History by sourweather

Word Count: 2843 Summary: Will and Hannibal both like to visit a website that allows them to sext with random, anonymous strangers. What are the odds they would match with each other?It had to happen eventually.

I want like… 80k words of Will and Hanni sexting each other anonymously while normal s1 events are happening, you know? Or s2.

Night Terrors by @gnawing-suspicion

Word Count: 2665 Summary: Will Graham wakes up from a sex dream about his therapist. It throws off his whole morning.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH I AM DECEASED THIS WAS SO HOT. the entire series is fucking AMAZING, @gnawing-suspicion bb you're amazing <3

Birthday Wish by Redeye17

Word Count: 5927 Summary: Will makes an impulsive wish and is dismayed to find it granted by the gods of love.-"I feel it's pertinent to ask you what exactly you wished for last night."Will rapidly mentally calculates how to explain the situation. He certainly hadn’t fucking wished to be a woman, but he has to admit that it is perhaps an easier solution to his wish than the logistical hurdles that carrying a baby in his male body would present."I can't tell you. If I do, it won't come true," Will mumbles out against Hannibal’s chest after a moment's hesitation.

DELICIOUS

Quarantined by KatherineKrawl

Word Count: 9102 Summary: En route to Kansas City for a murder case, Hannibal and Will get an urgent call from Jack, telling them to self-quarantine immediately in a small cabin near the woods. Shopping at Walmart, one double bed and no suits will bring them both a lot of 'firsts'.-“Perhaps we could...” and before Will could turn, an arm extended before his chest to pick a bottle from the pile. “...forgo this for the coming weeks?”Hannibal had appeared beside him, and Will saw the cart he was dragging after himself filled to the brim with cans, bags, bottles and packages. Toilet paper, too.Hannibal had been smart rather than stubborn by forgoing the fresh, perishable produce, and Will was relieved to see it. The look in those amber eyes, however, was... haunting.“That's my aftershave,” Will frowned, as he watched the glass bottle with the little blue ship being removed from the basket.

Enough time has passed since those initial days of the pandemic that this was actual perfection. I loved this so freaking much. And the marshmallow bed. Naturally.

responsible, forever, for what you have tamed by multifandom_fanfic_writer

Word Count: 6689 Summary: There was only one bed.

ONLY ONE BED. God, this was perfect.

To Fuel Your Radiance by GoldenUsagi

Word Count: 21340 Summary: AU where Will is the actual Devil. After Hannibal sells his soul, a fascination begins to develop between them. Will is intrigued by the unique monster Hannibal is, while Hannibal thinks Will is the most magnificent thing he's ever encountered. As their conversations continue, their involvement with each other becomes something else entirely.

Oh this was excellent. This dialogue here was TOP NOTCH.

If i went to touch you now (what would you do?) by LumusWinter

Word Count: 1944 Summary: Will tries to make Hannibal jealous. Needless to say, it works. Set during the second half of season 2.

This was hot PWP, love Will Graham being a size queen.

SEMI-BUTLER by TheSeaVoices

Word Count: 23714 Summary: A modern day Master/servant Hannigram AU. This idea came to me whilst working (literally on my hands and knees applying gold leaf) in one of the extraordinary Cheshire mansions I find myself in surprisingly regularly. I am continually surprised by the inexplicably loyal staff managers (nobody ever says the word BUTLER - but they are), proudly servile and selfless.Will inherits such a property in North West England, complete with staff and an interesting sort-of-butler who enjoys his work. REALLY enjoys his work.Also inspired by Jeeves and Wooster which I'm currently re-reading and loving, and all butlers everywhere. Oh, and Men On Edge :)Encouragement, ideas and pointers have really helped, thanks to:@weconqueratdawn@thecountessolivia@zigzagwanderer@aviran007@zacharybosch@fragile-teacup (Mrs_Gene_Hunt)

This was so OOC for Hannibal and Will, BUT i loved them anyway, and the sheer creativity when it came to the smut ramped this up to five stars for me!

Graham Cam by bigfootghostdick

Word Count: 19363 Summary: In nearly every aspect of his life, Hannibal is wholly unabashed in the endeavors he chooses to take on, especially where Will is concerned. At his core, he lives outside the realm of societal norms, so in a twisted effort to learn more about the beautiful empath that has captured his attention so utterly, he decides to install hidden cameras inside Will’s home.Will is blissfully unaware…or is he?

Will Graham showing off for Hannibal on the cameras Hannibal set up without telling Will? God, this was perfect.

It takes four by TheRosetteThief

Word Count: 4893 Summary: Adam confesses that he has a dirty fantasy to Hannibal. Hannibal talks him into letting him help him act it out with Will and Nigel.It's really just shameless foursome smut written for my lovely friends.

okay yes this is technically not just hannigram, but HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA good lord, I think if I could be Adam in this scenario, that would fix me.

The Pleasure Was Ours by wyldefire

Word Count: 4215 Summary: “Hear that, Han? Fucking your boy full. He fucking loves my cock.” Nigel teased, reaching up and tweaking at a nipple, nearly drawing a cry from Will’s lips. “Hush. Go on, Will. What else?” Hannibal replied, unfazed by his brother’s taunts. “And… And… I need… I need more. Fuck, Hannibal, I need more. I need more. Please.” Will begged. “What do you need, William?” Hannibal inquired. “You.”

Once again, not strictly Hannigram but... yeah, I'll see myself out. Trans Will in this was perfect.

A Joy Hard Learned in Winter was the Warming of the Bed by omnilegent

Word Count: 2709 Summary: The doctor took the key and opened the door, revealing a pretty standard motel room. Small en-suite with the light still on, terrible TV leaning precariously off the wall, clean but worn out to almost complete smoothness carpet. And only one bed.Ah.‘Adequate.’ Hannibal sniffed, hanging his coat up and feeling the fluffiness (or lack thereof) of the pillows.‘Yeah?’ Will asked, nervous that Hannibal was going to demand another room out of disgust.‘It’s only a night, after all.’ He gave Will a look, fond with a teasing twinkle that he couldn’t quite understand. ‘Unless you would be uncomfortable?’‘No!’ Will replied all too fast. ‘No. Better than the car.’ He tried to quip, but Hannibal’s smirk grew toothy.‘I assure you, I will keep you far warmer than the car heaters can.’—————The boys get stuck in a snowstorm and have to stay in a motel - but guess what? There was only one bed!

THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED.

Appetites of the Flesh by Magnetism_bind

Word Count: 2902 Summary: Will gets aroused at murder scenes. Eventually this gets noticed.

So this is a thing now for me, I guess!!!

The Business of Pleasure by Magnetism_bind

Word Count: 23888 Summary: Hannibal hires a hooker with the intention of eating him after he’s done fucking him.His plans change when he sees the hooker.

Give me moreeeeeeeeeeeeee.

A Little Unfinished Business by Magnetism_bind

Word Count: 26680 Summary: Ten years later Will Graham returns to Baltimore.

Sequel to The Business of Pleasure. Just as good.

Sweatpants by mattHughdancy

Word Count: 11736 Summary: It's gray sweatpant season and Will wears some for Reasons. Poor Hannibal is having a *hard* time.

Gimme more of the gray sweatpants please. Tbh me and Hannibal are very much on the same page here.

Wringing a Rock Dry by McRibFarewellTour

Word Count: 4556 Summary: (Between S2 and S3)Will’s sick. Sick enough that he’s pretty sure he’s going to die. Aware that winning their game is no longer an option, he decides to change the rules and go see Hannibal in prison.Hannibal does not appreciate this move.

OUCH. I've rec'd this one before, but I did a reread and it is just as good as it was the first (several) times!!!

~

and that's it for this month!! see y'all next month for the December rec list :)

[panic-flavored]

I keep imagining some robotnik superior showing up unexpectedly in his lab and being like "🤨...Wait there are three mermai... *stone kills him*

I plan on writing a fic about this eventually, but I've been short on time lately 😭 Long story short, Robotnik moves Stone to an underwater lab he's been building to save him from being un-alived by the government, and at roughly the same time they find out Stone is pregnant. So fortunately the merfamily is totally safe! Here's a blurb from the WIP of that fic, since it probably won't be posted for a while:

---

The words echo off the lifeless conference room walls and rattle around unpleasantly in Robotnik’s brain. They are not words Robotnik wants to hear, and if he’s being honest, some time ago he’d forgotten that he’d ever have to hear them in the first place.

“Doctor?” Commander Walters offers Robotnik an appropriately concerned frown. “Did you hear me?”

Robotnik clears his throat, refocusing. “No, uh- no. I must have spaced out. Say that one more time for me.” He heard him loud and clear, of course, but he wants to pick through it one more time, see if there are any loopholes or contradictions he can take advantage of to be found in the words.

“Oh, sure… I understand, I’m sure you’ve been working around the clock lately.” Commander Walters says. “I said that if you’ve acquired all the data you can from the living specimen, it’s time to turn him over to the autopsy team. It’s still your project of course, so you can be as involved as you’d like to be going forward. But after six months of research, I think it’s safe to say we can–” here, Walters does that annoying rotating motion with both of his pointer fingers, “--wrap it up.”

Robotnik feels a little bit sick. Furious, mostly, but the sour heaviness in his guts is close to making him gag. Has it been six months already? Back then, this plan didn’t bother Robotnik in the slightest. When he first stormed into the biology lab to assert himself as the project leader, he didn’t care how injured and malnourished Stone was - Stone wasn’t Stone back then, he was the ‘specimen’. Robotnik hadn’t chewed out the pitiful scientists over their subpar treatment of Stone because he’d worried about Stone’s safety, it was because they’d compromised the scientific process. There was no sense in researching a living subject if that subject was too weak and sick to move, after all.

Obviously Robotnik’s opinion had changed rather quickly. He’d been told that the ‘merman’ wasn’t intelligent, wasn’t sentient. That he was mindless and violent. Fools. Almost as soon as Robotnik dismissed the rest of the team, it became apparent none of that was true. Stone quickly proved himself to be highly intelligent, learning ASL almost as fast as Robotnik once had. He was complex, loyal, and terribly interesting. He saw the world so differently than anyone Robotnik had ever met. 

This is a very wordy way of saying that Robotnik fell in love, even if he hated framing it in such a simplistic, childish way.

Stone fell first, to be fair. He’d marked Robotnik, he claimed him, they were mates and now Robotnik is hearing another person say that Stone needs to be killed and torn open soon. It all seems so surreal. 

“You can’t just put a time limit on science, Commander,” Robotnik says icily. “Six months is nothing. I haven’t even had ample time to study his metabolic rate yet, it’s vastly different from a humans–” “Six months was your estimation, not mine,” Walters counters. “When you took over the project, that was your projected timeframe.”

Robotnik inwardly kicks himself. He originally gave himself six months to ensure he had a comfortable cushion of time, but he’d been positive four months is all it would take to collect all the necessary data before passing Stone off to another team. 

“Well if it hadn’t taken two months for the creature to fully recover from what those amateurs did to it before I arrived, I would have been done by now!” Robotnik growls. It hadn’t taken two months for Stone to recover, but it seemed a believable amount of time to a person who isn’t personally familiar with how quickly merpeople heal. “Why do you think I’ve been ‘working around the clock’, Commander? Making up for lost time!”

Walters frowns in consideration, rubbing a knuckle thoughtfully against his stubbly chin. “Ah yes, I remember reading about that in your initial reports. I hadn’t considered how much that may have set you back. In that case, I’ll give you another two months to finish your research, Doctor. Does that sound fair?”

It takes Robotnik less than a second to run the numbers, the estimations and impromptu simulations - yes, he could certainly finish his work in two months. Not the work Walters was expecting him to finish, obviously. Something much, much more important. “Two months sounds more than fair, Commander.”

[bendycxmet]

Hi! How are you? I hope you are doing well <3 I binge-read all of you trigun fics and i loved them, so i wanted to request something too!

How about a Vash x reader where the reader sleeps on him? Vash is listening to them ramble about something and then boom, they fall asleep on him bc hes warm. <3

MY FIRST ASK! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HAPPY THIS MADE ME FOR THE ENTIRE DAY!

i am doing well! thank you for your support! <33

i usually take forever to write a piece, but ur ask inspired me and had me thinking all day on how to go about this. so hope you enjoy this! thank you for the request!

Sweet Dreams

Exiting the bathroom, freshly washed and donning one of Vash’s shirts, you throw your towel over your head, continuing to dry off your head while you peered out into the room. Vash lounged on the motel bed, arms thrown behind him to support his head, lean legs sprawled out and taking up the entire mattress. He was whistling a tune you didn’t recognize, one eye closed while the other surveilled you in the opening of the steaming door. 

“Ya sure you didn’t wanna take a shower? There’s still some hot water left,” you offered.

“Nah, got too comfy waiting here for you. I’ll take one in the morning.” 

He closed his other eye, humming the tune now. He did look comfy. A little too comfy. With his eyes closed, he didn’t see the mischievous glimmer in your eye. The pattering of your feet was his only warning as you dove for him, body landing atop his, an ‘oof!’ sounding from him as your body weight collapsed on his chest. You were cackling at the noise he made, wrapping your arms around his waist as his fingers tickled your sides.

“Not fair! You attacked a defenseless man!”

“Getting comfortable without me, handsome? Ay! Stop it!-” 

His fingers didn’t stop their wriggling assault, only ending when you began to retaliate. 

“Ok, ok! I’m done!” He coughed a laugh out. “Mm, you smell nice. I haven’t smelled this soap before. Where’d you get it?” He twirled a wet piece of hair between his fingers.

“Oh I didn’t tell you! I met this vendor at the market earlier! While you were off looking for your donuts, the smell of the loveliest lavender drew me in.”

Vash hummed along to your story, indicating that his attention was still 100% on you as he played with your hair. He breathed in the calming scent on your skin and hair, allowing it to sway him to sleep slowly. You rambled on and on about how the vendor made the soap, the techniques and oils she used to bring out the herb. 

“But I got her card so we can go back and get you a soap! I do love how you smell Vash, it’s almost like you have a sort of gene that prevents you from smelling bad.” You turned your nose further into his shirt, inhaling the raw smell of him–sunshine with notes of something earthy…petrichor, or something along those lines. It grounded you every time. “But geez, would it kill you to wash your laundry sometimes?! You stink!” you lied, teasing a finger into his chest.

He yelped, abruptly awoken by your harsh jabbing. He grabbed your finger, bringing it up to kiss it, splaying your hand open with his own, observing the size difference. 

“We can do a laundry day tomorrow. I saw the laundromat wasn’t too far off from us, so we can easily carry our loads there.” He sighed, a content smile plastered on his face at the domesticity you two indulged in. He entwined your fingers, bringing it to the side of his face. “That reminds me! I got us donuts for the morning! You should’ve seen the options, I mean. I was in heaven, Mayfly. Powdered, glazed, cake-”

He let your hand go as he gestured in the air, passionate about the change in subject.

It was Vash’s turn to ramble. And once he started on his favorite topic–donuts–there was no stopping him. The deep timbre of his voice held some power. His voice always became deeper late into the night, hinting that he was getting tired; but it seemed to lower your heart rate, lower your defenses and diminish the adrenaline you had from a busy day. The warmth of the day seemed to never leave him, his body heat encompassing the parts of you that touched him. You tucked your legs closer to his body as the coldness of the desert night reached for your feet. 

One of his arms was wrapped around you, hand coming to rest on your shoulder. The other was busy with your arm on the opposite side, fingers lightly grazing up and down. The security you felt in his presence never failed to put you to sleep. 

You hummed one last time, eyes softly closing at his praise for a certain jelly doughnut. You promised in your head that you were only shutting them for a minute. What lies you told yourself.

“But I got your favorite! It might have a bite in it, but I saved the majority of it for you! I know you’ll like it, because I know you, hehe…um. Mayfly?” 

Your soft snores alerted him that you stopped paying attention to his tales of the day. He peered down his nose at you, love clearly painted into his features. Your eyelashes were long from this angle, gently laid out on your sun-kissed skin. Your lips were parted, soft breaths felt on his chest as you breathed in his scent on each inhale and exhaled the minty paste from your nighttime routine. He’s told you plenty of times before, but if only you knew how beautiful you looked in his eyes. 

He felt goosebumps rise on your skin from the chill in the air. He reached down to grab the comforter, pulling it up to your shoulders. You shifted slightly, stilling in the creases of his warm neck that was now heating your cold nose. He giggled at the temperature difference, arms also wrapping around your waist as he settled further into the sheets.

He had to admit, his exaggerated noise and fuss at your sudden dive from earlier was only a ruse. He loved the nights you chose to sleep tucked into his side, but he delighted in the nights you chose to smother him, arms always wrapped around him. He had days to live for with you, but there were always nights to live for as well.

“Sweetest of dreams, Mayfly.”

A/N: side note! i am open to requests! i think they're super fun and it really does get me motivated to write more :)

masterlist

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[ahummingbirdwitch]

Desperate Measures (Cypher x F!Reader)

Summary: On a mission with Cypher, an encounter with a strange plant threatens to get you both into trouble. (In short: Cypher sex pollen fic)

Pairing: Cypher x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5,944

Warnings: sex pollen, vaginal fingering, p in v sex, unsafe sex, creampie

Notes: Reader is technically the same one from my “Fantasize” series, but you can still enjoy this one without having read those!

“You two, stick together,” Viper ordered, addressing you and Cypher. “Hang back and scout for traps. Phoenix and I will go on ahead.”

“Understood,” Cypher replied before exchanging a glance with you. You gave him a quick little smile, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Report your findings,” Viper added, then turned promptly and headed down the hall, Phoenix at her side.

Once they were out of sight, you turned to Cypher. “I wonder why she didn’t split us up,” you said.

“You’re still pretty new,” he conceded. “Viper doesn’t tolerate failure. It seems she’d prefer you partnered with someone.”

“Partnered, huh?” You giggled. “You think she knows about us?”

Cypher blushed, grateful you couldn’t see under his mask. “She definitely doesn’t,” he answered. “If she did, she would never leave us alone together.”

It had been a couple weeks since the night you’d both confessed to one another; the night that had changed everything. He’d finally let you into his heart, become one with you physically, and the two of you had tentatively agreed to a relationship. It was a relationship not yet fully defined, but a relationship nonetheless. 

He wasn’t quite dating you—not exactly—but you’d been talking about it with him. If not for the constant missions and training, you two would have had more in-depth discussions on the subject. Such was the life of an agent; always needing more time.

Cypher wished he had more time for everything.

He had visited you privately twice since that night, and both times, he had given into his desires. Of course he wanted to talk, figure out what all of this meant for the both of you—what it meant for him—but once you batted those pretty eyelashes and put your soft hands on him, all he wanted to do was take you. And even after he did, it was never enough.

He’d never been like this. Sure, he’d been a teenager once, with a dirty mind and crushes on cute girls, but he was well into his thirties now, and so much had happened in his life, he hadn’t thought he even had it left in him. It’d been so long since he’d been physical with anyone; once he’d gotten that first taste of you, he hadn’t been able to get it off his mind. It kept him awake late at night, stroking his aching cock to thoughts of your sweet moans, your flushed skin and body wrapped around him. He wasn’t used to this. It was flustering. It was consuming.

But right now, it was okay. You didn’t seem unhappy; in fact, you seemed lighter than air most days. And, strange and new as this all was, he had been feeling that way, too. For the first time in years, he felt almost… excited about working, about missions. Before he’d told you his feelings, he’d been afraid it would make everything worse. But it seemed it had actually made everything better, even if it was just a little bit.

There was so much more you both still needed to figure out, but there was time. And as long as you two focused on your work, you’d be fine.

Cypher led the way down the dark hall, scanning the walls for cameras. “None out here,” he noted, keeping his voice low. There weren’t supposed to be any enemy operatives here, at least not on this level, but he could never be too safe. “Stay close.”

You nodded, keeping to his heels. “Do you think they’ll find any Radianite?” you asked quietly.

“They should,” he said. “If they find any, they’ll let us know.”

Once the first half of the hallway was thoroughly searched, the two of you ventured further. You stopped all of a sudden, pointing out one of the rooms. “Hold on, it’s a lab,” you said.

“A lab?” Cypher approached the door, which read: LAB A2. He peered through the hole at the top, finding it pitch-black inside. He checked his sensors. “No Radianite. No traps, either, it seems.”

You turned away, noting the other doors all down the hallway. “Looks like they’re all labs,” you murmured.

Cypher followed your gaze. Shining a light, he realized you were right; every door was marked with a different letter and number each: A1, A3, A4, A5. “This is supposed to be a research facility, but they didn’t say what kind it was,” he remarked. “They were researching something here, no doubt.”

“Why didn’t they tell us?” you asked, brows furrowed.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “But stay close to me. There could be anything in these labs.” A bomb. An alarm. A radivore.

He’d done research before the mission, looking into the facility, but much of it had been fruitless. This particular location had been designated a dead zone for some time now, until out of the blue, Radianite had been located in the lower levels of the facility. The mission had been last minute, with very little information given prior to the dispatch. Unusual.

If the retrieval had not been assigned by the people of Valorant themselves, he would have most certainly thought of it as a trap.

“Wait,” you said abruptly. “Do you… smell that?”

Cypher sniffed. Now that you’d mentioned it, there was a peculiar scent coming from nearby. Faint, but sharp, almost like an exotic flower. “Yes.”

“Is it poison?” you asked, voice hushed.

“No.” Cypher moved closer to the origin of the scent—the A5 lab. “I don’t think it is, but we must check. It could still be some kind of security measure for the facility.”

You nodded and followed.

As he approached the door, he noticed it had been left open ever so slightly. “Wait here,” he instructed. “Something’s not right. I’m going to look inside.”

“Are you sure?” You gave him a concerned look.

“Yes,” he assured you. “I’ll be fine. Just wait here, and don’t check the other rooms.”

“Okay,” you responded.

Gun in hand, Cypher slipped through the crack in the door, shining a light inside the dark room. It was indeed a lab, but not a deserted one; the equipment looked fresh and new, meticulously arranged alongside books and what looked to be small specimens inside jars.

He strained his eyes. What were those things? They were too tiny to be radivores, weren’t they? Even Gekko’s companions weren’t small enough to squeeze into those jars.

He moved the light slowly to the left, spotting the shape of something atop a table. It took him a second to register what it was.

A… plant?

A rather large one, too, like an overgrown venus flytrap, seated inside a pot that was unenclosed. Just as he prepared to take a step closer, determined to identify it, the plant reacted before he could. It opened its “mouth,” angling itself towards him, then released a burst of particles from its maw.

Cypher threw one arm over his face, letting out a stunned yelp as he fell back. A chair tipped over as he did so, and a moment later, he heard your hurried footsteps across the floor as you entered the room.

He turned to see you standing there, and his heart dropped. “Cover your mouth! Now!”

You covered your mouth, coughing as the pollen surrounded you in a cloud, then dissipated. “Shit,” you muttered. “What happened?”

Cypher didn’t answer, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you out of the room before shutting the door behind him. Out in the hall, he let out a cough, testing his lungs. The smell of the plant was overpowering around him, but there was nothing wrong with him; as far as he could tell, he hadn’t ingested anything. His mask’s defensive features had done their job after all.

He was quick to turn his attention back to you. “Are you okay? Did you breathe in any of that?”

You coughed again, hitting your chest. “I-I think so,” you said, rubbing your eye with one hand. “Shit, I’m so sorry, I just—I thought something had gotten you—”

“There was something,” he said. “A—a plant of some kind, but—but that doesn’t matter. Can you breathe? How do you feel?”

“I…” You went silent for a heartbeat, feeling yourself all over. You took in a deep breath, then released it. “I—I can breathe okay. I feel… I feel kind of—of warm…”

“Warm?” he echoed. That couldn’t be a good sign. If the plant was indeed there for security, no doubt it was meant to infect intruders, but perhaps the effects didn’t take place immediately. Perhaps the symptoms revealed themselves slowly, taking the form of some kind of fever as the infection spread.

He touched your forehead. Oh no—you were warm. Warmer than you were supposed to be.

You blinked, suddenly looking unsteady on your feet. Eyes unfocused, you reached out to him, putting your hands on his chest just as you started to fall. Cypher caught you, holding you upright. You looked up at him, your face much more flushed than before.

“Cypher,” you breathed.

Your tone of voice caught him off guard. Strangely, you didn’t sound like you were in any kind of pain. You sounded desperate, but… not in the way he’d been expecting. Maybe he was just imagining it, but it was unusually close to that voice you used when you needed him.

Needed him like that.

You leaned closer to him all of a sudden, lips parting as you gazed up at him. You ran your hands up the front of his coat, grasping at it. “Cypher,” you uttered, nearly moaning, “I-I need you. Right now.”

Cypher went stiff as a board. Oh shit. Maybe he hadn’t been imagining it. “W-What? What is it?”

“Please, I—” You pressed your body into him, rubbing yourself against him like a cat. “I’m so—s-so warm, I need you—”

What was going on? What had that plant done to you? “I-I don’t understand,” he sputtered. “Are you overheating?”

“Yes.” Your response this time was most certainly a moan, and it made his cock twitch in his pants. Your hands traveled further up, tugging on the collar of his coat. “I don’t know w-what’s—what’s happening to me, I just—n-need you—”

He stared at you, flabbergasted. He’d never seen or heard you like this. It was like you were on the verge of tears, like you would fall apart completely any moment. What was wrong? How was he supposed to help?

“What do you need?” he asked you, touching your face with one hand. Warm. So warm.

The softest of gasps left you when it made contact, your eyes widening. You leaned into his touch, rubbing your face into his palm. “You,” you moaned. “Need you to—to fuck me r-right now.”

Cypher stilled, arousal flooding through him. For a second, he didn’t question you, focusing only on the need in your voice and your warm cheek in his hand, but he snapped back to reality. “Wait, no—no, no, sweetheart,” he said hurriedly. “We—we can’t. Not here. What are you talking about?”

“It won’t stop,” you whimpered, pressing harder into his palm. “I’m sorry, I can’t—it’s so hot. Fuck me, just please fuck me.” You kissed his thumb, whining softly before taking his pointer finger into your mouth and sucking.

Oh, fuck. He cursed himself for being so hard, willing his blood to keep fueling his brain. This didn’t make any sense. The plant had done this to you? Why? Had the researchers bred it specifically to affect intruders this way?

Breaking free of his trance, he pulled his finger from your mouth. “No, please, dear, don’t do that,” he scolded gently. “Sit down, please. We need to cool you down.”

You grabbed hold of his coat with surprising ferocity. “No, please, just fuck me,” you begged. “I need to cum. I’m s-so wet, it won’t stop.”

Somehow, his cock got even harder at those words, but he forced himself to focus. “Sweetheart, I can’t right now,” he told you, more firmly this time. “It’s—it’s not safe here. We have a mission; we can’t—”

“Then just touch me,” you pleaded, cutting him off. “Just make me cum. Make it stop, please.”

Cypher hesitated. There was no time for this. If he stopped right now to take care of you, anything could happen. An alarm could be set off. An enemy could show up, alerted by the plant or a separate security system. This was the worst, worst time for something like this.

But he had to help you. You both had to finish this mission together, then regroup with Viper and Phoenix. Neither of you could do that if you were stuck here, unable to do anything until your needs were met.

He made his decision just as you started tugging at his belt, trying to unbuckle it. He pushed your hand away carefully, holding it in place by your wrist. “I’ll touch you,” he murmured. “Quickly. Then we have to keep moving.”

He could see the overwhelming relief in your eyes. You opened your mouth to say something, but he was already pulling you to one side of the hallway, bringing you into a little nook between the wall and the door to one of the labs. Not completely hidden, but it would have to do.

Cypher couldn’t help but be surprised by how quickly you yanked your pants down to your knees, taking your panties along with them. He could see your exposed pussy now, and the sight stunned him. You were unbearably swollen, your red-pink lips glistening and dripping, heavy slick trickling down your thighs. There was nothing normal about this, and he had to do something about it now.

He leaned you back, standing over you, then removed his glove on one hand and brought his finger to your opening, slipping it inside. The moment it entered, you let out a truly pitiful moan, and his blood shot straight to his cock once more. You were so soaked, there was no resistance in the slightest, his finger burrowing all the way down deep inside your searing heat.

“More,” you gasped, bucking your hips. “More, please, more.”

Cypher obliged you without question, adding a second finger and drawing another euphoric cry from you. You were so hot, your flesh practically burning his fingers, but he didn’t dare stop.

Louder moans poured from your mouth, mingling with the sloppy sounds from your cunt, and he hated how much it turned him on. He wasn’t supposed to like this. You weren’t acting like this of your own accord; it was the pollen making you act this way. He was only doing this to help you. “Hush, please, dear,” he coaxed. “Relax for me.”

“C-Can’t,” you responded feebly, body jerking wildly. “Feels—feels so good, fuck—”

He bit his lip, desperate to keep his head clear. This wasn’t normal; he was worried about you, but fuck, seeing you like this was dangerously arousing. If the mission were not such a priority right now, he’d crush you against the wall and fuck you until you saw stars.

But he couldn’t. This was all he could do with the time you two had.

“Cum for me, sokar,” Cypher cooed, massaging your clit with his thumb. He added a third finger, amazed at how easily it joined the others. “Cum for me, please.”

“Cypher,” you wailed, clawing at his shoulders. Oh, how badly he wanted to kiss those plump, wet lips.

He kept working you with his fingers. “Yes. Cum now. Cum now.”

You cried out one last time, long and loud, and he felt you clamp down on all three of his fingers suddenly, your flesh strangling them as you came. Slick oozed down his knuckles, hot and thick like syrup, and when your grip on him finally relaxed, he withdrew his fingers to find them coated. It was like he’d stuck them into a pot of clear honey. They even smelled sweet; flowery like that plant, enough to make his head spin.

Your legs wobbled, then you crumpled to your knees, panting. Wiping his hand on his pants, Cypher dropped low to clutch your face. You were flushed, but not nearly as much as before, and your temperature had lowered. “Are you okay?” he murmured. “How do you feel?”

It took you a second to come to, as if you’d just woken up from a dream, but when your vision cleared, the first expression you made was one of horror. “Oh God,” you uttered. “Oh fuck, I don’t—I don’t know what just happened. I’m so sorry.”

“The plant,” he said quickly. “It was all the plant, dear. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But—but the mission,” you stammered. “Oh fuck, I—I’m so sorry—”

“Never mind that,” he interrupted gently. “Are you okay? Are you back to normal?”

“I—” You touched your forehead, then patted down your upper body. “I—I think so. Just—wobbly.” You laughed weakly.

“Alright.” Cypher took your hand in his, helping you to your feet. “I’m sorry—I would check you more thoroughly, but we must keep moving.”

“I-It’s okay,” you said, pulling your pants back up. “Let’s go.”

The two of you moved onto the next hall, circling the entire floor and checking the rest of the rooms. No traps, and no more plants, as far as either of you could tell. Throughout the search, Cypher kept his eye on you, and to his relief, you no longer seemed afflicted by the pollen. Once the floor had been swept top to bottom, Cypher sent a comm to Viper. “No traps on this floor,” he reported. “Heading down now.”

A moment later: “Good. Keep your eyes out.”

“I always do,” he said simply.

He turned to find you looking at him. “You didn’t… tell her about the plant?” you asked softly.

“It’s not a priority right now,” he replied. “If they had encountered something similar down there, they would have told us. I may tell her later, if I must.”

You held your arms close to yourself. “Please don’t tell her about—about what happened to me.”

He shook his head. “I won’t,” he promised, meaning it. If this truly was resolved, Viper didn’t need to know. “But we must go now. I don’t trust this elevator; we’re taking the stairs.”

You gave him a quick nod of understanding, following him as he opened the door to the stairwell and began to descend.

Cypher was alert as you two made your way down, scanning the walls and ceiling for anything hidden. “Stay close,” he said. “Are you sure you can—”

He didn’t finish, turning around when he heard you stop abruptly. You were standing on one of the steps, holding onto the rail for support as you swayed from side to side. That glossy look had returned to your eyes, and your face had once again gone red and feverish. “Fuck,” you said, breathless. “I think—I-I think it’s—it’s back.”

His stomach twisted. No, no, please. Not again. Not now.

He went to you. “Sokar, I’m sorry, but we have to keep moving,” he urged. “Can you walk?”

You whimpered, tripping over yourself and grabbing onto him. “No,” you gasped out. “C-Can’t. Fuck me. Please fuck me.”

There his cock was again, hardening at the absolute worst time. He tried pushing you back gingerly, but you had an iron grip on his collar, and wouldn’t budge. “No, sweetheart. We can’t. There’s no time.”

“Please,” you begged, reaching for his mask. You felt around the edges of it, as if searching for a way to remove it. “Kiss me. Please, kiss me, kiss me. Need you.”

This boldness was so different from the usual you. It entranced him, nearly making him forget you were trying to take off his mask, but he managed to break free. “No,” he insisted, shaking your hands away. “No—I’m sorry, dear. We have to go. I’ll carry you if you can’t walk.”

“No!” you squealed, and the sharpness of it took him aback. “No. Fuck me right now, please! I need it.”

Cypher was utterly lost. He couldn’t be angry at you for this; you weren’t yourself. None of this was your fault, but right now, you were jeopardizing the mission. He wanted you, but he couldn’t help you—not right now. He had to go on. “Stay here,” he said firmly. “Relieve yourself. I’ll come back for you.”

“No, no!” you cried out, refusing to let go of him. There were tears in your eyes. “Don’t go. Please just make me cum. Cypher.”

You looked so desperate, so fucking helpless, and it ignited a fire in him. Before he could change his mind, he grabbed you by the waist and spun you around, forcing you up against the wall. Your squeal of surprise turned quickly into a moan when he ripped your pants down, exposing your pussy once again. Pale juices gushed down your thighs, and he’d never felt so hungry.

One hand keeping you in place, he tore his glove off the other, then shoved two fingers inside you, his thumb working your clit. You cried out like an animal in heat, and he pushed you harder into the wall, trying to muffle your noises. “Keep it down, sokar,” he warned, keeping his voice soft. “Just let me do this, please.”

You were hardly listening, filling the cramped stairwell with your fervid wails and moans. You were jerking so much, trying to impale yourself as hard as you could onto his fingers, it was almost impossible to keep you still. “Please,” you babbled. “Yes, please, please.”

Cypher had faced many challenges in his life. He’d fought all kinds of powerful threats. He’d gone up against his alternate selves more times than he could count. He’d braved death-sentencing traps and obstacle courses. But this—this was something else. No amount of training could have prepared him for this kind of situation. You were the one that needed help, and yet he felt completely, totally weak.

Maybe he wasn’t as strong as he’d thought.

Gritting his teeth, he wrenched his fingers from your cunt. You howled in protest, but he was already fumbling one-handed with the front of his pants, freeing his cock a second later.

He couldn’t take this anymore. He had to fuck you, enemies be damned. Maybe this time, he could fuck the pollen out of you for good.

He took you by the hips, gathering your slick around the head of his cock, then he drove himself into you.

The sound you let out when he entered was like nothing he’d ever heard. A series of high, keening moans poured from your lips, echoing inside the stairwell. Cypher gripped your waist, gasping at the scalding heat of your flesh around his cock. “Quiet, sweetheart,” he pleaded, half-choked. “Be quiet, please, be quiet.”

This was a terrible idea in every way. There could be enemies close by. Anyone could walk in. There was no time. He wasn’t wearing a condom.

But it felt so good, he couldn’t bring himself to care about any of those things.

Cypher held onto you for dear life, all his senses on fire as he pumped in and out of you. He’d never felt so close to you before; he could feel every inch of you, your silky, scorching walls pulsing and tightening around him. The sound of his skin slapping yours rang deliciously in his ears, and your writhing, rolling body was hot in his hands. This was madness. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to cum before you did—and it would take almost nothing.

Taking one hand, he reached down between your legs and found your clit, rubbing insistent circles into it. “Cum for me, zouina,” he breathed into your ear. “Come on.”

You threw your head back, drooling at the mouth. “Amir.”

Oh, fuck. If you said that again, he was definitely going to cum. “Call me Cypher, lovely,” he panted. “Just Cypher.”

“Cypher,” you moaned out. “Cypher, Cypher.”

Hearing his name like that still did things to him, but at least he could hold off a little longer. “Yes,” he whispered. “Good girl.”

His comm suddenly clicked. “Cypher, I need both of you down here. We’ve got company.”

Cypher’s heart jumped straight into his throat. Oh no. No no no no no.

Pulling you flush against him, he slapped his free hand over your mouth, his other hand still touching you fiercely. “O-Okay,” he answered, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Be there i-in one moment, Viper.”

“What’s going on? You sound out of breath.”

You started licking his palm, still moaning with abandon, but he did not remove his hand. Why, oh why was Viper calling now? “I-I’m fine,” he insisted. “We’re both fine. We’ll be right down.”

He heard gunshots on the other end. “Hurry up. We’re outnumbered.”

Relief flooded him when he heard the click. Cypher focused on you again, uncovering your mouth as he pushed you back against the wall. “We have to hurry,” he mumbled, quickening his pace. “They need us.”

You cried out, keeping your hands on the wall to support yourself. “Cypher,” you whined. “I’m close, please.”

“Good.” Giving into temptation, he smacked the side of your ass with one hand, marveling at the way your flesh moved. “Come on, now. Cum for me.”

“Love you,” you moaned with each thrust. “Love you, love you.”

He was getting dangerously close himself. “Come on, come on,” he pleaded. “I need you to cum, sweetheart. Please, for me.”

You arched your back into him. “Cum in me.”

“No, no,” he rasped, rubbing furiously at your clit. “Can’t. Sokar.”

“Please,” you begged. Your voice pitched higher. “Please, oh—I’m gonna—gonna cum—”

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Yes, now, now.”

You came around him violently, spilling cries into the air. “Amir,” you wailed, tightening on him with everything you had. “I love you—I love you, please, please—”

Cypher was a goner. He couldn’t even think about pulling out, grabbing your hips with both hands and shoving himself as deep as he could go. He shuddered, his groans turning to strangled whimpers as he filled you with ropes of hot cum. Something in the back of his mind was screaming for him to stop, but all he could think was how much he needed to feel you, fill you, make you his.

Fuck, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this. So good, so good, so fucking good.

He dug his nails into your skin, not letting go until every drop of seed had been pumped deep within you. He stumbled back when he released you, legs shaking. As blood came rushing back to his brain, he saw you bent over, white fluid dripping down your thighs, and realized what he’d done.

He’d just cum inside you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Cypher uttered, guilt tearing at him like thousands of claws. He hurried to inspect you, touching your hip lightly. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry—are you alright?”

You’d been hanging your head, breathing in and out raggedly as you collected yourself, but you were rising now, standing up to your full height and turning to face him. “I-I’m okay,” you answered. You sounded hoarse; no doubt it was from all the noise you’d been making. You looked flushed still, but from exertion now, not from the pollen. You blinked, then your eyes went huge with realization. “Shit. We have to go. Now.”

“I-I know. I know.” Cypher wiped his cock as best as he could, forcing it back into his pants as you rushed to clean yourself. He glanced between your legs, wincing at the mess he’d made. “Here,” he said, handing you a scrap of fabric from his pocket. “I-I’m sorry, I know it’s not much, but—”

“It’s fine.” You took it from him, giving him a brief smile before getting to work. “Thank you.”

“Sokar, I—” His throat was so dry. He knew how badly Viper needed you both, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He couldn’t go anywhere until his fears were put to rest. “I—I finished—inside you. Are you—are you sure—”

“Yes.” Your response came faster than expected. You wiped up the last of the fluids, fixing your clothes and tossing the fabric away. “I have an IUD. I’m safe.”

“Oh.” His heart sang with relief. Granted, it didn’t mean you were one-hundred percent protected, and it didn’t absolve him of any responsibility, but it was enough for now. “G-Good. Good.”

“There’s a lot we need to talk about, but let’s do it later, okay?” You grabbed your gun. “We’ve gotta go. Now.”

“R-Right. Right.” Cypher grabbed his own. “Let’s go.”

^ ^ ^

Some time later, Cypher found you in a secluded spot on the ship, sitting with your headphones in.

He waved to you as he approached, and you took your headphones off. “Hey,” you greeted him, smiling.

“Hi,” he returned, a little bashfully. He took a seat beside you. “How… are you feeling?”

“Better,” you replied. “Hasn’t… happened again. Thank God it didn’t happen back there, right?” You laughed.

He managed a chuckle, though he still wasn’t quite feeling humorous yet. The mission, while not having yielded any Radianite, had finished smoothly after all. “Right.” He waited a few moments, looking down at his hands in his lap, then murmured, “I… am sorry. For all of that.”

“For the plant?” you asked. “That wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know it was in there, and I shouldn’t’ve gone in like that.”

“Still, I—should have protected you better,” he insisted. “Done something.”

“You don’t have to protect me,” you said with a slight smile. “And you did do something. You… helped me when I needed it.”

Cypher blushed. “I—I am glad I was able to,” he mumbled. “But still, you—you don’t—deserve that.”

You touched his arm. “Cypher, I’m okay, really.”

He hesitated. He hadn’t said all he needed to say yet. “I… I know. I’m glad you are,” he said. “But I—I just want you to know that—you are more to me than that.”

Your eyes were distractingly pretty. “I know I am,” you reassured him, sounding confused that he had even said that. “There was nothing normal about this, okay? This was a one-time thing.”

Cypher nodded. He swallowed, working up his confidence. “Sokar,” he said softly, “I would—like to do something for you.”

You tilted your head curiously.

“Would you…” Why was this so hard? “Would you like to… have dinner with me? Sometime?”

The look on your face made his heart melt. “Yes!” you exclaimed, beaming. “Yes, yes, of—of course. I’d love that.”

His spirit soared. “G-Good,” he said, relieved and overjoyed at once. “I—I don’t know what our schedule is yet, but—I can let you know.”

“Yeah.” You were nodding, smiling from ear to ear. “Just tell me. When you find out.”

“Okay.” Cypher reached for your hand, taking it in his and squeezing. He wished he could take off his mask and kiss you right now. “May I… see you later?”

“Sure,” you answered, giving him a smile that was almost coy. “I… might need your help again. Who knows.”

His heart fluttered at that. “I—I see,” he said, clearing his throat. He let go of your hand, getting to his feet. “Well, I should—er—check in with the others. Let you get some rest.”

“Okay,” you said, still looking happy as a clam as he began to walk away. You put your headphones back on. “See you later, sokar.”

The nickname stopped him dead in his tracks. “Hm?” He turned to look at you, surprised. “S-Sokar? Is that what you called me?”

“Mhm,” was all you said, looking pleased with yourself.

“But—but that’s—that’s what I call you,” he stammered, realizing very quickly how silly he sounded. “I call you that.”

“Should I… call you something else, then?” you asked, grinning. “Zouin? Hobi?”

Lord, he hadn’t heard those words in so long, hearing you say them made his heart nearly give out. You’d learned them, somehow, and he guessed you’d been saving them to use them at the right time. He desperately tried to think of something to say; anything that would make him sound cool or suave and not at all flustered beyond belief. “You…” He wiggled his finger at you warningly. “You are a—bad girl.”

You laughed. “Talk to you later,” you said, blowing him a kiss.

He shook his head, half-grateful, half-disappointed that you couldn’t see his smile under his mask. As he made his way through the ship towards the cockpit, he ran into Phoenix.

“Cypher!” the young man greeted him with a grin. “Was lookin’ for you just now.”

“You were?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing’s wrong.” Phoenix waved his hand. “Was just gonna ask you about earlier. Y’know.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Cypher crossed his arms. “Earlier?”

“Yeah.” Phoenix snickered. “When Viper called, you two were shaggin’, weren’t ya?”

Cypher stiffened, mortified. He knew enough about British slang to know what that meant. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, you can tell me!” Phoenix leaned in, fascinated. “We’re mates, aren’t we? Everybody knows about you two.”

Cypher stared at him. “W-What?” Was that true? Everyone knew? “What—do you mean? What about us?”

“That you’ve got a secret little relationship,” Phoenix responded, poking Cypher’s shoulder. “It’s super cute, actually. It was pretty obvious she fancied you, so it seems like you both hit it off.”

Cypher sputtered, searching for a way to gain control of the situation. “Everyone knows?” he asked quietly.

“Well, not everyone,” Phoenix admitted. “Just the people who notice. Viper doesn’t know. But she might soon.”

Cypher looked around. Viper wasn’t nearby; fortunately, she was likely in the cockpit. He sighed heavily. “Fine, yes, we have been—seeing each other,” he finally confessed, keeping his voice down. “It’s—it’s very casual.”

“So you were shaggin’ back there!” Phoenix said, eyes gleaming.

“Lower your voice!” Cypher hissed. “It’s not like that. There was—something wrong with her, and I had to help. It was not ideal, and I would not have done it if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

Phoenix chortled. “Couldn’t wait ‘til you got back to the base, could you, mate?”

Cypher snarled under his mask. “It’s the truth, believe it or not,” he growled. “Don’t tell anyone about this. Especially Viper.”

“I wasn’t gonna, I promise!” Phoenix insisted. “I was just curious, that’s all. You know me. I won’t tell anybody.”

Phoenix wasn’t exactly known for his ability to keep secrets, but Cypher relaxed nonetheless. “Good,” he said. “You know what I can do if you don’t keep your word.”

Phoenix threw his hands up. “I know, mate, I know. Lips are sealed.”

Cypher gave him one last nod, then moved past him. “I’ll see you when we land.”

So it seemed many agents did know about you both. As uneasy as it made him—knowing people knew anything about him at all—it was something he could deal with. He had to learn to live with it if he was going to be anything real with you. And he wanted to be.

But this—what happened during the mission—would have to be another closely-guarded secret. For his sake, but especially yours.

Secrets, secrets, secrets. What was one more for him to keep?

[gilverrwrites]

Hi can you please do 12 no underwear? For more human!Cas? I was thinking maybe their out in public ands the reader is wearing a short skirt fo something and Cas gets all turned on and wound up or something like that idk only if you want to. THANK YOU

Take Me Home

Pairing: Human!Castiel/Fem!Reader (Season 9)

Rating: M/18+

I guess this is an unofficial installment of the 'If you will have me, I am yours' series. GN!Pronouns used, but reader does have AFAB anatomy.

Please remember: to always lift with your legs. (The actions performed in the below fic are performed by fictional characters!)

Words: 885

Content: Semi-public foreplay, semi-public nudity, teasing Cas, Cas teasing you, dirty talk, size difference.

Excerpt: “No underwear?” He whispers. “Is that for my enjoyment?” “Who else?” You giggle, wiggling your ass back until it rubs against Cas’s crotch. The hiss that escapes his lips only fueling your fire.  

“Okay!” You huff, depositing your armful of sundries into the cart Cas was nonchalantly following you around the store with for your late-night grocery shop. “What next?”

“Ummmm.” You stare at his lips as he purses them while examining your communal shopping list. “Rice.”

“Rice, yes!” You confirm before hurrying over to the next aisle, occasionally turning back to make sure Cas was close behind you. When you spot the 5kg bag of rice on the bottom shelf, you take a moment to sheepishly look up and down the aisle, confirming the two of you are alone and there are no CCTV cameras nearby. With one last glance to check Cas is looking, you bend straight over at the waist, you feel the short fabric of your dress rise straight over your naked ass. The cold air, the feeling of being exposed, of knowing Castiel was watching made your skin tingle, and you were hyperaware of how wet you were already becoming.

Rice obtained you slowly stand up straight, when you’re sure you can feel your dress has settled enough to cover your lower body you turn back to the cart. When you look up at Castiel he’s stock-still, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and cheeks pink.

“What’s wrong?” You ask as you place the rice in the cart.

He stares at you a moment longer before deadpanning; “Nothing.”    

You’re unable to hide the confusion that briefly overcomes your face. You’re only halfway to composing a response when Cas changes the subject by pointing at the shelves behind you. “Can you obtain one of those?”

You follow his gesture to a box of vegetable stock on the very top shelf. You’re pretty sure that even in your highest heels you couldn’t reach that, at least not without climbing.  Regardless, you defiantly nod your head at him and make your way over. Again, you verify your surroundings before extending onto the tips of your toes and stretching your body upwards. Sure enough, the hem of your dress rides up again, not exposing much, but enough that anyone looking would know you were naked underneath.

You’re reaching for the stock for no longer than a few seconds before you feel the familiar touch of Castiel’s calloused fingers on your hip. His warm breath tickles the shell of your ear as he leans closer.

“No underwear?” He whispers. “Is that for my enjoyment?”

“Who else?” You giggle, wiggling your ass back until it rubs against Cas’s crotch. The hiss that escapes his lips only fueling your fire.  

Combating you, he pushes his groin against you further, grinding his clothed erection between your ass-cheeks. It’s your turn to let out an unexpected groan.

“The store is almost empty.” He muses, and you shiver as his free hand gently finds its way to the front of your dress. He rests his chin on your shoulder and watches his own fingers as he plays with the hem. “I could lift your dress right now. I am doubtful that anyone would notice.”

“We could do that.” You concur, certain that your pussy must be dripping by now. If he decided to do it, you probably wouldn’t stop him. “But, we’ll have to be real quiet, and fast.”

Castiel’s rutting slows, and you enjoy the feel of his chest rising and falling against your back as he seems to consider your concerns.

“You have no idea how much I want you right now.” He states and your legs tremble when you feel him bypass your dress, and roughly run a finger between your folds, briefly caressing your clit before delving down to your entrance. He withholds his fingers from plunging in, pressing just hard enough to work you open, without the pleasure of feeling him inside you. “But if I take you home, I can make love to you all night, and you can make those noises that turn me on. I do love the noises you make.”

You’re enjoying his words, you really are, but all you can really think about right now is his

fingers. How close they are, how full they’ll make you feel. You’re trying to gain just a little more height, to move just a little bit forward, so you can sink yourself onto him. Just when you think you’ve found it Cas pulls his hand away, grabbing the box of vegetable stock from above you and adding it to the cart.

You spin around, flushed, dress still hiked above your ass, ready to object but Cas is already at the end of the aisle. You hurry after him, straightening your outfit as you go.

“Where are you going?”

“To the check-outs. Then home.” He informs you as you catch up with him.

“Did we get everything on the list?” You ask.

“Close enough. I will purchase any items we missed after work tomorrow.” He’s barely looking at you, eyes scanning every spot in the store. Undoubtedly figuring out the fastest way out.

“Wow, you really wanna take me home fast huh? Can’t wait to get me out of this dress.” You tease, snaking your arms around one of his.  

“Actually…” He finally stops and looks down at you. Face still flushed, his eyes appraise you, lingering on your upper thighs. “I would prefer you to keep it on.”

[domm1etae]

sent to tempt me - chapter three

chapter three: under pressure

chapter summary: Yunho struggles with guilt and confusion after overhearing Mingi the night before, but much worse is coming his way in the form of Mingi's friends

pairing: yunho x mingi

genre: smut (not yet but there will be eventually), angst, fluff, romance, m/m, non!idol!ateez, sub!yunho, dom!mingi, drama, coming of age, collage, religion

rating: 18+ (for the whole series bc there will be smut eventually) | mdni

word count: 2.2k

warnings under

collage, roommates, sub!yunho, dom!mingi, bad boy mingi and religious church good boy yunho same-sex attraction, m/m, teasing, dark themes, homophobia, self discovery, pet names, strangers to lovers, religion and religious topics, aaaand more will be added soon hehehe

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author's note: you wanted good Mingi and mean friends so here you have it hehehehe

Yunho didn’t sleep that night.

No matter how many times he closed his eyes or turned over on the stiff dorm mattress, he couldn’t block out the sound of those moans or the rush of blood that had accompanied them. They played on a loop in his mind, teasing and tormenting him with their sinful echoes. Worse, the idea that Mingi might be the one responsible for them kept creeping in, and Yunho hated how the thought stirred something deep within him. He lay there for hours, staring up at the ceiling and praying for morning to come quickly, so he could escape the confines of his own room and maybe, just maybe, forget what he’d heard.

But the morning didn’t bring peace, only dread.

By the time Yunho dragged himself out of bed, showered, and dressed, he was already a mess of nerves. He tiptoed around their shared dorm, hoping to avoid Mingi entirely. Yet fate, or perhaps bad luck, had other plans.

When Yunho entered the kitchen, Mingi was already there, leaning casually against the counter with a bowl of cereal in hand. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d just woken up, but his expression was sharp—too sharp for Yunho to handle right now.

“Morning, roomie,” Mingi greeted, his tone casual but his smirk anything but.

Yunho froze in place, his hand halfway to the cupboard. “M-Morning.”

Mingi eyed him for a moment, then chuckled softly. “You okay? You’re acting weird.”

“No, I—I’m fine,” Yunho stammered, grabbing the first thing his hand landed on and clutching it like a lifeline. He tried to focus on the box of cereal in his hands, but the weight of Mingi’s gaze was unbearable.

Mingi took another bite of his cereal, chewed thoughtfully, and then said, “Hope we didn’t keep you up last night.”

The words were casual, but the smirk accompanying them was anything but.

Yunho felt his face heat up instantly, his mind racing with a hundred ways to escape the situation. “I—uh, no. Not at all. I slept fine.”

“Really?” Mingi raised a skeptical eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Because you look like you didn’t get a wink of sleep.”

Yunho’s grip on the cereal box tightened, and he stared down at it like it held the answer to all his problems. “It’s nothing. Just…had a lot on my mind.”

Mingi hummed, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he changed the subject. “Hey, by the way, some friends are coming over later. We’re gonna play games in the living room. Hope that’s cool with you.”

Yunho barely registered the words, his mind still stuck on Mingi’s earlier comment. He nodded vaguely, mumbling something that might have been agreement before hurrying out of the kitchen with his cereal in hand.

Mingi’s voice followed him. “Great talk, roomie!”

Yunho practically fled to his room, shutting the door behind him like it could shield him from whatever just happened.

Yunho barely made it through breakfast, his thoughts still tangled in the chaos of last night and the lingering tension in the kitchen. The whole conversation had been awkward, his nerves constantly on edge. The way Mingi had looked at him, that sly grin, it was enough to make his heart race in a way he couldn’t explain.

He forced himself to gather his things, not daring to linger in the dorm any longer. The thought of running into Mingi again sent a wave of panic through him, so he hurried out, barely acknowledging the world around him as he made his way to class.

Walking through the campus, Yunho tried to focus on his way to school, something to anchor him in the present. His literature classes were a blur of lectures and discussions, his thoughts perpetually wandering back to Mingi. It was impossible to concentrate, his mind constantly flickering back to the sounds from last night, the way his body had reacted against his will.

Mingi’s laughter had echoed through the walls like a curse. And now, no matter how hard he tried to push it away, the idea of Mingi—his roommate, this loud, charismatic guy who seemed to attract attention effortlessly—lingered in his thoughts. Yunho could barely focus on anything the professor was saying, not when all he could think about was the look Mingi had given him earlier, as though he knew something Yunho couldn’t comprehend.

The rest of the day felt like a blur, punctuated by moments of tension whenever his thoughts strayed toward the mysterious connection he seemed to have with Mingi. But eventually, the school day ended, and Yunho found himself back at the dorm, staring at the door like it might swallow him whole.

He didn’t want to go back. Didn’t want to face Mingi and the mess his own feelings had become. But there was no way around it.

He opened the door slowly, creeping inside as quietly as possible. The living room was empty, much to his relief. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and made his way to his room, desperate to hide away from the world for a few hours. The weight of the day’s classes hung over him, but it was the thoughts of last night, the sounds he'd heard, that made his stomach twist. He had tried so hard to bury them at school, to focus on his studies, but it had been impossible.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Yunho exhaled heavily, leaning against it, his back pressed to the cool wood. His pulse was still rapid, his hands trembling slightly as the image of Mingi filled his mind once again.

Mingi’s voice, those sounds, they were still so vivid. Yunho’s body heated at the thought. He gripped his chest, squeezing his eyes shut as if that could make the images go away. But they didn’t. It was like they were seared into his brain, taunting him with something he couldn’t understand.

"God, please," he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the desperation was clear. He didn’t know why this was happening to him, why his mind kept wandering back to Mingi like this. He was trying to stay focused, to fight the urges gnawing at him, but nothing seemed to work.

He sat down on his bed, the cool sheets against his skin doing nothing to calm the feverish thoughts racing through his head. He needed something to clear his mind, to find some semblance of peace, but he didn’t know how.

Without thinking, Yunho found himself reaching for the small Bible on his desk, fingers trembling as he opened it, not really knowing what he was searching for—comfort, maybe, or just an escape. His mother had always told him that in moments like these, when he was lost, prayer would lead him back. He had always relied on it in the past.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, holding the Bible close to his heart, and bowed his head. "God, I’m sorry," he began softly, the words coming with a quiet, broken breath. "I don’t know what to do. I keep thinking about Mingi, about… everything I heard."

His throat tightened, the shame bubbling up again. He didn’t want these thoughts. He didn’t want these feelings. They were wrong. Everything he’d been taught told him that this—this temptation—was a sin. And yet, the more he tried to suppress it, the stronger it seemed to grow.

"Please," Yunho whispered, squeezing his eyes shut, his chest tightening with emotion. "Help me understand. Help me find peace. I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel like this. I don’t know if this is right."

A silence fell over him, thick and suffocating. The only sound in the room was his own breath, ragged and uneven as he sat there, trying to force himself to calm down. His heart pounded in his ears, his body tense as the guilt overwhelmed him. He could feel tears threatening to spill, but he didn’t want to give in to them. He was supposed to be strong, wasn’t he? He couldn’t let this break him.

But Mingi’s voice, Mingi’s presence—it haunted him. It was too much.

“God… please,” Yunho murmured again, his voice barely a whisper now, as if confessing the truth to the silent room. “I don’t know what to do with these feelings. Why can’t I let them go?”

The words were a prayer, a plea for clarity he wasn’t sure he was going to get. He kept his head lowered, his hands trembling against the edges of the Bible. What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about Mingi, about that night, about what he had heard?

The silence stretched on, unbroken, until Yunho finally lowered the Bible and set it aside, too worn out to continue praying. He lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. There were no answers. Just confusion, frustration, and a growing sense of guilt.

His eyes burned, but he refused to let himself cry. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to push it all out of his mind, but the images—Mingi, the sounds, the overwhelming tension—came flooding back. The feeling in his chest, the mix of guilt and something else, was impossible to ignore.

Since Yunho knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep now, he decided it would be more productive to embrace the situation rather than lie awake in frustration.

With a heavy sigh, he sat up in bed and turned his attention to the stack of homework on his desk, knowing that it was unlikely he would get any rest until his mind had a chance to work through some of his lingering thoughts. As much as he hated to admit it, the anxiety about his studies seemed to fuel his inability to relax. He glanced at the pile of textbooks and papers, wondering if diving into his assignments would at least give him some peace of mind. There was no point in lying there trying to force sleep, especially when he could be productive.

Grabbing his laptop and settling in a more comfortable position with his desk lamp casting a warm glow, Yunho opened his notes and started sorting through them.

But as he sat at his desk, buried under assignments and notes, the nagging feeling of hunger crept up on him. His stomach growled in protest, and no matter how much he tried to ignore it, he knew he couldn’t stay cooped up in his room forever. The last thing he wanted was to go out there and run into Mingi, or worse—his friends.

Reluctantly, he grabbed a few things and stepped out into the hallway. The sound of laughter reached his ears before he even reached the kitchen, and Yunho froze. Mingi’s voice, accompanied by the voices of others, was loud and unmistakable. The thought of facing them made his stomach twist in knots.

There was no turning back now.

Taking a deep breath, Yunho steeled himself and walked toward the living room, hoping to slip by unnoticed. But that didn’t last long.

As soon as he stepped into the doorway, the teasing started.

“Ayo, Mingi, who’s this?” a voice called out, followed by laughter.

Yunho’s heart dropped to his stomach, the blood rushing to his face. He hadn’t even had a chance to make himself invisible before the attention was on him.

One of Mingi’s friends—someone Yunho didn’t recognize—leaned forward, an amused smirk playing on their lips. “Oh my god, Mingi, is this your new boytoy?

As everybody again laughed another person added “Damn, Mingi, I didn’t know you were dating. Since when are you into guys like this?”

The words hit Yunho like a punch to the gut, his body frozen in place. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. His mind screamed for him to run, but his legs betrayed him.

Mingi’s friends continued, laughing as if they were in on some inside joke Yunho wasn’t a part of. “What’s a guy like that doing here? Is he your little secret or something?”

Yunho’s face burned, his hands trembling at his sides.

He wanted to sink into the floor, his face burning with shame. He stood frozen in the doorway, unsure of how to react, wanting to just disappear and pretend none of this was happening.

But then, out of nowhere, Mingi’s voice cut through the tension. “Yo, guys, shut up.” He said, not taking his eyes from the TV, where probably some game like Mario Cart was playing. “This is my roommate, Yunho. He’s just here to get something to eat. Leave him alone.”

“And yeah,” Mingi continued, his voice more clear as he shot a serious look to Yunho, “he’s probably just trying to disappear again after he grabs a snack. Right?”

Yunho met Mingi’s eyes for a moment, and he understood immediately what Mingi was implying. Mingi was giving him an out, a chance to escape without further humiliation.

Yunho nodded quickly, his throat tight. He grabbed the nearest snack from the counter and turned to leave without another word, eager to retreat to the safety of his room.

He collapsed onto his bed, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. The anxiety was still there, gnawing at him. But for the first time since he’d met Mingi, Yunho felt…protected.

It was a strange feeling. Unsettling and comforting at the same time.

But he couldn’t deny it: Mingi had stood up for him. And maybe, just maybe, that meant something.

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[saltsicklover]

SURVIVORSHIP BIAS

Survivorship bias, a logical error in which attention is paid only to those entities that have passed through (or “survived”) a selective filter, which often leads to incorrect conclusions.

Pairing: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell Word Count: 3500+ Rating: T Part: 1 of ? Warnings: Swearing, Head Injury, Amnesia, Typical Canon Violence, Goose Lives, Iceman is overprotective and down bad, Maverick is... here. Notes: Not proof read, all mistakes are my own. Based off a poll I did a long time ago, lol. I do not consent to my work being copied, translated, or shared. Amnesia fics are not new, this is just my take on it! I hope you enjoy!!

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell and Tom "Iceman" Kazansky have been many things. Fighter Pilots, members of the esteemed US NAVY, friends, uncles, and all around good people. The pair have always been two sides of the same coin, the only thing separating them is the pebbled ridges of the edge.

Life has been this way for almost as long as Tom has been in the Navy. The pair, Tom and Pete (who were just Iceman and Maverick back then), were stationed in sunny California with the best the Navy had to offer. At least, the best that time around. It was only a matter of time before the next class of the "Navy's Best" would be roaming those same halls. The proverbial coin was formed that first night at the base's watering hole, their meeting nothing like the fairy tales. There was no first glance that broke away into love at first sight. There was no knowing, there was only acknowledgement and unspoken challenge; a formed edge splitting them, and joining them, two parts of the same whole.

That edge was there in each and every aspect of their lives, Pete's the Yin to Tom's Yang. One was reckless while the other was controlled, both spirals of chaos and jet fueled adrenaline giving way to hazy drops while they clung to each other. All sweaty palms against Namex green, nimble fingers tugging on zippers and pinching plastic buckles, breaking away the parts of themselves called "pilot" and baring their truest selves. They had breathed life into each other since that first week. What began as animosity boiled into sexual tension. Post sex clarity had Tom's face pressed into Pete's stomach while the smaller man carded his fingers through Tom's sweaty hair. The gel is no longer holding, allowing the gentle curl to return to its natural state. Tom still remembered the warmth of Pete's fingertips against his scalp and the way his fingernails would graze the nape of his neck just right. He remembered how warm Pete felt beneath his cheek, the sweat sticking their skin together. It should've been gross, but instead it felt like a small declaration of love. A taste of something real that had to remain unspoken. Tom let his fingers draw inconsistent patterns against the slope of Pete's ribcage, his fingertips dipping into the spaces between them. Bone to soft flesh and back again. He didn’t know then how many I love you’s and other whispered sentiments would be left on his tongue with him to do nothing more than taste. They didn’t yet know of the sweetness that was coming. 

That was 1986. And where there is sweet, sour is sure to linger.

1990 was a wave of ice cold reality that took the pair under. Tom and Pete, (now more often known as Ice and Mav) and their RIO's, Nick "Goose" Bradshaw and Ron "Slider" Kerner had been called back to Top Gun for a strictly off the books mission. One of those missions that could change the tides and win you a couple very shiny awards that wouldn't see the light of day for at least thirty years.

It was supposed to be out and back, a little flight over the ocean to take out an off the record boat, no bigger than a crabbing vessel that had wandered into the wrong waters. It was all hush hush, no backup required. Missiles, guns, whatever it took to wipe the little boat off the map, pilots’ discretion. After all, the tides are subject to change under the smallest bit of wind blowing in the right direction. Mav and Goose were set to take off first, followed by Ice and Slider. They were to fly in from opposite sides, bisecting over the boat just long enough to drop a couple of missiles and get out of dodge. Easy on paper. Easier in the air, that was until the instruments went out and they were flying blind. RIOs’ eyes on the vessel below, pilots’ just missing the closeness of their companion jet. It was a simple thing, a mistake in the darkness of the still erupting dawn. The pair clipped wings, sending each jet out into a spin. Around and around they went, their target blown to cinders below.

 The spin threw Maverick's turned head back achingly hard against his headrest, the dizziness having taken over his senses. Iceman and Slider spun too, but Ice was thrown outwards against the thick straps of his seatbelt. The wind was knocked from his lungs, but he recovered faster than Maverick did. If it hadn't been for Goose yelling at him from the back seat, Jesus Mav, level us out!, at just the right time, they would've ended up ejecting.

The first place the foursome ended up after returning to the carrier was the infirmary, laid out on cots while they waited for the ship's doc to release them. Sweat still dripped under their suits, skin sticky and damp. 

Maverick got his bell rung, left with a bad concussion, an aching neck and a light ringing in his ears. There were a couple missing bits in his memory, but nothing the doctor on board could do a whole lot about besides hoping the pieces would fill themselves in before he got seen on shore. He couldn't remember what he had for breakfast in the mess before the mission or the bunk he was temporarily assigned to. Little things, but Ice couldn't help the worry that sat in the space between his lungs, the sourness of it crawling up his throat..

TEMPORARY MEMORY LOSS DUE TO BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA, his chart read, the bold letters glared up at Tom. The blond gulped, running a hand through his messy hair. The action itself hurt, hell, he ached something fierce. Ice himself had some bruises and deep, red indents on his skin from the edges of his seatbelt. The color sort of matched the pretty red mark that ran from above his  lover’s eyebrow, down and around the edge of his face, right where his helmet sat. 

Goose and Slider were in perfect condition aside from the normal bumps and bruises that come from pulling a difficult maneuver. The ghosting of seat belt bruises that would be gone within the week. Bastards. It always seemed that those two lucky fuckers made it out of the worst of it without too much trouble. The realization made Ice wish he would've given Slider a harder time when the oaf broke his collarbone over an intense game of beach tag that ended in a hard tackle courtesy of Wolfman. 

It had taken what seemed like forever to get cleared by medical, then sent back out to the deck to be loaded into a plane, piloted by some LT that spent his time playing Taxi Pilot for those coming on and off of the carrier. It was almost business as usual after a mission like that, aside from the knowledge that the debrief with an encore of being stripped down by their superiors had been waived all together. As far as the brass was concerned, the Top Secret mission had been completely squared away. Everyone came back alive, no international incident to tend to as fall out. A win is a win. 

Once they touched down back in North Island after far too much traveling over the past day and half. They were all looking forward to getting home and sleeping off that bullshit mission. It was two weeks before Pete and Nick had to return to Pensacola while Tom and Ron were needed back in Lemoore by the following Monday. It wasn't long, really, but the group were looking forward to getting to spend some time together, shooting the shit and drinking like they had after the Layton mission.

It had been four years since the four were together, all standing still in the same place instead of passing like ships in the night. It wasn’t rare for two or three of them to inhabit the same place as California seemed to be a hub for them all, but the four of them in the same place at the same time was something incredibly hard to come by. It was comfortable, the comradery something they’d come to define more as familial love, rather than pure friendship, not that any of them dared say such a thing out loud. 

"What do you say, boys? Want to head straight for Lemoore or do we wanna crash in a hotel for the night and make the drive tomorrow?" Tom throws the question out with a casual shake of his wrist, his eyes locked in on the face of his watch. His chest aches as he draws a deep breath in, refocusing his eyes on the trio of men. There's a conscious effort to keep his eyes bouncing between them, though he wants nothing more than to hold his lover’s face in his gaze. 

He had to fight to keep from throwing his arm around Pete, desire burning in him, to bring his lover in for a much needed kiss. It's missions like that one where he knows the minute they get home, they are either going to be tearing each others' clothes off, or screaming blame at each other for anything that went wrong, alongside anything that could have.

It's always been like that for them, started after Layton and they never quite grew out of the habit. But then and there, staring at Pete and the sweat dripping down from his hairline to his jaw, he wants to kiss him. Tom’s eyes drag down the gash on Pete’s face, the mark cluttering his pretty features in a way that turns his still boyish looks into something more manly. Or maybe it’s more rugged, more chiseled and hard in a way Tom has never seen before. A feeling stirs within him, making a home near the discomfort and worry still nestled in his ribs from their time in the infirmary. 

If there is one thing Tom knows for a fact, it’s this, Pete Mitchell has an uncanny way of awakening a mix of feelings in him that he’s never felt before. 

Then, as Pete shoved an elbow into Slider's stomach, he wanted to laugh, so he did. That was a common substitution for them, laughter in places of kisses, of hand holding, of the quiet intimacy that normal couples got to enjoy. Where they couldn't kiss, a look would do, but a shared laugh was always better. Something to share the sweetness on his tongue. A part of Tom hated this fact, the hate stuck somewhere deep in his bones. He knows why they can’t be open with their love for each other. He knows the consequences of their actions and how each moment they steal away could end their careers. Who wants to hire a gay, disgraced, former Naval Aviator with a dishonorable discharge? That question is neighbors with the hate he holds deep within him, and so he hates, but he keeps his distance. 

"I don't know about you guys but I'm beat, and considering you two are crashing our place, I think we should head back tonight," Slider laughed at the look he receives from Ice, that “are you serious” look at the blond casts from under his brows. Slider's wry smile only grows bigger. They all knew the house in Lemoore was owned by Ice and Mav, it had been for almost three years at that point and it was Slider who was crashing long term. Goose crashing on the couch when he found himself in town without the rest of his family was normal, but made it all the more fun for Slider to tease about.

"I'm good with that, looking forward to crashing," Mav answered honestly, an exhausted smile ghosting over his lips. Maverick has never been able to sleep on airplanes, too anxious to let himself fully relax and drift off. He’s been awake since the day of the mission, now looking worse for wear. Ice had to look away to keep himself from jumping his partner right then and there in the middle of the base parking lot, eager for a kiss though Mav looked like he was barely keeping vertical. Call Iceman a greedy man, a selfish one -it doesn’t matter when it comes to Pete Mitchell- because it’s true. His hand found a home on Pete’s shoulder, if only long enough to squeeze it reassuringly. Iceman’s ready to crawl out of his skin to get closer to him. 

"You're not supposed to sleep, remember, Mav?" Ice's tone went gentle as he took a step back from Mav. "Doctor's orders. Night sleep only, and someone has to wake you up every hour to make sure you're doin' alright. You've got an appointment at the clinic on Lemoore come Monday morning.” Pete looks dejected, expression then obscured by the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. 

It’s not just Ice eyeing Maverick, Goose is too. Part of him wants to reach out and slap Mav encouragingly on the back, but he is just too damn tired to muster up the energy. Goose knows hospitals and doctors make him uneasy after a bad bout of pneumonia took his baby sister when he was four. Through the exhaustion, Goose shares a look with Ice, and all Ice has to do is nod. 

He’s got Mav. Simple as that. He’s got Maverick. 

That’s the consistent unspoken topic between the two, Goose and Iceman. They knew each other in flight school, were friendly when they ran in the same circle but they were never close. Their priorities were just too different for the pair to mesh any better. Goose was busy courting Carol. Ice’s focus was the NATOPS, shitty bathroom handjobs, and keeping Slider out of trouble- in that order. After graduation they didn’t see each other until their TDY to TOPGUN and by that time Goose was more protective over Maverick than any other RIO he’d ever seen. Of course, that was back before Tom knew everything he knows now. And through the accident at TOPGUN that left Goose on bedrest through the following year, the group of four became closer. From wingmen to fast friends. And somewhere in there, though the timeline has gone hazy with the passage of sand through the glass, Tom Kazansky and Pete Mitchell fell in love. So to say Ice and Goose pass the baton that is care-for-Maverick back and forth, communication rests in looks and nods. Quiet for the safety of their careers and the protection of Maverick’s pride. 

"How bad do you think traffic's gonna be? It's been a minute since I've driven in Saturday night California traffic," Goose inquired, almost ready to slump down and nap against his duffle, right there on the still sun warmed pavement. Slider pulled the bag from his fellow RIO's hands, only to toss it into the back of his truck.

"It shouldn't be too bad," Ice lied, the fact of it evident on his face. "Hopefully back before midnight,"

Mav checks his watch, the face of it swirling a bit in his vision with the sunlight, "That's... So many hours from now, Ice." There’s a whine-like quality to his voice and it hits Ice right in the chest. Part of him wants to laugh, to tease the younger man. Then a thought pops into Ice’s head, he’s injured, you prick, and then he feels somewhere between idiot and plain ol’ bad. 

Slider, however, laughed. 

No one bothered enough to throw out an actual estimated time of arrival after that. Soon after, all the bags had been thrown haphazardly into the back of Slider's truck and the group piled in. Slider and Goose up front, partly because they're taller than the other two, but because it made sense to them all that Ice was to be in charge of watching out for his husband.

Ice has Maverick. 

They'd only been on the road for about a half hour before Ice unbuckled his belt in the back of the cab, which earned him a strange look from Maverick. As risky as Maverick is when it comes to his job and his life, one thing he has never played around with is seatbelts. If there was a seatbelt to be used, Maverick would be locking it into place without a second thought. Maybe it’s because every jet his ever flown had safety belts, or maybe it’s because the man had never fully trusted anyone behind the wheel- the fact that he doesn’t have a commercial drivers license refutes this statement- but nobody’s ever questioned his adamant use of the safety device, not even his husband. 

The truth of the matter was that Pete’s mother was thrown through the windshield of her Rambler when she had a head on collision with a box truck. She never wore a seatbelt, and no one could ever say for sure that it would have saved her life, but Maverick knew better than to play with fate that way. And now, as Pete watches Ice unbuckle, he has a strange desire to reach out and catch his wrist. He wants Ice to wear his seatbelt, and the fact that he isn’t is bothering him a lot more than it rightfully should. After all, Slider isn’t wearing his, and Goose didn’t start until after Bradley was born. But God, he wants Ice to buckle back up. 

The uneasy expression on Mav’s face was new, yet Ice paid no mind to Mavericks' wary look, instead picking one leg up and twisting so his back laid against the side of the cab, his legs up on the bench seat.

"What are you doing?" Maverick asked, a wrinkle in his brows. His voice had come slightly pinched, the exhaustion weighing on him now swirling along with the new anxiety of his wingman playing fast and loose with the safety laws. Ice nudged the younger man's knee with the toe of his boot, a hint at the other man to move. He didn’t. 

"Attempting to get comfortable," He groaned, nudging Pete again, "Now would you unbuckle and come here so I can stretch my legs out?" Ice missed the flash of disbelief that flashed over Pete's face before his features settled into confusion once more. Another beat passed before Ice huffs out something unintelligible under his breath. He leaned forward, unclicking Pete's seatbelt himself. He took Pete by the upper arm before dragging him back with him, Pete's back meeting Ice's chest. Their legs in front of them across the rest of the bench seat, their knees still stuck bent but arguably more comfortable than they had been moments before. Ice's arms made their way around Pete's middle, the younger man going rigid.

"Ice what are-?"

"Just relax, hmm, Mav?" Ice hummed in his ear, sticky sweet, as one of his thumbs made small, loving movements against his ribs. For a moment, Ice wondered if he should’ve been gentler with his husband, but the thought passed as quickly as it came as he settled into his embrace. If Ice noticed the pickup in Pete's heart rate, he didn't mention it. With a terribly long deep breath, Maverick managed to let himself completely slump against Ice's sturdy frame, head leaned back against his shoulder. It had been more comfortable than he could have predicted, but the spinning pain in his head kept him from thinking of that fact for too long. 

The blush that rose up his neck and ears only managed to make him hotter against Ice's chest. Ice’s breath against Pete’s neck had him on edge. The warmth of it tickled his skin in such a pleasant way that Pete couldn't help but allow himself to enjoy the gooseflesh taking over his skin. This was intimate, far more intimate than any wingmen should be- at least that’s what Pete thought- but the slow movement of Ice’s thumb against his ribs lulled him into a sense of security. 

Pete spent most of the ride zoning in and out, listening to the drawled conversation of the men in the front seat. Music crackled through the stereo but its volume was turned so low that each song blended into the next, a lulling drone of guitar strings.The sun set as they drove, the blue sky turning smoky orange and vibrant lavender filled Pete’s eyes when they seldom cracked open. Ice held him firmly in place, keeping his lover pressed fully against him and for the first time since the ending of the mission he felt like he could breathe. In the safety of the backseat, Ice let his lips press gently into Pete’s hair behind his ear, a gentle touch no more than a kiss gentle as butterfly wings. Pete stirred a bit in his arms before falling right back again, his weight no more his problem. Ice felt whole. 

Ice’s tender sweeping of his thumbs against Pete’s middle as he pulled the smaller man back firmer into his chest so they could rise and fall together lulled Pete to rest, but as Pete would drift, Ice would nudge the space just behind his ear with his nose before whispering a quiet hey, you’ve gotta stay awake, Mav. It left Pete feeling a sort of conflict he didn’t know he could feel. 

Suffice to say, it was a long ride home for the group, but Pete let Ice hold him the whole way and tried to keep his mind from the feeling of Ice’s feather light kiss. He decided early on that it would be easier to forget about it, chalk it up to the cramped truck cab and the damn concussion. But most of all he tried not to think about how badly he wanted Ice to press his lips to his neck again. 

[liaromancewriter]

Snowed In

Premise: There’s a winter storm pummeling Boston and a polar vortex bringing arctic air and….

Fandom: Open Heart Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff. Format: Text & Pic Fic + Prose Words: 785

A/N: I meant to post this on Sunday evening just as a snowstorm hit Boston since the fic is set in real time. But, I got busy vegging on the couch. lol Submission for @choicesjanuary2025 prompt "snowfall"

Part 1: The Snowstorm

Part 2: The Wind Down

Winter was a bitch. Nothing could make Cassie Valentine change her mind about that.

If the snowstorm that pummeled Boston wasn’t bad enough, the weatherman was now chirping much too cheerily about the blast of arctic air descending upon them.

Before clocking into work earlier in the day, Cassie had to gingerly navigate the slick road and icy sidewalk from the T to the staff entrance at the side of the hospital.

Lately, she and Ethan had been driving to work together. But today, their schedules hadn’t aligned, leaving her to miss out on the warm comfort of his luxury sedan.

Maybe she should cave and buy a car—or have her parents send her old Cayenne down. She just hated driving in Boston, with its horrendous traffic and aggressive drivers. The subway, ride-sharing or letting her husband chauffeur her around suited her just fine.

Cassie grabbed a snack from the attending’s lounge, glanced at her wristwatch, and calculated that she had just enough time for a power nap in her office. Rather than tackling the stairs to the seventh floor, her exhausted legs opted for the elevator.

She had been run off her feet for the past twelve hours, but now it was two o’clock in the morning — that in-between time when the hospital fell quiet before interns and residents began their pre-rounds.

Letting out a loud yawn, Cassie reached inside the coat closet for a throw blanket and pillow she kept for those occasions when she needed to be on call. Lowering the blinds of her glass-walled office, she settled onto the couch and closed her eyes.

Her brain was wired, though, and sleep eluded her. After ten minutes, she gave up and unlocked her phone for some joy scrolling (her version of doom scrolling) on Picta.

She laughed at her friends’ comments on recent posts, replied to ones she’d missed earlier, and switched to the latest celeb gossip feeds.

Between trying to guess the subjects of blind items and commiserating with other fans over their favorite singer’s breakup, she didn’t hear the office door slide open.

“Can’t sleep?” Ethan asked, stepping in and joining her on the couch.

He gently lifted her legs and placed them across his lap, sprawling wide with his legs outstretched and his head resting on the back cushions.

“You look like hell, babe,” Cassie teased, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the overgrown scruff along his jawline.

Ethan made a face but didn’t respond.

“The snow’s tapered off,” he said, stifling a yawn. “We can head home as soon as the roads are clear.”

“I’m leading morning rounds and have consults scheduled in the afternoon,” Cassie said, sitting up and leaning her head on his shoulder. “It’s easier if I stay here tonight.”

She nestled against him, pulling the throw blanket over both of them, and sighed as his warmth surrounded her.

Cassie could feel sleep creeping up on her, her eyes drifting shut, when Ethan chuckled, his deep voice rumbling beneath her.

“So, you hate the storm, the polar vortex, and wish we were back in Hawaii, huh?”

“How is it that you never comment on my Picta posts, yet always know exactly what’s going on?” Cassie retorted, angling her face to meet Ethan’s smiling eyes.

“Because I’m… what did you call me once? Ah, yes. Your Picta Stalker,” he laughed. “Whenever I’m bored, I just scroll your feed. You’re more entertaining than anything else on that infernal app.”

Cassie rolled her eyes. “I know you mean that to be flattering, but why do I feel insulted instead?”

Ethan shrugged, jostling her in the process. She wrapped an arm across his stomach, her fingers curling lightly against his side.

“I hate winter,” she murmured sleepily. “Let’s blow this joint, move to Hawaii and live off my trust fund.”

“You’d hate it,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You were jonesing for work after three days on the beach.”

“I was an idiot then. I’ve learned my lesson now.”

“That’s the polar vortex talking,” Ethan quipped.

“Oh, shut up,” Cassie muttered.

After that, a comfortable silence stretched between them, neither feeling the need to fill the quiet with words.

“This is nice.”

“What is?” Ethan asked, his voice rough with sleep.

“This. Us. Just doing nothing,” Cassie said. “When we first met, I don’t think I ever imagined we’d be here like this. Not just together, but quietly comfortable. It’s nice.”

She could hear Ethan’s slow, even breathing as he drifted into sleep and wasn’t expecting a response.

Still, her heart skipped a beat when he murmured under his breath, “It’s more than nice. It’s perfect.”

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

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @jerzwriter @justyourusualash @lady-calypso @kyra75 @mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @snoopdogcone @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction @loreofyore

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @youlookappropriate

[mithrilhearts]

Maeve's 4k Follower Event

Battle of the Plot Bunnies

2024 has been a great year of finishing up fics for me, so it's time to unveil some new ones! I'm so excited to be able to do this, and have you guys help me essentially decide which fic gets tossed into the actual WIP pile next! Which is to say, THANK YOU for your continued support!

There are eight plot bunnies I've plucked from my Ideas list that I'm interested in developing further. Some of them have drabbles already, some have a little outlining attached, and some have barely even a working title.

Each fic will have a small summary and some bullets of information attached to it so you get an idea of what the plot/concept is!

✨ Feel free to ask me about any of those fic ideas for more information if you like! I will provide what I can!

First Round

Battle of the "Modern" ideas

Battle of the "Erebor Never Fell" ideas

Battle of the "Based on another story" ideas

Battle of the "Maeve's Choice" ideas

Semifinals

Battle of the "Cottagecore vs Dragons" Themes

Battle of the "Soulmate vs Time Travel" Tropes

Finals

Battle of the "Cottagecore vs Time Travel" Ideas

‼️Fic Summaries/Information below!‼️ All information below is subject to change as the fics develop

Modern AUs

Courtesy Call - Rated Explicit

While trying to make a most courteous call to pull his RSVP from his cousin's birthday party versus not showing at all, a misdial directs him to a particularly spicy line that's all about receiving a good time with oneself. The man on the other end is both baffled and challenged by a sudden new caller to his private line, but takes the challenge with everything his voice can provide. - Outdated Ficlet

Sweeter Than Honey - Rated Teen+

Bilbo Baggins runs a successful honey farm on the west side of the Brandywine River. His peaceful days of honey handicraft grow tense as a new logging company, owned by one Thror Oakes, draws closer to his land. It’s how he meets Thorin, a lumberjack living under the thumb of his grandfather, the owner. They should have been adversaries - the two are on opposite sides of nature, but as it is so often said: opposites attract. - Outdated Ficlet - Basic Information/Ideas via ask game

Based On Another Story

No Place Like Home - Rated Teen+

Smaug the Terrible was destined to be slain by a hero in king's armor. To prevent such a fate to pass, Smaug, an enchanter of great power, invaded the kingdoms of Erebor, Dale, and the Greenwood, stripping its citizens of their memories, and taking the throne. Banishing the three kings in an attempt to secure his safety, Smaug took the best part of each king, making them more vulnerable than ever. No one was smart enough, nor brave enough, or had enough heart to stand in his way. Until a most unlikely creature tumbles in. - Influenced by Alice in Wonderland & The Wizard of Oz - Basic Information/Ideas via ask game

Forged in Dragonfire - Rated Teen+

Durin the Deathless is a legend to every dwarf that knows the tale. A king, a dragonslayer, and one who possessed great power to do so. The blood of the dragonslayer was to pass from firstborn to firstborn, but as the war calmed, such rumors fell to myth, and those myths became lost with time, even as Smaug sought retaliation some generations later. A retaliation that was deadly, just as it was successful. Erebor had finally fallen. After many years of hardship, a wizard shows himself in Ered Luin, seeking the only dwarf who might be able to rekindle a little dragonfire in his blood to take down one of the world's deadliest creatures. One who is hellbent on claiming every kingdom in Middle Earth beneath his claws. - Influenced by Skyrim - Basic Information/Ideas via ask game

Erebor Never Fell

Heartstones - Rated Teen+

It’s believed that dwarves are blessed in one of two ways: by their heartstone, or their heartcraft, both a calling of the soul. When Thorin is convinced he has neither, a quest for his happiness takes him far beyond the Misty Mountains to the West. It’s in the West that Frerin is convinced they’ll find Thorin’s calling. Be that a happiness of the heart or the craft. - Outdated Ficlet - Basic Information/Ideas via ask game

Thief of Hearts - Rated Mature

Bilbo retired from his life of gentle burglary years ago to care for his ailing mother. With Belladonna's illness getting worse, he seeks out the aid of an enchanter, who is said to give people anything they want in exchange for a little task. Bilbo's task is to burgle one little stone from one lonely mountain under the nose of its king. Lucky for him, Erebor is preparing to host a grand party in hopes of finding a spouse for the oldest prince. It's the perfect distraction, and no one will see him coming.

Maeve's Choice

Twice In A Lifetime - Rated Mature

Just days before the siege on the Dimrill Gate, Thorin voices his guilt about his inability to keep his people safe when Smaug took the mountain. In the middle of an angry prayer to Mahal himself, the ringing of an anvil is the last thing Thorin remembers before waking up within the rolling green hills of the Shire. It’s there he’s greeted by a set of hazels he’d never forget. Not in this lifetime. - Outdated Ficlet

Wretched & Divine - Rated Explicit

After the battle, Bilbo continued to keep the Arkenstone close to his chest to protect those around him. He suspects that there’s more to this ‘Dragon Sickness’ than just the gold, and must figure out how he can save Thorin from his madness. All of this while trying to deal with the dwarf’s fascination with him with an intensity that rivals the obsession of finding the Arkenstone. Or: What if Bilbo had never given away the Arkenstone to Bard and Thranduil, and Thorin never kicked the gold sickness. - Outdated Ficlet

[mistycreativelilacs]

Thawing of A Heart Pt.3

Authors note: what’s this? Not me updating this fic three years later.

Whoops ¯\_(ツ)_/¯… Anyway here’s the (maybe) long awaited third part filled with tension and plot twists.

Content warning: Violence, gun use, references to castration, references to mental health, use of the word crazy, mild angst, mentions of character deaths, Peacemaker exists (rip to people who like him)

Pt.1 (x) Pt.2 (x)

You’re lost in the ever-changing branches of Rick’s timelines when Cleo nudges you. Your eyes sweep the plane, unable to stop the pang of longing for your old team. The pang turns to a dull ache in your chest as you attempt to block the visions of your friends' flickering timelines. If you were going to be any use to them, you’d need to re-adopt the Ice Queen persona you’d had when you started this job five years ago.

“So how does Bruce Wayne’s eldest charity case end up working with a bunch of second-rate criminals?” Bloodsport interrupts your pondering. He’d been watching you since the debrief, eyes trained on you like a puzzle he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to solve. You could imagine what Harl’s would have to say if she were here.

‘Ooooh, looks like someone’s got themselves a shiny new criminal admirer. Should I lick you to show him you’re already claimed?’ Said in the world’s worst stage whisper to garner Flags attentions. Subtlety and Harley were not synonymous, and no one cared more about the pseudo-relationship between yourself and Flag then your self proclaimed ‘BFF’. She’d expressed her feelings on the matter several times over the years. Your favourite instance being several months ago, during one of your last missions with the team. You and Flag had been arguing about sending you in to get information from the target when Harley sauntered over wicked grin on her face. ‘You twos should just relieve this obvious tension already. Seriously, here’s a broom closet. Go at it, for the good of the team.’ Manic smile still firmly on her face as she attempted to drag you into said closet.

“I believe the words you meant to say, Sergeant Dubois is ‘Bruce Wayne’s eldest child’. To which I’d have to say we have more of a sibling relationship. Not that it’s any of your business.” You hold his gaze. “As for joining the squad?” You shrug, “Wrong place at the right time.” He quirks his brow clearly unamused.

“I haven’t been a Sergeant in a long time.”

“And just what would you call your current roll here?” You gesture around the plane while he glares at you. The corner of your mouth twitches against your will.

“Waller evidently had been keeping tabs on me, due in part to certain rumours about my participation in corporate espionage. So, when I got picked up by GCPD for allegedly crashing Bruce’s new Ferrari into the lobby of LexCorps newest eyesore of a skyscraper in downtown Gotham, Waller swooped in.” Your little chat had garnished the attention of the plane's other occupants, their heads all turned towards you and Robert.

“You want us to believe that the daughter of Billionaire Bruce Wayne got hauled off to Belle Reve for crashing a car? And what could Waller want in a civilian like you anyway?” Peacemaker. You’d been attempting to avoid him since Waller introduced you at the debrief. If his persistent existence as the antagonist in your visions of Flag’s current timeline wasn’t enough to turn you off, the skin crawling sensation of his eyes constantly roaming over your body was enough to put him firmly in the creep category.

“Crashing a car didn’t get me sent to Belle Reve. As I said, I’d been the subject of corporate espionage rumours for years. Waller used my accident combined with those rumours to get me whisked to Belle Reve under the guise of my being a National Security risk. It took one phone call from Bruce to get the charges dropped, but by then I was already in the middle of Midway City on my first Task Force mission.”

“If the charges were dropped, why stick around?” Your eyes wonder back to Robert.

“Can’t a girl want to be part of something bigger than herself?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice and somewhere in the back of your head a voice - that sounds suspiciously like Harley- reminds you that you’re here to save Flag, not flirt with attractive violent Englishmen. Even if they did fall perfectly into your type of the emotionally constipated older dilf. “No, much like all of you Waller has a small amount of blackmail to keep me compliant.” You cross one leg over the other, adopting the oh so familiar public persona of a Wayne. “Unlike all of you, I’m being paid to be here.”

“But why does she want you here?” Peacemaker leans forward in his seat.

“Originally, she believed me to be some sort of hacker savant or a meta with some sort of compulsion powers. I was neither of those, but I did prove to be quite useful in the field.” Your gaze moves to you lap as timelines tickle the back of your mind, begging to be seen. “I do dread the day she realizes just what kind of bird she’s caged.” An image of Rick in pain flashes through your mind. Gone before you can really grasp if it was a future timeline or your own imagination.

“Are you saying you’ve got some sort of bird powers?” You toy with checking the timelines to see just how fucked you’d be for killing Peacemaker here and now but ultimately decide it’d give Waller more ammunition against you.

“My powers lie more in the line of a… second sight than with birds, although…” You pretend to mull it over, “I’d probably get along better with you if my powers were more avian in nature.” You could see the ghost of a smirk flirt across Robert's face and a warmth flits through your chest.

You avert your gaze before the familiar itch of branching timelines can pull you under. Perhaps Flags icy demeanour of the last few months had affected you more than you thought. It’d been a long time since such minor attentions from a man had you near slipping into the branches of time.

“What the fucks that supposed to mean?” Peacemaker stood abruptly, moving towards you only to be halted by Robert’s hand on his chest.

“Alright tough guy, sit back down.”

“Was it my use of verbose vocabulary words that has you confused?” You stand, waltzing closer to where they stand, one strand of hair curled around your finger. Perhaps Harley had been rubbing off on you more than you cared to admit. “Let me put it in words you’d understand.” Your standing face to face with Peacemaker now, Roberts body only partially between the two of you. “You.” You jab your finger into Peacemaker's sternum, brushing against Robert's arm. “Dumb.” Another jab. “Like.” Peacemaker's eyes had drifted to your finger on his chest while Robert attempted to move himself more in front of you. “Bird.” With the final jab you run your finger up and flick him in his nose, a move reminiscent of your nephews. With that final flick all hell broke loose.

Peacemaker moved to advance on you, having shoved Robert aside. You were expecting this, having let slips of the timeline penetrate your consciousness, and turn your back to him at the last minute grabbing the arm he’d reached forward to attack with. You flip him over your shoulder and as he slams into the planes floor, you dig your foot into his neck pointing your gun at his face.

“As you can see Robert, those fears of me being dead weight can be put to rest. I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself. Even against dumb brutes like him.” Peacemaker moves to grab your leg, and you let off a shot beside his head. “Stay down or the next ones a castration shot.” You move the gun to point at Peacemakers crotch and you catch a glimpse of fear in his eyes.

“Bitch” he gasps out as you dig the ball of your foot a little deeper into his neck.

“A bitch with near immunity, not that anyone would care if I wounded trash like you. Now are you going to shut up and behave like a good little dog.” Theres a flash of defiance in his eyes and you twitch your trigger finger.

“What the hell are they teaching in those fancy prep schools?” Robert's face didn’t give much in the way of what he was feeling, much like Flag, however you’d noticed that unlike Flag, Roberts eyes displayed his every emotion, if you knew what to look for. God, a few hours with this man and you’d already believed you could discern his emotions from a single glance. The sooner you got out of this plane the better.

“Looks like Rickies got some competition…” There goes the phantom Harley once again. Maybe her crazy is rubbing off on you like Bruce feared.

“Dancing.” You spit out, holding Robert's gaze as you remove your foot from Peacemaker's throat. “They teach you how to dance.” You’re finding far too much enjoyment in this little rapport you’ve started with the mercenary, but even Harley didn’t put up with your idiosyncrasies for this long, unless she was in a mood. The last person who could, ended up on the wrong side of Jokers crowbar. Perhaps Waller was right when she claimed the only thing separating me from the rest of the Belle Reve residents was the Wayne family name.

“I highly doubt dance lessons taught you how to do that.” There’s a spark of amusement in his eyes.

“Dancing, fighting.” You shrug “They’re one in the same are they not?” You sit back down, aware that the rest of the plane has gained a new wariness of you. You feel more than see Robert give you a once over.

“You truly are something else Wayne.” Robert exhales as he sits back down, the hint of a chuckle shaking his bulky frame.

Alarm bells start going off in your head. The kind of alarms that sound like Bruce and scream ‘life altering, name ruining, PR nightmare, absolutely atrocious decision making incoming.’

“You don’t even know the half of it Sergeant.”

Tag-List: @paryl @nerdgrrlramblings @weallhaveadestiny @a-girl-who-loves-disney @boristhepineapple @girlnred @romanticgumchewer-reactivated @lacontroller1991

[koolkat9]

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Rating: T

Pairing: GerEng

Word Count: 1071

Author's Note: I hope to do something more Christmas centered, but in the meantime here is a Christmas adjacent fic. If I don't get to that other fic, merry Christmas!

Read on AO3

“We need to start having the meeting somewhere warm come November and December,” Arthur chattered as he fumbled with the keys to his London townhouse. Meetings were a nightmare to begin with. But amid the holidays and the cold, everyone was even more distracted than usual. “Forgive me, love. I haven’t been here since mid-November. It will take a minute to warm up. But we could get a fire going.” 

Ludwig followed him inside and into the small but cozy living room. Arthur always complained about the London townhouse feeling empty and far from homey. But Ludwig liked it. The small grooved patterns along the molding, the dark wooden frames of the living room set (surely almost one hundred years old knowing his lover), the knitted blanket thrown across the back of the couch made by Arthur himself. Ludwig had watched him make it for months when they had started regularly spending time together. Just watching his hands at work was so soothing in those dark days after the wars. All this to say, even though it held fewer memories than the cottage in the countryside, it still felt like home for Ludwig because Arthur was written all over it.  Just what he needed.

“At least I have the Christmas tree and garland up,” Arthur thought aloud. He flipped the switch, washing the room in a warm, gold light.

“You clearly have your priorities straight,” Ludwig teased, already setting up a base to start the fire.

“I can do it, Ludwig, you just…sit.”

“I got it. Why don't you prepare our drinks?”

Arthur’s lips flapped with hums and choked sounds. “Fine…” he finally weaseled out. 

Fire roaring, heat on low for later, and beer in hand, the two lovers retired to the couch. 

“Some mulled wine would be nice right about now,” Arthur murmured, curling into Ludwig’s side. 

“You’re still shivering,” Ludwig whispered. He pulled the knitted blanket down and wrapped it around them. 

“Alfred served some spiked peppermint hot chocolate when he, Matthew, and I got together last time. I think he sent me the recipe. Perhaps we could try it later?”

Ludwig hummed, pulling his lover closer. “Maybe. But I can’t have too much. I still have to get myself back to the hotel.”

“You don’t have to go back to the hotel. You know my door is always open.”

Ludwig took a long swig of beer, trying to hide the growing blush. “B-But Gilbert is expecting me. You know how he can be.”

Arthur shifted a bit, his shoulders tensing. 

“I know you mean well, but…” Ludwig fumbled.

“We spent the night at each other’s places all the time. Why is now–”

“You and I both know people talk. I know you promised nothing like that would happen until I gave the word, but…”

Arthur sighed and reached up to cradle Ludwig’s face. “I understand. I won’t pressure you, okay?”

Ludwig leaned into the touch, pressing a kiss against the edge of Arthur’s palm.

“Now, how about a Christmas movie?” Arthur proposed, quickly changing the subject. He flicked through the channels until he reached one that ran all kinds of Christmas rom-coms. As repetitive and unrealistic as they were, it was a guilty pleasure of Arthur’s. He looked over to Ludwig sheepishly. 

Ludwig just smiled and nodded. As if Arthur had to ask; it was a guilty pleasure of his as well. 

The hours blurred together until it was nearly midnight. A little tipsy after the beers and spiked hot chocolate, Ludwig swayed to his feet. “I should get going,” he mumbled, staggering to the entryway.

“Wait,” Arthur called, following in a stumble. “Ludwig, it’s late…a-and you don’t look very…steady.”

“I’ve gotten home far drunker.”

“But you aren’t home, are you?”

Ludwig paused for a moment. “You promised you wouldn’t pressure me," he finally said with a breath.

Arthur grabbed Ludwig’s arm. “I know but–”

The words jammed in his throat when Ludwig opened the door. Thick snowflakes plopped about, and a few inches packed the roads and walkways. A strong gust of wind cut against their cheeks, leaving them even redder. 

“I’m not letting you out there. It’s freezing. It won’t be easy to get a bus or anything back to the hotel–”

“I’ll walk.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“Arthur."

Arthur threw his hands up. “Fine, fine. Go out, slip on ice, lose your balance, crack your head open.”

“I just don’t want Gilbert to worry…” Ludwig paused for another moment , gripping the door as a wave of dizziness hit him. How much did Arthur put in that hot chocolate? “A-And I don’t want a repeat of the 90s…You don’t deserve to be threatened like you were.”

“Oh Ludwig…”

Arthur took Ludwig’s arm more gently this time. Without any resistance, he spun Ludwig around and pulled him close.

“Don’t worry about me,” he murmured. “I’m touched you’re worried about me, but do you know how I would feel letting you go out in that cold, and something were to happen to you? You’re already swaying as it is.”

“But–”

“And Gilbert would be even more angry at me for letting something happen to you.”

“But our colleagues…”

“Already tease us. What’s a bit more? Better than passing out in the snow. And I’m sure enough glares and maybe a bit of yelling from you will shut them up.”

A ghost of a smile tickled Ludwig’s lips. Arthur grabbed his collar and pulled him down into a quick but sweet kiss. Ludwig held onto Arthur’s waist, steadying them. 

“You make very good points,” Ludwig mumbled, keeping Arthur close, noses brushing against each other. 

“And here I had 97 more reasons lined up,” Arthur snickered. “How about one more drink and then bed?”

“Trying to get me drunk?”

“No, I’m trying to get myself drunk.”

“Arthur,” Ludwig warned with a glare. Though it lost some of its usual intimidation with his hair undone, hanging in his eyes. He always looked adorable like that. 

“Fine, fine,” Arthur sighed, tugging Ludwig back to the living room. “But maybe we should sober up before heading to bed? Maybe even watch one more Christmas movie.”

Ludwig smiled softly. “Okay.”

They never did make it to bed. After finishing their glasses of water and only making it halfway through the current movie, they passed out on the couch, Arthur sprawled across Ludwig’s chest. Neither had such a peaceful sleep.

[consistentsquash]

Day 12: A fic from your favorite author

@hprecfest

I have two! I love them both always and forever <3 Reccing a fic each from them

Green Grow the Rushes, O by eldritcher. Rated M. 11400 words. Snarry - Incredibly beautiful, incredibly profound, full of rage, love, grief, regret, sacrifice, revenge, mourning and love. It embraces the drama and the whimsy of the canon including the darkness under the surface of a children's story and creates a stunning, beautiful myth. It's a fic you can sing. But also, it's a fic that sings to you. Snape is almost a hostage in this fic whether it is a hostage to Harry, McGonagall, his losses, his guilt, his relationship with his father, the eroding church and shoreline and even the constellations in the sky. We are also co-hostages with him. When he's in TOTAL disbelief of his imperfect, sexy happy ending we are right there with him :D The most atmospheric fic of its wordcount range.

Year of the Thestral by @perverse-idyll Rated E. 127200 words. Snape/McGonagall - Tragically beautiful, intense, complex picture of love, rage, betrayal, grief and loss and a whole lot of other emotions. Because folks don't feel exactly one or two emotions at any given time after experiencing intense life events like what happened to the characters during DH and nobody can write that full, unnamed range and depth of emotions with the specificity and intensity PI can. A wildfire of a fic. Like any wildfire you get some pine cones bursting and new life/new emotion in the end but it's bittersweet and you can see how the dawn poured like weak tea through the eastern windows, feel what it's like to be accepted beyond the wildest imaginings of the lank-haired, half-feral child who'd once scrambled aboard the Hogwarts Express, feverishly reaching for a better life and like Snape you are going to spend a blissful hour dreaming of the taste of tea. The most Snape Snape ever Snaped.

On a lot of levels, my fav authors have similar vibes in their writing. I feel they write similar subjects but with different frequencies if that makes sense. The writing has similar tones of IDGAF self-indulgence and zero adherence to fandom zeitgeists. They have the ability to write multiple characters and pairings in different settings with the same level of passion, originality and conviction. They are both insanely obsessed with language/prose/poetry and intertextuality and can actually make that work for their fics. They also have the rare gift of makebelieve in the classic storytelling sense of "I can make you suspend your disbelief" which leads to gorgeously sublime fics that are full of confidence + earnestness in the world/setting which means you have no choice but to make it your reality until you are on the fic's last word and it's going to haunt you after that for the rest of your life. They commit 100% to the story and to the romance of the story. They go 100% into the good/bad/ugly mud of human stuff without making me as a reader feel squicked out/dirty. Also flesh? Like I always feel they write characters with flesh and everything associated with that in a poignant, humorous, wistful, fully engaged with the flesh + its flaws sense. The overall ending feel is always bittersweet joy that stays with me and changes my understanding of life in some mysterious way. In both cases, I feel I can analyze the fics for days in whatever Doylist or Watsonian framing I want. But even without those things, their fics mean 100% of everything for me. Love love love <3