#this is the first in a series of drawings centering around the pocket watch

[sw4nfire]

[carcarcraziiv2]

The Woman with the Pink Hair (P. 1, 2, 3)

Hello my friends! I bring to you The Woman with the Pink Hair! This is a Vi x Fem! Reader fanfiction.

I will post this gradually, maybe once or twice a week until it is fully out! (If you are impatient, you can view it on my Wattpad-> @DatBishCar)

Please note that this is the first piece I wrote after a HEFTY (I mean years long) hiatus from writing.

P.S. Lowkey I KNOW there's a bunch of shit I could fix in here to make it better due to my practice over the past year or so, but I just... I'm so lazy rn LOL. Anyhoooooo....

ALSO- here are the TW for you lovelies! (This is for the WHOLE SERIES)-

Violence, mental illness, oral sex, dominant tendencies, torture, kidnapping, plotting?... lowkey there's probably more but you should get the gist here, AS ALWAYS ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK ILY<3

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PART ONE: INTRODUCTIONS-

Staring at the wall. You often found yourself staring at the wall while you were bored, zoning out thinking about things. How lonely your life had gotten, while at the same time it is better than it has been in a while. You had your freedoms to go do what you wanted - walk, paint, draw, listen to music. As you did those things you constantly seeked inspiration from the little bits and pieces that showed themselves to you in every crack and crevice. 

    You enjoyed finding the positives in things that didn't always seem positive. Hell, you were living in an old shack you rented from a grungy man who you weren't sure even actually owned the place. He did, however, have the keys.

    Deciding you needed some fresh air, as fresh as it can be in the undercity, you gather yourself to head out for a stroll through the dark streets and into the markets and shops. You enjoyed people watching, perhaps you would run into someone interesting. You grabbed your jacket, a purple and black lots of pockets kind of deal, and your beanie and put them on. Your medium length hair was in a bun on the lower part of your head, and you had pieces of hair flowing down in front of your face on either side. You liked the wispy look of it.

    You quickly found yourself in the center of the town after a few turns and blocks that you had memorized by heart. The place was always semi crowded. People doing grungy things, illegal things - but in your eyes, you saw beauty. You saw people smiling, laughing with their friends. Even as there were people who looked at you with an evil glint in their eye as you walked past, you were not afraid. You knew this place like the back of your hand, you grew up here after all. 

    After reaching one of your favorite places to eat, you walked to the counter and ordered some soup. Honestly, there was no telling what ingredients were in it but you trusted the chef as they always made delicious things. A few minutes pass, and you grabbed your brown, watery looking stew and headed over to a table nearby. There was no one sitting there, and the furniture was mostly clean unlike some of the surrounding options which were covered in trash, dirt and spilled food. As you sat, you looked over to the large red headed woman who cooked and served the food.

    "Thank you!"

    "You're welcome, honey," she replied with a warm smile. She was kind of like family to you, since you didn't really have any of your own. In fact, a lot of the shopkeepers and people who constanted the area were as such. You rarely saw people you didn't know or hadn't at least met once. 

    The soup was warm, salty, and amazing as usual. You finished every last bite and took the common decency to return the silverware and bowl to the counter, rather than having them come grab it from the table. You liked helping them out whenever you could, as they would do the same for you. Turning around, you looked about. Still seeking inspiration, you were torn as to whether or not to just go home. You did have to work in the morning but were unsure as to how much you actually cared about getting rest beforehand. Scanning your surroundings from right to left, you looked at all the people, until you saw someone unfamiliar leaning against a wall, hood down, with bits of pink hair peeking out from beneath it. 

   You were intrigued.

   Gazing at the person standing there, your creative curiosity and interest peaked. You wanted to know what they looked like, and luckily right as the thought crossed your mind someone approached the woman, and she took her hood down.

   She looked tired, worn, beaten and bruised. Your heart hurt thinking about anyone going through the things that would result in looking such a way. Behind all of that surface area, you saw beautiful features, however, and felt your heart race a little bit as the woman scanned the area while chatting. You were nervous she would catch you staring, so you pretended to look down quickly.

   The woman was becoming more agitated speaking with the person in front of her, and suddenly pushed them away. She started walking quickly away from you.

    Oh no... you thought. You did not want to lose this person, as creepy as that sounds. You decided to follow them only for a few minutes. Sometimes strangers led you to streets and places you would have never gone to yourself. You weren't only following her to be creepy. 

   You jumped up and started walking in the same direction as the woman. She was fast, so you had to speed walk a little bit. You took a few turns and short stops, all at places you had been before and studied before. Although you were interested in her, you decided that you would turn around and head home. 

    Right before you turned heel, the woman turned down a narrow dark alleyway. Ok... you thought. Now what is she doing? You waited a few moments before turning, too. You didn't want her to see you and recognize you. She looked like she might get a little angry about that. 

    Very quickly, you realized you had made a mistake. Three large men appeared from the shadows in front of the woman. And she stopped, looked up to the sky, and sighed loudly. You took the opportunity to hide behind a stack of boxes that were next to a dumpster on the left side of the alleyway. You peeked out from behind them and watched the confrontation ensue.

    "What do you need, boys?" The woman said, stepping over to lean on the wall next to her, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

    "We saw a pretty girl like you, and decided we needed to have you. What'ya say, sweets?" One man said. His voice was gravely, low, and you swore you could smell him from where you were. The other two men were sneering behind him, adjusting their waste bands. 

    The woman laughed. And she laughed loudly. Your eyes widened at the sound, it was like a sweet music, even in this scenario.

   "You don't know what you're about to do, dirtbag," the woman said while laughing. The man's expression quickly changed to one of anger, and he started approaching her. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you," She warned. The man laughed slightly and kept approaching, to which the woman responded-

    "Idiot".

 ---- Vi's POV ----

    Vi sneered at the man coming at her. She had a rush of adrenaline from the argument she had with the junky at the markets earlier already and needed to get rid of the urges she had to punch something. She decided these guys would do the trick.

    As the man approached, Vi took the cigarette out of her mouth and flicked it at him. He jerked back. Really? Afraid to get burned? That should be the least of your worries. As he jerked back, she grabbed him by the front of his coat and head butted him, wasting no time while he was in shock to bring her right fist up and slam it into his face.

    "By the way, the name is Vi."

    The other two men started to approach her, and she gave them a look that said "really?". They came to her from opposite sides, and she easily grabbed both of their backs, took a step backward and slammed their heads into each other. The men both collapsed to the ground rubbing their heads and yelling at one another. 

    The first man was starting to get up off the ground, but this time he looked afraid. Vi gave him a look that made him tremble and told him "Get the fuck out of here. You and these two dumbasses. I don't want to see you causing trouble to anyone again. Got it?" They hesitated, "I said get the FUCK out of here!" She yelled this time. The men got up and ran away like little children. Pathetic. 

    Vi turned around and saw someone staring at her from behind a dumpster. It was that girl from the market, the one that caught her eye. She had noticed her following her but didn't think she still was at this point. Vi grew angry, her adrenaline still running high through her veins.

 ---- Your POV ---- 

    As the fight finished up, you were holey prepared to turn tail and book it out of here. You decided you were following someone really dangerous and became scared. That is right about the moment when the woman turned around and looked right at you, rage in her eyes.

    You stumbled backwards, turning and trying to run away. "Fuck" you muttered as you slipped immediately after trying to start running. You looked backward for a brief moment as you stood, and realized she was right behind you. The woman shoved you roughly into the wall behind you. Her hand on your neck.

    "WHO are you? WHY are you following me? WHO are you working for?" The woman yelled in your face. Although you were afraid, short of breath and absolutely dreading what was to come you were enamored by her beauty. "Hello?!" She broke you out of your trance, "I asked you a question!"

    "N- n- no one! I'm not working for anyone" you stammered, your voice weak from the vice like grip she had on your neck.

    "Liar," she said calmly, her grip tightening ever so slightly on your neck. You felt pressure in your cheeks and above your eyes, and you became truly afraid that you may die. 

   "I- I'm no- not lying," you struggled to say. "I just tho- thought you looked go- good so I followed you to get inspi- inspiration for my art."

    Her grip loosened ever so slightly. You sensed she could tell you were afraid. Maybe she could tell you were not lying, but you were unsure. You really couldn't trust strangers down here. She shoved her finger in your face, and bit her teeth together. Through this, she said -

    "Don't fucking follow me again. That is creepy as hell." She released you and you fell to the ground, rubbing your neck. 

    "I- I won't!" you promised, looking up. But realization quickly hit that she was already gone, as you saw her walking the rest of the alleyway past where she beat those men, with her hood up and hands in her pockets.

    You took the opportunity, got up, and ran your ass all the way home. You heart was beating very quickly, and you were still terrified. Hyper aware of everything around you. The wind making the tendrils of your hair fly next to your face as you ran.

 Finally, you got home and got inside, collapsing on the ground from exhaustion.

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PART TWO: Ubiquity

  The next few weeks, you continued on with your life. Going on walks, working, eating, and drawing. Drawing someone who you could not get out of your head. The woman with the pink hair. After your encounter, you swore you saw her everywhere. Places you had never seen her before. 

    One day, she was at the market getting food from your favorite place. She looked like she liked the woman who had previously given you your soup. She was smiling, and you noticed her put down a gracious tip onto the counter before collecting her food. You stayed very far back before cowering and going back home. 

    Another day, she came into your work. You didn't think she was looking for anything in particular, she was just browsing, probably bored. You watched from the back-room door as she fumbled with some of the little figurines you had placed out and watched her put them back down as if they were so fragile, she might break them by breathing on them.

    On this particular day, you headed to work. You were tired and worn out from the last weeks' worth of work already but still had today before you finally got a day off. You worked in a small nick-nack shop that a lot of people who created gadgets frequented. You decided to stop and grab some coffee at the warn down coffee stand out front of the shop you worked. The stand was musty, creaky, and downright shouldn't even exist anymore. But what are you to do when you are so limited to recourses as you are down here?

    "Hi, can I have a coffee, something sweet?" You smiled at the barista. They did not smile back.

    "2 dollars." They stated. They were tall, skinny and looked as if they were addicted to... something. You handed them the money and they gave you your coffee, immediately turning away to attend to the next customer. You started taking a sip, it was bitter, and you let out a hiss. Slowly turning to your left, you jumped and let out a little yelp.

    It was the woman. She was standing beside you against the wall, staring at you as if she was pondering something. Her eyebrows were furrowed, and she took a drag off her cigarette. 

    "You still following me?" She smirked. Your eyes widened and you felt your heart beating a thousand beats per minute. She was wearing the same getup. A red jacket that looked warn. Her tired look was no longer, but she did look wary and had a few scratches, including one on her lips.

   Her beautiful pink lips. 

   "Hey, my eyes are up here," she snorted. You gasped.

   "Oh, shit. Sorry... No, I am not following you. Trust me I don't want to get strangled again." You said way too quickly. A few people glanced over at the two of you, and you lowered your head. You could feel your cheeks becoming red.

   "Then why are you everywhere I go? I have seen you at least 3 places besides the first time we encountered one another. Who are you?"

    "Well like I said, I am not following you," you stated. You felt a little frustrated that it wasn't getting through her head. "And I don't appreciate you accusing me of such!"

   She laughed. That same beautiful laugh she had right before she beat the shit out of three huge men.

    "It wouldn't be the first time, weirdo. Now, I am not going to hurt you again. Trust me. I was in a fit of rage and... yeah. Just can you trust me on that?" She looked genuine. You felt yourself loosen up a bit. "What is your name? I'm Vi," she reached her hand out towards you.

    "I'm (y/n). And I guess I can," you stated hesitantly. You reached your hand out and grasped hers. It was calloused and hard against your soft one.

    "So, you're really an artist?" She asked, sitting down on a bench across the walkway. You followed, and sat next to her, looking at your wristwatch. You had about 30 minutes until you had to go in to work behind the coffee shop.

    "Um... yes. It's a hobby," you said shyly. You brushed a loose piece of hair back behind your ear and looked over at her. "And you're a street fighter?" You said raising your eyebrow.

   She laughed again. You couldn't help but smile too.

   "Well, technically, I guess you could call it that. I really only fight when I have to, or if I am in the mood to do so. I am the kind of person who just goes with the flow, I guess. I have no real goal right now...". You noticed that she was becoming saddened, but not enough to fully show it through her tough face. She stretched her legs out and laid back against the back of the bench and looked up at the sky. You noticed a few features you hadn't previously. She had a tattoo on her cheek that read VI and a gear tattoo on the side of her neck. She had scars, a lot of them. You wondered where she got them but put the pieces together and assumed they were probably from fights.

    "Do you fight a lot?" You blurted out, unsure if the question would offend, anger or sadden her. She looked at you dead in the eyes with her sky-blue ones, serious as can be.

    "Yes."

    She was so mysterious. You wondered about her life, her story. You wanted to know more about her but there was still and underlying fear and feeling of uneasiness around her simply because of how the two of you first interacted. You rubbed your neck as you remembered the happening. 

    "I am sorry for what I did to you before. It was out of line. I shouldn't have assumed you were some person who was hired to go after me." Vi reached up and put her hand on your shoulder for a split second. You felt yourself get warm all over and blushed.

    "Um, I guess it's okay?" You shrugged. You weren't actually okay with it, but you didn't want it to be the reason why you two wouldn't talk again. You wanted to talk to her again, so you gathered yourself and in a brief confidence asked, "Do you want to hangout sometime? Like we can get coffee or food or something?"

    She looked taken aback, and you immediately began trying to remedy the situation. You were embarrassed. "I- I'm sorry it's okay if you don't want to I totally under-"

    "(y/n), Its okay. I would like that." She stopped you and stated. You smiled coyly and looked down at your coffee, then back up at her.

    "Okay, cool. Meet me here tomorrow, same time?" You got up. "I have to go to work, actually. Like right there. I am a few minutes late..." You couldn't believe that 35 minutes had already passed by and knew the boss man was not going to be happy that you were late. You said your goodbyes and headed into the shop. 

    You were right, the man was not happy.

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PART THREE: Awkward Encounters

 You and Vi had plans to meet the next day. On one hand you were giddy with excitement. On the other, you were nervous. Very nervous. You weren't entirely sure you could trust the temperament of this woman. As you laid in bed, you had thoughts of what the day ahead would look like. What kind of interest did Vi have with you? You were certain you had interest in her, but you didn't know what kind of interest it was. You imagined the two of you in different scenarios, such as friendship, or as lovers. Friendship seemed amazing, but lovers felt even better. You smiled at yourself and rolled over. Either way, you decided you were going to have a good time.

--THE NEXT DAY--

    Waking up energized, you decided since it was your day off, you would try to do as much as possible. If Vi was up to it, perhaps she could tag along. You got up in the morning from your bed and comfortable plaid duvet to go shower. In the shower, you washed your hair as well as wash and shaved your body. The water was warm as it caressed your figure. You imagined it was Vi.

    What am I thinking? You contemplated. You two had only just met and it was a strange encounter to say the least. You shook your head in dismay, blushing at the thoughts you were dismissing. You hopped out of the shower and grabbed one of the towels right outside the curtain. You always laid the towel on the toilet seat so it would be easier to get to. Stepping out of the shower, you stood in front of the mirror above the sink. You were a tidy person, but today it was a little bit messy in there.

    Taking a small hand towel, you swiped the glass on the mirror so you could see your reflection. Although you looked tired, you still felt energetic. You were too giddy to feel tired. You decided today you were going to put on a little bit of makeup, just mascara and eyeshadow. Walking out of your bathroom and back into your room, the towel draped across your midriff, you looked in the closet to pick out an outfit. 

   Deciding on black jeans, a baggy brown knit sweater, and your warn old brown boots you tossed them on. The sweater was warm, which was perfect for this time of year in the Undercity. You got everything on, tossed on a few rings on your fingers, and headed to the door. beside the door was a coat rack, which you grabbed your oversized black leather jacket off of and threw on. You smiled as you walked outside and took a deep breath of air.

    Your heart was racing, but this time it was from excitement. Never had you thought you would be so brave as to ask someone you had just met (who admittedly had almost killed you) to hangout. You rolled your eyes at yourself and dismissed the thoughts from coming back. You refused to let that ruin your day or come back up ever again. 

    You made your way down the street and your usual route to the coffee shop in front of your work. As you approached, you had hoped Vi would be there early, but she was nowhere to be seen. It was 5 minutes before your set meeting time, but you were not worried. You ordered yourself and Vi a coffee at the stand and sat at the bench you both had your first meaningful conversation at. Taking a sip, you looked around and took in the area, hoping to remember every last detail that you may not have already memorized. 

    You looked down at your watch and realized time had already passed. 10 minutes, actually. You were getting worried that she wouldn't show up. After another 5 minutes, you decided to get up and walk into the shop you were employed at. The shop keep looked confused why you were there, but you said-

    "Don't worry, I am just visiting. I rarely get to come in here as a customer."

    "Oh, okay." he smiled slightly. He seemed to be in a better mood, but then you bumped into a shelf beside you. You jerked yourself to the right to correct it and ensure nothing fell off. "Just don't break anything," he sighed, rolling his eyes. He was a big man, not fat but muscular. He seemed like he could handle himself in a bar fight if he had to.

    "I promise I will not break anything," you laughed slightly. You turned your back to the man and back towards the window out front, and you saw her.

    She was beautiful, sitting there on the bench on the same side she had last. Her fingers were tapping the back of it and she was looking around nervously. You decided to set down the figurine you had in your hand and rushed outside. You were relieved she actually came.

    "Vi!" you smiled, rushing over to her. She smiled back and began to stand, when you felt someone run into you, knocking you to the ground. You were shaken, and looked up towards the direction the person was going. "S-Sorry!" you hollered to the person, but they kept going.

    "Watch it, Asshole!" Vi yelled in their direction, coming over to you to help you get up. Luckily, you had already gotten rid of the coffees as they had gotten cold. You stood and brushed yourself off, thanking the world silently for the ground not being wet today. Sighing, you turned to Vi and embraced her in a hug.

   "I am so glad you made it," you smiled, releasing her. She had not returned the embrace, but you were okay with that. Not everyone is a hugger and she appeared shocked.

    "Oh, uh yeah. Sorry about that. I had some things I had to take care of," she muttered, appearing to blush and took her hand through her hair. As she did this, you couldn't help but watch the muscles in her arm flex, as she was only wearing a t-shirt. She cleared her throat, and your eyes darted back over to her face. 

    "So, um, are you hungry?" you quickly changed the subject. She nodded, and you started walking. She followed.

    The two of you walked side by side for quite some ways and decided amongst yourselves to go to one of Vi's favorite places. You had never been there before, but you had walked by it many times. You were in awe at the fact that you had not ever seen Vi before. You walked inside the establishment with her. It was large and smelled of drink. You noticed a decrepit old bar towards the back, and wooden tables all around. There were a few people in there, but not many. Vi walked to the back and sat at the bar. Sighing, as she looked around.

    "You know," she started, "My dad used to own this place. He died trying to protect my family." A pained expression crossed her face. You frowned.

    "Oh, I am so sorry..." you weren't the best at comforting people and looked down at your hands. Luckily, Vi decided she wanted to change the subject and called the bartender over, ordering you both a drink. You didn't normally drink, but today you were willing to allow it. After all, you did decide you wanted to have fun.

    After a few rounds, you both and really let loose a lot. You were laughing with each other and had gotten to know more about each other's lives and interests. 

    "...And then!" Vi laughed as she was finishing her story, "He fell on his ass into the puddle, right beside us!" You grimaced and laughed with her. She had just told you about a fight she had gotten into. It seemed to be a lot of the talking points she had, but you didn't mind. Actually, it impressed you how confident she was in herself. 

    In your tipsy state, you leaned forward, putting your hand on her thigh to keep your balance. She looked down at your hand, and back up at you.

    "I am sorry for following you," you slurred. "I thought you were so beautiful... I wanted to see what you were about..." blushing, you turned away, but your hand still laid on her thigh. You felt a warmth over your hand and looked back over. Vi had placed hers there, on top of yours. Butterflies fluttered throughout your stomach.

    "(Y/N), it's okay. Really." The two of you had gotten closer, without even realizing it. "To be honest, I saw you at the market before I even started walking. You were looking down at your hands, but I could tell you were pretty. I almost came over to you, but I chickened out."

    Your eyes widened, and you blushed profusely. You leaned towards her slightly. You weren't even sure she was interested in women, but you didn't care. You were really really hoping she was. Suddenly, Vi removed her hand from on top of yours, and lightly placed it on the back of your neck. She looked you in the eyes, and you tilted your head ever so slightly looking back into hers. She leaned in, pulling you closer gently, and pressed her lips against yours. You leaned into the kiss and melted. Her lips felt like heaven against yours. They were soft, supple, and warm. 

   As she pulled away, you felt your hand absent-mindedly reach up and caress your mouth. You were blushing even harder than before and looked at her. She was smiling a huge face splitting smile. She looked proud.

    "Wow," she stated.

    "Wow," you repeated back. 

    "Bet ya weren't expecting that, were you?"

    "No, but I liked it. Did... did you?" you asked nervously.

    "I wouldn't have done it if I didn't want to." She giggled. You smiled and turned back towards the bar, twirling your finger around the straw in the glass. You wanted another, and so did she. You knew because soon there were two new drinks in front of you both. 

    You looked over at Vi. She was just finishing a sip of her drink and looked over at you as she set it down. 

     "Do you want to come to my house tomorrow and see some of my art? I already saw you fight, so I figured it would be fair if I showed you some of the things I have done," you asked sheepishly. She smiled, but this time it was sly. Like someone looking at something they wanted to eat, to devour. 

    "Absolutely."

    The two of you finished your drinks. The day was nearly over, and you hadn't done any of the things that you had planned. You were okay with it. In fact, you wouldn't trade how this day went for anything. Before leaving the establishment, Vi offered to walk you home. You had a feeling she wanted to keep you safe, and you appreciated it even though were not afraid. This also made it easier for her to find your home the next day, so she could come look at your art.

    You continued talking to one another as you walked back to your house. She had her hands in her pockets, and you had yours in your own. The streets were dark and there were hardly any people out, as most of the shops had closed. 

    Approaching the old shack of a house you called home, Vi let out a whistle and turned to you.

    "Quite the place you got here, huh?" She grinned, teasing you.

    "Hey, its home to me alright? Can only do so much down here." You reached up and lightly smacked her arm. Before you could lower your hand, she grabbed your wrist and pulled you close to her. So close, both of you were touching bodies. Vi was taller than you, and looked down at you slightly, as you looked up at her. She smiled and planted another kiss on you. This one more passionate, inviting. You could feel her warmth enveloping you as her arms held you. 

    Releasing from the kiss, you tried to stammer out a goodbye, but Vi had already started walking away. 

     "See you tomorrow, sweet stuff!" She said, waving as she walked backwards. She had a huge grin on her face.

    "O-Okay! See you tomorrow!" You smiled back. You turned around and got inside, shut the door and leaned against it. You did a little happy dance in your spot. 

    Wow... you thought. That was amazing. 

PLEASE LIKE AND COMMENT IF YOU ENJOY :D Drop a follow if you wanna stay updated on these! There are TEN more parts in the series! Oml...... lol <3 I hope you enjoyed so far!

[veinsfullofstars]

-trips and drops all my eggs on the ground-

(ID: A small compilation of Kirby series fanart featuring Magolor in various silly and disconnected scenarios, with guest appearances by Marx, Kirby, and the rest of the RtDL team as well. More detailed descriptions and transcripts under the cut. END ID.)

I sketched out most of these months ago while I was playing through KRtDLDX for the first time. The Epilogue was giving me thoughts and the brainworms were feeding. Still, I didn’t really have any big piece ideas for these, so I figured I’d just slap them all into a comp, throw some lines and color on, and call it done. A little loose on context, I admit, but I think they came out okay in the end. I just love drawing this wretched man (and the clown that bothers him).

Sketches started 02/28/23, render started 11/02/23, finished 11/04/23. NOTE: This was originally posted on my deleted account on 11/04/23.

---

Image desc. & transcripts (in no particular order):

-Magolor points to a barrel, smiling pleasantly, and says “Trust me, it’s foolproof! Now get in~” Marx looks on unimpressed.

-Magolor (in his tattered gray outfit) grabs his head with a look of fear on his face, saying “No one told me there’d be consequences to my actions!”

-Magolor (in his Tome Trackers outfit) winks and twirls his mustache, saying “Of course I’m trustworthy! You can tell by my mustache and ridiculously high IQ!”

-Shopkeeper Magolor holding the Gem Apple sapling and giving the viewer a thumbs-up, saying “That’s right! Spin-off games have canon in ‘em! It’s all over for you lore bitches!”

-Magolor happily lifting Kirby by the hands via Helper mode

-a large human hand squeezing a frightened and very unhappy-looking Magolor

-Magolor smiling smugly while the RtDL gang (off-screen save for their hands) all point their weapons at him (see the Knife Cat meme)

-Magolor showing Marx a Gem Apple, a look of wonder in the jester’s eyes

-Magolor weeping and clutching his head as a pair of large hands reminiscent of his Soul form loom around him, ready to grab

-Shopkeeper Magolor smiling with his hands together, an arrow pointing at him reading “no longer evil :)”

-Magolor (in his tattered gray outfit), first standing neutrally, then looking down at his hands, then shrugging with his eyes shut, saying “Oh, well. Time to learn nothing.”

-Shopkeeper Magolor showing off a Gem Apple to the viewer, saying “This apple cured my sociopathy! Imagine what it could do for you!”

-Magolor and Marx sitting back-to-back on the floor, the former fixing a pocket watch with a screwdriver, the latter propped up on his side watching a Minecraft let’s play on a purple childproof tablet; Mags says, “So, anyway, that’s how I lost everything to a baby, went to hell, fought my demons, and ultimately grew as a person.” Marx responds in disinterest, “Uh huh, sure, buddy.”

-Magolor winking at the viewer with a hand on his chest, saying “Of course I have a heart. Several, in fact! In really nice glass jars.”

-Magolor and Marx holding hands (er, well, Mags holding the end of Marx’s hat like a hand), facing away from each other, looking flustered and nervous; an arrow points at them reading “Shhh… they’re on their first date

-Marx smiling innocently at the viewer, eyes shut, one tooth peeking out, waving the end of his hat; an arrow points at him reading “causes problems on purpose”

-Magolor looking at something off-screen, a hand over his eyes as if to block the sun

-a tear in the background shaped eerily like a smile, a goopy drip connecting top and bottom, a blank red eye in the center peering out from within

[ifidiedinadream]

Here is my Joel x Reader request

(Thanks again for reserving me a spot 🥺)

Reader "forcing" Joel to go an autumn walk with them because they noticed Joel has been isolating himself lately and hasn’t floated their chat with messages like he usually does. So, one day reader shows up at Joels' flat and drags him along for a walk to distract him. Maybe they come across a flower shop and reader buys Joel some flowers to lift his mood or they walk through the park hand in hand admiring the colourful trees. And when reader is about to leave, Joel shyly asks them to stay at his place for the night cause he doesn’t want to be alone (and because he obviously is madly crushing on reader).

(Yeah, I know we still have like 25 degree outside but I’m ready for autumn 🍂 ✨)

liam this request made me go AAAAAAAAH 😭😭😭 it's so sweet and i loved writing it so much, hope you can tell when you read it 🖤 also yeah we still have 30+ degrees but i want autumn and i want it NOW

also on ao3

Joel opens the front door on the second series of knocks. His hair is all messy and he’s wearing an old t-shirt, whose light color does nothing to conceal the wrinkles all over it. The skin around his eyes is dark and his very eyes are puffy, like it’s the first time he sees any type of light in ages. 

“Get ready, we’re going on a walk,” you say, entering the door without further preamble. Knowing your way around the house, you walk into the living room. You draw the curtains and open the windows, letting the fresh early autumn air caress your skin and come in the room so it no longer smells stale. “I’m gonna let the house aerate while you shower. I’ll be waiting right here.” 

Joel still hasn’t said a word. This isn’t the first time something like this happens; the man is sensitive and sometimes his demons get the best of him. Especially when autumn starts, with his birthday coming a bit too quickly for his liking and the sun shortening its stay in Joel’s personal little world the way it does in the physical one. It’s nothing new. All Joel needs is a little push from the outside and usually his mood settles to a background melancholy, which is still sad, but it’s still better than whatever is going on now. 

Joel nods. He knows fighting it won’t help; it isn’t the first time for him either, after all. 

*** 

The weather is crispy, a little too much so for a simple leather jacket, but Joel doesn’t seem of the same opinion. His hair is in a bun so it doesn’t get in his face when the wind blows. His expression is hard and dark as he extracts a cigarette and a lighter from the pocket of his jeans, bringing the cigarette to his lips. You wait until it’s lit. He’s looking straight ahead as he takes a drag, avoiding your gaze, but still he grabs your hand to hold. That’s how he finds the strength necessary to finally start your walk. 

There’s a small park just outside his apartment building, with trees all around it, a couple of benches and a statue surrounded in flowers in the center. Its grass is incredibly green in the summer, the flowers mostly purple, the trees robust and thriving; now the little park is starting to lose its brightness and the leaves on the trees are turning brown, yellow and red. Some of them are on the ground, some even on the sidewalk you and Joel are strolling along, brought there by the gentle breeze. It fills your heart with joy. 

“It’s so gloomy,” Joel sounds raspy, probably because he hasn’t used his voice in a while, or maybe because of the smoke. You squeeze his hand. 

“Fall is not that bad. Cozy evenings spent under a blanket watching tv shows and drinking hot chocolate, warm baths, candles, saunas, warm meals, Halloween… don’t tell me it doesn’t excite you.” 

Joel takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Thank god I’ll be in the USA through October.” 

You give him a sympathetic smile. Your goal is to have the corners of his mouth tug upwards at least once by the end of afternoon: Joel can make it as hard as he wants, but you won’t lose your spirit. 

“Look, a flower shop! Wanna check it out?” 

Joel frowns, looking at you like you’re insane; but when the excitement on your face doesn’t falter, he just rolls his eyes and finishes his smoke, putting it out and throwing the butt into the nearest bin. He follows you inside. 

The strong perfume inside the shop makes all your muscles relax instantly. The florist greets you with a polite smile and you walk over to her, asking for three dahlias in three different colors. You specifically ask for one of them to be red.  

“Do you remember when we first met?” you ask Joel, “It was at Olli’s birthday party a few years back. There was a red dahlia in a vase at the center of the table. Olli can be pretty sophisticated when he wants to be.” 

The florist gives you your bouquet and you pay for it, grabbing Joel’s hand back on your way out of the shop. 

“For you,” you say, handing Joel the flowers. And maybe it’s the cool air, but Joel’s cheeks turn pink as he looks away. 

“C’mon, don’t be silly.” 

“I’m not being silly. These are for you.” 

Here it is, finally, the little smile you’ve longed to catch a glimpse of all day. Joel takes the flowers and smells them with his eyes closed, looking like he’s getting lost in it for a second. It makes you feel all fuzzy in the chest. 

“Where are we going next?” 

“Pumpkin spice latte is back at Starbucks. Just fyi.” 

“You know I don’t like spice.” 

“But I do. Let’s go.” 

Joel doesn’t fight it this time, so you effortlessly drag him over to the nearest Starbucks shop, with no rolling of his eyes nor cigarette breaks. He orders a drink that’s way too sweet for your liking. His eyes end up in the back of his head as soon as he takes a sip. 

“Fuck, I needed some sugar.” 

He chooses to sit at a table with three chairs, so he can rest the flowers on one of them. He’s unnecessarily gentle with them but you figure he’s been feeling unworthy of kind gestures these past few days, so those flowers must mean a lot to him. You smile to yourself. That’s what friends are for, right? 

“You haven’t eaten much these days, have you?” 

With his lips still closed around the straw, Joel shrugs, avoiding your gaze. You don’t want to bring him down again, so you change the subject, and soon you fall into an easy conversation, even managing to elicit a fit of laughter or two out of him. 

When your drinks are finished and it’s silent, Joel’s gaze lands on the flowers on the chair again. He reaches his hand to touch the petals. 

“They’ll need to be put in water soon,” you say. Joel nods and with that, you head home. 

You can’t help but notice his skin is no longer grayish and his face muscles are way more relaxed than they were earlier. His mood seems to be less grave, but you know perfectly he isn’t safe from seasonal depression yet. Still, you’re grateful you could do something for him, all things considered. 

You continue your chit chat as you walk, but the closer to his apartment you get, the quieter Joel becomes, as if he isn’t looking forward to being back at all. You hug him tightly when it’s time to part, but not as tightly as him: his arms could crush you and you can only barely breathe, but a light, pleasant feeling spreads across your chest nonetheless, making you wish you never had to let go. 

“Thank you. For everything,” Joel says softly. 

You pull away with a kind smile. “Anytime.” 

This was supposed to be Joel’s cue to go inside and close the door, but he simply stands there in the doorway, worrying at his bottom lip. There’s something he has to say and he’s struggling to find the words, so you don’t leave either, waiting for him to speak his mind. 

“You… there’s no way you can spend the night here tonight, is there?” he scratches the back of his head, looking elsewhere. “I don’t… I don’t really feel like being alone but I don’t wanna, like, interfere with your plans or anything. Also if you don’t want to -” 

“It’s fine, Joel,” you cut him off, smiling, loving how his cheeks turn red once again when his eyes find yours. “I’ll stay. But on one condition: we’re doing sweater weather stuff.” 

Joel grins and it’s both amused and thankful. “Alright. I’ll get the candles and the blankets, but we’re gonna have to use your Netflix account.” 

He moves from the doorway, letting you in. “Sounds like a plan.”

[god-of-the-frozen-heart]

Madelyn McQuail had given up hope of seeing her family again after her third night in the storage container.

She may have been only twelve, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew that a little girl from Chinatown wouldn’t be any kind of priority for the local cops (if her parents reported her missing in the first place. Her dad’s own criminal record made all of them cop-shy, and she knew they couldn’t afford to lose one of their only breadwinners, with two other kids to support). She could only hope that her parents kept some of her belongings to remember her by the next time they had to tighten the budget. She hoped it was the blanket her grandma had made her. It was all the woman had left behind when she’d passed.

Most of the kids being held with her felt the same way. Some of the young ones were still crying for their families, but the older ones knew the drill. For some of them, this wasn’t even their first time being kidnapped. Some of them (the girls, mostly) had stories of being taken from school or the park or off their parents’ front steps, and being rescued at the last second by one of Gotham’s shadowy heroes. These stories calmed some of the crying ones, but Madelyn thought it cruel to get their hopes up like that.

Even with the ever-growing number of vigilantes that prowled the Gotham streets, they couldn’t be everywhere at once, and if they weren’t here by now, then they were probably not coming.

But while most kids were resigned or tearful or in denial, there was one kid who’d gone to work as soon as their captors had locked the container door on them that night. Madelyn hadn’t said anything as she watched him draw a series of boxes on a relatively clear piece of their cardboard bedding - one large one with rounded corners, and three or four smaller ones on one side. Their captors had taken most of their belongings (mostly things they could sell, or identifying items that they could use for proof of life or blackmail), but some kids had been left with small, nonthreatening items like Cheryl’s half-eaten root beer lollipop and Marcus’ inhaler. This kid had probably managed to hide his stick of chalk in his hand, Madelyn figured or their captors had just not seen a need to take it.

When the artist was done with the boxes, though, he got up and began to shuffle around the boxes on his knees, scratching the chalk with his fingernail to turn it into powder, and draw a thin circle around the boxes. Madelyn furrowed her brow, and finally opened her mouth.

“What are you doing?” She asked. The kid looked at her, but didn’t say anything as he finished laying down his weird chalk circle. It looked like something she’d seen in one of her older brother’s favorite ghost hunting shows. “You’re wasting good chalk. They won’t let you have any more, you know.” The kid continued to ignore Madelyn, and reached up chalk-covered hands to his mouth to pull out a soggy roll of red ribbon. Madelyn curled her lip in disgust as the kid unrolled this short ribbon and laid it down perpendicular across the center of his biggest rectangle drawing. As he started scribbling something in one of the smaller rectangles with what remained of his chalk, Madelyn quietly scooted herself away from this freaky kid.

He’d lost his mind, and lost it good.

A sudden burst of muffled laughter from the men standing outside the container caused them all to fall into a tense silence, and the strange kid froze like a deer in the headlights. The laughter faded, and the kid slowly returned to scribbling before his chalk snapped, and he cursed. Madelyn didn’t know what the word meant - it didn’t sound like English, and it certainly wasn’t Mandarin - but it was clear from the tone that it was an exclamation of anger. A few more kids were staring now, as the creepy kid continued his scribbling with the sharp stub of chalk left in his hand. When he finished, he picked up as many broken chalk pieces as he could and stuffed them into the pocket of his shorts.

From another pocket, he pulled out a stick of gum and four cigarettes, Madelyn remembered one of their captors had dropped their carton earlier, and said a lot of colorful words when he couldn’t find all the ones that had rolled away. Kids began to whisper as the kid unwrapped the gum and threw it in his mouth, chewing wildly for a few seconds before spitting it out and ripping off pieces to stick the cigarettes upright within the largest rectangle - one in each corner. He then took off his striped shirt and flipped it inside out to retrieve some sort of trading card that was taped on the inside, and more kids scooted away from him as he put the card down in the center of the big rectangle, and started to chant something.

The words were still not English, and some of the younger kids began to cry again, confused and scared by the weird activity. Madelyn wondered what she’d done wrong to not only get kidnapped, but to get kidnapped along with some weird cultist child.

“Hey,” She said. The kid kept chanting. “Hey!” Madelyn raised her voice as much as she dared. She didn’t want their captors to think they were being too loud. They’d been warned about the consequences already. “Knock it off! You’re scaring the little ones.” The kid’s voice cracked, and he faltered on his words, but he kept chanting. Madelyn felt bad. Everyone coped differently, she knew that, and she knew that she couldn’t judge someone for how they reacted when their life was in danger. But this was making an already bad situation worse for the littlest kids there, and that just wasn’t-

“Arroo?” Madelyn’s thoughts ground to a halt about the same time as the rest of the storage container fell into an eerie silence. A red mist had begun to seep up from the seams in the container floor, just outside the weird kid’s chalk circle, and take on a vaguely canine shape from the paws up. As the children watched in stunned silence, a head appeared in the smoke, lowered as if to sniff the circle. A pair of bright blue eyes lit up in the smoke, as did a heart-shaped mark as the creature sat, and looked around at the gathered children. The kids cringed back as its icy stare passed over them, and when its head could turn no further, it leaned almost upside-down to look at those directly behind it.

A few sparks of nervous laughter went around, and the creature began to wag its tail. After getting a good look at all the children, the creature turned back to the boy who had summoned it, and licked his forehead with a bright blue, somewhat see-through tongue. Then, it ran off and jumped over a few of the children, who let out startled shrieks and ducked even as the creature passed through the wall of the container and disappeared.

All that was left behind were a few chalk paw prints on the cardboard flooring, and a heavy silence.

Madelyn almost broke it after a few minutes, if only to ask what the hell that had been, when the temperature in the container suddenly began to drop. The weird kid scooted away from his drawings as ice began to spread out from the center of it with a faint crackle. The few nervous whimpers this caused were quickly shushed as the ice spread across the floor and up the container walls in a smooth, thin layer - dusting frost on the edges of blankets and shoes and pant legs - until it came together again on the ceiling. As soon as it had, a column of snowflakes began to spiral down from where the ice had met on the ceiling, rapidly building up into the shape of something tall and humanoid.

The children huddled together in fear as the snowman grew taller, and started to solidify with the crunch of snow being packed down underfoot. Color spread across the solid white like dye dropped into water, and a collective gasp ran through the frightened crowd as the figure's exposed skull lifted, revealing glowing red lights in its eye sockets. The horned skulls of some sort of large animals adorned the beings shoulders like armor, shimmering with a coating of frost and dripping with long, sharp icicles, and a heavy cape of some dark red fur hung down from its back. As it moved, testing its limbs as if to be sure they all worked, the ice across its torso cracked and sang, though Madelyn couldn't see any pieces breaking off.

The smokey, dog-like creature returned as the figure finally seemed to take notice of its frightened audience - passing through the container walls and ice like they weren't even there - to circle around the figure with its tail held high in pride. Slowly, the towering being moved one of its legs to slide back, and lowered itself to one knee. The dog-like creature hurriedly circled to sit at the being's side, like a dog called to heel, and the figure turned its skull toward the weird kid.

"Soititko minulle, pikkuinen?" (Did you call to me, little one?) He asked in a soft, low voice. It made Madelyn think of her grumpy neighbor Mr. Henway, who had always scared her with his permanent crooked frown until she'd one day caught him feeding and talking to the stray cats behind their building.

"Minä tein." (I did.) The weird kid whispered back. Madelyn wondered why he sounded so scared, if this had been his plan all along. "Me kaikki haluamme kotiin." (We all want to go home.) His voice cracked, and the being's skull tilted. It made a low whistling sound that sent shivers down Madelyn's spine, and more of the dog-like creatures began appearing - out of the walls and the floor, as if they'd been waiting there for their cue - to circle around the being like the first. They tumbled over themselves like excited puppies at dinnertime before another command from the being straightened them out.

The being moved to stand up again, and the smokey beings at its feet moved towards the children. They seemed to grow bigger, but for a few, as they sat, forming a semi-translucent 'wall' between the children and the far end of the container, where the doors and their criminal guards stood. The being pushed off as he turned and glided towards the container doors on bladed boots, stopping before the barrier with ease and raising one hand to shoo away the ice that held it shut like a bothersome fly.

"Do not look." He told the children behind him with a thick accent that Madelyn could not place. "You will be safe in just a few moments." Madelyn sat up on her knees, trying to see over the pointed ears and wagging tails of the smokey hounds as the being lowered its shoulder and bashed open the container doors, but before she could see more, a paw on her shoulder pushed her back down.

The creature left its paw draped over the girl's shoulder as the guard shouted - first in surprise, then in fear - and then the sounds from outside were suddenly muffled. Madelyn thought she heard a gunshot, then maybe a splash, and then silence. A few of the hounds turned their heads around to look at the container door, but otherwise remained still until there was a strange, muted cracking sound, and they finally broke rank to excitedly mill around throughout the confused children. Through an archway in a wall of ice that dominated the container's now-open doors, the being returned. Madelyn caught a brief glimpse of one of their guards, frozen in a block of ice like the people she'd seen on the news the last time Mr. Freeze had run amok in the city, before the wall closed itself, and the figure once more lowered himself to one knee, though now with more space between himself and the children.

"....so," The figure spoke after several seconds of silence. "I found this on one of the bad guys. Does anyone here know how to use it?" The figure held out one hand and opened it to reveal a cell phone with a cracked case sitting on his palm. He placed it gently on the ground, and slid it across to the children, where Madelyn quickly grabbed it. "You can dial 9-1-1 for the police, yes?"

"Why didn't you just call?" The girl narrowed her eyes at the figure. She wasn't sure if it was courage or overwhelming panic she could feel rising in her chest now that the more human threat to their lives was gone. "Why do we have to do it?" The figure's skull seemed to deform to give the impression of raising one eyebrow, and he held up his massive gloved hand again.

"My fingers are too big for the buttons." He replied. Madelyn paused. That hadn't been the response she'd expected, but it wasn't wrong, either. She dialed the number with shaking fingers and held the phone to her ear. One of the hounds lay down at her side and rested its head on her legs, though she could only just feel its weight.

"Hello? 9-1-1?" Madelyn stared at the creature lying on her lap, because if she looked anywhere else, this weird, freaky, hopeful dream might end. Against the floor, she could see the shadow of the being as it slid across the floor to whisper again to the weird kid. "We need the police!"

[greenlightbulbonawire]

Misfits (yeah like the Arcane song)

XXII.

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Author's note: I got the summertime depression stuff and I'm not a fan, 2/10, do not recommend

Twenty first chapter

Masterlist

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The leader was with Heimerdinger in his room and you were in yours, their voices seeped through the wooden ceiling and filled the silence. They were talking about the blue marbles, Heimerdinger called them gemstones. You were bored out of your mind, your broken arm was held in fixation and there wasn't much you could do. Thank god it wasn't your main arm. You slumped over your desk, doodling. You weren't particularly good at it, but at the moment, it sufficed.

Someone knocked on your door.

"Come in!"

You stood up from your chair and stacked the papers with drawings, laying around your desk. Scar's oldest daughter opened the door and shyly went in.

"Hi [reader], I was wondering if you wanted to come play with us!"

She chirped and you nodded, coming closer to her.

"I mean, sure!"

You agrees with her and her face lit up. She grabbed your healthy hand and begun pulling you out of your room.

"We changed the rules, so it's fair for you!"

"Oh really? Tell me."

"We can't use the hoverboards and everyone has to hold one of their arms behind their back!"

You chuckled and followed the girl down the stairs around the tree's trunk.

Few more kids waited near the painted pillar for you to come to them. It was so sweet actually. The kids cheered and ran over to you, one of them slapped you on the leg and begun to ran away from you.

"Tag, you're it!"

The others fleed from you in all directions, you picked one and gave chase, catching up to them quickly and gently tapping them on the shoulder. They turned around and smiled, turning again and chasing someone else. All of them had one hand behind their back and you played until everyone started to get exhausted.

You placed your healthy hand against a nearby wall and breathed quickly, trying to catch your breath. Few of the kids were sitting in a circle and flicking marbles around. You came over to them and asked a girl with curly brown hair what the game was. She explained that they have one marble in the center and they take turns trying to get the closest without touching it.

"Do you wanna play too?"

"No, I'm gonna go do something else for now, but if you miss me too much, come and get me!"

You smiled at her and she nodded, you left them to their thing and walked around, looking for something to do.

You thought of going to look into the kitchen, but it didn't take you long to change your mind, cooking just wasn't for you, especially not when you had only one hand available. But maybe you could keep company to someone, you just had to find who. Yet before you could, your name rang through the air.

"[Reader]!"

Came from the top of the tree in a familiar voice. You looked up and layed your eyes on Ekko, waving at you, before he jumped off on a hoverboard and flew down to you.

"How's the arm?"

You held up your arm and he inspected the cast.

"It's fine, I'm just so fucking bored."

He chuckled a little at your words and nodded.

"I get that, but you gotta let it heal properly."

"I know, I know, there's just not that much I can do with one arm ya know."

"Mhmmmm."

He nodded again and let your arm go, then he grabbed his board and jumped on, again stretching one arm towards you.

"C'mon, I wanna show you somethin'."

You gladly accepted his arm and hopped on too, letting him hold you by your waist before flying up towards his room.

You were pretty much used to it by now and skillfully hopped off when he stopped on his balcony. He followed you and opened his door, letting you in before closing it. He pushed you lightly towards his desk and came to your side. You looked over the various gadgets lying on it, he picked one of them up. It was a pocket watch, the same he used in the fight with Jinx. But it looked less broken then before?

"You fixed ittt or?..."

He smiled and handed it to you.

"Yeah, bit I had to replace some damaged parts. Though I didn't let those go to waste eighter."

He rummaged through the mess again and pulled out a chain with a circular locket on it, made out of various small scraps of metal

"Consider this as payment."

You looked at the necklace in his hand and then back to him confused

"Payment for what?"

"Oh you know, just for saving my life, nothing important."

Ekko replied sarcastically and turned you by your shoulders so that your back was now facing him, before uncliping the chain and putting it around your neck and closing it back up.

[emotionalcadaver]

Part 10: Red Right Hand

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Grace Burgess x OC

Summary: The arrival of a new inspector and rumors of a crate of stolen guns puts everyone on edge.    

Word Count: 4,322

Notes: I’m finally back with more Lucy content! I apologize for how long this took to get out, I’ve been dealing with college stuff and had a few other fics that I wanted to get finished before I started any new projects. I also recommend reading These Devilish Intentions first, particularly if you want to know Lucy’s backstory. Warnings for depictions of PTSD and violence.

Previous Part • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 1: In the Depths of Hell

Lucy could feel the powerful muscles in the horse’s side move against her legs with every step it took. The morning air was still cool, and as always full of smoke and the smell of burning coal. Shifting forward, she settled her hands on Tommy’s waist for balance, her chest pressed to his back as he clutched the horse’s reins in his hand. They rode without a saddle, her hand petting unencumbered along the soft black fur that covered the horse’s back.

As they walked in a steady, unhurried stride down the road, the people gathered there gasped, scrambling to the sides to get out of the way. Many of them rushed into their houses and closed the doors, drawing the curtains across the windows. Lucy tilted her head, well aware that her gray cap obscured the top half of her face from view, hiding her eyes from sight. With every step the horse made her red curls bounce and sway around her chin rhythmically. 

Tommy pulled them to a stop in the center of the road. As always she kept her head on a swivel, eternally aware of the weight of the gun resting in her holster against her ribs. It was unlikely that any of these common people would try anything. They all knew what would happen if they did. But still, one never could be too careful.   

Two figures raced around the corner. One, a man, garbed in all black. The other, a woman in a teal shirt. Cutting it a bit close, as far as punctuality could be concerned.

They skittered to a stop in front of them, looking up with eyes full of fear.

“Sir?” the man said to Tommy. “This is her.”

Tommy shot a lazy glance to the woman, examining her carefully. “The girl who tells fortunes?”

The woman said nothing, but looked at Tommy levelly. Tommy reached into his pocket, and passed a few folded notes to the man. Lucy spotted a gaggle of children, watching from behind a box. A man and a woman were half-obscured from view by the shirts and skirts flapping on a clothesline. Families peeked out from behind the edges of curtains to look out their windows. Good. Let them all watch. That was what they were here for, after all.

The woman in the teal shirt pulled a bag from her pocket, pouring from it a fine, bright red powder into her palm. Red like blood. Red like a garnet. Red like Lucy’s hair.

The woman began to chant softly, her eyes fixed into the horse’s eyes, her lips lowered to just above her outstretched palm. And then, with one great exhale of air, she blew the powder out and into the horse’s face. He neighed, tossing his head back, but did not rear. Just snorted before sharking out his mane.

The man gripped the woman tightly by the wrist. Never once did he take his eyes off of Tommy. They backed away slowly, bowed once, and, after Lucy gave a jerk of her chin in permission, they took off running back the way they came.

Tommy guided the horse in a small circle, its hooves clicking against the cobblestones.

Tommy’s voice boomed across the silent street as he announced the horse’s name and instructions for placing bets on him, and then he began to urge the horse forward again. When she glanced over her shoulder, Lucy could see that the people were beginning to emerge from their hiding places, some going back to their usual business, but many of them watching them leave with expressions that were in equal parts full of wariness and wonderment.

As soon as they’d vanished from the view of the street, Tommy urged Monaghan Boy into a steady trot. Lucy relaxed, letting her chest press more firmly against his back, feeling his warmth even through the layers of his clothes. He always ran hot, like the fires of hell itself lived within his veins. They rode swiftly past Charlie’s yard, the roar of the factories and the creaking screams of heavy machinery echoing around them. Like the cries of damned, tortured souls wailing to the sky for absolution.  

They’d left early that morning. Early enough that most people were still in bed, the streets almost empty. But now they were alive and bustling, people dodging and jumping out of the way of the black horse. Jeremiah was walking the streets, bible in hand, shouting something about Abraham. He nodded in greeting when he saw them, a grin spreading across his face. Tommy gave a small tilt of his head in acknowledgment. Lucy smiled. They passed a group of blind beggars, seeking their way with the help of sticks and a dog, a metal cup stretched out in a silent plea. The handful of coins Tommy tossed in their cup clinked.

Monaghan Boy turned a corner, a few of the men gathered outside of the Garrison mumbling greetings. There was a sudden boom from up a head, and for a moment the horse jerked in surprise and fright, a high sound emitting from its throat. But all it took was a firm jerk of the reins from Tommy and he settled. Two coppers, dressed in their uniforms, nodded and tipped their hats as they passed.

“Good morning, Mr. Shelby. Hullo, Miss. Winters.”

As they continued down the street, she tossed a glance over her shoulder, smirk tracing over her lips at the people looking up at them as they rode. Birmingham was quite likely hell on earth, dark and black with soot and smoke, rage and pain. 

But hell wasn’t so bad, when you have the Devil on your side.

∗ ∗ ∗

They dropped Monaghan Boy off with Curly at the yard and made their way back to the betting shop. Tommy kept checking his watch, lips pressed into a frown. They were actually making rather good time, all things considered. He unlocked the door, holding it open so she could follow him inside, both of them removing their caps, Lucy stuffing hers into her pocket. Trailing behind him, through the green door that led to the kitchen, she sniffed and shot Tommy a knowing look at the familiar scent of cigarettes in the air. He snorted, their eyes darting to little Finn, who was attempting to subtly toss something white and smoking into the fire before they could see. He missed, the cigarette falling rather sadly onto the floor. In response, the kid started waving his hands wildly, attempting to dissipate the smoke that had been spewing from his lips and nose only a moment prior.

Aw, they grow up so fast. 

“Finn?”

“Arthur’s mad as hell,” he chirped, hands grasping onto the back of his chair as he watched Tommy stoop to pick up the cigarette. Tommy held it up for a moment, before tossing it into the fire.

“What does a ten year old know about hell, eh?” he swatted at Finn’s head gently with the soft part of the hat clutched in his hand, careful not to cut his little brother with the razors sewn into it. 

“I’m eleven Sunday,” Finn grumbled. Tommy laughed, straightening and swiping a thumb affectionately across Finn’s chin before pulling away. Lucy snickered, hand pressed to her lips as Tommy moved past her, shoving back the curtains and flinging open the double wooden doors, the sounds of the betting shop booming as they were unleashed.

The men were working wildly, John shouting from where he was standing at the blackboard. Lucy squeezed past them, heading towards the office she shared with Tommy.

“I’m going to go check my mail,” she mumbled into his ear, as he watched over the work the boys were doing.

“What? You don’t want to come with me to deal with Arthur?” he asked in a quiet voice. Lucy snorted.

“No, no, no, that is your problem, not mine,” she opened the door to their office. He flashed her a grin over his shoulder that she returned. 

There was a little desk shoved into the corner of the office where she worked, a stack of envelopes placed neatly in the corner of it. Picking them up, she thumbed through them idly, leaning against the doorframe. Nothing of particular interest. Letters from her brothers and her mother had she’d need to remember to answer. A few reports from their men in London and across Small Heath that were of little consequence. She and Tommy had built up quite the impressive network of informants and spies recently–if she did say so herself. And she was in charge of all of them. 

Assassin. Spymaster. Personal assistant to the boss. Those were her roles within the company. 

Tossing the letters back onto the desk, she huffed, heading back to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. 

“Don’t suck on it, just inhale,” she said as she passed Finn, who was swinging his legs back and forth and coughing as he tried his hand at having another cigarette. He looked at her with wide eyes as she opened the pantry. Glancing over her shoulder, she watched as he tried again, lips pursing around the white stick. “There you go,” she continued to rummage through the cupboards. “Oh, for fucks sake…Finn, do you know where your aunt’s hidden the tea?”

The sound of footsteps distracted them both.

“I’m calling a family council tonight at eight o’clock,” Arthur was shouting after Tommy. “I want all of us there.”

Tommy didn’t respond, just stomped through the kitchen, a little jerk of his head the only indication that he wanted her to follow him. She left Finn with a quick ruffle to the hair.

“You hear me? There’s trouble coming,” Arthur shouted after them. Tommy grumbled something under his breath, pushing the door open and stepping out into the street.

“I take it that went well?” Lucy asked, pulling her cap on over her curls. Tommy pinched the bridge of his nose.

“The man’s never used his brain a day in his life,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. Lucy patted his arm sympathetically.

“Want to go to the Garrison?”

“Errands first,” he said, reaching into his pocket, procuring two cigarettes and a lighter. He handed her one, lighting it for her and then pressing the second to his lips, lighting with a quick click of the flame. She followed dutifully beside him as they began to walk down the street. “Then, sure.”

∗ ∗ ∗

“On the house, Mr. Shelby,” Harry smiled as he set the bottle in front of them. “Miss. Winters,” he nodded respectfully to her, but his eyes remained fixed downwards, not really looking at her.

Few men did, nowadays. Not unless they wanted to risk getting their eyes ripped out.

Tommy set a few coins onto the bar, anyway, despite Harry’s insistence. Lucy leaned heavily against it, standing just close enough to Tommy that their shoulders brushed, cigarette pressed to her lips. She glanced warily around at the few men sitting at the tables and booths behind them, leaning in to speak in a soft whisper to Tommy.

“Have you decided what you want to do about…?” she didn’t dare finish the sentence. Not in public, even when she was pretty sure that no one was eavesdropping on them. 

Tommy’s face betrayed nothing, eyes lowered to stare at the ashtray he was tapping his cigarette into. “No.”

“Mm,” she nodded, thumb fiddling with one of the plain gold rings encircling her fingers. 

“Smart thing to do would be to get rid of them,” he grumbled. 

“Yeah,” she breathed out, then shrugged. “Doesn’t mean we couldn’t use them to our advantage ‘til we decide to part with them…”

Tommy shot her a intrigued look. “You think so?”

“Don’t look so surprised. Polly’s the risk adverse one; not me.”

He chuckled, inclining his head. “No risk, no reward.”

“Exactly,” she took a sip of her drink, then shrugged. “But there are risks. They shouldn’t be completely dismissed.”

Tommy nodded. “For now, we keep them where they are,” he pressed his cigarette to his lips. “Until I’ve considered all our options.”

“Okay,” she looked down at her glass, idly swirling the amber liquid filling it one-fourth of the way full. “What do you think Arthur wanted to call a meeting for?”

“Could be anything, knowing him,” he scowled down at the bar. “Probably has something to do with the inspector coming from Belfast. You find out anything about him?”

“Yeah, actually, he–” she stopped mid-sentence. “Shit.” Over his shoulder, she spotted Freddie Thorne standing from his chair. Tommy’s head snapped up to look at her.

“What?”

“I hate to make your mood worse, but guess who’s coming over,” she mumbled in a low voice. A muscle in Tommy’s cheek jumped, lips tightening in irritation. 

Freddie leaned against the bar, shooting a glance Tommy’s way after ordering another mild from Harry. When Tommy didn’t even look at him, he stalked closer, reaching out and taking one of the coins Tommy had dropped onto the bar, sliding it towards Harry. Tommy scoffed, but didn’t stop him. Harry looked between them in clear nervousness.

Lucy eyed Freddie warily as he and Tommy began to converse. She’d never been able to fully figure out if Freddie was a legitimate threat or not. It was no secret that he and Tommy were not on good terms at the moment, but there had been a point in time when they were. According to Ada, they’d been best friends all through school. Lucy didn’t think he’d try anything outside of squabbling, but it was hard to be sure.

She listened with only mild interest as Freddie launched into a discussion about a robbery he’d heard of from a sister of one of his comrades. The only indication Tommy made of hearing Freddie’s words was a slight raise of one eyebrow. Lucy returned her cigarette to her lips to make sure her facial features remained schooled in an expressionless mask.

“She found a list of names on the telegraph machine,” Freddie continued. “And on that list was your name and my name together. What kind of a list would have the name of a communist and the name of a bookmaker side by side?”

Tommy turned his head, and furrowed his brows in mock contemplation. “Perhaps it’s a list of men who give false hope to the poor.”

Lucy attempted to cover her laugh with her hand. It didn’t really work.

“The only difference between you and me, Freddie, is that sometimes, my horses stand a chance of winning,” he turned back to his cigarette with a self satisfied smirk. Freddie straightened, face twisting.

“You know, there are days when I hear about the cuttings and beatings,” for the smallest, tiniest second, his eyes darted over Tommy’s shoulder to Lucy, “that I really wish I’d let you take that bullet in France.”

Lucy felt her face darken at the words, fingers tightened around her cigarette. But Tommy just smiled and shook his head.

“Believe me, there are nights I wish you had,” he just began to raise his glass to his lips, when the doors slammed open and they all jumped. Suddenly, everyone was shouting, tables being overturned and glasses smashed. Lucy sighed, setting her cigarette down in the ashtray at the familiar sight of Danny Whizz-Bang. Flattening herself against the bar, she watched as Tommy and Freddie each grabbed at the flailing man’s arms. This was a familiar dance by now, one that anyone who knew Danny in any sort of capacity was aware of. Sometimes, she was the one who had to help Tommy grasp the screaming man’s arms and toss him thrashing to the ground. But this time she stood back, allowing Freddie to take on the job. It would probably be easier to calm Danny with Freddie anyway; he was more familiar to him than she was. 

On a count of three, they brought Danny crashing to the floor, pining him as he squirmed, screaming and babbling nonsensically. Tommy was speaking to him in a stern, paternal voice and the man slowly began to calm, movements and sobs ceasing. Confident that he wasn’t about to explode again, Tommy and Freddie hauled him to his feet. He looked between them dazedly. Tommy grasped him tightly by the shoulder. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

Watching Tommy with the other soldiers always fascinated her. She was so used to only getting to see the softer, gentler side of him when they were alone. To see it bleed through with others warmed her heart.

“Ah! Hell! Did I do it again?” Danny asked. Tommy nodded.

“You did it again, Danny.”

Danny began to cry quietly, shamefully, his face crumpling. He ripped off his hat, head bowing in shame. Tommy leaned forward, forehead resting against his as he spoke.

“You got to stop doing this, man.”

Lucy glanced around at the other patrons in the pub, most of them eyeing Danny warily, a few clutching their drinks protectively to their chests. As Tommy and Freddie began to usher Danny towards the doors, Lucy stooped, picking up one of the overturned tables and righting it. The other men in the pub began to shuffle out from the corners they had all crowded into, a few moving to help her fix the tables and chairs. 

She watched Danny rush out the pub doors after uttering one last apology. Tommy and Freddie shared a look that was equal parts sympathetic and exasperated.

“Mr. Shelby, you have to do something about him,” Harry said, examining the broken glass strewn across the floor. 

“Damn right, Harry,” Freddie clapped him on the back. “You pay the Peaky Blinders a lot of money for protection.”

“Oh, shut up, Freddie,” Lucy scowled. Tommy downed the remainder of his drink. Freddie ignored her, continuing to jeer at them as they made their way towards the doors. Tommy sighed heavily. Lucy ground her teeth together, but didn’t say anything more. At the end of the day, it was up to Tommy what they did with Freddie, and as of right now, he’d decided to just let him be for the most part.  

Shaking his head against Freddie’s words, Tommy pulled his hat on. Lucy gulped down the rest of her drink, shooting Freddie a glare that she hoped made it clear exactly how she felt about him, and moved to follow Tommy out the doors. 

“Bring the bill to the Peaky Blinders,” Tommy told Harry. “We’ll take care of it.”

“Fucking hell,” she said as soon as they were outside and the doors closed safely behind them. Tommy just wiped the back of his hand across his lips.

“Danny will be fine.”

“He’s not getting better,” she told him as gently as she could. “If he keeps having these violent episodes, someone’s going to get hurt.”

“I know,” he rubbed at his eyes with a groan. “I’d just thought that maybe with time…” trailing off, his gaze grew unfocused, staring emptily at nothing for a moment before coming back to himself with a shake of his head. “I’ll talk to him and Rosie later.”

“Does Freddie ever know when to keep his mouth shut?” she asked, walking at his side as he started to move.

“Nope. No since we were kids.”

She snorted. “Sometimes I wish you’d let me rough him up. Just a little bit.”

Tommy’s lips twitched upwards. “Mm. Tempting. But I think it would cause more problems than it would solve. Besides,” he tilted his head back. “I owe him.”

“Right,” she swallowed, looking him up and down. She supposed she did owe Freddie some gratitude, at the very least. Had he not saved Tommy’s life in France, he would not be here with her now. 

And if there was no Tommy, who knows what sort of further horrors would have happened to her after escaping her father and ex-fiancé's clutches. 

“The offer’s still open, though.”

Tommy laughed at her impish smile, shaking his head fondly and grinning at the sky as they walked together side by side.  

∗ ∗ ∗

“You were going to tell me what you’d heard from our coppers about the new inspector coming from Belfast, earlier,” he prompted, as they headed down the street towards the shop.

“They said that he’s a chief inspector who’s been working in Belfast for the last four years. Mainly clearing out the IRA,” Lucy tossed her cigarette to the ground. “They say that he’s a real asshole.”

Blowing a thoughtful burst of smoke from his lips, Tommy angled his head down.

“How bad?”

“Uh, there’s a lot of rumors. It’s hard to verify all of them, but they said that some of the Irish in Green Lanes went there because of him. That he would go after Catholics who betrayed him. That they’d disappear at night without a trace,” her head cocked, lips quirking. “But, they also say that he didn’t serve.”

Tommy’s brow furrowed. “Not at all?”

She shook her head, sending red curls flying. “Nope. Not a second. He was exempt on the grounds of reserved occupation,” she shot him a look. “The others don’t know, right?”

“About what?”

“About the real reason this copper’s coming here.”

He sighed, stuffing the hand not holding his cigarette into his pocket. “No, they don’t know.”

“Okay.”

He was grateful that she didn’t push him on it. Rarely did she ever pressure him to tell the others things until he was ready. A part of him suspected that she liked it; knowing that he told her nearly everything and the others next to nothing.

He tossed his cigarette away and held the door to the betting shop open to let her through. Most of the men had already gone home for the evening. Arthur, Scudboat, Lovelock, and several of their men were all that was left milling about. Ada was sitting in a chair at the table. 

“Where are Polly and John?”

“Late,” Arthur grumbled. Lucy took a seat and pulled off her hat, running a hand through her fluffy red curls. Tommy leaned his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, foot tapping impatiently against the floor as they waited.

The clang of the door opening and closing made them all turn, and then there was the telltale sound of Polly’s heels clicking against the wooden floor. She appeared with John in tow, turning with a quick, elegant movement to close the double doors, giving a quiet order for Finn to remain in the kitchen until they were done. Her eyes darted over Lucy sitting at the table, lips pursing disapprovingly, eyes growing cold. But she didn’t say anything as she took her seat across from Ada. Good. He and Polly’d had a share of rows over Lucy’s involvement in the company and her presence at family meetings. He wasn’t in the mood for such a fight today.  

As soon as Polly and John were settled, Arthur began to launch into his announcements. Scudboat and Lovelock had been in Belfast the previous night and had returned with leaflets that the coppers there had been handing out. Arthur passed the ones they’d brought with them around the table.

“If you’re over five feet and can fight, come to Birmingham.” John quoted as he looked the paper over.

“That’s just insulting. As if people below five feet can’t fight,” Lucy muttered loud enough that only Tommy could really hear, leaning back in her chair. He had to bite the side of his cheek to keep from snorting in amusement. 

Arthur continued with his announcements, the family going back and forth, exchanging questions and information. 

“So why are they sending him to Birmingham?” Polly questioned, holding a magnifying glass to the paper in her hand.

Tommy launched into a prepared lie about the actions of the communists in the area. All the strikes that had been going on lately. How that was probably who this new inspector was after. The lies rolled easily off his tongue these days. Lucy glanced over her shoulder at him, green eyes flickering with the knowledge that only they knew.

“So this copper is gonna leave us alone, right?” Polly asked. 

Tommy was careful in his answers. Only offering up information that Lucy had given him about the inspector. No need to make any false promises. Not yet, anyway. John was quick to interrupt, threats of violence against anyone who tried to cross them spewing from his lips. 

“So, Arthur, is that it?” Tommy asked. He could see the slight glimmer in his older brother’s eyes at the thought of violence. Always so quick to throw punches, him and John. It was good, sometimes. But other times, he couldn’t help the pang of anxiety that someday, the proclivity to punch or stab and think later was going to get one of his brothers killed.  

“What do you think, Aunt Pol?” Arthur asked.

Polly gave Tommy a look, dark eyes boring into him shrewdly. “This family does everything open. You have nothing more to say to this meeting, Thomas?”

Polly. Now, Polly was better about thinking things through. And she always was able to sense when he was keeping something from her. There were times, like now, that it was incredibly annoying.  

“No.”

Polly’s eyes darted to Lucy, trying to read her. To see if there was anything in her face that could be considered proof that Tommy had told her something he wasn’t telling the rest of them.

No. No, you focus on me. You leave her the hell alone.

“Nothing that’s women’s business.”

There. That had Polly’s eyes jumping back to him, narrowing a fraction. “This whole bloody enterprise was women’s business while you boys were away at war. What’s changed?”

He met her gaze levelly, refusing to bend. “We came back.”

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Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[fairytales-and-folklore]

Huntlow Christmas Snippets

So the original plan was to have this human realm series finished and posted in time for Christmas, but then a whole bunch of stressful life stuff got in the way, so for now, please enjoy this little Christmas themed huntlow snippet! Happy Christmas, Huntlow Fam! 💛💚

Sneak Peek from Being Human | Chapter Eight: Winter's Waltz

The living room is a war zone of ribbons and wrapping paper as everyone tears into their presents, getting distracted halfway through when Camila puts on her favorite Christmas music and Luz endeavors to turn the evening into Grom Part 2, sweeping into a low bow and asking a giggling, blushing Amity to dance. Hunter is so swept up in the mayhem of watching the two of them laugh and spin one another in the glimmer of the Christmas lights, he almost doesn't register the Willow-shaped silhouette hovering next to him, offering him her hand.  "May I have this dance?" she asks, fairy lights glinting off the lenses of her glasses, igniting them in a golden glow. "Oh, uh— yeah. Yes. Absolutely," he stutters, barely a moment to stagger to his feet before he's swept away in Willow's arms.  Hunter has never danced in his entire life, but Willow is a marvelous lead, the comforting weight of her hand pressed between his shoulder blades, soft plush fingers curling over the palm of his hand, heat hotter than the flames in the fireplace as she draws him closer and instructs him to place his other hand on the small of her waist. Just when he thinks he's finally got the moves down, Willow surprises him by twirling him around in a circle and then dipping him backward on the catch, safe in her strong, gentle hands as his whole world spins upside down in a blur of green and gold.  And then she's pulling him back up toward her, lips parted in a wide smile, breathless laughter rushing out of the both of them as their chests heave from the exertion, and all Hunter can think as he gazes into her bright green eyes are three simple words. Oh. Wow. Dancing. Well. Maybe those aren't the only three words he's thinking.

It's nearing midnight by the time everyone heads off to bed, shuffling off to their respective rooms with barely stifled yawns and sleepy smiles, leaving Hunter and Willow alone in the living room, sitting side by side, curled up by the fire.  Evidently they'd both had the same idea, not wanting to give the gifts they'd gotten each other in front of everyone else. Without a word, the two of them reach behind opposite sides of the tree and withdraw two packages — one wrapped up pristinely in red and gold striped paper, the other a mess of ripped green wrapping paper and far too much tape. Ever since their lessons, Hunter has developed a love for sewing, but Willow had no idea he'd gotten this good. When Willow unwraps her gift, a neatly-folded letterman jacket with the words captain stitched across the back in bold white lettering spills out onto her lap, handmade from the coziest green and gold fabric she's ever felt beneath her fingers.  Little swatches of embroidery line the lapels and the arms of the jacket — wildflowers, bumblebees, cardinals, hearts, and stars — and in the very center right over the heart, a miniature rendering of a flyer derby field complete with goals posts and green and purple flags. Willow spreads her hands over it, amazed by all the carefully crafted details. This must have taken him weeks to complete. "This is amazing, Hunter. Thank you so much, I love—" she says, slipping the jacket over her shoulders and marveling at how perfectly it fits her, gazing up at him with a radiant smile on her face, only to find him staring back at her, looking awestruck. Clutched in his hands are two different gifts she couldn't decide between — one, a hand-knitted sweater made from that same cozy yellow yarn he'd fallen in love with the first time they'd gone to the craft store together, complete with a little breast pocket for Flapjack to nap in — and two, a brand new pair of handsome leather gloves, similar enough to his old pair to provide that same level of comfort and safety to a set of scarred, sensitive hands, but different enough so that he no longer has to be reminded of Belos, of being the golden guard every time he looks down at his own hands. "I hope you like them," she says in a small voice, suddenly feeling nervous. "The cardinals along the sides there are hand-stitched. I tried to make them look as much like Flapjack as I could, but—" "They're perfect. You're perfect," he says, rushing forward to wrap her up in a hug, tucking his chin against the curve of her shoulder and breathing her in in a series of slow, steady breaths. "Merry Christmas, Hunter," she says, voice muffled as she melts into the hug, face buried in the cozy fabric of his sweater. "Merry Christmas, Willow," he says, voice almost too soft to catch over the steady crackling of the fireplace.

[smuttysmurf]

Darling's

Darlings is a Dark Romance novel, this is the first book of the series and this book does not have HEA. This book is filled with trigger warnings including coercion, non-consent, trauma, abuse of various kinds and non-redeemable Male and Female leads. This is a completed novel that I hope to publish soon but I need to find an editor, while we wait for it to be published, here is the first chapter of the book~

++++++++++++++++++18+ Up Adult Content ++++++++++++++++

Chapter One

I study my nails, gently picking at my cuticles to ensure they are pristine, as I kneel delicately on a soft satin floor pillow. Sareth, positioned beside me, is knitting a scarf. Her slim fingers are maneuvering the yarn quickly, their movements swift and graceful. She throws a glance my way and smiles. “We have one more lesson before we get to be evaluated at the Selection Ceremony,” she informs. A hint of excitement causes her shoulders to hike up subtly beneath her small frame. I smile back at her, lifting my gaze from my nails. “We have been training since we were young,” I note, to which she nods in agreement. “Being a Darling is an honor that we have been graced with," I add, brushing a lock of my long brown hair over my shoulder.

Sareth and I have been companions since our early days. I remember standing in the town square at the age of eight, clutching Sareth's hand. Even as a little girl, she was striking, clad in a frilly dress with multiple bows adorning her raven-black hair. She flashes me a secret smile and pulls me closer as we shift our attention towards the podium that forms the center of our town. Duke Brian ascends to the stage, extracting a wand from his back pocket. A couple of taps sends a blaring sound echoing around us. He was well known around Labyri Town because he ran the town with a firm first, well organized but he ruled it with a sense of humpr and our people truly enjoyed it. Nervous anticipation bundles in my stomach as I watch him testing his microphone. After flashing a smile, he clears his throat. 

“Hello Ladies and Gentlemen! It's that time of the year when we announce the roles of our fledglings and what they can contribute to our community.”

 His gaze sweeps over the crowd, finally settling on Sareth and me. He winks in our direction, eliciting soft giggles as anticipation bubbles within us. This definitely meant that we got the position we have been hoping for. Playing pretend and rehearsing our acceptance speech had improved our glorious odds, I had no doubt. I pull Sareth closer, soon finding ourselves amidst a crowd of formally dressed people, parents with their young children tucked in by their sides. Some hold their hands clasped over their chests, the odd ones out, noticeable were Sareth and I, so instead of clutching our parents, we clutched each other. 

“I am delighted to see everyone gathered here today with such excitement. We will begin with Birth Mothers,” he declares, turning around to accept a pale blue scroll from a woman with green skin she bows her head and backs away from sight. 

He thanks her quietly before turning back towards us. As he starts reading the list, I glance around at the faces of the parents. The reactions are heartbreaking and confusing. 

"Rosalie from the Wood family." I turn to look at the beautiful young shimmery skinned girl. The young girl’s parents' faces fall. Her father raises a hand to his mouth, his face pale. Rosalie looks up at her parents, her soft blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. 

“Mommy, what does that mean?” The beautiful mother kneels and draws her daughter close, whispering words that bring tears to the girl's eyes. The position of a Birth Mother is the lowest rank a Fae can hold, but I didn't understand the depth of its implications at that time. Turning to Sareth, I quietly ask,

 “Why is she crying?” She shakes her head in response, “I have no idea.” A pit in my stomach began to grow.

The ceremony continues with more names being called, each announcement received with a similar reaction. Some fathers stand there, frozen, while others walk away, not to return until after the festival to retrieve his family. Through it all, the Duke remains unaffected by the quiet sobs as though he has seen it all before, decade after decade, hosting this ceremony for the  females who come of age to retrieve their positions. There were 15 girls in total assigned as Birth Mothers. Notably, positions are only ever granted to females. Males, in contrast, have the freedom to choose their desired position as early as 7 years old. Personally I didn’t see a problem with this, who needs to make choices? I felt that choices were cumbersome. I knew what I was destined to be, and the choice has already been made for me, as the Darlings before me. 

Soon, another scroll is handed to the  Duke. He continues to read the names of those assigned to different roles, from health care staff to nannies and teachers. With each passing role, Sareth and I exchange anxious glances, I suck in a breaht, daring to hold it, my hand gripping Sareths painfully as her little nails dig into the top of my heand. We clutch eachother for dear life.

Our names haven't been called yet, and a sense of unease settles in the pit of my stomach, the hole growing. In our society, not being chosen for a role in the grand spectacle meant one thing: automatic placement as a Birth Mother. The mere thought sends a shiver down my spine, as if I can already feel the weight of the responsibility pressing upon my young shoulders. It's not that being a Birth Mother is a dishonorable role, but it's certainly not what I had envisioned for myself. I wanted more. I yearned to be a Darling, just as my mother had been before me.

My mother was more than just a figure of elegance and grace. She embodied the epitome of beauty, adorned in gowns that whispered with every step, jewels that sparkled like stars against her skin, and a presence that commanded attention and respect. People would part like the Red Sea as she walked by, their eyes drawn to her radiance. But it wasn't just about the material trappings or the way she captivated a room with her charm. My mother held a position of immense significance as a Peace Keeper, responsible for maintaining harmony among our united nations. It was a dream job, one that I aspired to follow in her footsteps.

I couldn't help but daydream about the life of a Darling. The glamorous allure of it all, the privilege of being chosen to serve the elite, the power that came with being a trusted confidante. To wear the most exquisite gowns, dripping in jewels that would make a queen envious. To glide through the grand halls with poise and confidence, knowing that with each step, I commanded attention and admiration. It was a life of opulence and influence, a life I craved with every fiber of my being.

But as the ceremony continued, my hopes teetered on a delicate balance. The anticipation of my name being called grew with every passing moment. Would I be chosen to join the coveted ranks of the Darlings, or would I be relegated to the path of a Birth Mother? The uncertainty gnawed at me, my heart aching with the desire to fulfill my dreams.

Yet, even in the face of uncertainty, I held onto the memories of my mother's grace and strength. She had instilled in me the belief that I was capable of anything, that I could defy the odds and forge my own path. So, as the names were called one by one, and mine still remained unspoken, I clung to the hope that destiny had something grand in store for me.

Then, a golden, dazzling scroll is handed to Duke Brian. I bite my lip in anticipation, quickly shifting my gaze from the podium to Sareth every couple seconds. He clears his throat, “Last but not least, the Darling positions. This is the highest-ranking position a female Fae can hold, an honor that has ended wars, brought blessings onto our land, and stabilized our race.” The prestige of the role brings a sparkle to my eyes. My mother was a Darling, as was her mother before her. However, my mother fell from grace and was relegated to the role of a Birth Mother. I'm unsure of what transgression led to her downfall, but I am determined not to repeat her mistake. My chest swells with confidence because I know that I was destined to be a Darling and I will not fail! 

Sareth leans in so close our cheeks touch. We wait, our hearts beating in anticipation, for the next names to be announced.

 "The Darlings in training will be Sareth from the Babel family," and as time slows to a crawl, my name is called, "Tulip from the Nightdance family."

My mouth falls open, and a rush of emotions floods through me. The passion and hope I held shatter into a beautiful sensation of fireworks because deep down, I know my destiny will not fail me. The crowd erupts with applause and excitement. I can't contain my joy, clapping my hands and jumping up and down in place, gently bumping shoulders with Sareth. She vibrates with happiness, and girls from our year surround us, offering congratulations, high fives, hugs, and families waving their hands in support.

As the ecstatic crowd begins to disperse, I step back and gaze down at my black shoes, digging my toe into the dirt, tracing little lines as I await my own family's arrival. They stand at a distance, their expressions reflecting a sense of duty, of providing for and housing me. It's all I've ever known, and although my father views me as a unique possession, my brother genuinely cares for me, or at least, I hope to believe so.

The excitement is nearly unbearable, bordering on painful. After freeing herself from her family's embrace, Sareth claps and rushes over to me. My eyes dart around, searching for my father, who's watching me with approval, his nod warming my heart. My older brother, a few inches shorter than me with light brown hair and our father's twinkling eyes, approaches with a beaming smile. "Tulip, this is amazing! I’m so happy for you, you’ll be just like mom." I grin back at him, holding my head high with pride. Retrieving approval from those who matter is an uncommon and lovely experience.

My father strides over, his cold demeanor casting a shadow over my small frame. I shift uncomfortably, digging my heel into the dirt, and his gaze narrows. 

"Do not scuff those shoes; they were expensive." His words drain the warmth from my chest, and I halt my movements, nodding in obedience. His approval is fleeting, his next words sending a chill down my spine. He crouches down, gripping my shoulders, his tone devoid of any parental affection. 

"Listen carefully, Tulip. I need you to succeed; the Nightdance family's entire existence depends on you. Do you understand?"

My lower lip trembles as I look at him, his gaze far from loving. I shift and softly whisper,

 "What about George?" I nod toward my brother, and my father takes a step back, his hand going to rub the back of his head nervously. 

"He was never supposed to be born, a mistake if you will," he bites out. I flinch, catching the hurt that flashes across my brother's face before he quickly masks it. 

"He should be a Duke, Father," I murmur softly. He stands up abruptly. 

"Of course, the boy will be Duke; I will not have a child of mine work for a rank below him. It would be ghastly."

I stare up at my father's strikingly beautiful face, his eyes swirling with blue and green, filled with hostility and hatred for his own children. He pushes me forward, urging me to listen to the Duke. I glance to the side at Sareth, who offers me a gentle smile as her parents envelop her in a loving hold. Instead of jealousy or envy, I hold my head high and face Duke Brian.

Duke Brian's announcement hung heavy in the air; our lives would be forever changed when we turned 18. Becoming a Darling would demand years of rigorous training. "For those announced as future Darlings in training, you have until tomorrow evening to bid farewell to your families and gather your belongings. You will be summoned to reside within the king's court to commence your training. I hope you all enjoy your evening," he concluded. With a nod, he stepped off the stage, making way for a female speaker who droned on about the protocols of each position. Her words faded into background noise as the crowd began to disperse. I slid my hand into Sareth's, and she responded with a reassuring squeeze.

Shaking off the flood of memories, I looked at Sareth, who paused in her knitting, tilting her head and arching an eyebrow at me. My smile faltered for a moment, but I quickly shook my head.

 "Nothing. I was just admiring your beauty." She rolled her eyes playfully, a rare act of familiarity among us girls. Such gestures remained our secret, hidden from Lorelai, the striking Fae Darling with sapphire moon eyes. She was a petite yet curvaceous girl who deemed the rest of us as flawed. Lorelai would promptly report any inappropriate behavior or misconduct to the headmistress. Fortunately, we hadn't crossed paths in that way yet, but her aversion to Sareth was unmistakable, particularly as our training approached its end.

In just a week, the girls who successfully completed their training would participate in the Selection Ceremony. Wealthy and prominent individuals would choose their desired Darlings from among us. Only eight girls would be fortunate enough to be selected from our unit of 35. Those not chosen would be handed over to waiting Dukes and Duchesses, their titles demoted from Darlings to Sweeties, a rank a few notches below but still important and respected. Once selected, we would be imprinted, gifted, and sent off to our new homes to serve our new families.

With a sigh, I reached for the book resting on my lap, "The Perfect Darling." I had read it more than a dozen times; it was one of the few books allowed during our training. Lifting it, I scanned over its pages, filled with highlighted sentences from the Darlings before us. Despite its worn cover, it was well-loved, the scent of previous Darlings still lingering on each page. My fingers traced the rough paper when something poked my side. Looking up, I saw Sareth playfully nudging me with her hook. Batting her hand away, I giggled and asked, "What?"

She grinned and pointed to the clock on the wall, a cat-shaped timepiece marking 10:30.

I let out a breath and neatly set the book on the ground beside my pillow. With one hand on my knee and the other at my side, we all rose in unison from our pillows, eyes cast downward. Within seconds, the brown maple wood door opened with a soft creak, and Mistress Modella entered. The tapping of her heeled boots echoed on the marble floor as she scanned the room with a clipboard in hand. A proud smile tugged at the corners of her lips. 

"What a sight to behold," she mused, 

"I cannot believe the time is here, for you all." The girls hummed a response, the sound reminiscent of the tinkling of tiny bells. This form of communication was not easy and took years to perfect. Only the Darlings could make a single word sound so light and beautiful. It was our duty, after all, to embody perfection.

She began her rounds, starting from the end of the line of girls. A pen in hand, she used it to gently lift the chin of a girl named Annabelle. She was breathtaking, her hair long, red, and shining like silk, cascading down to her ankles like the feathers of a Phoenix. Annabelle offered a timid smile, looking up at Modella from beneath her lashes. Modella let out a thoughtful sigh.

Quickly, Annabelle lowered her gaze, her hands clasping together nervously. A misstep like this could result in a mark on her record, and accumulating enough of these would disqualify her from the upcoming ceremony, forcing her to begin Darling training from scratch next year. Modella moved from girl to girl, each one more beautiful than the last, until she finally stopped before me. A grin tugged at her lips as she lifted my chin with her pen, prompting me to look at her. 

"Tulip, look at me," she instructed, and I obeyed without hesitation, meeting her gaze.

A soft sigh escaped her lips. 

"I have trained many girls during my years at the Fae Court, but none as beautiful as you, especially with those eyes," she commented. Her words stirred up memories of my mother, whose eyes mirrored my own. She had been considered the most beautiful Darling in the kingdom due to her striking eyes. A faint smile of pride tugged at my lips – not too wide, but not too small – earning an approving nod from Modella. She then moved on to Sareth. Despite standing still, Sareth practically buzzed with nervous energy, something that did not go unnoticed by Modella, who had always had a soft spot for her. 

"Settle down, butterfly," Modella gently admonished.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lorelai staring at Sareth, her gaze burning with resentment. Lorelai was notorious for her strict adherence to the rules and bore a grudge against anyone who got away with breaking them. Either she was upset about Sareth's behavioral transgressions, or she was jealous that she hadn't been able to curry favor with Modella as Sareth did.

My attention returned to Modella just as she leaned in to whisper something in Sareth's ear, eliciting a soft sigh from her. I found myself wondering if Modella had plans to keep Sareth, a privilege in its own right, and one that Sareth would surely enjoy.

However, Sareth, like me, had a unique set of skills that set her apart from the rest. Could that be why we drew curious glances and whispers from the other girls? We had grown up and trained together, from the very first day until now. It amounted to twelve years of companionship and shared experiences – more than I had spent with my own family. The thought of being separated from Sareth sent a sharp pang through my heart. I placed a hand on my chest, turning to look at Sareth. She quirked an eyebrow in response, but I quickly redirected my gaze, eyes cast downward.

The sharp clap of Modella's hands cut through my thoughts. She began to scribble on her clipboard, announcing, 

"Darlings, it's time for your final lesson. Afterwards, you'll receive your ceremonial dresses. You may relax now!" A collective sigh of relief swept through the room as our shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. Girls turned towards each other, whispers of excited chatter starting to fill the room. 

"Now, now girls, it's not time for chit-chat. We'll have time for that at lunch. Follow me so we can begin," Modella corrected, turning on her heel and striding out of the room. We quickly fell into line behind her, like obedient ducklings following their mother.

[adeptiiii]

Chapter 7: Tous les Mêmes

Before you read: This novel centers around "the devil's tango", therefore there will be lots of implied smut. This series will NOT include smut.

Includes lots of dark themes, read at your own discretion.

Word count: 2.4k

Hex went about her day as per usual. Wake up, workout, do a mission, go home, except drinking wasn't in her plan today. She had something far more exciting than drowning in alcohol.

Today, she found herself at Patch's front gate. An all too familiar sight at this point. The start of this entire fiesta. Man, what would life be like if she just shot him? Hex shakes the thoughts away, searching for a firm grip on the fence. She pulls herself up and jumps over the concrete fence, when she 's confirmed no one is around. Must’ve left with him for the concert.

But shouldn’t there be a couple around to at least guard the house? She didn’t hear any footsteps, the only sounds audible being the cars passing by. She scans the environment, before taking out her phone and reading last night’s message. A message she had not yet replied to.

Hex walks over to his car, and she contemplates for a moment. Free backstage pass, huh? Was he feeling guilty?

She looks underneath the car, and just like Patch mentioned, it was a card. Much to her surprise. She was expecting something far worse, perhaps a bomb. But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t an ordinary card. More specifically, a backstage pass. Hex's eyes widened at the words. He’s inviting her backstage!? Why!?

Hex observes the card longer, tilting it side to side with an obvious sheen. She looks to the sky, trouble on her face. She really didn’t want to be seen by his fans. Or even noticed at all.

Ah, what the hell.

-

Hex is finally let through the massive crowd, showing the card to the security guards. Hex is dressed quite casually, not wearing her usual coat. Still, she’s not the type to compromise on clothes, wearing a premium vest and a shining gold chain. Of course, not forgetting her precious hat. Something that was very dear to her.

She pats her pocket and ankles, ensuring that every knife and gun were in nice and snug. Fuzanglong purposely made undetectable guns specifically for Hex. Whether it was because he loved her, or because she was his best asset, Hex didn’t know, and she didn’t care. So long as she wasn’t a damn bottomfeeder.

Hex grumbled and groaned as the crowd started to grow. She decides to stay at the far back, not wanting to draw attention or get knocked around. She never dealt well with a large crowd, if anything, she’d prefer to watch the concert from the comfort of her bed. Or car.

Her attention is immediately drawn to the bright stage as the crowd starts to cheer. Hex hears Patch’s voice from the microphone, and she recalls every moment she’s ever had with him. Now that she thinks about it, this would be her first time seeing him in his “performance” personality. How different would he be as compared to behind the curtains?

Patch walks on stage with a strut, his hair well done with sharp, cat-like eyeliner. He’s dressed in a glittering magenta suit, with no shirt underneath it. The tattoos free and open for the public to see. (As if he’s never done shirtless photoshoots.) Alongside those he wears black dress pants and thigh high, high heel shoes. His hair is tied in a loose ponytail, with several strands covering his face. He smirks, his dull fangs poking out.

The music started, a saxophone starting the song, and Patch started singing. He raised his head up high, entering an almost ballerina-like stance. He bowed a little, his fans raising their arms. “Vous les hommes êtes tous les mêmes.” He began, walking back elegantly. (You guys are all the same) Patch moves his feet in a rhythmic manner. He struts with pride and confidence, brushing his ponytail over his shoulder, then takes a step back whilst twisting his body ever so slightly. He watches the crowd for those intense gold eyes. Hex watches him from afar, her hands in her pockets and her head tilted. As much as she’d like to tap her foot along to the rhythm, she restrains from doing so. Otherwise it’ll evolve into much more than just foot tapping. That would be embarrassing.

“Rendez-vous, rendez-vous, rendez-vous au prochain règlement.” (The date, the date, the date is set for the next argument.) Hex starts to manuveur around the crowd, walking by the sides. She pushes by, her destination being backstage. She clutches the card in her pocket, unbothered by the complaints. Huffing, she keeps her eyes off the stage. Off him. The crowd was suffocating, she was here just to see him, couldn’t there be an easier way? 

“Moi je l'disais pour t'faire réagir seulement... toi t'y pensais!” He continued, desperate for Hex’s attention. (I just said that to get a rise out of you... and you were actually thinking of doing it!)

Patch’s eyes watched her as she moved towards him, yet she didn’t look at him. Something in him almost made him frown at the lack of acknowledgement. He stares at the top of her hat, hoping they would lock eyes and then he’d flash her a smirk. Just to get a rise out of her. The music was loud and blasting, the insides of their chests tremoring with the bass speakers. He closes his fist and sings into the microphone, his voice powerful and overwhelming. Smiling ear to ear, Patch looks at Hex for her reaction.

Instead, out of nowhere, Hex looks him dead in the eyes. A fierce look on her features. Unlike the other times they’d been together, she’s never had such an expression. Patch is taken aback, and his face flushes a noticeable red. The sudden confidence knocked him off his feet, but he couldn’t react now. He quickly recovers his previous facade and continues to perform as if nothing happened. He hoped the crowd didn’t notice, but you know just how observant fans can be.

Hex raised an eyebrow at the action, finally reaching the backstage door. She hesitates on opening the door, debating whether to continue watching or to wait for him inside. But the feeling of his eyes on her makes her turn back. He worked so hard, might as well watch.

Hex leans on the wall, watching him up close. Patch steals glances every now and then, and from a height, he couldn’t tell if she was looking at him or not. All he could see was her natural frown, and her finger tapping on her arm. His stomach does flips upon seeing that she was enjoying herself, he wonders if this was her first time hearing his music.

Before he knew it, the first song was over. He smiles and waves at his fans, waiting for his staff to turn on the second song. He woos and cheers into the mic, nearly jumping around the stage. Singing was one of the last few things that really gave him joy. He couldn’t control his excitement when he was singing. It was just the hassle of preparation that he hated the most.

Still, seeing Hex at his concert made him even happier, and he tugs his boots up a little. Hope you enjoy the concert, Hex.

-

Patch pushes Hex inside one of the dress-up rooms, and Hex’s lips are pressed tight. Wait, oh crap. He knew he couldn’t shove Hex into a seat so he instead pointed at it with an insistent smile on his face. Hex turned to look, then turned back to him. She observes his face for a moment. This definitely isn’t what she thought it was, right? She sat down on the chair, and before she could react, Patch swiftly sits on Hex’s lap.

Hex’s words remain stuck in her throat, and Patch straddled her lap, getting comfortable. Hex’s eyes looked everywhere but him. Patch’s weight wasn’t an issue, the situation was. Hey, he didn’t lock the door, did he!? What’s he doing!? Right now!?

“Hey…we’re backstage. Anyone can come in…” Hex hesitated, gulping.

“Mhm, and?” Patch replies, brushing Hex’s hair aside. It was a very amusing scenario, their boss making out with a girl backstage. Getting caught, and all. Hex huffs quietly, deciding to place her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. He buries his face into her neck, giggling like a girl. Hex shuts her eyes and relaxes in the warmth, it’s not often someone held her this close.

“I’ve been real stressed, you know.” Patch states, turning his head so his cheek rests on her shoulder. Hex looks at him from the corner of her eye. She wraps her arm around his back and Patch smiles widely at the affection.

“And what do you want me to do about it, huh?” Hex asks, her gloved hand accidentally bringing up Patch’s coat. The breeze hits his back and he immediately gets goosebumps. Hex nearly laughs at the reaction, pulling his coat back down.

Patch grins, and Hex feels the corner of his mouth turn upward. “Just stay here with me, hm? Give me a treat for putting on such a good show.” He suggests, tracing circles onto her sternum. She thinks for a moment, he did give it his all. Hex’s nose scrunches a little at the cheesy words, taking off her hat with her free hand and holding it between her teeth. Since there were no other spots to place it, and she hadn’t exactly gotten permission to put it on the dresser. She may be a hitman, but she still had manners.

Patch’s face lights up at her permission, immediately bringing his face back up to look Hex in the eyes. He starts to reach out for the fedora, when the door swings open. Hex’s face drains at the intrusion, like a cat’s ears suddenly drooping down. She bites the fedora harder, suppressing the need to yelp.

“Sir- Oh…” The staff member stutters, unsure how to react to the scene before her. Her boss was on someone’s lap. Someone she’s never met before. Seems like they were…busy. She clears her throat, and Patch ushers her out with a laugh and she slowly closes the door behind her. How does she explain what she just saw!?

Hex is brought out of her panic when Patch delicately takes the hat out from between her teeth, and places it on the dresser. Then, Patch kisses her deeply, more rushed than usual. He holds her face tight with his hands, the coldness of the rings slightly startling Hex. Tense at the sudden advancement, Hex gently holds Patch’s wrists with her hands. It takes all of Patch’s strength to finally pull away, and Hex clenches her teeth, her eyes squeezed shut. She still wasn’t used to this.

Patch lets his magenta suit fall down his shoulders and leans back, holding Hex’s shoulders. He chuckled, brushing the corner of Hex’s mouth with his thumb. Then with his silver rings. Hex visibly jumps at the coldness, looking back at him with a ‘seriously?’ face. He laughs, the corner of his eyes crinkling slightly, and Hex laughs alongside him. They stayed like that for a moment, admiring each other with a warm atmosphere, and Hex suppresses the need to grin happily. Patch observes her features for a moment, noticing things he hadn’t noticed before. Like her long eyelashes, or a mole on her right jaw. Wow.

But again, things got more heated as Hex couldn’t resist any longer when Patch reaches for her neck again. She throws her head back and hisses, what the hell? Patch holds her with a firm grasp on the other side of her neck. Eyebrows furrowed, Hex stays still, wondering what he was doing. She sucks in air through her teeth, that felt…weirdly good. Hex sighs when Patch finally pulls back, and closes her mouth which she hadn’t noticed was agape.

Patch gets off Hex’s lap with a sigh, admiring the mark he left on her, rubbing his chin in victory. Hex was unaware of what he had done, resting her arms back on her thighs. She watches inquisivitely, not taking a moment to think that she could look at the mirror beside her. Patch nudges himself off Hex’s lap, taking off his suit along the way. He drops it on the nearby table, then walks towards the door and locks it with an loud click. 

Turning back to Hex, Patch smiles her a mischievous smile.

“Now there’s no one to bother us.”

-

Hex opens the doors of the palace, the sky already dark. She yawns a little, adjusting her hat to cover her sleepy eyes. She raises a palm to the maids who bow before her, smiling. Just before she makes it to the elevator, a hand gently grabs her arm. A scaly hand.

“Hex, my dear, what’s that on your neck?” Fuzanglong asks softly, tilting his head and observing the mark. Hex raises an eyebrow, looking at the polished walls near the elevator. Then, just then, does she know what Fuzanglong’s talking about and what Patch did.

Her face flushes a bright red, but she quickly covers it up with her hand. Averting her gaze elsewhere, she mumbles out a muffled, “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.” Fuzanglong doesn’t feel convinced, lifting his hand to press Hex’s neck with his fingertips, when Hex grabs his wrist and gently brings it down,

“Did you get into a fight?” Fuzanglong asks, a frown on his face.

“No, no, I kind of…hit my neck on the side of my car door. Don’t worry, boss.” Hex chuckles, covering it up with a blatant lie. She watches his face contort from worry, to confused, to relieved. She lets out a long, yet quiet sigh.

“Alright, don’t be so reckless next time!” Fuzanglong nags lightly, pointing his index finger at her. His frown is quickly replaced with a warm smile, as he ushers her a goodnight. Hex puts her bored expression back on her face, nodding him goodbye as the elevator doors close.

She leans back on the walls, groaning loudly. She feels for the mark, huffing when she feels a soreness. Bastard, did he forget she had a boss whom was a dragon king? But her stomach stirs whenever she recalls all their previous events. She bites her lip, staring at the elevator lights. Watching the number increase the higher she went, she felt a sudden itch to take out her phone and text him again.

Whatever, she’ll deal with it tomorrow.

[wkemeup]

Delicate Edges (4)

series summary: Trapped under a mountain of debt to the Hydra club, it is only in moments when Bucky walks into your flower shop that you forget the cruelty of the biker clubs of this town. But a war is brewing. And Bucky will stop at nothing to keep you safe. (Biker!AU) pairing: Bucky x reader chapter word count: 5k chapter warnings: sweet sweet floof, that lingering feeling of dread because you know the fluff can't last forever

series masterlist / series playlist

“I’m sorry about this, dear,” Mr. Jacobson sighed as he scratched the sparse grey hairs on his scalp. “I know it’s a smaller order than last time but business has been tight lately. I’m sure you understand.”

A lump formed at the back of your throat – threatening to withhold the last breath from your lungs. Mr. Jacobson was one of your biggest clients. He had placed biweekly orders at your shop for years; his loyalty to your parents extending long after their passing. But today, the flowers laid upon the counter were only half of his usual purchase. He was going to split the arrangements to cover the excess tables, he told you. He didn’t have the funds to spend on décor that would only wilt and die within the week.

Such beauty was a luxury he could no longer afford.

In the broad of daylight, the ghost of Rollin’s hands slid over your arms. Invisible, no more threatening than a memory, and yet, you felt his noose draw a line along your neck, his breath hot as flame against your skin. Goosebumps prickled in its wake. The outline of a cold, looming shadow hung heavy in the corner of your shop, waiting patiently amongst the darkness before it took its shape. A monster bore the shape of a man as Brock Rumlow materialized from the painted night.

So real. So impossibly real, that you were certain the sun had fallen over the horizon in a matter of seconds, that the first Tuesday of the month had broken time itself to drown you under its weight.

A bell chimed at the front of the store.

The swift clutch of darkness faded in favor of the gentle streams of sunlight through the windows, the soft clicking of the clock as the hand inched along the morning hours. Reality swept back in as you handed Mr. Jacobson his change. He closed his grip around the money, a cautious glance in his eyes has he watched you. Your throat burned of sandpaper as you swallowed.

Just over Mr. Jacobson’s shoulder, a familiar figure hung in the doorway of your shop. Wearing the same baseball hat settled low over his eyes, hands shoved tightly into jacket pockets, Bucky leaned against the frame of the door, waiting patiently for you to notice him. He carried such a lightness to him – a levity you could not dare to touch as he pulled one hand from his jacket and waved at you. A smile crinkled up by ocean blue.

You waited for the dread to dissipate. For the anxiety to wash away at the mere sight of him. For the lightness to return to your body.

But the panic would not release you from its chains.

It had burrowed too deeply into your mind, into your body. It weighed heavier on your shoulders than what you could hope to carry – cracking your bones and crippling your spine; the imprint of a boot stamped to the center of your chest, your head underwater, your lungs drowning in the shallow end of the pool.

Mr. Jacobson offered you an apologetic grimace, his pity evident in his gaze, though he only meant to be kind. He couldn’t have known of your father’s deal with the devil, nor the contract inked in blood he’d unwittingly passed to you upon his death. Your parents had held their shame deep into their hearts; the secret of the Hydra club’s grip around their throats an unspoken threat. Pride was just as responsible for their suffering as the Hydra club was.

From the edge of the shop, Bucky was watching you with a soft furrow in his brow. His gaze raked over yours, searching for a smile you could not give in return, not with such a terrible ache nestled into your bones. His mouth fell into a frown, a wash of clouds shifting over the blue in his eyes.

For the last two weeks, you had waited eagerly for Bucky to return each day to your shop with a ridiculous new order. You spent hours looking through the windows for the striking blue of his eyes of his amongst the crowd of pedestrians, your heart pounding in your chest each time the bell chimed over the front door in hopes that he might be the one strolling underneath.

He had come nearly every day. Each time in search of flowers. And you hoped, in search of you.

Despite the worry nestled into the lines on Bucky’s face, he kept his distance while Mr. Jacobson gathered his flowers at the register. Bucky began to browse through the aisles, pretending as though he was just another customer, as if you didn’t anxiously wait for him to stroll through the front door, as if your heart didn’t threaten to burst at the sight of him.

But in the kindness of his stolen, cautious glances over his shoulder, dread began to swell and churn in your stomach. There was too much he didn't know about you. Too much he could never know. And this—this flirtation you shared was too fragile, too delicate to shatter under the weight of Hydra’s crimes. You could not soil this one bright spot of your day with the darkest parts of you.

Your hands began to shake, a boulder sitting square on the center of your chest. Mr. Jacobson’s lips were moving as if he were speaking. He wore lines by his eyes, a laugh on his chest. You could hardly hear a word he spoke over the ringing in your ears.

Across the shop, Bucky had stopped bothering to busy himself with the flowers. Instead, his shoulders were squared toward you, his steps inching closer – restraint colored into the tension of his hands as if it were a struggle to keep himself from lunging across the counter and drawing you into his arms.

You looked up at the ceiling, quickly counting the cracks in the panels as you desperately held back tears. Something hitched in the distance – a breath. Bucky’s. As if witnessing your distress had broken something in him. And you knew that if he only asked, you would have told him everything.

But you feared for the steeled boot that would crush his lungs in the water beside you. You feared for the open wounds on his face drawn by the sharp sting of skull coated rings. You feared the obligation that would eat away at him, the burden you’d become, the pity in his eyes.

He couldn’t know.

“You all right there, missy?”

You blinked, forgetting Mr. Jacobson was waiting for his receipt. Your heart was pounding so violently, you were sure he could hear it even without his hearing aids. Bucky looked up from the pot of hydrangeas, his gentle gaze searching for yours, though you could not meet his eye. You forced out a smile to your customer, nodding quickly.

“Yes. My apologies. Have a good day, sir,” you told him as he gathered his bouquets. Before he even made it halfway to the door, you rushed to the back of the shop, quickly busying yourself with paperwork for a valid excuse to hide from the one man you longed to run toward.

You could feel the shaking in your hands as you clenched them to fists, the short gasps of breath as you tried to stifle your tears. You’d never make enough for the payment at the end of the month, even with all of Bucky’s purchases. It had been foolish to think he could single handedly make up for the lack of business you’d had. It didn’t help that you felt dirty for even agreeing to take his money at all, but you so desperately needed it and Bucky was only flirting with you, wasn’t he? What harm could it do?

You closed your eyes, your right-hand clasping over your father’s watch as the doubt began to sink in. You knew Bucky wasn’t the kind to play with hearts, to tread lightly only to pull away at the last second. He cared. He cared perhaps a little too much. And if you were to allow yourself to care for him in return, you couldn’t keep taking advantage of his money.

“Y/n?” Bucky called from across the store after Mr. Jacobson disappeared out the front door. “Are you okay?”

You brushed at your eyes, trying to wipe away the evidence of unshed tears before you faced him. As you made your way over to him, pressing a smile against your lips that barely touched your eyes, you could feel his gaze studying you. He lingered a little longer on the indent in your lip, an imprint of your teeth as you'd tried to bite away the urge to cry.

He swallowed, though he didn’t say anything about the clear reflective streaks under your eyes. “Hey... So... I was hoping I could get something to plant outside the bar. Something a bit more sustainable that could bloom again after the winter?”

You were grateful for the change in subject, but even the mention of spending more of his money in your shop made you nauseous— caught in this terrible crossroad of needing the money more than you cared to admit and not wanting to take advantage of the man who so clearly used it as an excuse to see you. Somehow, despite all of your fears, you valued his presence over the weight of the register.

Against your better instincts, you shook your head. “You don’t have to keep wasting your money here just so I’ll spend time with you.”

Bucky frowned, a flash of surprise over his features. “Hey, come on now, I’m not wasting anything. The bar looks immaculate, I’ll have you know. Sure, the place is drowning in flowers, but maybe I like that. The regulars don't need a place to sit anyway.”

He smiled at you then and you tried to return it. Honestly, you did. You even let yourself picture the dingy dive bar you’ve never once stepped foot in that could quite possibly be home to the dangerous 107 club – a group just as deadly and despicable as Hydra – decorated in your flower arrangements. Tables and countertops, offices and chairs - covered in your flowers. A trail of tulips outside the bar would seem out of place even by your standards and yet, here he was asking for more.

“I can’t keep taking your money,” you stressed as you clenched your jaw, gaze trailing up to the ceiling to avoid the burning in your eyes.

“Are you going to refuse my business, doll?” Bucky chuckled, though his smile fell rather quickly when you looked at him again.

“Have you been keeping track of how much you’ve spent here?” you asked carefully, trying to stand your ground, though your voice trembled. “It’s a lot, Bucky. Please, don’t get me wrong – I’m incredibly grateful for your support and it—it means more than you can know, but I don’t want you to think you need to buy my time. I like spending time with you, Bucky. You don’t need to do this.”

Bucky nodded slowly; his hands shoved into his pockets as he glanced to the door.

Panic surged in your chest and you couldn’t help the creeping feeling that maybe he’d only ever seen this as a game, that now that you were offering yourself without the need for the roundabout flirting, he’d lose interest. The possibility hurt more than you cared to admit, aching worse than the dread Hydra left behind.

“What if we make a deal?” Bucky offered, smiling sweetly at you as your eyes flashed to him in surprise. “I’ll stop buying out half your shop and...” he paused, looking around the store, “you’ll let me come by on your lunch breaks. No transactions necessary. Though, you can’t fault me if I bring you something to eat, okay? I’m a little old fashioned at heart and I can't be showing up empty handed.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. Was he... was he talking about dates?

You pictured the two of you cramped up in the small table in the back of the shop, leaning towards one another as you shared a pizza from the joint down the street that favored the value of a decadent sauce over the cheese. Maybe he’d get a little tomato sauce in the corner of his mouth and maybe you’d lean over and brush it away with the corner of your thumb. His eyes might meet yours, slowly. Your fingers lingering against his cheek. He’d lean in and—

“What do you think, doll?” Bucky asked, nervously awaiting your response as he started to sway on his heels.

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds... that sounds nice,” you nodded, the smile returning to your face and this time – it was genuine. Bucky seemed to have picked up on the differences quicker than he should have and he grinned at the sight.

He reached into his coat pocket then and pulled out his phone – scratches on the screen, a simple black case protecting the back. He handed it to you. “In case something comes up?”

On his home screen, there was an image of seven people huddled around the bar in what you assumed to be the Centenarian. Bucky was standing on the outskirts, looking rather reluctant to be in the photo at all, though he still managed a smile in time for the camera to go off; his hand around the shoulders of the blonde man on his left. The group was huddled around each other – a single red headed woman amongst six men. All dressed in dark colored jeans and holding beers in hand.

“These your friends?” you asked, gesturing to the photo. The one at the center looked much younger than the rest, almost giddy with excitement for just being there at all. He barely looked old enough to drink.

Bucky smirked. “Surprised I got ‘em?”

You rolled your eyes, shoving Bucky playfully in the arm. As he feigned terrible injury, you opened his contacts and added your number. At the top of the page, alongside your name, you added an emoji of a colorful bouquet. You handed the phone back to Bucky and when he smiled at it, your stomach lit up in knots.

“So,” he started, looking around the shop, “if I’m banned from making orders now, what if I helped out around here? What do you need done?”

“I never said you were banned from buying flowers again,” you argued, grinning wildly through the redness in your eyes. “I just don’t want you spending ridiculous amounts just to see me, is all."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, still awaiting orders.

You huffed, setting your hands on your hips in response. “I’m not going to put you to work, Bucky!”

He pursed his lips, taking a good, long minute to look at you. His eyes trailed down along your frame, sweeping over the edges of your face and the fabric of your dress, but it wasn’t in the same hungry, demeaning way you’d grown used to with Rollins. Instead, Bucky only seemed to be admiring you, taking his time to preserve a moment before he lost it. A shiver slipped up your spine under his gaze, finding that you wished his hands might follow the same pattern. He let out a careful sigh, hanging his head.

“You know I'd buy up the whole store if it meant you'd give me the time of day, don’t you?”

You swallowed, a little taken back by the sincerity in his voice. Slowly, you nodded.

“Good,” Bucky said. “So, tell me what I can do to help, doll.”

***

He ended up staying until closing. You made it very clear that this was a one-time thing and he’d be restricted to lunch breaks without manual labor in the future, but that only seemed to make him laugh more. The man was insistent, you’d give him that.

He swept the fallen leaves from the floor. Carried the heavy bags of soil from the basement and lined them up along the back wall. He watered the plants outside and washed the windows by the displays. He wasn’t exactly taking no for an answer, finding your resistance to his labor amusing as he trailed along the shop with the hose in hand and a smirk upon his lips.

After he’d managed to make his way through the entirety of your list, you’d resorted with challenging him to make an arrangement of his own. You were finishing up the last few bouquets for the window display in the morning and suddenly the thought of him leaving was unbearable. Surely, he wouldn’t mind just one more chore, right?

Bucky had gotten straight to work without a single complaint. You didn’t tell him you’d planned on keeping the bouquet for yourself, but you were curious as to what he would do if given free rein. There would inevitably be flowers that wilted before they could be sold and you supposed this was simply making use of them before they fell to waste. No harm done.

“Did I do it right?” Bucky called from the back of the shop.

He’d picked a group of flowers you never would have chosen to place together – a wide variety of colors and shapes, the stems a little all over the place and cut sporadically, but he was studying his work like he’d just created the next exhibit in the Louvre. Thumb stroking along his chin as he examined it, wondering if he should add the extra white rose he held in his hand to an already stuffed vase.

He narrowed his eyes as if seeing the flowers under a blurred vision might make it more presentable. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“A little,” you laughed, nudging him in the side as he feigned offense.

“Okay, well what if I...” Bucky started moving some of the flowers around, knocking some of the petals to the counter in his haste. It looked no different as he stepped back and turned to you for approval.

“Oh, well now it’s perfect,” you said and Bucky’s eyes just about lit up with joy. He grinned, smirking at the flowers as if he’d pulled something over on them, bested them at their own game. Competitive with a bunch of plants. You couldn't help the laughter as it echoed into the empty shop.

Bucky sighed, looking down at his watch. His gaze shifted to the setting sun outside the windows, a reluctant sinking in his shoulders. “It’s getting late. I should probably head back.”

The rush of laughter quickly died down, your smile faltering. Of course, he had to go home. Part of you had hoped you could stay in this moment forever – that you might not have to walk up the stairs to your empty apartment and he wouldn’t disappear over the horizon to the east side.

Bucky picked up his baseball cap from the counter and tugged it over his head, positioning the brim low on his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? No flower orders. No manual labor, even though I’m incredibly good at it. Just lunch, okay?”

You nodded eagerly, wondering if he could tell just how fast your heart was racing.

Before you could realize what he was doing, Bucky casually pressed a hand tenderly to the small of your back and kissed your cheek. Breath caught in your lungs as the warmth touched your skin, lingering for only a moment after he pulled away, giving you that sweet smile of his before he headed for the door.

“Goodnight, doll,” he called from the open doorway and then, you watched as he passed by the windows and disappeared down the sidewalk.

Heart still pounding, you touched your fingertips to your cheek where his lips had been. It was still tingling.

***

Bucky grinned the whole walk back to the east side. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, a little sticky from the sap of flower stems, and he couldn’t get your image out of his mind. Not with your nose all scrunched up as you pretended not to find his arrangement an insult to the craft, the flash of surprise over your features when he’d dared to lean in and brush his lips to your cheek before he left.

A dangerous move, certainly. Risky. But he’d been tempted since the first day he wandered into your shop and found you standing behind the counter, calling him Blue-eyes and making his heart race. It had been foolish of him at the time, because now he only wanted more.

He let his mind drift as he walked, wondering how you might feel if he pressed the full of his body against you, what you might taste like against his tongue. It hadn’t slipped his notice how intently you watched him, how your gaze sometimes flickered down to his lips while he was talking, how your teeth tugged on your lip to draw back your attention. There was no doubting it now – the fact that you saw something human in him most of this town had forgotten. You saw him and you wanted more.

Bucky hadn’t expected to know that feeling again. Not after Dot. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, given what she did, but now that it was you – you, with your pastel-colored, floral print dresses and hands full of flowers and the brightest damn smile he’d ever seen – he didn’t think he could ever go back. He wanted to live in this feeling forever – pretend that he didn’t carry the weight of half the town on his shoulders and a war with the neighboring club on the horizon.

As he passed into the east side, Bucky had nearly forgotten his reputation – too wrapped up in the normalcy you gave him – and he waved to a group of kids playing soccer on the open field to his left. They paused, staring blankly at him. Frozen, as if they were spooked deer paralyzed under the high beam of headlights at night. One kid smacked his friend on the arm and they all rushed off in different directions, leaving behind the ball rolling in the grass.

Bucky gritted his teeth, stopping the ball under his boot as it jetting out onto the sidewalk. He looked around for the kids to return it, but they were long gone. Their parents had drilled it into their heads at a young age to run at any sight of the 107, to avoid the danger that followed in their wake. There was little threat greater in the east than the monster who headed the 107 club. And well, Bucky supposed the rumors were his own damn fault.

He had fed into those claims for years, embellishing stories of his cruelty and the limitless ends of his vengeance, pitting the 107 on par with that of Hydra. He had to. He didn’t have much of a choice. The 107 was little more than a group of wayward orphans who spent most of their time huddled around some old beat-up bar, with a halfway decent affinity for the motorcycles parked on the street outside. They weren’t the criminals the town was made to believe – they didn’t put out hits or extort money from the local businesses. They didn’t go around seeking trouble and wanting to expand a territory they wanted nothing to do with in the first place.

The rumors started after Steve noticed the bikes parked outside Mrs. Marcovaldo’s café a few years back. He’d recognized the emblem on the back of the motorcycle jackets as they sauntered into the store and tossed the displays of baked goods to the floor; frightened customers fleeing out onto the streets.

It had only been three of them at the time – Steve, Sam, and Bucky – but they’d rushed across the street without thinking twice about what it meant to get tangled up in a war with a biker gang that was slowly taking over the town. They’d made a show of it – staking claim to the east side and putting the café under their control. Hydra wasn’t easily convinced and it took several less-than-cordial encounters and an influx of exaggerated rumors before Hydra started recognizing the 107 as a threat.

Hydra had tried to extort three more businesses on the east before the line was drawn. Bucky knew he couldn’t protect the whole city, but he could save half of it. The 107 was small – smaller than the rumors suggested – and they needed the town thinking they were just as vile as Hydra. It was the only way to get the Hydra club to respect the border.

Bucky had gone back the next morning to assure the businesses they wouldn’t be taking their money and Mrs. Marcovaldo had all but cried in Bucky’s arms of relief. Turned out the Hydra club had been harassing her family ever since the days Pierce was in charge before the old bastard finally turned in his keys. She tried to offer the 107 payments for protection, but Bucky wouldn’t take it. She settled for free coffee instead and agreed, despite her protests, to not challenge the rumors about the 107, to let the town believe Bucky and his club collected from her shop and drained her of cash.

It was a messy system – one that was certainly going to break one of these days – but it worked. It fooled the Hydra club and kept half the town out of the grimy clutches of men like Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins. There was a level of satisfaction in that – even when the kids went running at the first sight of him. It had been enough.

He was fine playing the villain of the east. It was a burden he had learned to bare for the sake of the town he grew up in, for the sake of the town he loved. He had learned to deal with the consequences.

Until you.

Because what would you do if you knew who he was? Would you hate him? Would you believe the rumors he worked so hard to maintain? Would you give him a chance to explain?

He couldn’t answer any of those questions himself and he was too much of a coward to find out. He’d find a way to tell you eventually. He knew he had to – that it wasn’t fair to drag the target on his back into your shop – but he couldn’t help himself. You were impossible to stay away from.

“Evenin’, sweetheart!” Mrs. Marcovaldo called as Bucky stepped inside the café.

It was unusual for her to be open this late and Bucky only hoped she hadn't been waiting on him. He often tried to stop by in the evenings before she closed to grab a cup of decaf and let her catch him up on the latest drama in her soap operas since her husband passed last year. She was a kind woman, kinder than he deserved.

Bucky carefully looked around the interior of the café, thankful no one else seemed to be inside.

“We talked about this, Mrs. Marcovaldo,” Bucky stressed, though a smile curved on the left side of his mouth. “Can’t be going around calling me ‘sweetheart.’ I’ve got a reputation to maintain. You’re supposed to be scared of me.”

“Ha!” She smirked, setting his cup on the counter, already prepared the way he took it. “You, sweetheart, couldn’t hurt a damn fly.”

Bucky clenched his jaw as he took the paper cup. “You know that isn’t true.”

“Self-defense don’t count,” she replied with a shrug, “nor the defense of this town. You’re better than you let these folks believe of you.”

Bucky sank his shoulders. “You know why I do it, ma’am.”

“Yes,” she nodded, her hand settling against his, wrinkled and warm and full of the kindness he so often didn’t see from this town, “but that don’t mean it don’t hurt.”

Bucky pressed out a tired smile and gave her a short nod. She pulled her hand back, brushing it over her apron.

“You know,” she started, that sing-songy tone in her voice that usually indicated she was able to start prying into his business, “I see you when you walk to the west side. Been doing that a lot lately. Any particular reason?” She batted her lashes, brushing her shoulder against his. “A female reason, perhaps?”

Bucky laughed. “You spend too much time people watching.”

“Oh, I’m right, aren’t I!” Mrs. Marcovaldo beamed; her hands curled up by her chest. “You deserve some happiness, my dear. Don’t let this biking business get in the way of that, you hear me?”

Bucky grinned, amused by her phrasing though he let it slide. “Loud and clear, ma’am.”

“Good!” She scurried her hands, shoving him towards the door. “Now get on home, okay? I need to close up so I can get home to my soaps!”

Bucky made a show of digging his heels in, resisting with all his effort, and somehow – the sweet old woman still managed to shoo him to the door. “Will you ever let me pay for the coffee, Mrs. Marcovaldo?”

Only when Bucky was out on the sidewalk, she winked, replied, “not a chance, sweetheart,” and closed the door behind him.

Bucky laughed under his breath, taking a minute to look up at the stars as they coated over the east side of town. He took a sip of the coffee, sighing as the warmth spread down his chest. It was a strange new feeling – being happy. He wondered how long it might last.

[uwusenpaiuwu]

Baji Being A Menace To Society (And Your Relationship) 2.0

Sequel to: Baji A.K.A. The Worst (Best) Matchmaker

Summary: Baji’s at it again, acting out-of-pocket and creating chaos for absolutely no reason, other than to see you suffer. In his own Baji-esque way, of course.

Pairing: Sano Manjiro | Mikey x Male Reader

Warning(s): Boku no Pico is mentioned, but there is absolutely nothing graphic; mentions of masturbation

Note(s): I am so sorry if it isn’t funny. Sadly, I am but an amateur writer, not a comedian. Still, I hope you all enjoy! ^^

"(Y/n), want some ice cream? My treat."

Usually, you'd be the first to jump at an offer for a sweet treat, especially when you don't have to pay. However, as of now, the word 'ice cream,' when said by Baji, instantly triggers your fight-or flight-response. Paired with the fact that he’s broke as hell, your suspicions only increase for the sudden indulgence.

Since you know you're no match for the long-haired menace, your body automatically prepares to flee, legs twitching to lurch into a sprint. Unfortunately for you, just before you can get the fuck out of there, your hand is being grabbed by Mikey, who leisurely begins to tug you along to claim your dessert.

“You like ice cream, right?” he turns to ask, eyes unbelievably soft when looking at you.

And because you’re weak for him, all you can do is nod stiffly, trading in your sanity for the pleased grin that spreads across his face, his confident strides thereafter likely a result of him successfully remembering another miscellaneous fact about you, as has been the case since you officially started dating him. From the most trivial of things, like which brand of pens and pencils you prefer, to the slightly more important stuff, like ice cream being one of your favorite desserts; he’s made the effort of remembering them all.

He really doesn’t need to do any of that, ‘cause you’ll love him either way, but the conscious decision to do so is what makes you love him even more.

Zoning back into reality, you shake your head to reorient yourself. It isn’t the time to be going over the reasons why you’re such a lovesick puppy.

No, there are other things to worry about, mainly Baji.

You squeeze Mikey’s hand as you’re led to the nearest ice cream parlor to try and calm yourself. It works for the most part, especially when you get a reassuring squeeze back.

‘Right,’ you tell yourself, ‘it’s going to be okay.’

After all, Baji wouldn’t do anything too drastic, right?

~~~

You were wrong. So, so wrong.

Despite nothing having transpired yet, every alarm in your head is going off, pounding at the door of reason to get you to wake up and realize that it’s Baji you’re talking about, the same person that sets cars on fire when hungry and punches the first unfortunate soul he passes by on the street when sleepy.

You really should’ve listened to your survival instincts and ran. Alas, it’s much too late to escape, leaving you to wallow in your anxiety, while you wait for misfortune to strike.

And strike it does.

“Please, don’t sit next to me. You make me nauseous.”

“That’s cruel. I bought you ice cream, and you treat me like this?”

Yeah, he may have bought it, but you refuse to eat it because of how intensely Baji is staring at you. Fucking weirdo.

"Oh, do you want some of mine instead, (Y/n)?" Baji accentuates his question with a sensual lick to his ice cream from the edge of the cone to the finessed peak, making you extremely uncomfortable as he stares you down with the full motion.

As slowly as he licks his frozen treat do you slowly raise your middle finger, eliciting chuckles from the other occupants of the table.

You think you won that mini battle, though?

Ha! Nope.

Baji mirrors the vulgar action, not once breaking eye contact as he dips the tip of his finger directly into his ice cream, pulls it out, and proceeds to lick that, too.

Disgusted, you promptly avert your attention elsewhere, praying that Baji won’t continue being, well, himself.

Your prayers fall on deaf ears.

"It's cold!" As soon as the exclamation leaves your mouth, your blood runs glacial, knowing that you've unintentionally played into Baji's trap. The appearance of a sly, almost feral, smirk when you whip your head around to glare confirms what you already know.

The curtain has risen, and you’re standing center stage in a performance you can’t break free from.

"Aw, can't let it go to waste,” Baji continues, reaching over to scoop the ice cream you’re 100% certain he purposely spilled on the front of your shirt, with his fingers.

Then, to your horror and everyone else’s shock, he asks, without an ounce of virtue to his name, "Want me to lick it off with my mouth?"

Chifuyu is seated on the other side of the table, hiding his face in his hands. “Baji-san...”

"It'll stain if it dries like that." Dear God, how you wish to un-see Baji batting his eyelashes at you.

“I don’t care!” At this point, you’ve resorted to clumsily scooting your chair as far away from him as possible, which isn’t actually as far as you’d like considering your surroundings. Hell, so long as you put some distance between yourself and the crazy bastard that wants to see you suffer, you don’t mind having to force yourself halfway onto Mikey’s lap. (The firm hand that keeps you steady by the waist proves that your presence isn’t unwanted either.)

"Geez, (Y/n), you're such a scatterbrain."

Seeing Baji sell the line with a slow tugging of his hair behind the ear has you torn between laughing and dying a little more. Truthfully, his acting is frighteningly impressive, and you would’ve applauded his performance, if not for the fact that the role he’s playing still haunts your dreams.

By this time, most of who accompanied you to the ice cream parlor have figured out what kind of drugs Baji is on this time, which also means that those fuckers have seen, or are at least aware of, the cursed trilogy of questionable porn that’s being reenacted before their eyes, with you as an unwilling co-star. Those that are puzzled as to why people are shoving their fists in their mouths to refrain from laughing are obviously God’s favorites.

“The fuck is going on? I wanna laugh at Baji’s dumbassery, too.”

“Pah-chin... I think it’s best you don’t know.”

Interestingly enough, the one you’re most concerned about hasn’t said anything yet, splitting his attention between observing the scene unfolding and eating his portion of a deluxe sundae.

Then, out of nowhere-

“I understand.”

You and Baji freeze where you are, each of you grasping the other’s collar, you to shove him away, and him to draw you closer.

“(Y/n),” Mikey says, your name rolling silkily off his tongue in a tone much too fond for his next words, “if you like roleplay, just tell me.”

...

“Huh?”

“I’m fine with pissing, remember? So, roleplay shouldn’t be a problem.”

Heat rises to your face at an alarming pace, and it continues to climb as Mikey takes your free hand in his, which serves not to comfort but to unintentionally remind you of the humiliating experience from a few months back. And just when you convinced him that you didn’t want anything to do with getting freaky with the body’s excreta, too.

“You’ve got it wrong! I don’t- arfghfgh?!”

Your prayer to help cool down your flushed cheeks must have been heard, but you’re pretty damn sure you didn’t ask for Baji to shove his ice cream in your mouth!

“Oh, yeah. (Y/n)’s a fuckin’ geek when it comes to roleplay,” the unhinged bastard speaks in your stead, indifferent to the nails clawing at his hand clamped over your mouth. “You should try it with him. We were doing a scene from his favorite anime.”

Mikey tilts his head, interest positively piqued. “Which one is that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, leader?”

Mikey raises an eyebrow.

Baji opens his mouth.

You lunge.

It’s a series of events that happens in the blink of an eye and ends with loud crashing as you tackle Baji to the ground.

“Listen up, Baji Keisuke. We took an oath that day, and if you dare utter a word of what went down, I’ll consider that a breach of the code of secrecy and take you down, making sure you drown in a pit of your own shame and despair.”

Surprised to have been pinned down so quickly, it takes a while for Baji’s brain to catch up, but when it does, he’s frustratingly unfazed at the threat.

“Oho~ How scary. Too bad for you, I have no shame.”

“Not even if I tell Mama Baji where your porn stash is?”

That has the great Baji tensing up.

“You wouldn’t dare use an underhanded tactic like that.”

Your lips turn into a wicked grin. “Are you sure? I have as much dirt on you as you have on me, and like you, I won’t hesitate to use it to my advantage.”

If your grin is wicked, Baji’s is downright evil, showing off his sharp, gritted canines and all.

“You got balls, (Y/n),” he snarls, “but mine are bigger.”

The boy beneath you opens his mouth, and faster than you can stop him, he just...does it.

“(Y/n) (L/n) watched Boku no Pico and liked it!”

Silence.

Silence is all that’s heard for a good, long minute following the booming roar of the revelation.

You dare not look up to gauge everyone’s reactions, instead keeping your icy glare fixated on Baji, who looks smug as shit for having caused the glorious eruption of heat to spread like wildfire across your entire body, from the tips of your ears down to where your skin disappears under the collar of your jacket.

This...

This is war.

Taking in a deep breath, you answer his uncalled for declaration with your own thunderous shout of, “Baji watched Boku no Pico and jacked off to it! Twice!”

Baji laughs. “Oh, pray tell, saintly (Y/n), how many times did you jack off to it?”

“None of your fucking business, asshole.”

“Pretty fucking sure it is, since we were in the same room.”

Someone chokes, while you choke Baji.

“We. Swore. To. Secrecy. You. Asshole,” you practically growl, with each of your words accompanied by a ruthless back-and-forth shaking of the other boy’s person.

“Let up on the choking, dude. I’m not into that. You, however-”

Unable to take the ceaseless slander to your name anymore, you reel your fist back, but, upon seeing Baji’s cheek turned to you, jaw jutted out, as if inviting you to take your best shot, you hesitate. You know you wouldn’t be able to pack enough of a punch to actually leave an impact on him, which is terribly upsetting.

On the bright side, there’s still one tactic you can use that’ll be just as effective, a technique courtesy of your health teacher, who happily taught it to the class to use in case of an emergency.

Technically, it’s meant to be used to assess a person’s level of consciousness, but you suppose it can be used to get back at inconsiderate idiots, too.

“Ow! Ow! What the fuc-! Ow!”

You keep a straight face as you continue to rub your knuckles against his sternum, fully intent on delivering the worst possible pain to the current bane of your existence. It brings a sort of sadistic satisfaction to hear the ever prideful Baji’s screams of pain, and while it doesn’t completely undo the damage done, it does help soothe your wounded self-esteem.

“You want me stop? Beg for it.”

“Pissing, roleplay, choking, and begging? Goddam- OW!”

Your reign of terror comes to its untimely end when you’re lifted up into the air by the armpits, and through the haze of your power trip, you realize that Baji’s saving grace is Draken, who proceeds to carry you out of the parlor with ease.

“People are staring,” he coolly explains when you protest to having unfinished business.

Pouting, you cross your arms over your chest. “It’s his fault.”

Once outside, Draken doesn’t immediately put you back on your feet, until Mikey strolls out of the parlor. Only when the gang leader has his arms outstretched to you are you promptly deposited on the ground and taken into his embrace.

“Are you done letting off some steam?” is the first thing he asks you. Even though you can’t see his expression, the way he holds you and the way he cradles the back of your head, handling you with the utmost care, is indication enough that there will be no reprimand for, essentially, assaulting your division commander. (You would argue that it was an act of self defense against verbal harassment, but whatever.)

There’s just an overwhelming amount of love. So, so, so much love for each other.

“Yeah, I am,” you eventually answer, followed by a content sigh.

“Good.”

Naturally, that’s the perfect time for the tinkling of the bells above the parlor door to pilfer your attention. Baji’s appearance causes your face to morph into a scowl.

You cling tighter to Mikey, peeking over his shoulder to flip the ravenet off and mouth, ‘Go to Hell.’

As always, Baji answers your attempt to appear opposing with an obnoxious smirk.

‘See you there.’

~~~

“Boku no Pico, huh?”

“Draken, don’t laugh! Baji forced me to watch it!”

“All 3 episodes?”

“Twice.”

“...”

“...”

“Favorite scene...?”

“As if I’d have one.”

"Actually-"

“Ahh! Shut up! Why are you here, stupid Baji?! You live in the other direction!”

~~~

“Hey, (Y/n). Want to try doing the same thing with me?”

You look up, perplexed. Mikey literally just walked into the room, and that was the first thing he said to you.

“Do wha-?”

Your breath catches in your throat when you turn your head, only for you to come centimeters from bumping noses with him. And because he can, he lovingly knocks your foreheads together, too.

“It’s okay. I promise it’ll definitely be fun.”

You should feel ashamed for recognizing the same sequence of lines from Boku no Pico so quickly, though any coherent words are overtaken by an incomprehensible, high-pitched screech, a feat achieved solely by a teenage boy going through puberty.

A combination of shock and amusement crosses over Mikey’s features then. He’s never heard you make that sound before.

It’s cute. Strains the ears quite a bit, but cute.

While Draken lurks beside him, questioning Mikey’s standards of what constitutes as ‘cute,’ you’re sprinting across the room, red-faced, to Baji, who’s already grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Stop tainting my boyfriend, you piece of shit! Give him back his innocence!”

(Unbeknownst to you, whilst immersed in your fit of hysterics, your use of the word ‘boyfriend’ has a certain blond beaming.

“Did you hear that, Ken-chin? He called me his boyfriend.”

“Wow, congrats.”

Mikey either doesn’t give a shit or is simply too smitten to acknowledge Draken’s apathetic response.)

Baji blinks, unable to believe what you’re trying to insinuate. “Innocent? That little gremlin motherfucker?”

Both of you look in Mikey’s direction. When he sees you staring, he breaks out in a smile and throws a wave.

Your heart involuntarily skips a beat at the sight, and, okay, you’re convinced. Mikey deserves better than knowing of that cursed series’ existence.

Clearly, you’re down bad for Toman’s leader, and as such, Baji figures he can use that to quench his boredom for the day.

“Ooh, if only you knew what he gets off to.”

The tone in his voice instantly rouses suspicion. You narrow your eyes at him. “I don’t care what kind of porn he gets off to.”

“Porn? Nah, ya silly goose-”

“Don’t call me that.”

Baji ignores your comment as he moves to sling one arm around your shoulders, the other raising up to mimic an obscene tugging motion that no teenage boy is a stranger to.

“He jerks it to yo-”

BAM!

One second, Baji is lazily hanging off of your person, the next, he’s sprawled out on the floor, face down, and groaning in pain. You expect nothing less after witnessing him receive a rather impressive flying kick to the chest from Mikey.

Before you can assess the full damage, your view gets obscured by a pair of keys.

“Wanna take my bike out for a spin?”

Yes, you know Mikey is trying to divert your attention from whatever Baji was going to say, and, yes, you probably should check on the figure that has yet to get up.

But do you really care?

You take one glance at Baji’s concerningly unmoving body and quickly come to a conclusion.

You do not.

That being said, you quite literally drag Mikey and, by extension, Draken out of there, chanting an excited, “Let’s go!” on your way, abandoning Baji to wither on the ground.

Baji?

Baji feels betrayed.

~~~

"Chifuyu?”

“Hm?”

“Y’know, I was joking.” Baji flips onto his back with a grunt. “Man, who knew Mikey was all grown up?”

The vice captain of the first division hums, seemingly uninterested in his commander’s musings.

It goes quiet for a few minutes, the sole instigator of noise being Chifuyu flipping the pages of his manga.

Unpredictable is Baji, and the same goes for his train of thought.

“I should punch Mikey for kicking me.”

“No, you’d get beat up.”

“...”

“I should punch (Y/n) for Mikey kicking me.”

Truly, unpredictable and senseless.

“You’d still get beat up.”

Baji opens his mouth to argue.

“By Mikey.”

He promptly closes it.

“Fuck it. I’ll keep spicing up their relationship as payback.”

Sighing, Chifuyu closes his book to crouch down next to him. “Baji-san, with all due respect, you’re an asshole.”

Baji Keisuke has experienced betrayal twice today.

And he deserved it both times.

[mandoinevarro]

WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 1

Words: 8.4k 

Rating: E

Warnings: shooting, non-descriptive death, SMUT, fingering, mentions of masturbation, AND masturbation now that I remember, penetration, creampie! just general filth, gambling?

a/n: SO literally nobody asked for this, but I decided to turn NO REFUNDS into the prologue of a short series (you don’t really need to read NO REFUNDS, it’s only for context.) Anywayyys heavy feelings, heavy plot, heavy smut. Have fun. 

……………

Maker, you need to start cheating. That way you wouldn’t be in the middle of a staring contest with your cards, like you can change their colorful drawings and numbers if you only glare hard enough. You’ve never been particularly good at sabacc, but a little luck wouldn’t hurt, especially since this is the third round in a row you lose.  Duma deals the last couple of cards across the coal black table and stacks the deck, signaling the start of the game.

Well, you suppose it doesn’t really matter; you doubt your sabacc buddies have better hands. These days, everyone in Nevarro is short on luck. Luck and food and water. Others are less pessimistic: As soon as Greef Karga glances at his hand he leans back on the carcass of a cantina booth and slaps his belly. “Ha!” he bellows, “by the end of this round, you filthy gutter womp rats will have to borrow from your womp rat mothers to pay me.”

“Quit bluffing, Karga. We know you don’t have shit,” Cara mutters. She picks up her cards and pulls a face like she bit on lemon, but still the veteran goes all in, pushes forward a couple of stabilizing coils, an identity beacon you could’ve sold at a decent price some months ago and—maker—even a pouch of nova crystal dust. Nobody here is stupid enough to gamble with food, but you’re surprised that even nova has lost its worth and been demoted to casino chip status. “This place smells like shit.”

“Bad bluff, piss-poor trash talk too,” you taunt. “Looks like all that time doing business with Imperials smoothed your brain, Karga.”

“Ex-Imperials,” he corrects. The ex-Guild leader slides a few more credits to the center of his ex-cantina’s table. “We live in a jolly Republic now, didn’t you hear? You’ve been liberated.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Duma turns her head, spits on the melted floor. “Can’t eat liberation, can I?” She throws a few more worthless credits onto the growing pile of nothing. At least, for now, it’s nothing. Credits and ship parts and every other type of currency haven’t meant anything but props in Nevarro for five months, when the siege began. That whole mess with troopers and Greef and Cara was bound to bring some repercussions—aside from making Karga’s cantina look like a volcano erupted inside. For five months, Imperial forces have surrounded the planet, and for five months, food and resources haven’t been allowed inside. They won’t let up, rumor has it, until they find the culprit: one particular Mandalorian with a valuable asset. They think he’s still hiding somewhere in the planet, but you know better. You watched the Razor Crest’s fly off-orbit and leave everything behind. Everything and everyone.

“This place smells like shit,” Cara repeats.

“Not shit,” replies Duma, “ash.” She picks up a card from the deck with long fingers. “You never did explain how that Mandalorian managed to torch this place.”

Cara’s sabacc face melts. Her fingers tighten and bend her cards as she exchanges a complicit look with Greef. “Never said it was Mando.”

“Who else? I was there in the first shootout. That hunter was fierce.” Duma dons a wolfish smile, because this is how she always wins: She plays with people, not cards. In fact, she abandons her hand face-down on the table and—oh no—gives you a once-over. “You knew him well, didn’t you?” You almost want to show her your garbage hand so she doesn’t bother trying to throw you off your inexistent game.

“Swung by the store a couple of times,” you answer as casually as you can manage and pretend the most interesting book is written on your cards. “But we weren’t exactly chummy, if that’s what you’re asking.” Creeping warmth attacks your face and there’s no stopping it. Shit.

“Funny, could swear I saw him leaving your store more than a couple of times.” You feel Duma’s eyes piercing into your forehead. “Pretty late at night, too.”

“Is that so?” Cara pipes with a lopsided grin.

“I thought you two were…friends,” Duma adds.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “you thought wrong.” Friends don’t leave friends to their luck in the middle of a fucking siege. It’s the same prickly thought that’s plagued you since you watched the Mandalorian take off triumphantly. It’s a stupid feeling. He was under no obligation to take you with him. You didn’t lie to Duma, you two weren’t friends. You couldn’t even call what you had a fling, even those require some degree of making-love-below-the-stars, quoting-passages-of-Naboo-Nights-to-each-other romance. Flings are shooting stars. No, your…thing, whatever it was, did not belong to the heavens. It was earthy. Human. It was counting credits and arguing about fuel prices or old modulators. It had weight—too much, apparently, to escape gravitational pull and fly away with him on the Crest. It was doomed to planets, both feet planted on the ground.  

Still, you remember times when earthy was good. There was never anything airy or celestial in the way he’d take you. The shoved clothes, the harsh grunts, the rough hands, the pleasure, it was all palpable and primitive; earthy was dirty. Your furtive encounters had beating heart of their own, and there was always hard evidence left behind in case either of you ever needed a reminder: marks on the skin, ripped clothes, stained bedsheets. The bruises he left always took too long to heal, as if his touch enhanced your mortality, made you more human. Stars, those moments are what you miss the most. Five months is a long time to be neglected of touch—six, actually: five months since the siege, six since he last came to you. Earthy expires.

It’s not like there’s nobody in the planet willing to help you soothe your needs; quite the opposite, actually. Lately, it seems like handjobs are the new Nevarran handshake. Just last week you caught Cara feeling up some pretty market girl in an alley. You saw her, she saw you, you rolled your eyes, she grinned and got back to work. You were almost offended. Everybody’s screwing their time through the siege, while you’re left with nothing but reruns of filthy memories with the Mandalorian. You just know nobody but Mando will do. You replay your moments with him like a sad, mental porno on the nights you spend trying to get yourself off. Trying and failing, like having to put out a fire by spitting on it, because the only person in the galaxy with a hose is too busy playing hero lightyears away.

“Last round. Place your bets,” Karga announces and pushes a few more trinkets forward. Cara follows, and you pat around your pockets for something to lose. It’s all just rusted metal anyways. Only…shit, the last three games drained you. And Duma reads it on your face like you’ve got “BROKE” written all over your forehead.

“All out, huh?” She reaches down the table for her bag and drops a beskar pauldron on the table with a thud. A Mandalorian pauldron.

Cara purses her lips and balls a fist, but Greef shoots her a warning look. As if cantina brawls could make this place look worse.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t take anything that day,” Duma continues, shaking her head. “Regret it?”

“I’ll regret it,” you answer and go fish, as if a new card—the right card—could fix a life’s worth of bad luck, “when you learn how to chew beskar.” That earns you a signature “Ha!” from Karga and a cocked eyebrow from Duma. She can arch her eyebrows all she wants, but that much is also true. You don’t regret leaving the Mandalorian covert empty-handed.

You were the first on scene that day. After the smoke cleared, the remaining imps left to lick their wounds, and the Crest flew away, you went to check on Karga’s child, his pride and joy. You were met with a gruesome scene. The cantina, Nevarro’s most sacred landmark, had been reduced to its black skeleton, third-degree burns all over, gone. It sounds dramatic, but the cantina used to be the closest thing to a place of worship on this planet. God Booze was dead.

You kicked around the bar’s guts, until you found a gaping mouth on a wall, leading down, down, down into Nevarro’s entrails. Finding purgatory would’ve surprised you less than what you stumbled upon: an underground tunnel, an abandoned covert, and a sinister, unguarded pile of Mandalorian armor. Stars, it would’ve been so easy. You could’ve hoarded the spoils and stashed them away for better days. That amount of beskar could’ve bought you a one-way ticket out of this dumpster and an early retirement. But when you lifted a helmet, it stared back. It was blue and definitely not his, but Mando was all you could think of while you studied the helmet’s unique curves and creases. You heard his exasperated sighs when you got on his nerves, his moans when you’d touch him. And you just couldn’t do it. You sat back and watched as this skughole’s scavengers crept into the tunnels to pillage. Easy as that, everyone in Nevarro but you and Cara now has a beskar toy or two. Soon enough, this planet will house the wealthiest corpses in the galaxy if the siege is not lifted before reserves run out.

Karga clears his throat. “Well, ladies first. Let’s see those cards.”  

Duma ignores him. “You know,” she tells you, “I’ve more beskar than I know what to do with. I’ll trade you a vembrance for a couple of ration packs.”

“And what am I supposed to do with a Mandalorian vembrance, play dress up?”

“The cards,” Greef urges.

“You’ll be rich.”

You snort. “The rich don’t starve.”  

“Give me a break, we both know you’ve got portions to spare.”

Elbows on the table, you lean forward and closer to Duma. She sniffs weakness like a Corellian hound, and if you falter she’ll sink her fangs. “I’m not interested in your fucking loot.”

“Cause it’s stolen? You never had a problem with that before.” She mimics your move and leans closer. Karga fiddles with a coinage of calamari flan, like you’re both Canto Bight slot machines and he’s trying to decide where to put his money. “What, did you grow morals all of a sudden? Or maybe, you’re too worried of what your Mandalorian friend would think.” You flinch. She smirks. “Oh my, what would the disgraced hunter, code-breaker, cult member say—”

The tiny noise of Karga’s coinage clinking on the table is not enough to distract you from the verbal beating Duma is laying on you. But his voice—like he got the air knocked out of him—is enough to grab your attention when he murmurs, “Ask him yourself.”

Cara, Duma, and you turn to Greef Karga, who stares saucer-eyed at the window. All three of your heads move simultaneously, guided by the line of his eyesight. Outside the window, on the deserted street, stands a trooper barking orders. It’s one of those in all-black armor, the extra trigger-happy ones with a side of god complex because they think the change of color magically makes their aim less shitty. His blaster is drawn (surprise, surprise), and on the receiving end of its barrel…

Maker’s fucking mercy.

You don’t even see the blaster shot, only smoke snaking out of a hole on the shiny breastplate. The trooper plummets to the ground like his puppeteer cut off his strings: no last steps, no resistance. Now, anyone else would’ve walked away from what’s clearly worm food without a second look, but one does not become the best bounty hunter in the parsec by taking chances. A mountain of unpainted beskar looms over the corpse and kicks the blaster off the imp’s limp hand. The Mandalorian sheathes his own weapon—that blaster you’ve tweaked and polished so many times you know it as the palm of your hand—and scans the perimeter for danger.

You don’t tell your legs to move, but they don’t need the command. You find yourself trailing behind Cara, Duma, and Greef, rushing for the door. Outside, all four of you stumble and stop on your tracks to blink stupidly at the Mandalorian, the way children stare wide-eyed at soldiers on military parades. But this warrior stands grander than any Republic or Imperial officer you’ve ever seen. He’s clad head to toe in silver beskar—except for one armorless thigh that makes his other leg look even bulkier. His old armor, the one you used to shine and buff, is gone. This one you’ve only seen from afar, on that day he crashed the imps’ safehouse, and later when the battle broke out. You know it’s him, but in this new getup it’s easy to doubt. Maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he won’t recognize you.

The Mandalorian studies each of you one by one, his hand near the blaster in case he spots any enemy faces. The hand twitches when he sees Duma—she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation around here—but she’s shocked and unarmed, so his arm relaxes. To Greef and Cara he gives short nods that they return.

And then you. He actually takes a step back when he spots you, like you pushed him square on the chest. The helmet lingers on you and tilts, shamelessly rakes over every feature like he’s memorizing you. You hold your breath. It reminds you of the day you met, that weight on your chest from knowing you’ve been seen. That’s how you know it really is Mando: Whenever he stares at you, you feel it in your bones.

You realize the moment’s dragged out for too long when Karga clears his throat. The spell breaks.

You and Mando look bashfully away from each other. You squint up at the clouds, your hands stiff on your waist in a forced, generic, looks like rain! pose. He turns to his boss (ex-boss? enemy? You never asked for an update on Mando’s most recent status in the Guild) and mutters a short, “Karga.” To Cara he’s warmer, offers a comradely clasp of hands and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Cara drawls, as she stares suspiciously between you and Mando. You squint harder at the clouds. “Didn’t expect you back during a siege, though.”

“I have to…” he spies a furtive glance at Duma and lowers his voice, “I’ve something to do here.”

Duma rolls her eyes and clasps her bag across her chest. “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll leave you girls to catch up on the hot goss.” She strides into the cantina (probably to bag the bets, the asshole), and goes back outside.

She points at the window of a crumbling building. “Careful with snitches.”

You glance back to the window. Nothing. Jerk. Duma’s not above a made you look moment, apparently. You turn back to her but she’s already disappearing into an alley.

Cara waits until she’s gone to grab the Mandalorian by the arm. “Mando, where’s the…” she glances at you and hesitates. You fold your arms and raise your eyebrows at the veteran. If she expects you to leave graciously like Duma she’s got another thing coming. You’re actually very, very interested on the Mandalorian’s hot goss. Especially it comes with an explanation as to why he left you stranded here. Even though he doesn’t owe you one. Technically. “Y’know,” she finally says and drops her hand. “The asset.”

“On the ship. I need to get back.”

“You, my friend, need to lay low,” Greef says with a raised index. “Every imp in Nevarro will be looking for you. Maker—” he spreads his arms “—they already are! And someone must have heard the blaster shot. You have ten minutes or so until an Imperial squadron gets here. The, uh, asset will be fine.”

“The asset,” Cara exclaims, “is a ch—is…is delicate. He can’t just leave it on the Crest!”

Mando interrupts their game of taboo. “Cara,” he starts, “you go to the ship and check on…the asset. Please. I landed where I did last time. I…I’ll lay low in the covert.”

“About that,” Greef mumbles. He looks at Cara for support, but she steps back and raises both hands: You say it. Greef sighs. “They…they found the tunnels, Mando.”

The helmet crooks slowly to study Karga.  “Who’s they?”  

“Everyone. Half of Nevarro is living down there, you…you can’t go back.”

Silence.

You imagine all four of you go through the same checklist: Even if Cara didn’t already have a top-secret assignment with whatever the asset is, she doesn’t have a place of her own yet. Every week, she crashes on one of her sweethearts’ couches. On their beds, more likely. There’s no way Karga is letting him near his house, not after what happened at the cantina. That leaves…

“Stay with me,” you blurt before you can really think it through.

≈

The cramped storage room you call a home sits a story above your store. It’s four walls and only the essentials: a bed, an armchair, a table, a stove, and the only detached room is the refresher. It’s enough for you. But the Mandalorian looks like he squeezed into a dollhouse when you usher him inside and close the door behind you. He stands in the middle of the room, all fighter’s bulk and grandiose armor, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he moves. As if he’s never been here before, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The apartment may be small, but it’s so filled with memories you could turn it into a museum of your dirty escapades with him. And if you look to your right, you’ll see the armchair where he sat while I went down on him on a stormy night.  

“So,” you say and lean against the front door, “business or pleasure?”

He moves to stand to the side of the window opposite the front door and his glove moves the old washed out curtain to the side to peer into the street. The sun is setting, and the last streaks of light paint the beskar with warped yellow-orange streaks that stay as still as an undisturbed pond. So this is how he wants the evening to go: quietly and with a reasonable amount of distance between you. Disappointment knots in your stomach.

“Business.”  

You open your mouth to cut into the silence, but you’re all out of words. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It used to be so easy to tease him, but now…a heaviness seems to weigh down on his shoulders, some heightened sense of duty. But also determination: He stands taller now, prouder, like he woke up one day and knew exactly what he needed to do and why. Whatever that purpose is, you’re pretty sure it doesn’t involve you. You’re a detour, and not even the fun kind, judging by the space between you. Maker, this man used to pounce on you. Has the siege really battered you up that much?

“Been busy?” The sudden question startles you. He’s never been one to break the ice, that was usually your job.  

“Sure.” Nope, not at all. “Store and all.” You closed the store three months ago. Turns out nobody buys equipment for their ships when they can’t fly past the atmosphere. “Plus, somebody needs to keep Karga distracted from his mourning. You owe him a cantina.”

“He told I did that?”

“Just a guess.” You move a couple of steps forward, like you’re approaching a nervous lothcat. When he doesn’t move away, you sit on the armchair, a little closer to him. “You like that flamethrower too much.”

“That what you four were doing in there?” The helmet moves to the side so he can spy deeper down the street. Always careful. “Assessing my damage?”

“No, just sabacc. Different kind of damage.” He’s making small talk. The Mandalorian, whom you’ve overheard have conversations solely based on grunts and sighs, is chatting with you. He’s not just answering out of politeness, he’s prompting you to go on, to keep running your mouth. That’s something he said once between thrusts, perched over you right on this floor: Keep running your mouth, see what happens. The memory warms your neck. Maker, not the point. The point is, before, he always said you had a smart mouth. Sometimes he’d chastise you for it, other times he’d encourage it. And you used to have the suspicion (or, let’s face it: fantasy) that he actually liked it. That somewhere hidden, beyond his pride and honor’s jurisdiction, he enjoyed the teasing and the banter, the challenge of having to deal with you. Better yet: More than once it crossed your mind that he got off on it, too. It’s been a long time, but some of that might remain. Maybe you’ll take his advice: keep running your mouth, see what happens.

You sit straighter, arch your back a bit just in case he’s watching. “You interrupted a round with your little stunt.”

“Yeah?” The helmet doesn’t move, but his hand runs up the curtain, considering. “Sorry. I bet you were winning.”

That makes you smile. It’s a dig at you. Far and wide across Nevarro, your uncanny ability to lose every single game of sabacc you play baffles locals and foragers alike. Yes, you know you suck, but the game amuses you anyways. You like the trash talk, the double-guessing, the bluff-calling. So much so that you forget to actually play. But what’s important is he’s teasing you, and that’s more than charted territory with him, a match you have a shot at winning. Okay. Game on.

“I was, actually.”

He huffs. “Don’t believe you.”

“Then I don’t believe you’re here on business.” Pause for effect. You can almost see a question mark form in a cloud above the helmet. You lean forward and lick your lips, lower your voice. “I think you missed me.”

You’re used to the helmet’s features remaining impassive, so you don’t look for clues on there anymore. Mando’s hands are more telling. You want to believe you actually see his fingers twitch and clutch the curtain a little tighter, that he takes too long to answer. That’s what trying to read him is all about—blind-guessing and wishful thinking.

“Don’t know about that. Six months and two weeks without your cons, I’m almost rich.”

Down to the week, huh? “Okay, if you want to make it about money we’ll bet on it. Twenty credits says you missed me.”

“Last time I was here you weren’t a compulsive gambler. Store’s doing that bad?”

“Last time you were here,” you coo, “there was a lot less talking involved.” You stare into the visor, and pray he can’t see the desperate hope in your eyes.

Your prayers are answered. In a way. Mando ignores you, doesn’t even look at you.  You hear your clumsy attempt at seduction buzz around him like a one-winged bee, crash into the unmoving, unmoved Mandalorian, and fall to the floor in a pointed-lined spiral. You’re so embarrassed you want to step on it. Well, that settles it. Six months is apparently enough for a Mandalorian to lose interest.

“And store’s doing fine,” you lie to try and sway the conversation away from that lame innuendo that missed its mark. He really just wants to talk, then. No big deal. It’s fine. “Nobody gambles for money anyways.”

“Then why?”

You shrug. “Why do you hunt?” He’s never told you, but you saw him chase down a bounty once. He was ruthless, sweating adrenaline and with far too much stamina to only be chasing a bag of credits. “For the risk. The thrill.”

He lets your words float for a second. “You get a thrill out of losing?”

You roll your eyes. “I only lose cause everybody knows my bluff.” That is, except you. “You need to know someone to know their bluff. Greef and the others already know me too well. You, on the other hand.” You smile. “If you and I played, I’d get to keep so much of your stuff you’d think I’m half Jawa.”

And, only then, he seems to tense. That stupid throwaway line is what makes his spine grow visibly rigid and his hand drop from the curtain to his belt, where the leather of his glove creaks with how tightly he clutches the buckle. White and blue streetlights that reflect on his armor glide around like it’s water instead of beskar, and they’re your only indication that he’s shifted slightly. Slowly, so slowly you expect his neck to creak like a door, the Mandalorian turns away from the window to look at you. He holds there quietly, and you feel ants running down your back…stars, you’re nervous. For the first time in a while, he makes you genuinely anxious.

“You’re saying I don’t know you?” he rasps under the helmet. No, not really, but if it gets a reaction out of him…

“All I’m saying,” you start, summoning all your strength to keep your voice from faltering, “is you’ve been gone too long.” You try to make it sound a bit playful, but the words come out tasting bitter when you remember the sharp little edge that’s been digging on your side. He left you here, it whispers, he left you here and didn’t bother looking back. But a heavy boot suddenly drops forward and you’re forced to stop nursing your grudge to try and predict what Mando’s next move will be.

With every step he takes, you’re instinctively swallowed deeper into your armchair, until he’s looming over you. Stars above, the sheer size of him is enough to block out most of the artificial light coming in, and you’re left to squint in the blue twilight. Maker, you don’t remember him this big, this intimidating. Five months ago you would’ve smirked and opened your legs wide. C’mon, I don’t bite unless you ask, you would’ve teased, but now…now you think maybe you are the one who doesn’t know him anymore.

But some things never change, and having him so near still makes your thighs press together. If anything, this new foreignness, the inherent threat of a bounty hunter in your home that never quite poked the right nerve before now pulls on your most sensitive areas. It propels your heartbeat on a sprint. His arm moves, and—oh, you want him to touch you.

Visor trained on you, Mando points to the floor instead. “You hide your credits here.” To illustrate (or just to rub it in that he knows) his boot presses down on the loose tile and shifts from side to side. The sharp sound it makes irritates you less than knowing he found the fox clever hiding spot you used to pat yourself on the back for. “You don’t keep them in the store because it’s too easy to break into. The security panel downstairs is broken, but the one up here works fine.”

You can almost hear his proud smirk under the helmet. There’s a reserved side to him, sure, but bastard can be arrogant when he wants to. And no, you have no idea how he found the spot, but you’re not about to admit it.

“Congrats, boy scout. You can spot a busted panel and you have flat feet. Want a badge?” Your irritation brings back some of your old snark, but you still flinch when he moves closer and his legs brush against your knees.

“You also keep expensive parts inside the stuffing of this—” he takes a tiny step forward and frames  your knees with his legs “—armchair.”  Your blood freezes at his words, but it abruptly runs hot as the city’s lava river when you realize how close he stands now. His legs press against the armchair and there’s nowhere to go. You’re cornered.

A leather glove moves close and you hold your breath, before you realize he’s only toying with the tips of your hair. But his fingers dig deeper, tangle on thicker strands and, without warning, give a short but firm tug. It’s a tiny pull, but maker’s mercy, you feel your core pulse. And then, before you can regain some lucidity, his fingers dip lower, where the tips trace a slow line down your nape. He draws featherlight circles on that spot between your neck and your shoulder that he knows makes your toes curl, and—stars, it’s just been too long—you whimper.

“Still so sensitive here,” he whispers.  

Once, this shielded man knew his way around your body like it belonged to him. You thought that part of him was lost, that he forgot, that he’d truly been gone too long. Those fears dissipate when his palm curls around the back of your neck to hold your gaze on him, while the thumb of his other hand brushes your lips. You know the drill—you open your mouth and give the orange tip some kitten licks. Mando huffs: You can do better than that. Maker, it should be a red flag, how quickly you comply. That urgent need to please him that had never, ever felt so crucial. An O forms in your lips before you can stop them, and his thumb pushes down on your tongue deep and deeper. You should play hard, make him earn it, bite him. But his finger starts to retreat and you panic—no, he can’t change his mind, not now. You seal your lips, trap him inside your mouth and suck. But his grip on the back of your neck grows beskar stiff, and he forcefully removes his finger…only to glide the spit over your lips. Just like that first time.

The visor looms closer to your face, and you catch a ruptured sigh, the pleasured kind that these four walls know so well. If Mando wasn’t holding you down, your chest would balloon with satisfaction and you’d float. His thumb trails down your throat, wetting its path and no doubt feeling the vibration when you chuckle. He cocks his head to the side in a silent question.

“You owe me twenty credits,” you explain, your breath clouding the helmet’s surface. “You did miss me.”

Mando crouches lower, where his helmet brushes your nose, and gropes the tops of your thighs with those wide palms you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

“Yeah? You like bets?” You’ve never heard his voice so coarse, scratchy like week-long stubble. Did he change the settings of his modulator? Or is it just rash, pent-up need? “Then thirty credits says you’re fucking soaked.” His fingers butterfly higher up your thighs, almost at the apex. Your legs jerk.

“That’s cheating,” you gasp.  

He takes one glove off and settles the covered hand on your hip, while the other disappears between your legs until—stars—he cups your core through your pants. You mewl and he hums when he feels the hot, damp fabric.

“I still win.” He presses the heel of his palm right into your clit and grinds it back and forth. Oh, if you thought you were wet before. The pressure, the friction, him—it all scalds you from head to toe like a fever, but you chase it, greedily push your hips into his palm. His fingers flatten along your slit and grope you tighter. “Gonna pay me? Doesn’t have to be credits.” He pushes viciously into you with that wide, hard palm, preening at the little gasps that escape you. Whimpering, you let your eyes fall shut and focus on something sprouting in your belly. Stars, you’re close—how the fuck are you so close already? It must be all the repressed desire, all that time. Fuck, you’re close—

The Mandalorian halts. You’re eyes flash open to see him straighten and step back, take his other glove off to stuff it snug between his belt and his hip, and remain still as a building. Still catching your breath, you study him head to toe, scanning for a sign of what went wrong. He’s clutching his belt, his stance is too smug. This isn’t him fighting temptation, he’s toying with you. Maker help him, you’re going to kill him. Some corner in your brain reasons that it’s kinda fair, as payback for all the times you messed with him. But in the forefront of your mind pulses the climax he just denied you, cast aside and angry.

Before you know what you’re doing, you push yourself off the armchair. “You—”

Mando beats you to it. A hand on your shoulder and a vembrance across your chest, he lunges forward and slams your back against a wall. He hovers over you, tightly pressed against your body. A fleshy, hard bulge covered by his pants throbs against your belly. Of course. You forgot how much he likes it when you look like prey; how much he enjoys the hunt, whether he admits it or not. The hand on your shoulder trails down to cup your breast. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shaky exhale.

“You need it bad,” he breathes as his fingers massage your chest. The movement shifts the fabric of your tunic, brushing it against your nipple. You roll your hips to try and stimulate him, to show you’re not the only one worked up. His erection twitches and you smile.  

“You—mmm—you’re projecting.” You grind again to prove your point, but he catches on to what you’re implying and retaliates by shoving his hand inside your cleavage. Stars, you have to punch down the moan surges up your throat when he pinches your nipple.

“You missed this,” Mando hisses, and whether he’s trying to convince you or himself, you don’t know. What you do know is he’s plotting to settle this stupid inkling of a bet in his favor. He wants you to admit you missed him so he doesn’t have to. You know, because it’s exactly what you are trying to do.

You sneak your hand down his torso, aiming for the hem of his pants—but before you can get even with him, he crushes his hips against yours and traps your palm between them. And he’s not done—he wedges his thigh between your legs and rubs it up and down, drags your clit just right. Your mouth gapes in a silent moan as white hot pleasure lights up your spine. You want to get away from it but, maker, his forearm is still stiff against your chest. Even when you grab the vembrance with your free hand it doesn’t budge. You’re trapped between him and the wall.

“Can take care of m-myself just fine,” you croak as a last attempt to hold on to your dignity. “At least when I’m alone I don’t have to fake any orgasms.”

Yeah, it’s a low blow. A dirty fucking lie too, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all. Good news is it gets you a reaction—he immediately stops moving, as if your words punched him off balance. Bad news is you hit a nerve—his breathing becomes harsh like a bull’s, so much so that you expect clouds of smoke to come out from under the helmet. The Mandalorian creeps closer to your face and his forearm digs deeper into your chest. There’s a promise of danger in the dark visor that makes your pulse race, and a primitive instinct blasts emergency sirens. Maker, this won’t end well for you.

Just as you’re about to backtrack and whisper you didn’t mean it, Mando lets go of you—only for a split second, before he grasps your shoulders and turns you around to push your front into the wall. You jerk back on instinct, but he flattens a palm between your shoulder blades and squishes you right back against it.

The helmet rests right next to your ear when Mando growls, “You expect me to believe that?” His hands drop to your hips as he replaces the pressure on your back with his chest. His body weight holds you in place, and he rocks the hard outline of his erection along your ass. “That I don’t make you cum, you little fucking—” You curl your back as much as his body allows so he can stroke himself tighter against you. He groans and kneads your cheeks, moves the flesh in tandem with his thrusts. “I shouldn’t let you tonight, t-teach you a lesson.”  

The mere suggestion feels devastating enough to let a pathetic whine tumble from your lips. Before, you could’ve turned this into a game, held out a little longer just to watch him break first. But you’re too pent up, too desperate, too sick of waiting. Your fingers hook on the hem of your trousers and push them down. Mid-movement, he traps both of your wrists in one hand and keeps them pressed against your lower back, while the other one gets your pants the rest of the way down, underwear too. You barely have enough time to step out of them before his free hand reaches between the apex of your thighs. You’re sticky, leaking around his fingers, and pushing back against his crotch like you’ll drop dead if he doesn’t fuck you.

“Fucking wet, fuck…” he mutters. His fingers follow the heat and your pussy clenches around nothing. Stars, if he just moved higher, a little higher where you’re hot and soaked and throbbing for him. But he takes his sweet time, molds the inside of your thighs like clay, pulls the flesh, squishes it together, until you’re writhing against him and leaking down your leg. Your vision blurs. “Can—can I…?” He lets his index finish the sentence, teasing at the edges of your outer lips.

Even with the side of your face against the wall, you manage to nod. “Yeah,” you breathe.

Two fingers slide around your folds and you gasp. Mando moves slowly, collecting your arousal and coating his fingers. Your breath catches when the tips finally push into your entrance—only a fraction before they slide back out, so the rest of his palm can cup along your cunt and drag more slick behind it. He’s strategically avoiding your clit, though, and with both arms behind your back and at his mercy, you can’t reach for it yourself. Fuck, you…you only need to hold on a bit more, he’ll get bored of his game soon enough. That’s it, just a little longer. You waited six months, no way he’s making you beg after a few minutes of teasing.

The Mandalorian eventually pulls his fingers away from your thighs and curses under his breath. You hear the familiar rustling of fabric and a divine zip that fills your eyes with tears of relief. Fucking finally. You brace yourself and relax your pelvic floor in preparation, but it’s barely necessary—you’re so ready for it. Your cunt is open and weeping, he can just slide it in. All this time, with nothing substantial inside you, your lower muscles pump and twist painfully with demanding want. Even with his size and in this position, you’re so turned on he might even be able to bottom out. Fuck, he doesn’t have to move much, a few good pumps and he’ll have you cumming, easy. Stars, what’s taking so damn long—

A modulated, battered moan and a wet noise make you turn your head over your shoulder and look for the source. The low light makes it difficult to make out shapes, but there’s no mistaking what you find below you. Hand wrapped solid around his cock, Mando is jerking himself off. With your cum as lubricant. While he treats you like a piece of furniture he’s only gripping for support. A chemical cocktail of lust mixed with fury spikes your blood.

“Is…wh-what are…what the fuck do you think y-you’re…”

“Say it,” he spits between his teeth, “say you f-fucking need me.”

No, no fucking way. As much as the words burn on your tongue and your clit tugs and begs, you’re not saying it. He left, not you. You waited for him. You turn your head as far back as your neck allows without snapping a ligament and look straight into the visor. And pointedly curl your lips inside your mouth, sealed.

Your act of rebellion lasts a good ten seconds.

“You’re so fucking difficult,” he snarls. He stops tugging on his cock, and for a moment you hope he might indulge you, push into you and stop the masochist torment you’ve talked yourselves into. But when it comes to Mando and you, it’s never that easy. Still not releasing your wrists, he grabs the base of his cock, glistening with your stolen juices, and rubs it up and down the swell of your uncovered ass. You gasp, let your lips part and your gaze fall to where he’s rubbing up against you and refusing to push inside.  

He's not going to last long. Swollen and a strangled purple, the head of his cock dribbles warm precum and smears it on your lower back. The veins on his length throb against your ass, and stars, they’d feel so much better inside you. The Mandalorian’s grunts and groans ring more frustrated than lost in pleasure; it’s not enough for him either. He’s torturing you and himself just to prove a point, while you refuse to speak the magic words just to keep your pride. Desperate tears threaten to spill, but you shut your eyes to push them back. Either of you could put an end to it, right now. Maker, it’s on the tip of your tongue: I need you. Spit it out, end it. I need you, Mando, I need you, do whatever you want with me. It doesn’t matter that you abandoned me in this shithole, that you discarded me like faulty equipment, that you didn’t even have the decency to tell me—

The thrusting stops. When you open your eyes, you find the visor fixed on you, cocked slightly to the side, like there’s writing on your face. Mando’s grip on your wrist softens, his frustrated panting slows. Maybe he sees the unshed tears, or maybe your face really is that transparent, because he takes pity on you. Gentle palms on your shoulders, he turns you around to face him.

Night has fallen. Fragments of fluorescent light pour inside through your worn out curtains and give the helmet a fuzzy silver halo. The rest of the armor is shiny black, smudges of light here and there. His head moves around the features of your face, one by one, taking its time. Showdown’s over. He’s not playing a game anymore, not trying to get you to break, he’s just…studying you. Staring his fill of you farewell-style, even though he just came back. It hits you that you don’t know how long he’s staying this time. You open your mouth to ask, but stop yourself in time. If he leaves, he leaves. He doesn’t owe you any explanations.

But when he curls an arm around your waist and holds you against the wall and his cold breastplate, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like old times—pre-siege, pre-battle, pre-everything—when he confidently grabs your left thigh, sinks his fingers into the plump flesh, and hooks it on his lower back. You drape your arms around his shoulders and hold him closer. You’ve always liked the bulk of him against you, it makes everything feel more real. Buried on the crook of your neck, you hear him sigh when he lets go of your thigh and blindly searches your cunt. With your leg around his back you’re completely open for him, so it takes him no time to find your bud. He presses against it and rubs it in slow but tight circles that make your legs cramp.

You push down on him, demanding more. He groans and complies, inserts one finger and continues rubbing on your clit with his thumb. Maker, this has no right to be so good. He’s doing pretty much the same you’ve done to yourself these past months, but with Mando there are never any ghost sensations, no what ifs. It’s all here and now, and you swear you feel the pleasure of his fingers picking up speed in every corner of your body. He has you moaning and rocking your hips, dripping down his hand, and when he starts rubbing you harder and tighter, you finally whine a tiny, “Please.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t need to ask what you want, but he moves his helmet to look at you square in the face, check if you mean it. You stare droopy-eyed into the visor and nod: yesyesyesyes. Mando groans and grips you tighter. Maker, he’s right, you need it—need the bruises, need his cock, need all of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand leaves you to grab his cock and guide it to your entrance. He moves it around your lips and brushes his tip against your clit as he looks for your hole in the dark. It doesn’t take long for the head to poke right outside where it needs to go. “Fuck, I don’t—don’t think I can hold back, don’t want to hurt you—”

“Stars, please,” you whine, “I want it rough.” You want it more than rough. After six months, you want it fucking depraved, but neither of you is going to last long enough to make it elaborate. Maker, you don’t care. Right now, you don’t care for risky positions or clever techniques, you want him.

He groans and pushes inside—only the head, still testing, but your walls immediately grip him tightly to hinder any attempts to move away. That’s not what you should’ve been worried about. Fingers tight around your waist, Mando pulls you down as he pushes up. Stars. The brutal thrust reaches the end of you and then some more. Fuckfuckfuck. The dull bam of your skull hitting the wall is suddenly drowned by a slicker, filthier sound coming from between your legs. His length begins to pull out, your pussy complains the whole way, and you can almost hear the Mandalorian gritting his teeth through the sweet torture of feeling you squeeze around him…and thrust back up—harder. He likes the pace and sticks to it—fast, rough, deep, repeat—while you make sounds like you’re choking on air. Stars, it has been long. Long enough to partially forget his size, his fucking girth, currently filling you to the brim and punching high little sounds from your throat.

“Mmmando,” you sob.

Mando groans in response, snakes a hand down to your clit and rubs with the same wild abandon as his pounding. Maker, your memory was never this fucking good. No matter how many details you recalled, there’s nothing compared to the real, human meat of his cock pulsing urgently inside you, hitting your cervix, making you whine. Nothing like his fingers around your waist, or knowing there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The pleasure has teeth, carries a painful bite, but it’s exactly what you need. That tangible grit in his thrusts and his fingers is the missing piece. Your muscles start cramping, you pull him tighter against you—Maker, right there, you can feel it. It reaches your head and makes you dizzy, sheds light on some hidden, shameful words.

“Mando, I…”

“I—fuck—I n-needed this,” he grunts and brings his hand down to feel where his cock is inching out of you, like he has to double check it’s actually happening. Thrust. “Used—used to d-dream about you.” Thrust. Three fingers now push into your clit and draw frantic shapes. You clench your jaw, feel the hot tide in your belly rise faster. Thrust. “Wake up so f-fucking hard—cum in my pants.” Thrust—thrust—thrust.

Maybe it’s his words, maybe the rough pace, but something holds a flame to the dynamite building inside you and it explodes. Maker, your head’s going to burst. You moan long and deep into the spot Mando’s ear might be. Your legs shake, your arms cramp. Months’ worth of frustration gush hot and wet around him, as he babbles encouragement: There you go, just like that, make it fucking good. Your walls are still fluttering, your ears are still ringing, you haven’t even ridden out the last of your climax when his hips pick up the pace.

“Let me—let me cum inside,” the warrior pants, “let me f-fill this cunt…I—I haven’t since—fuck, I didn’t—”

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, please, Mando, cum, cum inside—”

There’s no space left between you, but Mando finds a way to squish you tighter against him as he pounds into you for a few last moments, until you hear a strangled grunt, and a half-forgotten warmth pools inside you. The extra lubrication drives his last thrust as deep as your body allows. A few more lazy thrusts inside you, short and stunted as you take his load inside you, before he stops. A warm string trails down your leg, and—stars, he’s leaking out. How much did he cum that it didn’t fit inside you?  Fuck.

You take turns panting, whimpering, listening to each other’s heartbeats slow to a semi-normal pace. The Mandalorian moves away from the crook of your neck to meet your glossy eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you think will. You can almost hear his mouth opening, words boiling and rising in bubbles up his throat—

Zium!

It’s your imagination. It’s your ears ringing from that orgasm, your mind making stuff up. But. You could swear you saw a red flash glade right past your cheek. And from the way Mando’s helmet cocks to the side, you know he saw it too. You turn your heads in unison, to see smoke coming out of a hole a breath away from your ear. It takes both of you too long to put two and two together, and—before he can pull out—more of those red flashes are raining down on you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 2 let’s goooooooo

Taglist: @rosetophighlander​ @hellomothermoon @newyorksins​ @leo-moon​ @benedrylcumbersnatch

[buckydeniro]

This Is Trouble

part 1

dad’sbestfriend!bucky barnes x reader

a/n: okay, i’m prettyyy new to writing and this is my first jab at writing a series or something that isn’t a hc so please be gentle with me. this could be complete shit and suck ass but ya know what, oh well! i’m a slut for dad’sbestfriend!bucky so here ya go! i really hope you enjoy it!! :-)

summary: you didn’t plan this. he didn’t either. you thought you would come home from college, spend some time with your dad, and find a place for yourself to live. but you soon found yourself in a sexual tension filled challenge with your dad’s best friend. but what happens when feelings develop and they become too strong to deny?

"Dad." You groan as he covers your eyes with his hands. You had just graduated college and after a few days spent packing up your stuff from your apartment near school and saying your goodbyes to your friends, you're finally back home. Your dad had the biggest grin on his face when he picked you up and you had a feeling he was up to something even though he swore he wasn't.

Now with his hands over your eyes in front of the door of your childhood home, you knew he was up to something.

"What's going on?" You ask, hearing the sound of people shuffling and a few shushing each other behind the door. "I know you hate surprises but you're back home so you're going to have to deal with it for the sake of your poor dad who has missed his daughter." You chuckle, a smile pulling at your lips.

You loved your dad. Your mom left when you were fairly young, hadn't even hit the double digits age range yet before her and your dad decided it was best to part ways. She never called or wrote, just left. But you made your way with your dad.

The sound of the door opening shakes you from your thoughts. Your dad removing his hands from your eyes to reveal a moderate sized group of family and friends before you.

Your eyes go big the exact moment they all yell out "Surprise!!" A red hot blush rushes to your cheeks and you smile bashfully, never having been one to like being the center of attention. You don't catch it but if you did you would have seen your dads best friend leaning against the kitchen doorway, lips moving up into a smile at your reaction.

"Okay, this was a pretty good surprise." Your smile blooms from shy and uncomfortable to happy and touched. You immediately hug your father, "Thank you. So much."

He gives you a tight squeeze causing you to choke out, "Dad." Chuckling at him as he lets go, letting air refill your lungs.

"I'm gonna give you some time with everyone. Good luck." With a kiss to the side of your head, Everyone begins rushing up, congratulating you, hugging you, commenting on how much you've grown and changed.

After nodding at one of the older womans dramatized comments about how she could hardly recognize you now, you feel someone watching you. Your eyes smoothly and quickly find Bucky, and you're almost thrown off actual physical balance at how good he looks. Holy shit. You swallow, your stomach doing a flip. Okay, what the fuck was that, stomach?

Not only have you changed but so as he. You breathe in through your nose as you take him in. The light stubble dancing on his jaw, a tight black shirt, the chains of his dog tags peaking out from the shirts collar. See he still wears those, you think to yourself. His black jeans matching his black boots have you trying not to bite your lip. You blink and quickly turn away, zoning back into the atmosphere around you.

He's always been attractive but jesus, when did he get that attractive. I guess you've both grown.

Apparently the lady, Lila, had still been talking to you, unaware your attention was pulled elsewhere for a moment. Firing questions off at you at a rapid speed, not stopping to hear your answers. So she's basically just having a conversation with herself and you've been deemed the appropriate audience for aome reason.

You hear footsteps coming towards you, flicking your eyes up, you see Bucky walking and stopping right in front of you. Oh my god. He smells amazing. No. What the fuck are you thinking? Reign it in, Y/N.

"Lila, don't wear the poor girl out." His bright, friendly smile drifting from her to you and you can't help the smile mirroring his on your lips. "Oh, I'm not." She chides, squeezing your arm softly with affection, "But I'll go." She playfully sighs and walks away.

Bucky's eyes haven't left yours, that contagious smile still on his face. "Welcome home, kid." That Brooklyn drawl has you biting your lip as you smile. It was a completely innocent movement, a habit you picked up a few years ago but it causes Bucky to look down at your lips, quickly flicking his gaze back to you as he inhales, mentally shaking thoughts from his head.

"Thank you, Mr. Barnes." You say politely. Bucky pulls a face and laughs, causing you to laugh along with him. Why is everything he does so contagious? He shakes his head as he speaks. "No, no, kid. Call me Bucky."

You nod your head once before pulling a face of your own. "Okay, but you can't call me 'kid' anymore. I'm 22, Bucky." The new 'title' leaving your mouth like an acception to a challenge.

He nods his head, lifting his hands up in mock defence, smirking at the way you said his name.

"Okay, okay. I got it. Y/N." His voice falls soft, almost sounding like he just found out what your name was and was calling you by it for the first time.

"Ah, Y/N, see you've caught up with Buck." Your dad grins, slapping a friendly hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Come on, party is out back."

Steve leads the way, both you and Bucky following. You purse your lips, fighting off a smile and Bucky snorts. "Party." You say quietly, glancing at Bucky as he retorts back speaking quietly so your dad doesn't hear, "Oh yeah, it's raging, can't you tell? Might just give them college parties of yours a run for their money."

You hum in acknowledgement, "You might be right, Barnes. But, I have been to some good ones."

"Barnes, huh?" You can't quite read the look on his face. All you know is that you're both looking at each other with some kind of playfulness, like the beginning of a new game has just started and you're on opposing sides.

"Mhm. Barnes." You overly dictate the 'B' in his name, drawing the 'A' out a bit, making a clicking sound with the side of your mouth, your focus forward.

Your dad turns around, clapping you softly on the shoulder, "Have fun, hon. One of the guys is calling for me. Sam! I'm coming!" You watch as your dad huffs, jogging up to his friend, swatting the spatula away from his hands, focus on the grill Sam was, I guess, butchering.

"So, you still do that." You turn your head back to Bucky, furrowing your eyebrows a little, tilting your head slightly, confusion lightly appearing on your face. "Do what?"

He puts his gloved covered hands into his jacket pockets, clearing his throat, "You make that sound when you're focusing on something or are nervous." There's a slight pause before he speaks up again. "You nervous with the get together or bein' back home or somethin'?"

You didn't realize you even did that. You were a little nervous but it wasn't because of the party your dad threw for you. It was because of Bucky. It's a good nervous but it confuses you none the less.

"Yeah. Just being back home." You nod, lips tugging up at the corner for a smile. "The change and everything."

Bucky doesn't look quite convinced but lets it go. Your attention is drawn forward, wanting to look anywhere but Bucky. The way he looks at you was fogging up your brain.

"You still wear the dog tags."

This time he tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "I can notice things too, Bucky." You whisper with a smile, your attention turning back to him, causing him to chuckle.

"Well, they are mine, Doll." You both freeze. Fuck, he thinks. It just slipped out. He couldn't help it. He's fucked it now, shit. But you chew on your bottom lip, fighting back a smile but the hint of it is there and Bucky catches it and feels as if he can breathe again.

"Doll, huh?" You repeat his words back to him.

With a slight cocky tilt of his head, a subtle smirk and something dancing in both of your eyes, he throws it right back at you. Repeating your own words, the exact way you said them to him, "Mhm. Doll."

Before you could react, say anything, he had turned and casually walked away, yelling a hello at one of his and your dad's old friends and although you couldn't see his face, he had the biggest smirk on it. You let out a breath, not knowing what to make of yours and his interaction.

It was Bucky. Just Bucky. Your dad's best friend. He was just being friendly and teasing. Normal. But as you walk to grab a beer from the cooler near by, you can't help but question a little, "Right?"

Straightening your back, you feel eyes on you and you immediately know whose they are. Turning your head, you lock eyes with the brown haired man, taking a swig of his beer.

Your brain repeating the question again, "..Right?"

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 6,962 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria Warnings: Language, typical TWD stuff A/N: This is part of a series! Find the previous parts on the Masterlist! Summary: Denise asks Y/N to find some much needed medical supplies. Y/N and Daryl head out on a supply run.

Your name: submit What is this?

You and Daryl both healed up from your close call outside the walls and soon you were making scavenge runs and hunting together again. Things in Alexandria went on routinely for some time until one evening when there was a knock on your door and Denise was standing on the front mat.

“Denise, hey,” you said. “Come in.”

She was wringing her hands a little anxiously. “Hi.”

You could easily read the worry on her face. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

She sighed and adjusted her glasses, a nervous habit. “I’m fine but I have a huge favor to ask you.”

“What do you need?” you interrupted. Your expression was intense.

Denise gave you a hesitant look and pulled a list out of her back pocket. “I know this is asking a lot but—I don’t think you’re going to be able to find all this stuff outside of a hospital.”

You gulped but looked it over, nodding. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Y/N, I—”

“Hey. I’ll get it. It’s okay,” you reassured her. “I’ll leave early tomorrow.”

“You’re not going alone?” she asked urgently.

You shook your head, folding the list up again. “No. I’ll ask Daryl.”

Denise’s expression morphed from concern to a knowing smile, but she caught herself and quickly tried to hide it. “Oh. Daryl. Good,” she said. You glanced up at her, your lips pressed together in a thin line. She laughed and held her hands up, palms out. “I didn’t say anything!” You rolled your eyes.

“Would you just stop with that? We—we’re just good friends.”

“Uh huh. You keep telling yourself that,” she said in an undertone, turning back to the front door, resting her hand on the handle. She glanced over her shoulder at you again and her expression was once again serious. “Thank you,” you said.

“Of course. We’ll get what you need. Don’t worry.”

As soon as Denise left you made your way across the street and knocked on the front door of Daryl’s house, shuffling your feet a little nervously. Rick answered it with a curious expression.

“Hi, Rick. Is Daryl around?”

“I think he’s up at Aaron and Eric’s. He said something earlier about changing the oil in his bike.”

“Okay, thanks.” You turned to leave but Rick called you back. You watched with a little apprehension as he closed the door behind himself and stepped out onto the porch toward you.

His thumbs were looped into his belt, one foot sticking out toward you.

Your pulse started to race a little with nerves.

“Listen, I know we haven’t spent much time around each other but I wanted you to know that you’re real important to Daryl—anybody can see that. You two have already been through some things together. And that makes you family. So, if there is anything you ever need, you can rely on any of us.”

You stared back at him in some disbelief trying to come up with something to say, but you mostly failed. You gulped at the nervous tightness in your throat. “Thanks.”

Rick nodded. “Sure. Alright. We’ll see ya.” You nodded and turned away from the sheriff, puzzling over his willingness to invite you into the fold so readily.

You jogged up the street, your eyes fixed on the distant glow of orange light spilling out of Aaron and Eric’s garage. You found Daryl standing at one set of shelves along the wall, replacing some tools. He hands were gray with dirt and oil and his toned arms were glistening with sweat.

“Hey,” you said. Daryl turned and glanced at you, one corner of his mouth twitching upward reflexively at the sound of your voice.

“S’goin’ on?” he asked, easily reading the seriousness on your face.

You pulled the small folded piece of paper out of your back pocket and held it out. “We’ve got a job. Denise just came to see me.”

Daryl’s brow furrowed and he pulled the red rag out of his back pocket to wipe off his hands before taking the paper from you and unfolding it. His blue eyes scanned the list and he nodded. “Alright.”

“We’re gonna have to go to a hospital to get a lot of this stuff,” you said apprehensively. The archer nodded and handed the list back to you.

“So, we go to a hospital,” he drawled. “Ya know of any where ya think we could still find supplies?”

You licked your lips nervously. “Yeah. But it’s not—the med centers were ground zero before anybody knew any better. There’s a reason this one still has supplies and hasn’t been picked clean. It’s full of walkers.”

Daryl paused thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed a bit in concentration. “We’ll figure it out. If anyone can do it, it’s you and me, right?” He said, giving you a half-smile, that boyish quirk of his lips.

There were still worry lines on your forehead.

“Hey. We’ve got this,” Daryl said. “Ya think we should take more people? Glenn and Rick, maybe?”

You sighed heavily and thoughtfully ran a thumb over your lower lip, something you did often when you were thinking which Daryl found extremely distracting. “Honestly, the fewer of us the better probably. Keep it as quiet as possible. In and out.”

Daryl nudged his nose up at you in a nod. “Alright. In and out,” he agreed. “We can take my bike. Leave at sun up.”

You nodded. “Okay. I’ll get some gear together,” you said.

Daryl nodded. “Meet ya outside in the morning,” he said. “Hey. Try and get some damn sleep,” he said.

You nodded. “Yeah, I’ll try.”

The next morning the two of you met in the middle of the road that separated your houses just as the sun was starting to break over the horizon, each with a pack slung over your shoulders. Daryl had his crossbow and you had your recurve bow. “Armory first, then we’ll grab my bike,” Daryl drawled, leading the way to the armory with long strides. You had a sick feeling in your stomach, nervous about the day’s task. Daryl seemed to be able to sense your mood and he glanced back at you. “We’re gonna be fine. And we’re gonna get everything on that list and more,” he said strongly.

You felt the knot in your stomach loosen a little and nodded. “Yeah,” you said.

After grabbing your weapons of choice from the armory, you swung a leg over Daryl’s bike and settled in behind him, your nerves surging again as you wrapped your arms around him to hold on, feeling the strong muscles of his back and stomach. You gulped. Daryl felt like he was about to lose his mind with your arms around him.

The bike roared to life and you were off.

The first part of the trip was uneventful. You directed Daryl to the hospital you had in mind and the bike came in handy as you had to wind through the ruins of gridlocked traffic on what had once been a busy highway. You had parked the bike and hidden it and walked the rest of the way to the medical center on foot, sneaking quietly and hoping you wouldn’t run into any walkers or, maybe worse, people.

“That’s it,” you said, pointing ahead to a tall building down the block. He nodded and continued to lead the way, snaking between cars and debris. Soon you approached the sliding doors of what had been the emergency room entrance. Daryl shouldered his bow and glanced back at you.

“Cover me while I pry these open,” he muttered. You nodded and readied your bow, sweeping your eyes inside beyond the doors for any movement and then back over the cityscape behind you.

Daryl got the doors open and nudged his head toward the interior, putting his crossbow back up to his eye as he gazed over the atrium in front of you. When he was sure it was clear he lowered his bow and moved behind you to shut the doors again. “Don’t want anything followin’ us in here,” he said.

Your eyes were anxiously darting over the space in front of you. “Or anyone,” you murmured.

“Mhm,” Daryl hummed, rejoining you. “Ya have any idea where to look for this stuff?”

“Um.” You walked over to a directory on the far wall. “Well, we need to find a drug cabinet or pharmacy for the antibiotics and other medications and a supply closet for everything else.” You glanced up the hallway to your left. “I guess we just pick a direction and start sweeping?”

“Sounds like as good a plan as any,” he whispered back. “C’mon.”

You followed behind him and moved up the hallway. You managed to locate a medication locker and shortly after a drug dispensary or pharmacy. You loaded your packs with as much medication as you could, leaving room for the other supplies. Daryl also found a cloth tote bag and filled it up with anything he thought would be useful. So far you hadn’t met with any walkers. It seemed far too quiet and it was causing your apprehension to grow.

Daryl stepped back into the hallway and cleared both directions. “Now we just need to find a supply closet,” he said. He nudged his head toward the other end of the hallway and you followed behind him silently.

“Doesn’t this feel a little too easy to you?” you said, finally speaking your fears.

Daryl looked back at you and nodded. “Yeah. Where are all the damn walkers?”

You continued down the hallway until you found a closed door with a placard beside it that said ‘Supplies.’ “Hey,” you whispered, drawing Daryl’s attention. You tried the handle and swore under your breath. “Locked.” You swung your pack down and dug in the front pocket. “I can pick it. Just cover me.”

Daryl stood guard while you slid the two tools into the key hole, prodding the pins methodically until you heard the characteristic click of completion. You shot a satisfied smile over at Daryl and pushed the door in, shining your flashlight onto the shelves lining the walls. “Fuck.”

They were barren.

Daryl shook his head and sighed. “Guess we try up a level?”

You grabbed the one lone pack of sterile IV tubing left and shoved it into your bag. “I guess so.”

“C’mon. Stairs this way.” You ghosted behind Daryl’s broad-shouldered frame until he paused in front of the stairway door and peeked through the window. It looked empty. He opened it as silently as possible, straining his hearing.

You stepped in after him, climbing the stairs, sweeping behind you with your light every once and a while. When you reached the next floor, Daryl froze and looked back at you with a furrowed brow. You gave him a questioning glance. “Door’s barricaded,” he muttered.

You sighed. “Should we just try the next level up?”

He shrugged and started to climb again, but when you arrived on that floor you saw that it too was barricaded from the other side. “Shit. What do you want to do?” you asked him. He chewed his bottom lip nervously for a moment, shining his flashlight through the small window and looking at what was blocking the door.

“Fuck it,” he said, slinging his bow over his shoulder. “Who knows how many of these damn doors are blocked. Some assholes probably thought they could outlast this thing.”

“Or they thought someone was coming for them,” you said. “The army.”

Daryl turned the handle and heaved his shoulder into the door. The heavy metal cabinet on the other side began to slide. He tried to move it as steadily and quietly as he could, but it made a harsh scraping noise in the silence. You both froze and listened, but you heard nothing.

Daryl held the door and you squeezed through the opening, turning around to hold it for him as he pushed through. When you turned around again you felt your stomach drop. “Oh, God.”

Blood. And corpses. There were old bloodstains and the bodies looked more like mummies than anything but it didn’t bode well. You exchanged a look with Daryl.

“In and out,” he whispered, nodding. You let out a deep breath, your lungs feeling suddenly tight, and the two of you started creeping down the hallway side by side, sweeping your eyes over each hospital room standing open. “There,” you said, spotting another placard designating another closed door as a supply room. This time the handle was loose as you tried it. You pushed inside and were relieved to see that it looked like it hadn’t been touched. Apparently, any other scavengers hadn’t been brave enough to venture past the barricades. You and Daryl dropped your packs and opened them up, shoving supplies inside and filling them so much you almost couldn’t fasten yours closed.

“Alright,” Daryl rumbled quietly. “Let’s get outta here before our luck runs out.”

You nodded heaving your bag onto your shoulders again with some effort. You were about follow Daryl back to the stairwell when you spotted another window that looked like a dispensary. “Hey. Wait a second. Maybe there are more painkillers in here.” You wandered over and tried to push the metal slatted grate over the window up. It didn’t budge. You went to the door. The handle was loose and you shot Daryl a smile.

But that was when your luck seemingly ran out. You pushed the door open and stepped inside but some water damage from a dripping pipe in the ceiling had rotted out the floor and subfloor. You heard it starting to collapse beneath you and had just enough time to throw your bow behind you and spin around. Daryl’s arms were already out and he grabbed onto you as the floor gave way beneath your feet. You held onto him as tightly as you could and in a moment he hauled you up out of the sudden empty space, your heart pounding out of your chest. The two of you collapsed in a heap on the floor.

But you didn’t have any time to rest or be thankful that you hadn’t plummeted downward. The debris and a heavy shelving unit had fallen with a tremendous crash that reverberated through the building. You scrambled for your bow and adjusted your pack again as Daryl was trying to see if you were alright, but there was a sudden growling and mawing from the other end of the hallway and you both swore.

“Oh, fuck,” you muttered, looking at a stream of walkers coming up the hallway from out of the stairway at the other end of the hall. “I guess that other stairwell wasn’t barricaded.

“Yeah, no shit,” he growled. “C’mon. We gotta get outta here.”

You both made a run in the direction you had come up but as you approached you could see that there were walkers filling that stairwell now too. “Shit! Daryl!”

You spun around looking helplessly at the herd approaching from up the hall. “We’re fucking trapped!” you said desperately, raising your bow and landing an arrow right in the skull of a walker in the lead. It crumpled and slowed the others behind it for a moment.

Daryl heaved the metal cabinet against the stairway door again to close the opening you had created. The dead were pressing against the door. “We ain’t dyin’ here!” he yelled. “C’mon!” he firmly grabbed your arm and pulled you partway up the hall, toward the incoming herd. He threw his shoulder into the nearest closed door and pushed you inside, firing a bolt at a walker who was reaching for him. He rushed in after you and slammed the door closed.

You had already tossed your stuff down and upended a desk and pushed it against the door. Daryl slid a metal cabinet against it too to fortify the barricade.

“Fuck,” you said, bending over with your hands on your knees, your heart absolutely pounding, your chest heaving.

Daryl was pacing around the room and made his way to the windows. “We gotta go. That shit isn’t gonna keep em out forever. Maybe there’s a fire escape we can use.” He looked out the window but saw nothing you could climb down. He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face and jaw.

The dead were pounding against the door and the growling was reaching deafening heights. Daryl continued to pace like a caged animal, back and forth, looking around desperately. “There’s a door here,” he said, rushing over to it in the middle of the far wall. You retrieved your gear and raced over but watched as Daryl jumped back. “Fuck. Goddamn walkers out there too.” His expression was grim as he resumed his pacing.

You looked around as you heard the desk you had upended shaking with the blows of hungry dead ones against the door. Your eyes raced around the room. You were in some kind of laboratory.

Suddenly, Daryl froze like he had been turned to stone and you felt his eyes on you.

“What?” you urged. He tossed his pack down and drew his knife from its sheath at his hip. “What the hell are you doing?” you asked.

“Ya ain’t dyin’ in here. I’m gonna go out, clear a path, draw ‘em off so you can get out.”

“Like hell you are!”

“It’s the only way,” he growled back. “I ain’t lettin’ ya die in here!”

“And I’m not fucking letting you do this!” you said, grabbing onto his arm firmly. “Daryl, that’s suicide.”

“One of us has to get out with the meds and supplies,” he argued. “People back home need ‘em.”

“You’ve got people back there. If anyone is going to draw them off it should be me. It’s just—it’s just me,” you argued. You saw a fierce flash of fire in his blue eyes.

“Nah. Not happenin’,” he growled. He shook you off his arm. “This is how it’s gotta be.”

“You’re not doing this, Daryl. I’m not letting you. There’s gotta be another way out. There’s gotta be—” you rushed over toward the windows, desperately searching for something he had missed, some magic ladder that had suddenly appeared, anything. “There ain’t no other way out, Y/N! And eventually they are gonna come through!” That’s when your eyes fell on the lab supplies nearby. You looked up with a struck expression on your face. Daryl’s expression morphed from determined stubbornness to confusion. He watched as you threw down your pack and bow and started pulling stuff off the shelves. You threw down some glassware which shattered and started scooping up the shards, not even caring that they were cutting your hands up.

“The hell are ya doin’?” Daryl asked, rushing over and looking down at you like you had lost your mind.

“I’m making a way out,” you said. Daryl watched you mixing chemicals and pouring them into some containers you had found, dropping the broken glass in before carefully measuring out another liquid. You glanced up at him. “I’m—I’m making some nail bombs,” you said matter-of-factly. You got up off your knees on the floor and rushed across the room to a custodial cart you had seen, grabbing a box of screws off it and skidding back over to your area on the floor. “Well, screw bombs actually, I guess.”

“Ya—ya know how to—”

The desk against the door rocked violently and you both looked at it. You turned around and pointed to a table pushed against one wall. “Tip that over. We’re gonna need to hide behind it.”

Daryl heaved the table onto its side. “Ya sure ya know what you’re doin’?” He watched you methodically and carefully putting the finishing touches on the devices in front of you, sweat running down your neck and beading up on your hair line, your chest heaving. You wiped your arm across it.

Your eyes were fixed on them as you stood up with one in your hands, being extremely careful not to tip it. “I know what I’m doing,” you said, not taking your eyes off it. You walked over toward the barricaded door and set it carefully down on the floor. You did the same with another one a bit farther into the room. You glanced back at the archer, your eyes a bit frantic. “When they knock those over—” Daryl understood your meaning. “Help me move this shit,” you said, looking at the furniture blocking the door. You and Daryl heaved it out of the way. You could tell that the door wouldn’t hold much longer.

You rushed back over to the table Daryl had turned over and pulled your pack and bow behind it, along with the two remaining devices you had made. Daryl joined you behind the table. “What about those?” Daryl asked eyeing the bombs uneasily.

“These ones are for throwing,” you said, your eyes fixed on the door across the room. “Any second now,” you thought aloud.

“Ya got a Plan B in case these don’t work?” Daryl asked.

“This is Plan A through Z,” you said. “But they’ll work.”

A moment later there was a splintering of wood as the door gave way to the force of bodies on the other side and a flood of walkers started to enter the room. You hunkered down and plugged your ears. There was a concussive blast and you felt Daryl’s body against yours, sheltering over you as the windows in the room shattered and debris flew, embedding into the table you were using as a shield.

You straightened up, your ears ringing, coughing a little in the dusty and smoky haze in the air. You peeked over the table, Daryl doing the same. Body parts and a red splattering of blood was covering the room. There was a substantial hole where the doorway had been. “Sick,” you said aloud, wincing as some gore that was on the ceiling dripped down onto your shoulder. But you climbed to your feet and grabbed your gear. “Come on. Effective but loud. It’s gonna draw more. We gotta go now.” You thrust one of the remaining devices into Daryl’s hands with an urgent look. “Don’t shake it. Don’t drop it,” you said.

He nodded and followed your lead. As you moved into the hallway you headed for the opposite end, to the stairwell that had the door propped wide open. You could still hear walkers pounding on the other locked door of the room you had just been in, still intent from the sound of the blast.

You both snuck past them and started down the stairs, praying that the rest of the way would be clear. You made it to the ground floor and rushed out into the atrium. Daryl threw some chairs and boxes out of the way. You made a rush toward the sliding doors you had come in through and Daryl immediately started prying them open, handing you the bomb you had given him.

“Oh, fuck. I can hear them. Hurry, Daryl!” you urged. You ran back toward the sound of the walkers.

“The hell are ya doin’?” Daryl shouted over his shoulder, still heaving the doors open.

“Covering our ass!” you yelled. You peeked around the corner into the long hallway and saw a stream of walkers started to fill it. You heaved a breath and tossed one of the bombs, pressing yourself up against the wall and covering your ears against the blast.

Debris flew down the hallway and smoke drifted out. You peeked around the hall again and could see the carnage of the walkers blown all over the walls, floor, and ceiling. More walkers were still coming.

“Y/N! I got it! Let’s go!” Daryl roared. You eyed the last bomb and threw it as far down the hallway as you could, feeling the concussive force from the blast run through you as you ran back to Daryl and slipped out through the front doors. He slammed them shut behind you.

“We gotta get the hell away from here before every goddamn walker in the city shows up,” he said, rushing to put distance between you and the hospital.

“Not exactly subtle, but we’re out,” you gasped as you ran behind him.

You didn’t slow until you made it back to where you had stored the bike, doubling over with a stitch in your side, throwing your gear down and collapsing with your back against the wall. “Oh, shit. Fuck me,” you murmured, clutching at the cramp in your side, pressing your head back against the concrete and shutting your eyes.

Daryl’s chest was heaving from the run but he stared down at you with intense blue eyes. He dropped his pack down beside his bike and knelt down next to you. You felt him there and opened your eyes as he grabbed your wrist gently. “You’re bleedin’,” he said, looking at the cuts and punctures from the broken glass you had handled and from pushing yourself up on the debris of the blasts.

“It’s nothing,” you breathed as he examined each of your palms. He pulled his pack over and dug out some of the gauze you had just scavenged. “Daryl, it’s fine.”

He ignored you and only continued his care in silence, wrapping the gauze around both your palms and tucking the end under to secure it. When he finished, his eyes flitted up to meet yours and there was some unreadable expression in them. “That was too damn close,” he said. He gently grasped your elbow and helped you to your feet.

“Tell me about it,” you murmured in agreement. You looked down at your pack stuffed full of supplies. “But we did it. And we got everything Denise needs.”

Daryl still seemed ill at ease. “Ya wanna tell me how the hell you know how to make a fuckin’ nail bomb?”

You laughed wryly. “You wanna tell me how you ever thought I’d let you go on a goddamn suicide mission?” you said in disbelief. “Jesus, Daryl! Don’t you ever try to pull something like that again, okay?”

He avoided your eyes. “If I have to, I will.”

You felt a twist in your stomach at his words, but the next moment he was simply strapping his pack down on the back of his bike and swinging his leg over, looking back at you expectantly. “C’mon. Let’s get the fuck outta here before it gets dark.”

You pulled back into Alexandria and Daryl stopped his bike in front of the infirmary. Denise came rushing out. “Oh, thank God you’re both okay,” she said in a gasp. “I’ve been going crazy all day.”

Daryl climbed off and helped you do the same. Your heart jumped as he gently closed his hand around yours, being careful to avoid your cut-up palm. “Y/N needs her hands looked at,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. “No, I don’t. They’re fine, Denise.”

She stared at you in concern and adjusted her glasses. “I’ll look them over. How did it go?”

Her question made you and Daryl exchange a glance for a moment. “Oh, God! I asked too much of you,” she said anxiously.

“Hey, we’re both fine. And we got everything on the list,” you said, shouldering your pack more securely. “We just, uhh, had a close call is all.”

Daryl threw one of his pack straps over his shoulder. “Where ya want these, doc?”

Denise wrung her hands but motioned for you both to follow her inside. After dumping out the copious bottles of medication and packs full of supplies on a table, Denise forced you to sit down so she could look at your palms underneath a bright light.

“They aren’t bad at all,” you protested. Daryl was standing nearby with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall, making sure you couldn’t leave until you’d been checked over.

“How did this happen?” she asked, turning your hand to catch the wounds in the light.

“She grabbed a bunch of broken glass,” Daryl rumbled from his place against the wall.

Denise gave you a look like you were nuts. “…why?”

You cleared your throat and averted your eyes. “Because I needed it for something.”

She grabbed a tweezers and plucked a shard of glass from one of the wounds dropping it into a nearby metal tray. “For what?”

“Uhh…”

Daryl let out an amused snort from his place against the wall and you were relieved to see that his intensely serious and grim expression had broken. You caught his blue eyes and grinned a little sheepishly. Denise looked over at him too. “What? What’s so funny?”

You stared back down at your palm, feeling those annoying butterflies flitting to life in your stomach again at the boyish half-smile on Daryl’s face. “Nothing. Nothing is funny. Don’t worry about it.”

When Daryl was satisfied that you had been thoroughly attended to, he nudged his nose up at you and you thanked Denise one more time before following him out of the clinic.

“Ya really ain’t gonna tell me how the hell ya know how to make bombs?”

You shrugged. “I was—I was out there alone for a long time,” you said. “I, uhh, familiarized myself with things I thought would be useful.”

One of his eyebrows was quirked up at you but he nodded. “Alright… Smart.” He considered you for a moment. “Hey, why don’t ya come on over and eat somethin’? We usually eat around now. I’m sure somebody has fixed somethin’.”

You gave him a thoughtful look.

Daryl could sense your hesitancy. “Ya even got any food in your house?”

“Yes,” you said, acting affronted.

“What? What have ya got?”

“I’ve got stuff in the freezer!” you said.

“Uh huh. Stuff that ya ain’t gonna thaw out and cook tonight. C’mon. You’re eatin’ with us,” he said. He turned and started in the direction of your houses and you sighed, still feeling a bit apprehensive about the thought of so many people, but you followed behind. Daryl glanced back and felt a sense of relief when he realized you had conceded.

Rick heard the front door open and walked over to see who had just come in. Daryl and, to his surprise, you. “You’re back. And you’re alright?” Rick asked.

“Mhm,” Daryl hummed.

Rick nodded. “Well, you’ll have to tell us all about it.” “Supper?” Daryl asked.

“We were just about to sit down,” Rick replied, looking over Daryl’s shoulder at you as you hovered a little anxiously just behind him. “Good to see you. I hope you’re joinin’ us?” he asked, his eyes moving back to Daryl’s.

“Ya, she is.”

You felt your cheeks redden a bit as Rick glanced back at you. “Well, come on in and grab a spot,” Rick said, giving you a friendly smile. He patted Daryl on the back as he passed him and you trailed behind.

“I’m just gonna go drop my gear downstairs, alright?” Daryl said to you softly. You nodded, but he noted that you looked a little nervous. He gave you a small smile. “They don’t bite. I promise.”

You shot him a look which elicited another half-smile from him. “I’ll be right back.” His broad shoulders disappeared through the doorway to his space downstairs.

You were standing a little awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen, watching the busy scene in front of you as Glenn and Maggie set the table and Carol and Rosita moved food from the kitchen island to the big table. The air was buzzing with happy conversation, warm laughter, and you felt like you were an outsider looking in. Rick sensed your discomfort and came over with Judith in his arms.

“We can be a little much to take at first,” he said kindly. You met his eyes and gave him a hesitant smile. “Judith, will you say hello to our guest? Say hi! Say hi!” he prompted, kissing her cheek and drawing laughter from her. The little girl lifted a hand and waved at you. Rick watched your face light up with the widest smile he’d ever seen you give.

“Hi, Judith,” you said sweetly. “I’m Y/N. It’s very nice to meet you,” you said, reaching out and gently grasping her little hand to give it a shake.

Rick grinned as Judith laughed with her hand in yours. Your eyes were bright and twinkling as you looked at the little girl in his arms. “She’s so precious,” you said softly, catching Rick’s eyes again.

He pressed a kiss to her soft hair and nodded. “She is.”

“Alright, dinner is on,” Carol yelled over the somewhat boisterous noise. “Everybody grab a seat before it’s cold!”

Rick gave you a kind smile and nudged his head in the direction of the table. You followed him over, glancing back at the doorway Daryl had disappeared through and hoping to see him but it was still empty.

You randomly picked a chair between two empty ones and sank down into it. Carl sat down next to you on one side.

“Hi,” he said, giving you a smile. “Y/N, right? Daryl talks about you a lot.”

You felt another flush of heat in your cheeks. “Yeah, that’s me,” you said, definitely feeling out of place. “You’re Carl, right? Daryl talks about you a lot,” you said managing a smile. The teenager grinned. Where the hell was Daryl?

The chair on the other side of you suddenly was pulled out abruptly and it made a loud scraping sound on the wood floor which seemed to draw everyone’s attention, not only you. Most of the conversation in the room quieted. You looked over and watched as a brown-haired man with a mullet sank into the seat, his eyes immediately on you.

“Hello,” he said abruptly. “My name is Dr. Eugene Hermann Porter and I am most pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said eagerly. His eyes were a bit wide and fixed on your face as you stared back at him in surprise. His tone was unique, somewhat flat with a heavy southern accent and oddly formal almost.

You nodded, your own eyes wide as you looked back at him. “Hi,” you said quietly. “I’m, uhh, Y/N…”

“I am fully and completely aware of who you are,” he said. His stare was intense and unwavering and you immediately felt a bit uncomfortable beneath it, tearing your eyes away from his which you could still feel fixated on you.

You glanced around at the others at the table, a little uneasy and definitely trying to avoid Eugene’s gaze, and you saw some trying to stifle laughter at how the self-proclaimed genius was gaping at you. Others were less successful at stifling the laughs and there was certainly some head shaking and amused eye-rolling.

Rosita spoke next, snapping her fingers in Eugene’s direction. “Ey! Eugene! ¡Oye!” His eyes snapped to her face. “What have I told you about the staring?” she snapped. “You’re making her uncomfortable! ¡Basta!”

You noted that he looked chastised and he lowered his eyes to his plate, but continued to steal glances at you that he apparently thought were subtle but which definitely were not.

Abraham put a hand up to his face and shook his head as Sasha, Glenn, and Maggie laughed appreciatively.

“Hey!”

You knew that gruff voice. You looked back and watched as Daryl jostled the chair Eugene was in.

“Get on out. Move,” he said.

Eugene tried to argue. “But I’ve already claimed this spot. There’s a perfectly vacant chair right over—”

“Nah, c’mon. Out,” Daryl snapped again.

Eugene stared at him for a moment, but Daryl’s eyes were unwavering and eventually Eugene quailed beneath the stare, his shoulders slumping, and he moved over one chair. Daryl sank down beside you and gave you a hint of a smile. You returned it eagerly.

Dinner began and was lighthearted as everyone chatted and passed the food around the table. You were accepting a bowl from Carl when he caught sight of the red puncture wounds on your palm. “What happened?” he asked, pointing at your hand. Everyone seemed to immediately key in on the question and be looking your way.

“Oh. Uhh—” You glanced over at Daryl as if for help with an explanation but you were met with no assistance and only a small curve in his lips and his eyes crinkled slightly in amusement. You stared down at the punctures in your palm. “Just—from some broken glass on the run today. It’s nothing,” you said, giving Carl a reassuring smile, your heart pounding in your chest with everyone’s eyes on you.

“Nah, c’mon,” Daryl said, teasing plain in his voice. “Don’t lie to ‘im. He’s just a kid.”

You shot a look at him. “I’m not—That’s what—” You wanted nothing more than to punch him hard in the arm right then.

Daryl took a huge bite of bread and stared back at you. “Lie of omission,” he drawled through his full mouth. “Tell ‘im the whole story.”

He watched you clench your jaw and give him another pointed look. There was a mischievous spark in his blue eyes, fixed steadily on your face, that made it impossible for you to be too genuinely annoyed.

“We want to hear about the run today anyway,” Maggie said. “How’d everything go?”

Daryl obviously wasn’t going to answer so you sighed and nodded, your hands twirling your water glass anxiously. “We… We got everything on the list that the clinic needed,” you said.

“And had some more bad luck with a rotten floor,” Daryl added, glancing over at you. “Seems to be becoming a habit.”

“Daryl said you were going to have to go to a hospital. No walkers? We should go back and clean the place out if we can. Stock up before anyone else gets to the supplies or before we need ‘em,” Rick said.

Your mouth dropped open as you searched for how to respond. “Uhh—no, there—there were walkers…”

Daryl leaned forward with his elbows on the table. You felt the convivial mood in the room darken. “We had a close call,” he rumbled. “Y/N got us out.”

You felt everyone’s eyes on you again and you stared down into your water glass. “It was nothing,” you murmured.

“Nah. It was somethin’,” Daryl insisted. He leaned forward and looked at Carl. “She got those punctures on her hands because she broke a bunch of glass to put in some nail bombs when we were trapped by walkers. Made a way out. Blasted ‘em to hell.”

“Wait—sorry. Did you say nail bombs?” Glenn repeated.

You hazarded a glance at the faces around the dinner table and most of them were staring right back at you, some with unreadable expressions and others with looks of surprise or amazement.

Carl broke the tension. “Heh…cool,” he said with a laugh.

And just like that everyone was letting out relieved laughter. The tension in the room broke and you passed the rest of dinner in more comfort. You didn’t say much, content to keep to yourself and watch the members of Daryl’s group interact with each other.

And Daryl couldn’t stop stealing glances at you the whole time.

You insisted on helping with the post dinner clean-up, feeling somewhat more relaxed after the shared meal. Daryl was sitting in the living room sharpening his knife just for something to do, purposely positioned where his eyes could flit up and find you easily.

Glenn wandered over to the archer, his hands stuffed into his back pockets. Daryl looked up with a question in his eyes.

“What?” he asked, his deep voice heavy with gravel.

Glenn smiled at him and just shrugged. “Nothing. Nothing…” he trailed off. Glenn glanced into the kitchen in your direction and then looked back at Daryl. “Just—life’s short, man. What are you waiting for? Besides, you better hurry before Eugene beats you to it,” he joked.

[homoose]

Love Has a Learning Curve: Part III (x reader)

Summary: Spencer has to face Anita and Sam— and learns a little about reader’s past. Reader and Spencer babysit for Michael and Henry. 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, a tiny smidge of hurt/comfort

Warnings/Includes: implied smut, drinking/alcohol, vague mentions of previous emotional/mental abuse (Owen)

Word count: 4.2k

a/n: This picks up right after the end of the tmsidk epilogue! I also worked two requests in here.

Series Masterlist

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Spencer stacked the last of the tiny chairs in the center of the room, stepping back and dusting his palms on his trousers. He looked over to see Y/N playing a sort of container tetris with the bins of supplies in her closet. He smiled a little to himself, his head still in the metaphorical clouds with her confession of love. 

She maneuvered the bins to her satisfaction and shut the closet doors, pushing against them to squeeze everything in until the latch clicked. She turned to see him watching her and wiped imaginary sweat from her brow. She gave him a wink and a grin, and he was falling all over again. 

She perched on the corner of her desk with a tired sigh, and he made his way across the room to her. She reached for him as soon as he was within arms length, wrapping her arms around his middle. She snuggled into his chest, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Let’s go to dinner to celebrate.”

She laughed and looked up at him. “Celebrate what?”

He shrugged. “You. Summer.” He brought his arms around her shoulders. “Love.”

She smiled and scrunched her nose at him. “You just want me to say it again.”

His lips twitched. “Maybe.”

Her hands came to rest on his hips, her fingers squeezing lightly. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he answered immediately and rather dreamily. 

“Yo, Y/L/N!” 

The call of her name from the hallway startled them both. Anita began to step over the threshold, continuing, “You ready to get absolutely crunk tonight or— oh.” She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes tracking Spencer’s frame. “Dr. Reid.”

Spencer stepped back from Y/N, smiling a little awkwardly at the formality and giving a wave. “Mrs. Lopez. It’s, um— it’s nice to see you again.”

Anita hummed noncommittally, and Spencer shoved his hands in his pockets. She turned her attention back to Y/N. “So, are we going out or what?”

Y/N groaned. “Anita, I’m exhausted. Can we keep it low key? Oh!” Her eyes lit up with an idea, and Spencer could already see where this was going. “Spence and I were gonna get dinner to celebrate, um— summer. Call Sam; we’ll all just go together.”

Anita spared a glance in Spencer’s direction before sighing heavily. “Fine. But I’m drinking.” With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared back into the hallway.

Y/N chuckled. “I swear she’s not actually an alcoholic.” Her eyes landed on Spencer’s face, and she smiled gently. “I know you weren’t expecting a Meet the Friends night, but it’ll be fun.”

“She hates me,” Spencer surmised.

“She does not hate you.” Y/N stood from the desk, pressed a reassuring peck to his lips. “She’s just… protective. That’s all.”

…

Y/N was entirely wrong. Anita Lopez hated him. That was the only explanation for her absolutely icy demeanor. 

They’d met up with her and Sam at a Mexican restaurant in Tenleytown. Sam was wonderfully kind and funny, even apologizing for having “flipped him the bird” the last time she saw him. And it was a good thing Sam was being friendly, because Anita was decidedly… less so. 

Spencer understood completely of course. He’d broken Y/N’s heart. Penelope had been ready to hunt her down at the mere thought of him being hurt. As Y/N’s best friend, Anita had every right to be wary of him. She had every right to hate him. He’d just... hoped that she wouldn’t. 

Thankfully, Y/N and Sam were more than happy to carry the conversation— he and Anita chiming in here and there. He learned that Sam worked as an attorney at a firm specializing in family law. She and Anita had two kids, Riley and Sidney— one in 2nd grade and the other in preschool. 

“Y/N is still Riley’s favorite teacher ever,” Sam told him. “I mean, it helps when she’s also your aunt, I guess.”

“He didn’t get any special treatment,” Y/N insisted. At Sam’s raised eyebrow, she laughed. “Okay, maybe a little special treatment. But you raised a good kid! And I can’t help it that he was the most trustworthy of the bunch.”

“Oh my god, the field trip,” Sam groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. 

“The field trip!” Y/N turned to Spencer. “My group of kiddos from two years ago— they were kind of a tough group.”

“Kind of?” Anita squeaked. “Let me just tell you, I can hear them through the floor. The entire middle school is literally dreading the day they make it upstairs.”

Sam piped in, “I chaperoned on said field trip to the zoo. And I vowed that I will never, ever go on another field trip. Ever.”

“What happened?” Spencer asked incredulously. 

“So many things,” Sam baited. 

Y/N covered her mouth to stifle a cackle, leaning a bit into Spencer’s shoulder. He couldn’t help but smile, looking around at the three women. Even Anita was chuckling, and she’d barely cracked a smile all evening. 

“Okay, so many things happened,” Y/N started, “but the worst was—”

“The poop!” Sam wheezed. “The poop was the worst part of that day. The smell alone, oh my god.”

Y/N composed herself as best she could, gesturing over the table. “So after this nightmare of a day, we get on the bus, and there’s this— smell.”

“The absolute worst smell you’ve ever smelled, Spencer,” Sam assured. 

“It’s awful. It’s so bad,” Y/N agreed. “And I’m literally going seat to seat, checking to make sure no one has shit themselves.”

“You could not pay me enough,” Anita chimed in. 

“And I get to the seat that is very clearly where the smell is coming from. And I can’t, like— hold my nose, right? I don’t want to embarrass him!” Y/N turned to Spencer with flushed cheeks. “So I ask, ‘Sweetheart, did you have a bathroom accident?’”

Spencer let out a nervous laugh. “Oh no.” 

“But oh, it wasn’t a bathroom accident,” Y/N clarified, waving her hand. “No, no— that would be too easy. This child had somehow managed to obtain copious amounts of poop from one of the zoo animals and packed it into his lunchbox to take home.”

Spencer could feel his jaw drop. “Oh my god.”

“So, he unzips his lunchbox and it’s just— overflowing with shit.” Y/N dropped her head into her hands, overcome with giggles. 

“And don’t forget the worst part: his mom was on the field trip!” Sam lamented, throwing her hands up. “I will never understand.”

Y/N lifted her head with an exasperated grin, and he wasn’t sure if it was the story or the fact that she loved him, but Spencer felt like he could float away into outer space. 

“I told you I had a lot of poop stories,” Y/N reminded him, drawing another round of laughs. As they composed themselves, the waiter came by their table to clear some of their plates and refill their water.

“God, I said we were keeping it low key, and then I drank half a pitcher,” Y/N complained, pushing back from the table. “I’m just gonna go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” 

She gave Spencer a reassuring smile, and he tried not to panic as she stood and left him with Sam and Anita. And because the universe was toying with him, at that exact moment, Sam’s phone began to ring. She pulled it from her pocket with a sigh. 

“Shit— I’ve been waiting on this call all day.” She kissed Anita’s cheek and stood from the table. “So sorry; I’ll just be five minutes, I promise.”

With that, it was just the two of them, staring intently at their water glasses. Spencer was certain he should say something, but he wasn’t sure what. Anita broke the silence first. 

“You know what’s annoying?”

Spencer wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Considering that the issues one might classify as an annoyance vary for each individual person, there are over seven billion potential answers to that question.”

Anita tilted her head with an unimpressed purse of her lips. Spencer hedged, “And I understand now that it was probably rhetorical.”

“I actually kind of like you.” She leaned across the table with an irritated sigh. “I wanted to hate you, but I don’t.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m, um— I’m glad to hear that.”

“You’re good for her. Smart, humble, kind. Enamored with her, as you should be,” she deadpanned. She dropped her chin into her hand. “Almost as hot as she is.”

He laughed a little at that. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” She dropped her hand back to the table. She still didn’t crack a smile, and her gaze bore into him. “I don’t know how much you know about Owen, and she’d probably kill me for saying anything. But he was a real piece of shit.”

This was not the direction he thought this conversation would take. He didn’t know anything about Owen; he’d tried not to think too much about anyone Y/N might have been with before him. 

“It didn’t start out that way.” She drew her brows together. “Well, I don’t know— maybe he was always an asshole, and he was just good at hiding it.”

She shook her head and leaned back in her chair. “The point is, I didn’t know he was treating her like garbage until it was too late. He was already all…” She gestured wildly around her head. “In her head, telling her lies about herself, fucking her up, isolating her. For years he did that. And then it took her years to get him out of her head. To— unlearn all the lies. To build herself back up.” 

He could see her grinding her teeth, trying to calm down. He was intensely grateful to not be on the receiving end of Anita’s wrath. He was also immensely glad that Y/N had a friend like that. And his blood absolutely boiled at the thought of her ever feeling anything less than adored. 

“You’re a fed or whatever, so I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she continued, “but I would love nothing more than to put that fucker six feet under.” She ran her hand through her hair, and when she continued her voice was the quietest he’d ever heard it. “All that to say, I… I wasn’t there for her when Owen was destroying her from the inside out. And I will never let that happen again.” 

Anita locked eyes with him and her voice was resolved. “I like you, Spencer. And I want to keep it that way. So, just— don’t give me a reason not to.”

She didn’t drop her gaze, and he couldn’t quite think of the appropriate response. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. His brain was still fixated on the idea that anyone had ever hurt the loveliest and kindest woman he’d ever met.

“Where’s Sam?” Spencer turned just as Y/N slid back into the chair beside him, a comforting hand coming to rest on his knee. 

“Some bullshit from the office that her idiot partner can’t handle.” Anita raised her eyebrows at Spencer, and he nodded minutely. She shifted her gaze back to Y/N with a grin. “Don’t worry. I didn’t scare him too much.”

…

“Easy.” Spencer steadied Y/N with a hand on her waist as they made the way up the stairs to his apartment. 

“Jesus, I’m so sorry. I just— really can’t drink like I used to.” She clutched a little at the railing, and he held his breath until they were at the top of the stairs. 

He slipped an arm back around her waist as they crossed to his apartment door, fumbling with his keys and fighting back a shiver as she snuggled close and ran her hand low over his tummy. 

“Can’t believe I’m tipsy from a couple margaritas.”

“To be fair, you had four,” he chuckled, turning the key and pushing open the door. 

“Okay, okay,” she relented. “But I used to be able to have a whole pitcher and be totally fine.”

“A pitcher?” Spencer laughed as he locked the door and turned to face her. “I can’t even have one without being completely incapacitated.”

She ran her hands up from his waistband, over his chest, and wrapped them around his neck. “Mmm, so you’re a lightweight.”

“Very much so,” he confirmed, bringing his hands to her hips. 

“Just one more sweet thing to love about you, sugar.” 

He couldn’t stop the smile from stretching across his face at the endearment, the way that North Carolina dripped syrupy and thick over every syllable. She pulled him down to meet her in a sweet kiss, quickly deepening it as he dug his fingers into the softness of her hips. Her hands wound into his hair, tugging lightly and holding him close. 

He broke away to rest his forehead against hers and catch his breath. She laced their fingers together and leaned on him while she kicked off her shoes. He toed his own off and then allowed her to lead him toward his bedroom. 

She sat him down on the edge of the bed and straddled his lap, bringing her hands up to tangle in his curls once again. 

Before she could lean in for another kiss, he murmured, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Sounds dangerous,” she teased, ghosting her lips over his.

“Ha, ha.” Part of him wanted to bring up Owen, but she was so happy and warm and comfortable in this moment. He didn’t want to ruin this night of celebration. He didn’t want to ruin this day that had been so full of love. They had plenty of time to discuss Owen. 

He wrapped his arms around her middle. “You’ve met Penelope. I’ve met Anita. Now that the school year is over… we could tell Michael.”

She pulled back, and the smile she gave him could only be described as radiant, and he knew he made the right decision. “He’s gonna lose his mind.”

…

A week later, the pair of them were strolling up the sidewalk to the LaMontagne house. Will and JJ were long overdue for a date night, and Spencer had jumped at the opportunity for the two of them to babysit. When they reached the door, Spencer rang the bell and Y/N waited slightly behind him. 

They could hear the joy from behind the door before it even opened, Michael’s high pitched giggle and Will’s booming laugh. Spencer was already leaning down in preparation, and Michael absolutely launched into his arms as soon as the door swung open. Spencer clocked the moment that Michael spotted her, purely because he practically squealed and squirmed right out of Spencer’s grip. 

“I knew it!” Michael cried. 

He wrapped himself around Y/N’s legs and squeezed tightly, and she rubbed a hand over his hair with a bewildered smile. Michael broke away to turn back to Will with a grin. “I told you.”

“You did, buddy.” Will gave Spencer a lopsided smile as Michael tugged Y/N forward by the hand. “Michael had an… inklin’ that uncle Spencer might be friends with Ms. Y/L/N.”

“Not friends, Daddy,” Michael said exasperatedly. “He’s her boyfriend.”

“Oh, excuse me, sorry.” Will held his hands up in apology as he stepped aside to let them all in the door. “Michael had a feelin’ that uncle Spencer might be Ms. Y/L/N’s boyfriend.”

Y/N’s cheeks had turned a very pretty shade of pink. “What— um, what made you think that?” 

Michael waited patiently for her to take off her shoes. “Well firstly, he started picking me up all the time, which was nice but weird. And then he wouldn’t stop asking about you. It was kind of annoying.” Spencer made a choking sound, and Will stifled a laugh. 

“You guys wear the same shoes, and you both love Halloween and tea and reading. I knew you’d like him if he could be a guest reader.” As he led her into the living room, Michael continued, “Oh, and you wore his purple scarf. He doesn’t let anyone wear the purple scarf.”

Spencer vividly remembered that morning— she’d slept over after a midweek date night in April. The temperatures in DC had plummeted overnight, and the outfit she’d brought left her woefully under-dressed for the chilly spring day. He’d wrapped her up in the soft, purple scarf without a second thought. 

She caught his eye with a shrug, and Will tried not to look too smug. Spencer watched her be dragged further into the house, turning to Will with a sheepish smile.

“Well, guess I can’t take all the credit,” Will decided. “Who knew we had a mini matchmaker this whole time?”

Spencer huffed out a laugh as Michael pulled Y/N into the playroom. “This is the best,” Michael sighed. “Now we can play restaurant forever.”

…

Spencer pulled his legs up in the tiny chair, resting his elbows on his knees and taking a moment to watch the scene in front of him unfold. Usually on nights like this, Michael ran him ragged with demands for magic tricks, story time, and playing pretend. Tonight, he’d actually been able to catch up with middle school (middle school!) Henry, because Michael was totally and completely enthralled by Y/N. 

She was helping with the last of the setup for the “restaurant,” organizing Michael’s menus and straightening his clip-on tie. Of course he’d seen her with kids before. But something about being in this playroom— one that he’d spent so many hours in, watching two of his favorite kids grow up— had him feeling warm from head to toe. 

Henry had bounded down the stairs at the news that uncle Spencer was dating his former kindergarten teacher. He hadn’t realized that she’d taught Henry, too, although with the timeline of her teaching career he should have put two and two together. The generally reserved middle schooler had positively beamed when she gasped out, “Gosh, I always forget how tall you’ve gotten!”

And now three of his absolute favorite humans were in one room, and he couldn’t stop smiling. 

“Hen!” Michael called. 

Henry turned from his spot in the chair across from Spencer. “What?”

“You’re the chef,” Michael informed him. 

Y/N tilted her head. “I thought I was the chef?”

“No, no, no.” Michael pushed her toward the kid-sized table. “You and uncle Spencer are on a fancy date.”

Henry rolled his eyes playfully and stood from the chair, pulling it out for her like a perfect gentleman. She beamed at him and gave him a wink. “Thank you, sir.”

She dropped lightly into the chair across from Spencer and laughed a little at his folded limbs. “You look very comfortable.” 

He laughed and stretched his legs out straight. “The picture of comfort, really. These chairs were clearly designed with six foot men in mind.”

“I’m sorry I’m so under-dressed for our fancy dinner date,” she teased, dropping her chin into her hand. 

“You look stunning, as always.” He gestured to the messy braid Michael had folded her hair into. “I especially love what you’re doing with your hair.”

She sucked in a dramatic breath, bringing up her hand to pat lightly at her hair. “You’re making me blush, doctor.” She peeked behind her and then lowered her voice. “I’m probably going to cry when I try to brush the rats out.” 

He looked at her sympathetically. “I know the feeling. I think I’ve got a wide tooth comb, and I can help. I’ve gotten pretty good at detangling Michael’s handiwork.”

Before she could respond, Michael made his way to the table, holding a dish towel over his arm. “Good evening, sir, madam.” 

“Good evening,” they chorused, with barely suppressed grins. 

“Compliments of the chef.” Michael held out his hand to reveal two slightly smushed strawberries.

“Oh, wow,” Y/N said, eyes wide and gesturing to Spencer. “Honey, do you want to—”

Spencer waved his hand, eyeing the berries warily. “No, no, please, help yourself.”

Y/N held back a smile and accepted the strawberries, holding them carefully in her hand and turning her attention back to Michael. “Thank you so much. What a wonderful appetizer. Could we hear the specials?”

That helped Michael remember the menus, and he pulled them from his pocket and cleared his throat. He handed them the construction paper menus. “Our specials tonight are roasted octopus and a steak tartar.”

From the kitchen, Henry mumbled, “Tartare.” 

“Tartare. Steak tartare is our special,” Michael corrected. 

“Hmm, I don’t know if I’m that adventurous. Maybe my boyfriend is though,” Y/N told a grinning Michael. “What do you recommend for a picky eater?”

“My favorite is the chicken nuggets.”

“Well then, sign me up. One order of chicken nuggets.” Y/N handed him the menu. 

Spencer was still perusing the menu for Le Chateau LaMontagne. He smiled at Michael’s handwriting, but particularly at the places where he could tell Y/N had helped. “Everything looks delicious,” he finally decided, “but, you know... I think I’m also going to have the nuggets.”

…

When the boys were finally in bed, Spencer and Y/N settled down in the living room to untangle the mess of her hair. She sat on the floor in between his legs as he gently pulled each braid strand free. He smiled at the way she arched up into his touch, shivering when his fingers brushed over her neck. 

“You’re lucky,” he remarked, laying the last braid strand back into its original place. “Michael seems to have gotten a little better at braiding.”

She leaned her head back into his hands. “You detangled the whole thing?”

“Mmhm.” He leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth. She brought her hands up to hold him against her, trying to deepen the kiss before laughing at the awkward angle and giving up. 

He sat up as she stood and moved to the couch, snuggling up close to him and tucking herself under his arm. “I’m very lucky,” she agreed. “For many reasons.”

Her hand drifted to rest on his tummy, her fingers immediately tracing little shapes over the fabric of his shirt. He pressed a kiss into her hair. “And tired, too.”

“Hmm?” 

He leaned his cheek against her head. “When you get tired, you, um— you start drawing on my stomach.” 

Her finger paused. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” She shifted to raise her head to look at him, and he shrugged. “I don’t mind. I’ve just— noticed.”

She smiled a little sleepily. “You know I love all of you. But I— well, I don’t know, really. I just like your tummy.” She gave it a quick squeeze. “It’s just— nice and comfy and perfect for resting on.” 

He covered her hand with his own and leaned forward to press their mouths together. She drew his bottom lip in between her own, sucking a little and then giving it a quick peck before pulling back and stifling a yawn into his chest. “Man, I am tired.” She snuggled back into him and resumed her tummy tracing. “What, um— what else have you noticed?”

He rubbed his hand down her arm and pulled her impossibly closer. “You like to play with my hair.”

“Mmmm, guilty as charged.”

He smiled at the sleep creeping into her voice. “I like it, too.” He ran his fingers up to her shoulder, and then back down to the crook of her arm, soothing her closer to sleep. “Hmmmm. You always have at least one point of contact on my body at all times. It’s usually your hands, but sometimes it’s your head or even your toes— like when you tuck them under my leg.”

“Ugh— I’m sorry. Clingy and putting my feet on you,” she mumbled.

She might have been joking, but Anita’s words were replaying in his head. He couldn’t change what had happened in the past. He couldn’t go back and prevent her from being hurt by someone else. But he could be different in every way. He could be open and honest and vulnerable with her like he’d promised. 

“I’m not sorry. I love all of you,” he murmured, pulling her in closer and repeating her words back to her. 

“Even my feet?” 

He could also show her that there was absolutely nothing that he didn’t love about her. “Especially your feet.”

She huffed a sigh into his chest. “Y’got a foot thing I don’t know about?”

He laughed a little at that. “Only for yours. They’re very cute feet.”

“You’re weird,” she muttered, but she hugged him tighter when she said it.

“You love it.”

Her fingers on his tummy had come to rest comfortably just above his waistband, and he knew she was on the very edge of sleep. “Mmhm. Love you.”

He thought of all the little moments over the past few months.

Doesn’t live up to expectations? Sorry for overstepping. Are we dating? Sorry for being clingy. Sorry for taking so long to tell you. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

“I love you, too,” he murmured. “So much.”

———

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