#when i draw him without his mask or beard he looks so fucking off. but if i draw him with the beard it feels weird too.

[gophergal]

Life on the farm

[angel-inrealtime]

November F1c Prompts Day 2

Day 2 - Taste (sour)

The bar in Austin is about half full; it’s a bit of a dive, but in a comfortable, lived in kind of way. It’s a far cry from the glitz of the paddock but you don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing (not this year, anyway). Daniel seems determined to have a good time in Austin, at least, but you can see the close way Michael and Blake are watching him, the relief that you’re able to join them for the last few races of the season.

“I said, howdy in there.” You look up to meet Daniel’s eyes and give him a wan smile, turn your head to kiss his palm when he brushes your cheek. “Are you alright?”

You reach up and take his cowboy hat, drop it onto your own head at a jaunty angle. “Never better partner.”

It makes him grin and step in closer, draping an arm over your shoulders to draw his hand up and down your back. “Glad to hear it. Let me get you a drink?” Sensing your protest he adds immediately; “You can get the next one.”

“What are you having?”

He hums speculatively. “Maybe…a whiskey sour.”

“Sounds delightful.”

“Two whiskey sours, coming up.” Daniel drops a kiss on the top of your head, squeezes you closer for a moment. “I’m really glad you could come. Missed you.”

You don’t point out that it hasn’t been that long since you went to Perth, that you only missed a couple of races; it feels like it has been, and you missed him too. More, perhaps, for staying in Perth with his family without him there (not for any reason other than he’s so much like all of them). “Missed you too, cowboy.”

-

After the race the taste in your mouth is acrid. There’s no camaraderie in the garage (and you’ve known them all along the way, in some form or another), and even Michael’s mouth is a thin line.

You want to cry, hearing his interview. Though crying would be the bare minimum; what you really want to do is pitch an absolute fit, scream that it’s not fair, and nobody’s seen because he’s been so careful to not let anyone see. It had taken you months to coax it out of him. But you can see the mask cracking in how wide and shining bright his brown eyes are, the way he trips over his words.

He stumbles back against the door in his driver’s room when he returns, let’s his head thunk back against it too heavily.

“Baby.” You open your arms to him (part offer, part demand). “Come here.” You prompt when he doesn’t move immediately.

“That was so shit.” He says into your collarbone, voice thick. And then, after a beat; “Would’ve been better off with the fucking horse.”

“You still would’ve beaten one of the horses too.”

He snorts with laughter in spite of himself, and you try not to feel like it’s a victory to make him laugh in the face of it all.

Daniel sighs, afternoon shadow of his beard tickling your neck. “I hope they’re not all like this. I didn’t think...” He hesitates and you squeeze him like a prompt to continue. “I didn’t think I’d go out hating it. It’s not s’posed to leave a sour taste.”

“Darling.” You pull back and put both hands on the side of his face, tilt his head up to look at you. “You’re not going out. You’re prioritising your mental health.” You kiss one cheek. “And you have a plan.” And then the other. “And nobody can take away what you know about yourself. And what your people know about you. No matter how loud they are about it.”

He makes a noise of affirmation and turns his head to kiss your palm. “Thank you.” He says quietly. “Be lost without you, bub.”

[leonicscorpio]

Batboy Headcanons because I made this for me but you all can enjoy this too if want. (May contain mild NSFW)

Dick:

Has a weird relationship with unwanted gaze and the attention he receives because of his physique. He genuinely likes the attention but he draws the line when people start getting touchy. Just because he's shirtless working out doesn't mean he gave you consent to touch him.

Has good dieting skills but he's in his mid-late 20's and his metabolism has 0 signs of slowing down. He once ate a whole xl bag of M&M's in front of Steph and Babs and both said they wanted to murder him because he won't gain a pound.

Dick has ADHD and I'm sorry if you don't think otherwise. He has hyperactive type ADHD and while he's gotten better at controlling his symptoms he still stims stretching and flexing his arms and shaking his arms.

While not so much in Gotham, Dick is very politically active and volunteers at voter registration and working with organizations with the mission of police demilitarization in Blüdhaven.

Dick is a very sexually driven individual. However, I don't think it's entirely healthy. His ADHD also comes into play with this but Dick just needs to have a release at least twice a day or he'll feel physically sick.

I don't know if you all have seen male gymnasts. But Dick, like the rest of them, has FREAKSISHLY large biceps. Everyone talks about Dick has the best ass in the bat family and while Jason may be larger and stronger, Dick has the best physique.

Dick's apartment is littered with sticky notes in places such as the fridge/in front of his computer. If it's not written down and in a place where he can't ignore it, it's not going to get done.

I'm sorry I know everyone says his birthday is in March but I have to go to the older Nightwing comics and say his Birthday is December 1st. I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me this man doesn't give off Sagittarius energy. You can't. I respect you but you can't look at that and tell me that man isn't a Sagittarius or has super heavy Sag in his birth chart.

Dick's at home doing nothing but chilling? You best believe he's gonna be shirts off, tits out, and rocking some blue flannel PJ's.

Dick is currently the only member of the family asides from Barbara who is regularly attending therapy. And he actively encourages each of his brothers and sisters to go every time.

After his Agent 37 days. He sits down with Jason and talks about having to use a gun and how hard it was. And how having to kill people has affected him. When he had to kill the KGBeast (Agent 37 days he snapped his neck) I headcanon Dick just trauma v*mit*d. Jason hugged him and just consoled him.

It's canon that Dick has anger issues but to me, it's not explored or talked about enough and not a lot of people like to talk about it. Dick is very much the 'if I ignore it it'll go away' type when it comes to his anger and he can brush most insults or harassment off fine enough. But when he breaks, he makes Jason look like a saint. I'm talking slamming you into a wall and screaming in your face angry. He'll be profusely apologetic afterward but still.

Despite popular belief, I don't think he's that bad of a cook. He's just not very experimentative. He can follow a recipe and does look at some guides. But to me, Dick Grayson just is that guy who is like Chicken veggies and rice are a meal that I can cook 4-6 times a week.

Dick has a slight fear of dentists. He doesn't have bad teeth and has good dental health. He just doesn't like the idea of a drill going in his mouth and the few times Bruce has to take him to a dentist he had a panic attack every time.

Everyone lives for the fics where Jason beats the shit out of Tim and everyone is just like lol well Bruce and Dick just forgives him. No. When Dick found out it was Jason who beat Tim to the ground, Dick was literally seething and told Jason "Pick on someone your own size or else I'll make you wish you back in that f'ing coffin."

Dick's favorite foods (some based in Canon*): Milk Chocolate*, Cereal*, Asparagus, Bananas, Banana flavored candy, Hawaiian Pizza* (suffer its canon) Rum, thanksgiving Turkey.

Jason:

He may be the self-diagnosed black sheep (rightfully so) of the family, but Jason does genuinely love spending time with his siblings. Whether it be sharing memes with them on social media or just randomly showing up where they are and abducting them to go get ice cream/coffee/snacks.

He'd probably attempt to harm you if you told him this to his face. But he is the closest acting to Bruce out of all of the family. In terms of mannerisms and inherent warmth and kindness behind a dark façade.

Has two moods: either exceptionally, almost neat-freak levels of clean, or his life is completely falling apart and Jason can't tell you for sure what color his floors are because there's so much stuff scattered about.

Despite their initial hatred of each other, Jason truly feels closest to Tim and Tim is the only person asides from maybe Barbra who he can just talk to without feeling any judgment.

Jason only smokes when he's extremely nervous about an operation or a hit. For those who don't know criminal justice cigarettes are the fastest way to get genetic material on someone. That being said he does still like to smoke occasionally.

Me, plus a lot of people give him this sort of 'Lazarus Rage' as I like to call it. When he's in the heat of a mission or if he's getting upset/angry his vision will get blurred with green, and it feeds on his anger and just gets perpetually harder to contain until he releases it. Jason has gotten much better at controlling it. But as he will tell Tim or Babs, he's "seeing green" which means they need to be careful because Jason could kill.

Everyone says Dick is the mother hen. I see you, I accept you, but let me raise you. Jason came to realize that he died because of his rash decision to go after The Joker alone. If Jason finds any of his siblings out acting alone, or even at the very least without Oracle. Jason WILL forcefully interject himself and ask them what the fuck they think their doing.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Trying to get close to Jason is hard. He will degrade you can attempt to try to get you to hate him before he lets you in (that cheeky Tsun of him)

He genuinely cares for and supports all of his siblings but has been rough on them needlessly. But if Bruce is being the distant or absent parent he is, you better believe if any of the siblings drops him a text or a call, Jason will be there in a heartbeat.

He's the most physically powerful of the whole Bat Family. You don't understand because of his time in the League, his time with the All-Caste, and having abused Venom for a time, he can snap an arm bone like it's a carrot with little effort.

Everyone in the family likes dogs and goes out of their way to gush over a dog, but Jason takes it to a whole new level. And even when he's masked up dogs just gravitate to Jason.

Can and has grown a beard in a matter of a few days. He usually likes to be clean shaven but some days he likes to wear a beard just to throw everyone off.

One time him, Steph, Tim, and Duke all went to a restaurant (Red Robin lol) and the waitress got his order wrong and his burger had raw tomatoes on it, Jason took the tomatoes off and ate it while looking absolutely miserable. Tim: Jay why did you eat that you didn't have to you know you could have asked the server to fix your burger. Jason, almost in tears: "She works really hard and she tried and I'm a scary dude I don't want to make her upset.." Duke: "... Jason you literally shot at a cop for looking at you funny the other day. But you're afraid of upsetting a waitress?!? I mean ACAB but dude.. "

Jason's happiest big brother moment™ was taking Tim and Damian to the shooting range and watching them both get their first bullseye.

You can't tell me Jason Todd was into the Emo/Screamo/Warped-Tour Scene. His favorite bands/Albums in no particular order, That's the Spirit (Literally the whole album is Jason Themed and I'm gonna die on this hill) & Sempiternal by Bring me the Horizon, Digital Renegade & Everyone's Safe in the Treehouse by I See Stars, The Resistance: Rise of the Runaways by Crown the Empire,

Jason Todd's favorite foods: (Also some based in Canon*) Burgers, Chili Dogs*, Lager-style beers, Freshly baked bread*, Neopolitan ice cream, grilled corn, and Chinese Chicken noodle soup with Duck.

Tim:

This boy *slaps car roof* gives off so much asexual energy. I know New 52 exists but I just feel like Tim is the person who really, REALLY has to trust you and like you before he's sexually active with you.

HYPERFIXATES. You also can't tell me Tim isn't on the spectrum/or has ADHD.

Is the only member of the family who regularly checks up on Jason and talks to him every day via text message. The two are memelords together and love to play pranks on the other members.

While Dick may give the most frequent hugs and Jason gives the tightest, most secure hugs, Tim's hugs are always the warmest and make you just feel good.

Tim's birthday is July 19th. Meaning he's a Cancer. Let that sink in.. no, really let that information just soak. (Note I have nothing against Cancer women, cancer men however....)

All of the bat boys really struggle with talking about their feelings. Dick will manipulate you into changing the subject via twisting it to be about you, Jason will just cut you off or will ignore you, Damian will deflect everything and harass you until you stop, Tim however, Tim is very emotional and while he's very calculated about who he's emotional with, he's not afraid to break down and cry if he trusts you.

Everyone who says he's the level headed Robin haha how's it feel to be WRONG. Tim is at best the least functional college student and at worst a lemming. 'No Tim, coffee isn't a meal I'm going to make you some food or I'm going to stick you in a room with Damian for an hour.' Richard (Dick) John Grayson.

People overblow how addicted to caffeine Tim is. But it's true. Just overblown. You can talk to him before he's had his caffeine just don't expect him to be anything but curt and blunt.

Everyone says Jason would be the worst at texting but it's Tim. He's the master of leaving you on read. While Jason may do it on purpose, Tim is just really bad at texting people and while he always will read your messages he forgets to respond unless it's really funny or really pressing.

Everyone sees Tim as this bean pole super skinny boy Robin. Tim may not be stacked like Dick or a freaking tank like Jason, but Tim is NOT super skinny. He's just as muscular and likes to work out as anyone, but he just is super lean, so he looks a lot bigger and his muscles are more defined because of how thin his skin is. He has those almost disgusting spider veins on his arm. Kind of gross to look at, but he's the dream of any nurse. This means Tim is also the king of accidentally sending/posting thirst traps.

He really is the glue of the Bat Family. Everyone kidnaps Tim for 'Tim Time'.

Dick likes to spar with and in general just hang out with Tim. Tim tried to teach Dick how to skateboard and you'd think the boy who mastered the trapeze would know how to skateboard but you'd be wrong.

Babs and Tim always hang out and talk about computer stuff and Babs knows she can vent to Tim about anything and he won't say a word.

Tim and Steph were a thing for a while and even though they're just friends now, they still are very close and the two have a very deep bond, liking to shop with each other and watch movies,

Cass just loves to be around Tim because of how calming he is but also she knows she can spar with him AND Cass can also skateboard with Tim too.

Even though him and Damian are always fighting, the two still end up being together and have this unspoken bond. They work great together on a team but other than that they still hate each other.

And while everyone still is hesitant around Jason, and despite the fact that Jason literally beat Tim to within an inch of his life, AND would still trigger Tim and taunt him about it. The two have this odd closeness that rivals even him and Steph. Tim will always be the first to bat for Jason. Jason was Tim's Robin. And despite the fact Jason literally beat it into Tim's head to "never meet your heroes." Tim will always be there for Jason should he ask. The two are just close. And it's hard to describe. Bruce has caught Tim and Jason just platonically sleeping next to each other or just doing their own things shoulder to shoulder silently, just enjoying each other's company.

Tim and Duke also have a really positive relationship with one another and the two can stay up all night just talking about anything. Their minds just mesh well together. The two also love to team up and prank the other members of the Batman Family.

Tim's favorite ASMR/Stim? Watching those Tik Toks of people cleaning computers or cleaning phones. The sound of an air duster is like music to his ears and if any of the Bats need their technology cleaned it secretly makes Tim so happy to help them.

Wear his hair up or wear his hair down? It depends! While Tim likes his long hair he also has gotten plenty of compliments for his short hair and likes to style it to suit any occasion.

My one pet-peeve with Tim is that he probably is that person who lets his privilege show from time to time. While he was essentially raised to just sit down, shut up, and be a perfect trophy son to the Drake's. The Drake's were in the same tax bracket as Bruce and Tim definitely was a rich kid. He never means to come across as spoiled, but sometimes Jason will give him harsh looks if Tim just throws away food he doesn't like or says things like Chipotle is 'poor people food'

Tim Drake's favorite foods (you know by now*) Donuts*, Shallot and Artichoke Pizza with Canadian Bacon* (odd choice but it could work) Artichokes in general are his favorite vegetable, Strawberries, and Beef Pho.

Damian:

I headcanon that he has the worst teeth of all of the Bat Boys and he actually has to use lingual braces. (Hence why you can't see his braces)

Canonically is a very good artist and while him and Tim don't get along, Tim introduced Damian to digital art and gave him a photoshop pack and a nice tablet for his birthday one year and Damian loved it so much.

Damian is a capricorn and I will die on this hill. A January capricorn too.

Now you want a good chef? You've got Damian. Having converted to veganism Damian has had to get creative whenever he goes out to eat so he tends to like to eat more home cooked foods. Damian loves all matters of mushrooms, eggplant, and bell peppers.

Damian really struggles the most with his wanting to just be a normal kid. Despite the fact he will dismiss you for it, anytime he gets to spend at Gotham Academy with Jon and the rest of the kids he's naturally the happiest.

Damian LOVES to give gifts. He loves the look on people's faces when they are shocked when they actually get something from Damian.

Despite the fact that he's been traumatized from both his times with Ra's and Talia as well as with Bruce. He just wants Bruce and Talia to be together because he loves them both equally.

While he's the least flexible and least gymnastic of the Robins do let your guard down around him. He is the fastest runner and the guy is rivaled only by Jason in terms of lethality.

So someone (Jason Todd & Duke Thomas) introduced Damian to trap music and ever since anytime his phone gets stolen people will be shocked to find he's listening to some combination of Lil' Yachty, X, Kendrick Lamar, Wiz, and Kodak.

If any random person tries to hug Damian he'll immediately push them away, he'll bitch and moan about just about anyone hugging him other than Bruce & Dick.

Damian loves to go to the beach/the ocean. He just thinks it's so vast and he loves the brineness of the air. Also being half white, quarter middle-eastern and quarter Chinese (Yes everyone forgets Talia is half Chinese) Damian gets DARK. And although he's just okay as a swimmer he still likes bogeyboarding and eventually wants to learn how to surf.

I'm genuinely afraid once Puberty is done with this kid and everyone in the family is. He has Bruce Wayne AND Talia Al-Ghouls genes and those are two SEXY human beings. Damian's gonna grow a beard one day and people aren't going to know how to act.

Damian secretly plays Fortnight and not even Jon knows. He doesn't want to get shamed. He'd rather lose a match and ruin his streaks than deal with the shame of anyone in that family finding out he plays Fortnight.

Damian Wayne's favorite foods (canon*) Cereal*, Avocados, Grilled Tempeh, his mom's Tabbouleh, Mushroom Tacos, and Vegan Sushi rolls, and grape juice.

Duke Thomas

Duke is like, freakishly good with a piano, and he picked it up naturally!

Also everyone says Tim brews the best pot of coffee in the Bat Family, cue to everyone's surprise when Tim was sick one day and couldn't make a pot. Only to find the coffee was freaking amazing. Duke didn't take any credit at first until Alfred let it slip that Duke was the one who brewed the pot.

Duke being the only Meta of the family originally thought he was the double-token because he was a Meta and a black boy. Needless to say his fears were seriously unfounded the moment he got to know everyone.

Although he somewhat fears Jason and his temper initially, he and Jason have one of the closest relationships in the family. If Tim isn't around to bat for Jason, Duke will happily take his spot. The two work on each other's bikes and grew to share the same taste in music.

Duke uses his Photokenetic powers as a force for good and for shenanigans. Jason wants to play a prank on Dick and Damian while Dick is reading Damian a story? Duke will hide Jason in the shadows and will cover up his shadow. Alfred dropped something in the dark? You better believe Duke will find it in 3 seconds or less.

Duke makes it a point to visit his parents every weekend to talk to them. Although they are making some progress in their recoveries, it's still slow going. Eventually, he starts bringing members of the family to see his parents. It started with Cass, then Jason, and the rest followed suit.

Duke loves playing video games with Damian and even helps Damian beat some tougher levels when Damian is about to rage and destroy the console.

Duke is into Magic the Gathering and you cannot tell me otherwise. Duke also is the DM for the Bat Kids annual D&D games. I can and will make a D&D Batfam Headcanons if asked.

Loves Pho just as much as Cass and Tim and they all call it a date night every now and then where they can go to a hole in the wall pho place. It's really a secret between the three of them.

DUKE THOMAS IS THE BEST SWIMMER OF THE BAT BOYS AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL. HE JUST THRIVES IN THE WATER.

Finding out his birth father is a supervillain was really tough for him. He went into a shell for a little bit afterwards. Cass and Steph were there to help talk him out of his funk.

Duke Thomas's favorite foods (lol what canon DC hasn't acknowleged our boy in a while..) Chicken Pho, Thai Iced Tea, Papaya, Crab Cakes, Italian Hoagies, his mom's Lemon Poundcake, mint chocolate chip ice cream.

I hope y'all enjoyed! Up next (eventually) will be the Bat Girls!

[rogue-durin-16]

AN UNUSUAL YEAR (Part I/V)

Summary: After having little to no interest on girls for five years, Fred suddenly feels the need to nag the shit out of a certain witch, completely oblivious to the reason behind it.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Slytherin!Reader

Genre: fluff (+ enemies to lovers)

Tags:

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog

Warnings: none

A/N: I'm currently going through a Harry Potter fever ('tis the damn season), so I thought I'll write something. I might write more of this story, (maybe turn it into a multipart) we'll see. If you'd like to be tagged in this, let me know.

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

I had always supposed that reaching the sixth year at Hogwarts meant subjects would get way more demanding and complex, and I to be proven right, only two weeks in were needed.

Added to the usual difficulties, we would be hosting The Triwizard Tournament. Having the castle be almost twice as crowded as the other years, when all you crave is a quiet spot to study, wasn't ideal.

As I said, the first two weeks were already hard enough.

During the third week though, believe it or not, things got even worse —and our guests hadn't even arrived yet.

The Slytherin common room was quieter than the library these days, that's the sole reason why, at 3:35 pm, my best friend and I were already making our way there.

To our luck, we arrived just in time to see the two redheaded troublemakers par excellence high-fiving each other besides my common room's entrance.

"What on Merlin's beard are you two doing here?!" Both of them jumped at the sight of two Slytherins.

"The question is what are YOU doing here?" One of them questioned back, probably attempting to distract us. "You two should be in the library."

"What did you do?" I squinted my eyes at them and, while one raised his hands in surrender, the other just shrugged.

"Nothing." He motioned at our door nonchalantly. "If you don't believe me, check it yourself."

My friend and I shared a reluctant look, and before I could say anything, she was heading to the door.

"Mathilda wait—" I gasped when she sunk into what appeared to be the stone floor.

"Okay now, I wasn't expecting her to actually do it." When I attempted to step forward, a hand on my forearm prevented me from it.

"Don't step further." He warned. "Just in case."

"I'm not stupid." I hissed before grabbing my wand, which made the tall redhead back off. "Revelio." Slowly, a swamp was revealed to be where the entrance hall to the Slytherin common room was supposed to.

Now that it was visible, both twins hurried to get my friend out of their giant prank.

"Get rid of this." I ordered as they pulled her up, her bottom half covered in mud.

"Pffft... no?" One of them scoffed, walking away from Mathilda and stepping closer to me. "It's a masterpiece. It stays."

"If it stays, I will throw you into your masterpiece." I threatened, putting my wand back in my pocket.

"Oh, I'd love to see you try."

I glared at him, partially because I hated that cocky attitude these two —specially him— always exhibited, but also because I had to look up in order to make eye contact.

"Listen Weasley,"

"It's Fred." Oh what would I give to wipe that stupid grin off his face.

"I don't care." Refusing to step back as he clearly wanted to achieve by towering me, I stepped forward, lightly pushing him back with one hand. "You will remove this from here or I will walk right now to the Potions Classroom and split on you."

The twins seemed to have a silent conversation with their eyes only. After a moment of silence, the one with my friend spoke. "We'll get rid of it right now and you won't say anything." I nodded, my eyes still fixed on Fred's. "Just so we're clear, this was not set up for you."

"The next one will be, though." Fred assured me with an almost wicked smile. "I'll make sure you can't use the revelio on it."

"Is that a promise, Weasley?" I asked in an unconsciously defying tone.

"You can be sure of it, Y/l/n."

"It's Y/n." I retorted, mocking him.

"I don't care." I rolled my eyes when he did the same, finally breaking eye contact with him.

"C'mon Thilda," I held out my hand to her "let's see if someone can sneak us into the Ravenclaw common room."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You think Fred meant it?" Mathilda inquired, the worry slipping through her words as she played with her breakfast.

"I doubt so." Angelina, who was sitting in front of us, replied without even looking up from her quidditch history book. "They seem more trouble than they are, really." I scoffed; it was easier for her to say that; she was a Griffindor after all. "Deep down they're nice sort, Y/n. They won't pick up on you for ruining a prank."

"I don't trust them."

"I'm not saying you have to—" Angelina jumped slightly when a wad of paper hit my face.

"You were saying?" I grunted, making eye contact with the red haired boy waving at me from the Griffindor table.

When I opened the wad, it read:

'miss me? —Fred ;)'.

"Look at his smug face." I hissed. "I'm gonna-"

"Ignore him. You're gonna ignore him." Angelina finished, fairly unconcerned. "I assure you he'll get bored in less then two days if he can't get a reaction out of you."

For the sake of having breakfast in peace, I only dedicated him a fake smile and did as my friend said. It seemed to work, until it was time to leave for class.

"We should get moving." Mathilda spoke, putting her plate aside and picking up her things as I did the same.

"I have a free period now." Angelina informed us. "Or as free as it can be. You?"

"Divination. Y/n?"

"Charms— Fuck." I whined as something dawned on me. "Those gits are in my class." I spared them a glare. "If they ruin my favorite subject I'm gonna—" a sudden splash of water on my face left my shirt soaked for at least the next hour. "You got the nerve—!" I yelled at the guy who was already making eye contact with me.

"I do, indeed!" He cut me off, winking at me from across the table, his chin resting on the palm of his hand with a teasing grin dancing on his lips as he asked, "what are you gonna do now, Y/l/n?" His twin brother, though I could only see his back, was clearly not enjoying this behavior.

Mathilda checked my gaze, dreading the worst. "Y/n, don't. You're gonna make Slytherin lose points." She knew the warning wouldn't do much, but at least she had tried.

Angelina, instead of backing our friend and try to calm me down, got up and walked to the table where the Weasleys sat.

FRED'S P.O.V.

"I hope you know you're dead." Angie stood in front of me, before using her book to tap my brother's arm. "George, move."

"What?"

The three of us spared a look at Y/n, who had, ignoring McGonagall yells, stepped over her table to get to us.

"Move. Now."

"Ssshit." My brother moved just in time for Y/n to repeat the same forward move on our table.

It's not as if I didn't have the time to move and run away, she hadn't rushed; on the contrary, she walked calmed and composed, and still I did not move an inch.

I guess a part of me wanted to know what she'd do to me.

"Look at you." I began to wind her up again when she climbed off the table on my side, sitting down on its surface with her shoes over the bench. "Doing the impossible to be near me, how romant—"

My sentence died off abruptly as a handful of scrambled eggs was mashed against my face.

I heard a burst of laughs around me. "Blimey! I'm sorry, Fred," she feigned worry, smearing what I assumed were the remaining rests of my breakfast all over my chest. "I hope you're not late to Charms because of this." She whispered near my ear, making a shiver go down my spine when her breath hit my neck. "See you there, yeah?"

Her hand squeezed my shoulder and her fingers ran over my shoulder blades as she walked away.

I felt a napkin placed in my hand and I was quick to remove as much scrambled eggs as possible from my face, just in time to see Y/n exiting the Great Hall with McGonagall jogging after her.

"You know?" Lee asked, drawing my attention. "Picking up on the girl you fancy is kind of a toddler strategy."

"Yeah, Fred," my brother agreed. "you're not an eighth year-old anymore."

"And you chose the wrong girl to nag" Angie added," if you keep it up, she will surely kill you." She held back a teasing smile. "And you should be careful" she nudged George. "I don't think she can tell you both apart, you can end up as collateral damage."

"But you wouldn't let that happen, would you?" I rolled my eyes when George scooted closer to our quidditch chaser.

"Depends on how annoying you are." She faked indifference as my brother searched for her eyes.

"I don't fancy her." I not-so-randomly stated. "But I can't stop pranking her now that she ruined my breakfast."

"You can and you will, Weasley." I jolted at McGonagall's voice behind me. "Twenty points from Gryffindor." At least I'm not grounded, I thought. "And you're grounded for the rest of the week."

"But Y/n— Ouch!" my brother kicked me under the table so I would shut it.

"Y/l/n has received her fair share of punishment, too, Weasley." The professor gave me a poorly masked, disgusted look. "Go and..." She waved her hand "Clean yourself up, Y/l/n will inform professor Flitwick about this incident. And Weasley," She stared at my brother. "Aren't you supposed to be heading to Charms too?"

"Yes ma'am." He replied, throwing everything into his bag, getting up and rushing out of there, not before grabbing his robe.

"The day's promising." I groaned, handing my things over to Angelina so I could go to the bathroom.

"You made the day promising by messing with a Slytherin, you twit." She pointed out, putting my things over hers. "Now go clean those eggs from your shirt."

"Aye, mother!" I headed off before Angie could add anything else to the conversation, loosening my tie as I moved forward.

As I cleaned off everything I could in the nearest bathroom, a random thought slipped into my mind.

Had Y/n been punished too? And if so, would we fullfil the punishment together? It seemed logical that if one of us got grounded, the other one would get grounded too; consequently, it would only make sense for us to—

Shut it. I mumbled to my own mind.

I didn't care. I did not care if she was punished or not. It was none of my business.

I don't fancy her, I thought to myself once again.

[kim-monsterlings]

Eladan - M Orc x GN Human (Reader) // SFW

The pictures do not belong to me. I only created the mood board. Do not repost my work anywhere.

Content: SFW/Orange; surrounding a mute from birth reader and some mild self-depreciating thoughts of this, mild swearing, minor heartbreak, insecurities, drinking alcohol, light touching (hugging, stroking arms, tusks nuzzled to reader’s cheeks), very fluffy ending to make up for the heartache

Wordcount: 3067

Notes: Eladan was one of the first stories I wrote, but until “tropemas” I never finished him. There is a small follow up planned for Quinn the changeling, with info here, and a maybe NSFW for each Eladan and Vaia the cute minotaur. I hope you love them <3

“Tropemas” Summary: soulmate AU - the first words overheard by your soulmate are marked on your forearm, but they aren’t so nice

Masterlist // “Tropemas” Masterlist

Of all places, the words intended to shatter your heart came while you were working. The words so many others clutched tight and waited for, desperate to find their soulmates, left you wanting nothing more than to avoid them. Suffering with the harsh words marked into your forearm since you were young enough to remember had left you broken-hearted before the offence, and weak-kneed when it finally came.

Working in the tavern, no less. If only you could blame it on the alcohol, but the offending orc had only just begun to drink. Sat in a large booth beside a minotaur - neither of whom you'd ever seen before, but beside Quinn, an old fae friend of yours, a changeling. They'd yet to see you, and after freezing behind the bar, you weren't sure if you had the strength to near them.

The orc's pint had clattered against pierced tusks, the froth bubbling up to a thick, braided beard, before he scowled, almost shouting, "why should I waste my life on some soulmate?" The pint slammed back onto the table once more, emptied. "Fuck fate."

Fuck fate.

It hurt more then. The first sentence you were too familiar with - after years spent scrubbing at the words, hoping one day they would wash away like ink - but the following sentiment twisted your stomach into nausea. The tavern busied in your lapse, patrons flooding in with no concern to your pained smile as you served them.

Fuck fate.

Waste my life.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair for Quinn's soulmate brand to have delicate cursive, to almost whisper "take me", yet yours was harsh and unfeeling. So many times, you had considered marking it over, though artists refused. Altering a soulmate mark was immoral, no matter the price or bargain.

The orc quieted following his outburst. You wouldn't have been drawn closer if not for a call of your name - nickname, at least, with Quinn above all respecting the importance of names - and you were helpless to wandering closer.

Though this was the first night you had ever neared Quinn when out with strangers, the fae only leaned back and softened their dangerous, charming smile. Pierced and pointed tips of their ears appeared through plaited midnight hair as they turned closer. In the presence of strangers, too, they began signing in common, for which you were more than grateful for as the orc's attention swung to you.

"I wanted to say hi. Busy night?" From that, Quinn frowned. "You look tired."

"Tired," you repeated, and shrugged a little, Quinn mirroring with a small sigh. They were busy too, and you had to wonder why of all company, they chose to spend their night with an orc so horribly rude. Of course, you wouldn't outrightly say such a thing - yet. "New friends?"

"Old," they signed, before spelling, "Vaia." They tipped their chin to the almost honey coloured minotaur, and she smiled, her nose ring shifting, which left the orc to be, "Eladan. Only visiting. When do you finish?”

That cracked your mask a little. Quinn would often wait for you, to share a drink in the early morning before walking you home. Tonight, nothing sickened you more than the thought of time wasted in Eladan's company.

So, with your smile weakened, you returned, "tired." Quinn's bright eyes rolled. The excuse was well overused, but they didn't persist. "Have a drink on me."

Their touch brushed to your palm. Quinn kissed your knuckles and bid you goodnight, but only in turning did the angle of Eladan's stare strike you. He hardly feigned looking away from the loose sleeve at your wrist, and had it been any looser, the dark cruelty forever scarring you would have been legible.

The table waited hardly a minute after you left before whispering of you, but to your surprise the mumbled whisper of, "cannot speak," came from the minotaur, not orc. A weight of stares fell upon you where you stood, pretending to wipe down the bar. Vaia's deep voice carried, and though the question came as no surprise, the curiosity only served to benefit your soulmate. "How?"

"Born mute," Quinn said, and that was all.

When you looked back before passing into the kitchen, the orc had gripped his wrist tight.

Another server tended to their booth under your pleading. Most who worked in the tavern, and several customers, had been kind enough to learn some sign, or carry paper for you when needed. The night passed well, without any further heartbreaks, until Quinn's wave caught your eye.

They would be back late in the night for you so you only smiled back, smiling even to Vaia, and paid no mind to the orc yet to leave. But hidden only behind your hair now, his passing scrutiny struck harder. Was it now your shying away that earned a frown, his tusks twisted at his lips, or the refusal to turn away when he came to the bar, leaning on his forearms, that had his head tilting?

Suddenly, the colour of your outfit struck you. Something as simple as that burned in your chest and forced you to lift your head from your chest. The soft green of it matched the orc's mottled shadings near perfectly, and the irony twisted deep in your stomach.

"Pardon me," he said, in a voice so soft you almost forgot the words scarred onto you. "May I ask if your heart is spoken for?"

Why couldn't those be the words of love and affection so many had on their bodies? The pain from his attempt now to - what was he attempting? To seduce you or use you for his visit - bittered what little was left of your good mood. You left Eladan watching as you turned and walked away.

The close friendship you cherished with Quinn became your undoing. Where they went, two shadows trailed, and usually into the tavern. They hadn't specified how long the visit was, nor its purpose, and you couldn't help feeling rude asking after immediately being introduced.

Though you ought to have because Quinn thought it would be fun to introduce you all. Your refusals were ignored after desperately trying to think of an excuse, but your only excuse was work, and they could wait for you to finish. Quinn invited Vaia and Eladan to the markets, a day out usually reserved for only the two of you, and not a heart-breaking orc.

Vaia was quiet, but that was no different to how many were around you. Often afraid to speak for you couldn't, unable to really communicate but with a strained smile and nod, but the company was nice, at least, and when she began talking, drawing you to stalls when a soft fabric caught her eye, you found you didn't mind staying by her side and helping wrap the small scarf carefully by her horns, for more reason than company.

The orc never strayed far. More than often, he stood with Quinn, but his eyes flitted back to you. Vaia moved to catch up with Quinn and left you to yourself before you'd realised, and a quiet rumble of your name left you frozen in shock. He offered a small flower, dark petals and tiny in his hand, though somehow dwarfing yours. Eladan's lips rose as he stepped closer.

"Walk with me?"

Fuck fate, he had cursed, and you wanted to throw the flower, but he ducked his head and left you with an aching heart, as if already resigned to your refusal. The orc looked shrunken; shoulders fallen low as he looked back to where your friends had gone ahead without you.

"They mentioned lunch," he said then, eyes firmly on the flower twirling in your hand. "If you're hungry? Not at the tavern, that would be cruel to take you back when you are not working. Somewhere with warm food."

Cruel, and the word twisted your stomach. In an effort just to make him stop, you nodded, and Eladan's chest deflated on a rush of breath.

"We hunt when we travel. Vaia and I," he said quietly, after stealing looks in what you had hoped to be a companionable silence, walking close enough his arm brushed to yours; the arm marked by his words. "I miss proper meals. Isn't it hard working around warm food all the time? No, I… I suppose not," he mumbled when you only frowned, and his head lifted when, like a blessing, Quinn called out to you.

Eladan offered to order for you. The offer itself tightened your chest in a way you tried to fight off, immediately signing to Quinn and waiting far from the pair and by Vaia. With a nod to the jewellery now changed in her nose, she grinned and thanked you for the implied compliment. Standing beside her now had been easier before, when you didn't see the small frown on the orc's lips after you left him.

The other small tavern in your village was adjoined to an inn, less crowded and more welcoming to friends than a bar would be on a late evening. Eladan squeezed beside you in the booth not intended for so many, and Quinn sat opposite you, leaning into Vaia as you waited for drinks.

With all your heart, you tried to hate the evening. Forced close to your intended soulmate, his muscles thick and tense, it was impossible not to wonder at what could have been - what still might be, if you moved beyond the harsh words you'd grown up with.

He was travelling with Vaia looking for work. They helped people in need of protection as unofficial bodyguards. You believed that wholeheartedly, and even grinned when Vaia told a story of how she'd been the first of their company to beat Eladan in a fight, and the first to bruise his ego. If he'd caught his breath when you'd laughed, you smothered that to the back of your mind.

"If you ever want to travel," he murmured, lifting his pint up and glancing down, a small smile crinkling his eyes. "I'd love to take you. Have you travelled?"

You shook your head and sipped at your drink, which was a dangerous thing to do, now his rumbling voice had begun to sound pleasant, and the press of his thigh to yours was warm and welcomed. You couldn't pinpoint when you had stopped leaning away from him, either, his arm resting on the back of the booth behind you.

"Not many know sign. In the cities, it's... it's different, but the woods and the sea - I think you'd love it."

It wasn't the promise of the sights that made you soften and nod, but the promise of being near him, and you stiffened. By then, Vaia was already nearing the stairs up to the inn, and Eladan brushed his hand to yours in a way of goodnight before retiring, too.

That left you with a changeling who saw too much, who rose from the booth and offered an arm to hold you close. The night carried you both onward in a peaceful silence, until your home began to near. They stroked down your arms only to soften at your wrists, a flash of gold in their eyes disarming you.

"You have always been so vigilant in hiding it. The words," they whispered. "They are not kind, are they? They're… they're what he said. You overhead?"

Unable to sign with Quinn still holding you, only a sniff broke the silence. They waited for you to nod before brushing up your sleeve. Knowing the words did little to prepare for seeing them, for finding them thick and unwavering.

After an evening so pleasant by his side, they slammed a weight into you, knocking a pain which had fallen away over the course of the night, back to its place in your chest.

Why should I waste my life on some soulmate

"His arm is blank. I do not wish to overstep-" you couldn't help frowning, and Quinn laughed with you. "More so than already, but, look," they sighed. Hands gentle on yours, Quinn squeezed. "He thought there wasn't a soul out there for him. Eladan wants you."

You twisted free then, staggering back a step. "He may want a soulmate but he does not want me. He does not want some-" your fingers twisted and Quinn reached, whispering your name as you struggled to focus and sign through the rush of pain. "Some mute. He wants a soulmate, not me. Goodnight."

Quinn ducked their head and returned the sentiment, waiting until you were indoors before leaving. They didn't see you collapsed to your knees and tracing the words by heart, wishing as you had so many times before that things were different.

True to their word and for that you were beyond grateful, Quinn didn't overstep. No more outings as a group were encouraged and you threw yourself into work, spending the nights walking home and chatting with your friend, and only them, waiting until the two guests would finally pass on.

Maybe it was wrong to think so, but you didn't want him. Eladan wanted a soulmate too late. The words were always and would be scarred, stinging, a reminder of how for years you had anticipated it being in disgust at finding you mute. Whether that was so or not, whether it was a mistake, your heart had been burdened for a time long before he had tucked a flower to your ear and teased smiles to your lips, and he would be leaving soon.

Soon, but without any timeframe. It was below you to outrightly ignore him, even on the night he came into the tavern alone. Eladan's warm smile didn't meet his eyes when you left him nursing an almost untouched pint, and for once it was you looking over your shoulder to the lonely orc.

For a breath too long, your stare lingered, entranced by the muscles flexing as he shucked off a jacket, small beads in his beard clinking. The move was one so insignificant - simply removing his leathers, as many would - but he bared his wrists, his plain, empty wrists, like he wanted you to see.

Eladan's shadowed eyes fell from you to his wrist when you were drawn helplessly to the booth. "What I'm thinking," he began quietly, with his thumb rubbing in circles you had drawn time and time before, but where yours were an effort to scrub away words, his were to summon. "I think you already know, don't you?"

Unable to deny it, you did nothing but turn.

Tonight, Quinn wouldn't be there to accompany you home. Maybe it had been a set up - an overstep you doubted, but it didn't surprise you to find an orc the last patron left in the early hours of the closing tavern. Eladan left with his jacket over his shoulder and reached out to brush your hands together before leaving.

You couldn't find the strength to stay standing any longer. The churning in your stomach forced you out for fresh air, collapsing back into the wall for support when the first, long-suppressed sob tore from you.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair to be so heartbroken before ever learning who your soulmate was, and to now want to be with them, to learn them, yet feel the pain of their imprint lingering behind any soft smile or effort in carrying a conversation.

Nor was it fair to be completely unsurprised by the tentative call of your name from your soulmate, the very same who had waited for you, stumbling across you pressing a hand over your mouth and choking back cries.

Eladan's knuckles first brushed from your damp cheeks to skim along your throat. Gentle enough was his hold that you could lean into him and he trembled at the closer embrace, shifting to tuck you against his chest when a shudder wracked you.

"The first words you heard me say," he murmured. "Of all the things that night for you to hear, I think you heard the worst."

The tiny, indistinguishable hum that came from your throat earned a weak smile. Eladan nodded more to himself as he tucked his fingertips beneath your coat and bared your wrist, the words as dark and legible as always.

Why should I waste my life on some soulmate

"Fuck fate," he whispered then, the following words that had served only to worsen the wound. Eladan curled himself closer and nudged his tusks to your cheeks in a move as tender and intimate as you would allow.

For him to twist free from you and turn his head down came with a strike of shame. Had you so easily fooled yourself? To think that this warrior orc, one who spat harsh words and was only passing through, would want you of all people made you weaken and sniff, trying to lean away.

Eladan frowned, braids flicking beyond his shoulder. His fingertips pressed against your cheek to return your unfocused eyes to him, before his hand curled into a fist, arm folded across his chest, and he moved his fist in a slow circle.

"I'm sorry," he signed. The next attempt became so jittery, his movements rigid and nervous all at once, that you reached for his large hands and squeezed. He weakened again and brought your touch to brush against his tusks as he spoke aloud. "Those words were from anger. I thought I was the only soul not to have a match out there. I never thought… you," he breathed, and closed his eyes. Just this once, you told yourself, you would let him lean into you; you ignored that it had happened before, that you'd let him come close already. "I want you. I want to want you for you, for more than fate's hand, and if you would give me the chance - please, I," he caught himself then, his voice cracking. "Quinn is teaching me, um- I-" You couldn't help your smile when Eladan wriggled his fingers free to sign, "please. One chance."

"One," you returned, but it was enough for him to shudder and clutch you tight.

He fumbled behind your back enough for you to recognise hand movements, before he grunted, "thank you."

[consumedkings-archive]

THE LAND OF GODS AND DEVILS, a sequel.

—part i.

word count: 6k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he's a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family. for this chapter in specific, roman likes to take things to the Extreme (i.e., "i'm going to fucking kms if you say this word one more time") but if you're here i imagine you know exactly what he's about.

notes: it's here! i know that most of my followers and friends on here are my friends through my far cry 5 content, but my return to the fic-writing world was inspired by my first longfic in a decade after watching birds of prey. you could say, perhaps, that i have a Type(TM), given that roman sionis lives rent free in my head forever and always. this is the sequel to my work carry your throne, though i like to think it's fairy user-friendly, especially once we really get into the thick of it.

special thank you goes to my beta and the loml, @starcrier; the first person to ever truly recognize varya for the wretched little beast that she is and love her anyway. thank you for being my beta and for loving my girl!

and, of course, another special thanks goes to @shallow-gravy, @vasiktomis, @faithchel, @tomexraider, and @belorage for being so supportive of my foray out of the far cry fandom and back into one that, in a way, brought me here in the first place!

summary: —by dread things, compelled.

roman sionis is the closest he has ever been to having everything that he wants; a perfect wife, a perfect family, a perfect international black-market arms dealing business signed over to him in its entirety. unfortunately for him, there are people in the world who would prefer to see him without, and that has never been a thing that roman has accepted for himself: being without.

(or: a fic wherein the devil spends his time rebuking sin.)

“If one more person says the word ‘chandelier’ in my presence,” Roman announced, drawing all eyes to him, “I'm going to blow my fucking brains out. Got it?”

There was a brief moment of silence that lapsed before the murmured acquiescence of the workers marked their return to their work. Blowing hot air from his mouth, Roman raked his fingers through his hair and turned back around to where Zsasz was watching him expectantly.

“What?” He demanded. “It’s my wife’s birthday.” Emphasis on the my, not the wife; it was not a favor Roman was doing for Varya, it was something he was doing for himself.

“V told them she wanted it.” Zsasz gestured to the offensive piece of lighting, which continued to haunt Roman’s waking and dreaming hours with its garish crystalline drippings and expensive bulbs. Ever since Varya had found out his fluctuating approval of the chandelier, it had been in and out of the Black Mask Club more times than he could count. Not that he needed to; he could very well put in or rip out a stupid fucking light fixture as many times as he wanted.

“Well.” Roman pulled a glass out from behind the bar, setting it on the top and dropping an ice cube into it. “She does so love to torture me.”

“It's just a—”

“Do you want my fucking guts on the floor, Zsasz? I mean it. Say the word and I’ll do it.”

The blonde regarded him drily. “No, boss.”

“Blood and guts everywhere.” Roman gestured widely with his free hand. “All over the floor. The bar top. You’ll have to clean it up. Maybe wipe down some of the bottles.”

“I won’t say it.”

“I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to get blood out of the carpet.”

Zsasz’s mouth quirked up in a smile. It said, without saying anything at all, no, you don’t. More agreeably, and with the flash of pearly whites and the capped tooth: “Sure.”

Roman poured well over what would have been considered the polite amount of expensive scotch into his glass, capping the bottle and setting it aside. It had been exactly twenty-four hours of making sure the club was perfectly polished and styled for Varya's birthday; though she was shrewd, she was so preoccupied with the twins and the lawyers and overseas business associates that she barely seemed to notice whatever was coming in and out of the Black Mask Club. He didn’t think she’d had a baby nor a phone out of her hands in over two days, and truthfully, it was starting to become tedious. Now that the twins were a little over a year old, they were supposed to be scheduling their honeymoon.

The delay of it hadn’t been a big deal, at the start. But everyday with you feels like my honeymoon, Varya had demurred months before the twins’ arrival, fluttering her lashes and gliding her fingers along the lapel of his jacket—and not even an hour after she’d curtly informed him that any more chatter, while she was nursing a headache, would be met with a swift and efficient extraction of his vocal cords by her own hands. Motherhood was supposed to have domesticated her, Roman thought, and had done the exact opposite; now, she was more assured of her status and power than ever.

So, yes; Varya had been busy, and he was almost certain she’d forgotten her own birthday. Never mind that everything had to be perfect. Never mind that it had to be immaculate. Never mind that Varya had deigned to order a brand new fucking chandelier from the same place they’d gotten one last time, knowing full well that he had made the executive decision to gut the fucking thing and get it out of his club.

“Tell you what, Zsasz,” Roman muttered, taking a swallow of the amber liquid in his glass, “don’t ever get fucking married. You want someone knowing all the shit that pushes your buttons all the time?”

“Maybe you just got a button pusher for a wife.”

Roman grimaced and took another swallow. It was true. “Fuck off.”

The blonde opened his mouth to say something else—and hadn’t he gotten confident in himself too, since Varya had become such a permanent fixture in their life, constantly goading and coercing him to voice his opinion on things, things that normally he would just defer to Roman on—when the doors to the stairwell and the elevator opened.

Eclipsing the doorway was Armazd, Varya’s hand-picked-from-the-batch-of-Russians-left-over-guard. Armazd had to be easily cresting six-foot-five, his dark beard neatly trimmed and peppered with silver, a scar breaking the color of his top lip. Roman had only ever seen the man swathed in dark clothes, like a fucking mourner on parade. His wife had been the one picked to be the twins' nanny, despite the fact that Roman felt like she barely did anything.

Also hand-picked. Thoroughly vetted. Interrogated for hours. No stone left unturned, when it came to Yuli and Ro.

“What are you doing down here?” Roman barked, coming around the side of the bar to make his way across the room. “You’re supposed to be going up and keeping—”

“She is coming down,” Armazd clarified. “In the elevator. Irina called to tell me.”

“Instead of stopping her?”

“She was—”

The elevator dinged in the hallway, and Roman quickly ducked around Armazd and closed the door into the club behind him. As soon as the doors slid open, he planted a smile on his face and closed the distance between himself and his wife.

Nobody would know, looking at Varya, that she not only barely utilized the nanny that they had furiously vetted and now paid handsomely, but that on top of juggling their twins she was actively in the process of getting a massive, international gun-running business signed over in his name. There was not a single hair out of place, not a single crease or rumple in the sapphire-blue silk of her blouse or skirt; the scent of her preferred jasmine perfume followed her like a cloud. She looked as put-together as the day he’d first seen her standing in his club.

And now, he desperately needed her to stay out of it.

“Kitten,” he greeted warmly, his hands—though gloved—immediately scratching the itch by reaching for her; they captured hers to carefully still her procession to the club’s main room. “What are you doing down here? I thought you’d be busy for hours.”

“Yuliana has been fussing nonstop,” Varya replied, her voice light despite what could only have been an expression of frustration quickly following, “all while I listen to grown men fussing nonstop at me on the phone.”

Roman feigned a sympathetic noise, bringing her hands up to his mouth to kiss them. “We have a nanny, V.”

“You know better than anyone else,” the brunette murmured, brushing her nose against his as their hands dropped, “that she is inconsolable without you.”

He tried not to look too pleased. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Don’t be modest, Romy.”

“Well, I’ll come up, of course.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “And console our princess.” Another kiss, to the other corner. “So that you can continue letting grown men fuss at you.”

She beamed at him prettily, and finally they met in the middle for a real kiss—nothing coy, nothing demure, but lingering warm and just between the two of them.

“I love you,” she purred. “Go on, then.”

And then Varya pulled away, as though to go around him and into the club, and Roman blinked rapidly. He had only just caught her around the waist before she could walk in and pulled her in a full one-eighty until she was facing the elevator again.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a laugh bubbling out of her. “I was just going to make myself a drink.”

“Encouraging productivity,” Roman replied, hitting the button for the elevator doors to open again. “Ready for all this paperwork to be done, aren’t you? It’s been over a year.”

A year of wading through mafia-esque bureaucracy. A year of listening to Varya say, these things take time. A busy year, to be sure, jam-packed full of things—the biggest wedding in Gotham since its founding, the twins.

A funeral.

Roman tried more and more every day not to think about his (now) brother-in-law’s funeral, the double burial of the only man that might have stood a chance at being loved by Varya more than Roman himself and the only man who had ever been anything like a father figure to her. Family is tedious, he’d wanted to say, brothers and fathers and mothers, the whole lot of them, cut them loose why don’t you? Why should anyone matter to you outside of the twins and I?

Varya glanced at him over her shoulder. “These things take time.”

He rolled his eyes. “Mhm.”

“Not to mention, we were a little busy,” she added, eyes narrowing playfully as he nudged her into the elevator, “you know—having children.”

“And what beautiful children they are.” Roman hit the button without looking, the doors sliding shut behind him.

“Well, how am I supposed to suffer through those phone calls without a stiff drink?”

He quirked a brow upward. “I’ll make you a stiff drink, Mrs. Sionis.”

The brunette propped herself up against the back rail of the elevator as it whirred into motion. The corner of her mouth, painted ruby, curved and her head tilted inquisitively. “Oh?”

“Of course,” he demurred, sidling forward and boxing her in against the wall. “I’ll make you a stiff drink—”

He dropped his head to the slope of her jaw to plant a kiss there.

“—you’ll finish up with the lawyers, and put on the dress I bought you—”

Varya hummed and sighed sweetly.

“—we’ll go out to dinner for your birthday—”

He dropped his hands to her hips, planting a kiss on her temple so that he could rumble, “And we can get to work on baby number three, hm?”

A sweet laugh billowed out of her just as the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open to bring to Roman the oh-so-sweet sounds of a caterwauling infant. Over the distressed crying was Irina’s voice, shushing and cooing dulcet words in Russian; he could see her swaying to and fro with a swathe of fabric bundled in her arms.

“I almost forgot about my birthday,” Varya said thoughtfully, completely unrattled by the sound of their daughter’s distress. She stepped out from between him and the elevator wall; Roman fell into step beside her easily, the sound of her heels clipping against the floor enough to draw Irina’s eyes to them.

Roman said, “I know you did,” and did not bother to hide his smugness as he held out his arms for the shrieking baby in Irina’s arms. The redhead regarded him with a sort of weary amusement before she acquiesced; with Yuliana safely in his arms, he watched Varya cross the room to turn the automatic rocker that held their son back on to a slow, lulling pace. The freckled infant babbled happily—ever the quieter of the twins—and as Varya said something to Irina in Russian that inspired the woman to depart to the kitchen, she absently picked up a baby blanket from the couch and wandered over to him.

“Yuli,” she murmured, waving her finger at the already-content infant, tucking the blanket around her “is that all you wanted, hm? Just for your papa to hold you?”

“What else could she want for?” he replied confidently. Soothing Yuliana’s fury had become old-hat for him at this point. And, certainly, it pleased him to know that sometimes, the only thing that would make his daughter stop screaming was being held by him. Not even Varya—who had taken to motherhood like a fish to water—bothered when she was in a fit.

Still, the brunette sighed dreamily, her finger captured by their daughter’s tiny hand before she said, “What a perfect little gem.”

Roman hummed his agreement. “Finishing that call with the lawyers?”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Varya replied. “They’re in a mood today.”

“They’re in a mood every day.” Russians, he thought venomously.

“Yes.” She smiled, flashing pearly teeth at him. “But only today is my birthday.”

She had him there. Still, he was itching for the whole thing to be done—Ilarion had dragged his feet through the process of even drawing up the original contract, which had only been a spit in his face (“You are the only person who gets to fuck Varya Astakhova, that is as exclusive as it gets”) and by the time all of that nasty business had been wrapped up, Ilarion was dead.

Ilarion, and Nikita—leaving only a single living soul to be in charge of the Astakhov empire: Varya herself.

Which, she had expressed time and time again, she had no desire for; not in the public way that her father had done it, and Ilarion after them. She much preferred the clerical work of it all. Paperwork and public relations. Let the men do men’s work, she’d demurred one night, tangled up in their sheets, when he’d asked her what she was going to do with it. I don’t mind. They like me better as their madonna, anyway.

“You know,” she continued, breaking him out of his thoughts as she made her way to the bar cart, pouring herself a drink, “they will like you more if it’s you they’re talking to.”

“I don’t give a fuck if they like me or not,” Roman replied, lifting Yuliana with both of his hands so that he could look at her. “Isn’t that right, princess? Mommy gets to do all the paperwork so that your papa can spend all of his time with you, instead of listening to some dumbfucks bitch and moan on the phone.” He glanced at her. “Well, anyway, since it’s your birthday we can let it slide.”

“Very generous of you.”

“Get dressed, won’t you?” he prompted, depositing his now-content daughter in the mobile swing with her brother. “The table’s been ready for us since noon.”

Varya watched him, dark eyes glittering amusedly. “And why, my darling, did you make the reservation for noon? It’s nearly six now.”

“Because,” he replied, “I wanted to make sure they held it, regardless of how long it took us to get there.”

“Ah.” She lifted her chin a little, lashes fluttering with contentment when he reached up and brushed the hair from her face. “Or else?”

Roman flashed her a grin.

“Or else.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They held the table.

“Good for them,” Roman said as they followed the server out onto the balcony. The table had clearly been refreshed—a new candle, a new vase, a new bucket of ice and bottle of champagne. He’d heard the waitstaff whispering furiously among themselves as they idled in the lobby to be taken to their table; now, settled across from the birthday girl, Roman was content with the way they had squirmed.

“Quicker than the two-hour wait last time,” Varya noted by way of agreement, smoothing her hand along the edge of the tablecloth.

He scoffed. The only reason they had waited in the lobby for two hours was because Varya had asked him to stay for the table she wanted. If it had been his way, they would have left with a bloody warning and gone somewhere else. “I can’t believe I finally convinced you to leave the twins home for a night and we got stuck sitting in that fucking lobby because they gave our table away.”

“In my defense, they are good babies, Romy. Hardly ever cry. Certainly not too much trouble.”

“But there’s two of them,” he replied, “and toting two babies around is a lot of work. All I’m saying is, what’s the point of paying her that much fucking money if we’re just going to—”

The waiter came by the table, clearly a little stressed; the lines of concern on his face were clear as he cleared his throat and said, “Should I come back?”

Varya, perusing the menu: “No, my darling, you may stay. You were saying, Romy?”

“I just don’t know why we’re shoveling money into her bank account for her to be a glorified accent chair in our house rather than a nanny.” Roman gestured to the champagne bottle expectantly. “Open it.”

The waiter did as he asked, having been standing there uncomfortably for a moment during their exchange. As he worked to carefully open the champagne bottle, Roman turned his attention back to Varya; her eyes remained on the menu, absently twisting the engagement and wedding band on her finger back and forth.

There was no way, he thought, that she was putting off getting the business signed over to him on purpose. Surely, there was no way; even when Ilarion was alive, even when she had anticipated no further problems, it had always been, if you’re going to be my romantic partner, it seems only right you’d be my partner in business too, don’t you think? And yet—

And yet, Roman could not push down the strange, hazy doubt that occasionally flickered through his mind. He had always wanted Varya, had always found himself wanting and wanting and wanting more and more often, and Varya had always seemed content to indulge him. There was, it seemed, nothing she enjoyed more than indulging him. One more kiss, one more minute in bed, one more lingering glance across the room. She was the absolute pinacle of his hedonism, in every sense of the word, and had proven time and time again that she would give him anything that he wanted.

The business had always been for her and Ilarion. He wanted it, and told her he did, and she said, you can have it, if you like, but like in all things, there was a slyness about his wife—a cruelty—that he found endearing and dangerous. Dangerous, because it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been on the other end of her cruel nature, playfully poking and unwinding and tugging the thread loose until she had pushed him to the limit.

Something echoed in his head, and he realized that the waiter was asking him what he wanted to eat. Varya had handed the menu over and steepled her fingers, watching him with dark, curious eyes and red painted lips, sooty lashes fluttering. A pretty, painted little snake.

“I’ll take whatever she’s having,” Roman said after a moment, setting his menu aside and returning his attention to the brunette across from him. “Something interesting, kitten?”

“Can I not just appreciate my husband?” Varya demurred. “You’re wearing the suit I like best, after all.”

“It is your birthday. What greater gift is there than me?”

She laughed, delighted by him—as she always was—and took a sip of her champagne. “You were away from me, for a moment.”

He watched her, gauging her carefully. Even I know not to drop my pants when a viper opens its mouth, Bianchi had said, just before Varya had unloaded six rounds into his face and chest less than two feet away from him.

“Just thinking,” is what Roman said finally.

“Hm. A dangerous past time.”

His expression flattened, deadpan. “It’s taken a significant chunk of time to secure your father’s business in my name.”

Something flickered across Varya’s expression. at the word father. “To secure my business,” Varya replied, her voice abrupt and cutting, her eyes narrowed, “in your name.” Absently, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked to be composing herself, like she’d spoken on a knee-jerk reaction rather than with thinking.

Then, glossy and silken again: “You know your patience means the world to me, Romy.”

There was nothing that he loved more than watching her pull back her venom for him. Drumming his fingers against the top of the table, Roman bridled his own irritation to say, mildly, “I’d do anything for you. Even wait...” He made a thoughtful noise. “Over a year to finally take on the responsiblities you wanted handed over to me.”

“Of course.” Varya smiled prettily, absently straightening out her silverware. “And we will speak no more of my father on my birthday, or any day after this.”

He knew what that meant. She phrased it pretty, wrapped it up in silk and velvet and presented it to him as unassuming as a doe, but he knew what that meant. There is my button, she was saying, there is my trip wire. Don’t push it, Roman. The name Nikita had all but been banned in their household, even when funeral arrangements were being made; any time he’d heard one of the lawyers mention her father’s name, there had been a sharp rebuke. Not in my presence, she would tell him later, I do not want to hear that fucking name in my presence.

“At any rate, there is nothing that I want more than for this whole process to be done,” she continued lightly, reaching across the table to take his hand. “It was always what I wanted, you know. Ilya was better suited to be a functional piece of the business; he was the face because he had to be, not because he wanted to be, and I am better suited for the nitpicking and the details. Being the overseer is much more in your circle of talents, Romy.”

Her words assauged something unsettled and prickly in him, the sweep of the pad of her thumb across the back of his hand returning that doubtful monster in his mind back to its slumber. He sighed.

“You’re right,” he acquiesced after a moment, “it is more in my circle of talents.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I always got the impression Ilarion wasn’t happy with it,” he added. “Though you two certainly enjoyed making work of me that first night, didn’t you?”

Varya smiled demurely. “It was never meant to make work of you, only to make a good impression.”

“Hm,” he replied, eyes narrowing playfully, “but you enjoy pushing me, V.”

She looked pleased. She always did, when he remarked on something that felt like he was really seeing her, beneath the glossy veneer. His girl did so love being seen.

“Only,” V demurred, “because you so enjoy reining me in.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Roman brought her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it before relinquishing it and glancing around. He would just have to exercise patience, of which he had the most; patience, modesty, and humility, all excellent qualities that he could participate in at will, at any given time. Without any restraint.

“Did the men get the chandelier installed?” Varya idled, snapping his attention back to her. He narrowed his eyes.

“I told you I didn’t want a chandelier anymore.”

She looked at him across the table, dark doe eyes wide and innocent. “I thought you liked how polished they make the club.”

“No, you little viper,” Roman replied, clicking his tongue, “Paolo has a chandelier in his club, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to have people comparing it.”

“Ah,” she murmured, “the drama of the chandelier goes on.”

“And while we’re at it, might as well gut that one from the estate, too.”

“There’s more than one chandelier in there.”

“Then the men will be busy, won’t they?” He tsked his tongue. “I know you dream about watching me blow my top, V, but I’m making an executive decision on gaudy light fixtures.”

A smile flashed across her expression, pearly teeth and delighted eyes. She sighed, almost dreamily, like there was nothing more that she liked than to be doing this exact thing, and with him.

“Oh, Romy,” the brunette said sweetly, “you are the only thing I dream about.” And then, almost as an after thought: “Gaudy light fixture terrorism included.” She waved her hand to dismiss any protest or rebuttal he might have given her and said, “Now, since it’s my birthday, tell me all of the things you love the most about me.”

Roman sucked his teeth, eyeing her for a moment as he leaned back in the chair. Wicked little thing, waiting to preen and glow under his attention, a feline seeking him out. Her little bout of cruelty before was already forgiven. He said, “We’re going to be here for a while, if I do that.”

“They held the table for over six hours,” Varya demurred, “I’m sure they’ll hold it for as many more as you need.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time they got to the club, Varya was acting as though nothing had happened.

Truthfully, Roman preferred it that way. It just also left a lot of room to wonder—his wife was a talented actress, adept at smoothing his ruffled feathers out and not divulging her own feelings on the matter. And he wouldn’t ask, of course. If Varya wanted to express herself, she would, and had, quite openly in the past.

“I am so happy to be home,” she announced, gliding past the door to the club once Roman had opened it for her. “Do you think the babies are asleep, yet? I always miss putting them...”

Her voice trailed off, pausing a little as she seemed to realize that the club was cloaked in inky darkness, freezing just a few steps past the threshold. Roman let the door swing shut behind him, nudging her forward with a hand at the small of her back. He was met with some resistance; she steeled, stiffening against his insistence, before taking a few steps forward.

He said, barely keeping the delight out of his voice, “You’re holding up the line, V.”

“Roman,” Varya said, her voice pitched oddly soft and tight, “why—?”

The lights flashed on to a loud, unified cheer of Happy Birthday!; the club had been packed with vases of flowers, the tables donned with food and drink, and everyone worth their salt within a fifty-mile radius had made their way there. Not a single thing was out of place—everything exactly where he had instructed it be placed, and not a fucking chandelier in sight.

Roman came around in front of the brunette, grinning. “Happy—”

He stopped. Varya’s expression was not happy, or even surprised; it was something else, something that he couldn’t read, the pupils of her hot-whiskey eyes blown wide and the normally Renaissance-soft lines of her face sharpened and hardened into an expression that was more vicious.

“V?” he asked. Her eyes snapped to him, and for a second she looked the same way she had that night in the loft, her hands drenched in blood and the kitchen knife clutched in her fist with bodies at her feet: like she didn’t recognize him.

It took a heartbeat, but her expression smoothed out and she smiled, almost sheepish—like she’d been caught doing something naughty, instead of being caught being somewhere else. Someone else, more the wolf than the girl.

“The lights,” she explained, hands resting on his chest, “they startled me, is all.”

A frown creased his expression. He brought his hands up to hold her wrists, thumb pressed against her pulse point. It fluttered unsteadily. Unconvinced, Roman pressed, “The lights?”

“Just the lights,” Varya assured him. She tilted her head up and kissed him, one hand departing his jacket to go to the back of his neck—and when she kissed him, he could feel that strange little flicker of energy, like she’d been stamping something out before it could catch, but it still vibrated under her skin.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but she disentangled from him and swept around to the crowd of people waiting, beaming prettily and playing at bashfulness, as though she did not enjoy their eyes on her and did not soak their attention up like a flower did sunlight. Whatever had been plaguing her in that moment was now gone, and she was awash with attention and love, thanking people profusely and accepting each hug and cheek-kiss directed her way.

Roman brushed off the odd feeling that she wasn’t being as forthcoming with him as he would have preferred—no secrets anymore, isn’t that what they’d agreed on?—and instead waded into the crowd. Music kicked on overhead; chatter picked up to a warm humming around them; there was nothing else to think about except letting his girl enjoy her birthday celebration.

By the time Varya had made a suitable number of rounds (which tended to verge much higher than one, much to Roman’s chagrin—what tedious work, to share her with everyone else), she had barely sipped the glass of champagne someone had planted in her hand. She circled back to him eventually; like always, there was that pinprick tugging in the cavity of his chest, like they were bound by a single thread that kept them from parting too much and too quickly, and when she drew closer to him again it oozed relief, warm and vibrant, through his ribs.

“Sufficiently loved on?” he asked as she neared, hand reaching up to slide around her waist.

“By them? Certainly.” The brunette’s hand smoothed along his shoulder, the pad of her thumb gliding across the velvet of his jacket. “By you, though, not hardly. Not ever.”

“You are insatiable,” Roman agreed in a rumble. He splayed his fingers against the small of her back, tugging her in closer and brushing their noses together.

“Just for you,” Varya murmured, and the words brushed their lips together just a little—but everything with Varya, like this, felt like almost-kissing, enough to push him to some kind of edge where his stomach twisted and wrenched with want when she added, “And only for you.”

“You know I can’t resist you when you talk like that.”

She laughed, leaning in to set her glass to the side and curl her fingers into his shirt for a kiss; everything for a second felt normal, and good, and right again, the strange way she’d gone-away back in the doorway having disappeared, the dark cloud over her having cleared, her wretchedness from dinner dissipated.

And Roman kissed her, with the sound of the party chatter ringing in his ears, and kissed her with the faint taste of champagne flooding his senses when she parted her lips against his, and kissed her while his hand fisted the fabric of her dress and he managed out in a voice rough with want, “So you’re trying to rile me up.”

“I always,” Varya murmured against his mouth silkily, “want you riled, Romy.”

“Varya?”

A stranger’s voice filtered through the haze—the rose-colored one that usually accompanied Varya saying anything like she wanted him riled up—and Roman felt the irritation spike straight through it. He turned to look at the interruption at the same time that Varya did, only to find a young, handsome blonde standing just a foot away.

Varya said, sounding faint, “Maxim?”

“It has been a while,” the blonde said, and he sounded sheepish. “I called Armazd, asking after you—”

“Sorry,” Roman interjected briskly, fingers still curled—now possessively—into the fabric of Varya’s dress against the dip of her spine, “but who are you?”

His wife started to say, “Romy, this is—” at the same time that the man began, “I am sorry, my name—” and they both stopped at the same time, a strange little silence stretching between them.

“Maxim,” Varya said after a second, turning to look at Roman now. “This is Maxim. He is Artyem’s son.”

Roman stared at her, more to buy himself time than anything; she said the name like he was supposed to know who that was. Artyem, but it didn’t sound familiar. Almost any Russian name sounded like gibberish to him, and if Varya had said it to him, it had been in passing, an afterthought, nothing but a whisper of information passed between them before it was gone again.

Until it did. Until he remembered that the person Varya had thought was her father had actually been Artyem, that she’d poisoned him, let him bleed to death on the carpet while she had mentally checked out of the moment. That she had watched him die, but she had been somewhere else—someplace else, the way Ilarion had described it, very far away where she couldn’t even enjoy what she’d done fully.

And Maxim—golden, and polished, and clean-shaven—looked awfully pleasant for someone whose farther had choked to death on his own blood because of Varya.

“I see,” Roman said, even though he didn’t. His gaze turned to Maxim. “And you’ve—shown up without calling ahead?”

“I have been in Turkey,” Maxim explained, “finishing up some business, and I did not know how to get in touch—”

“Well, you spoke with Armazd, didn’t you?” Roman’s head tilted. “The man practically sleeps in our bed, I imagine he would have been happy to get you in contact with us.”

“Admittedly,” Maxim said, “I wanted it to be a surprise—”

No, Roman thought absently, venomously, that won’t do at all.

“—Varya’s birthday—”

“So you slunk in,” Roman elaborated tartly, “like a little street dog, hm?”

“Maxi,” Varya interjected, fingers absently tracing the stitching on Roman’s jacket, “why don’t you go get a drink and acquaint yourself with our friends? Armazd is just there—you see?”

Maxim’s eyes darted between her and Roman for a minute. He shifted on his feet, tilting and giving a little smile that might have liked abashed if Roman didn’t think he saw a little squirm of self-satisfaction in his gaze. Fucker.

“Of course,” the blonde replied after a moment. “C dnyom razhdyenyem, Varushka.” He took a step forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Varya’s thumbnail dug into the lapel of Roman’s jacket. “Thank you, Maxi.”

Once the blonde had departed, linking up with Armazd in the crowd to get introduced, Roman straightened up from the bar. It was impossible not to stare at this newcomer—he glowed with an easy charisma, flashed bright smiles that were all teeth. Roman hated him already.

“Maxi?” he asked her, eyes narrowed, and Varya sighed. He waited for her to elaborate. Perhaps she’d say they had dated once, perhaps they were literally nothing. That would be ideal, after all. Ships passing in the night.

She said, “We grew up together.”

Even worse. Roman twisted a loose, dark curl of hers around his finger. “And you killed his father.”

“Well—” She paused, mouth pressing into a thin line. “He does not know.”

“He doesn’t—” The notion that she was keeping secrets, and not from him, coiled high and happy in his throat. He tried not to sound too delighted when he said, “V, surely he knows.”

“Surely he does not, that I did it. Only that it happened. And I will keep it that way,” she added firmly, picking up her champagne glass from the bar top. “Maxim was incredibly loyal to my father because Artyem was, but more than that—he was mine and Ilya’s friend. I’m sure he is missing Ilya almost as much as I am.”

“As we all are,” Roman agreed sagely, planting a kiss on her temple in spite of the dry look she gave him. It was hard to tell, to get a read on this Maxim. What was it he’d dragged himself out of the trenches for? Just to fly halfway across the world to wish Varya a happy birthday? Above all things, Roman understood that his wife was a desirable thing, and knowing that he kept her out of the reach of others was part of her appeal—but that much? Could someone who was just a friend want that much?

He continued, “So what is it that Maxim offers to the business, hm?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Varya demurred, which didn’t sound at all like the truth. “Artyem was the one who sent him out on jobs. My father kept things tight around the top, you know. If anyone would know what it was Maxim was up to in Turkey who wasn’t my father or Artyem, it would have been Ilarion.”

“I find it hard to believe you have no idea what your father was using someone for.”

The sound of delighted commentary drew both of their eyes away; Irina had come down, both dark-haired infants in her arms, and was walking them toward Varya and Roman. Murmured remarks on what could only be their cuteness passed throughout the crowd of party-goers.

“I am putting them down for bed,” Irina announced as she approached, “and I know you like to say goodnight.”

“Oh, you are an angel,” Varya murmured, glass set aside once again. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to baby Ro’s cheek. Yuliana babbled, and she sighed dreamily, “Have you ever seen more perfect babies, Roman?”

Perfect babies, a perfect wife; soon, he would even have the perfect grip on Gotham’s neck, throttling it until it was nothing but dust and ash. Soon, but not soon enough; he’d be content when it was just done and settled, when there was nothing else standing between him and everything that he wanted. Varya, and the guns—what an odd thing, to know that a year ago he’d set out for this and it was just falling into his lap.

“Romy?”

“Never,” Roman replied, smiling and glancing back at his wife, reaching and cradling the back of Yuli’s head. “I’ve never seen more perfect babies, V.”

Across the room, Maxim watched them. There was something about it that Roman didn’t like—the way his eyes flickered, the way he looked between the children and Varya, the way their eyes met and he didn’t deflect away. Like he didn’t mind getting caught. Where had he come from? What little shithole had he crawled out of, over a year after Nikita’s death and Ilarion’s death—longer, still, since his father’s death? Hadn’t he wondered what had happened to his father?

What are you doing here, he thought venomously, that you think you can just come in here like nothing? Like I won’t root you out like the little rat you are?

Maxim smiled. It was a polite smile, unassuming kind of smile.

Roman picked up his drink from the counter, taking a heavy swallow. Suddenly, the evening seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of him, no finish line in sight.

Nothing else standing between me and everything I want.

And he was going to keep it that way.

[imaginationoverspill]

Long time no see

Summary : Two years into an undercover mission, you find yourself meeting the very man you had to leave behind.

Obi-Wan Kenodi x Genderneutral!reader

The low boom of the bass permeated through the sweaty bar as Master Kenobi and his padawan moved through the crowd.

“Master are you sure this the right place ?”, Anakin mumbled to his master, uncomfortable in the civilian clothes that many of the regulars wore. His status as a padawan hidden as his braid was tucked under the shoulder-length wig.

“Yes Anakin, I’m sure and please stop fidgeting, you’re drawing attention”, he replied as he glanced around the crowd inconspicuously.

“Yes Master”.

Eventually, the pair found an empty booth in a more secluded part of the club, but also a lot closer to one of the many circular platforms dotted around that were mainly used by scantily-clad dancers of varying species and gender. One of the platforms was directly in front of Obi-Wan’s line of sight and was a lot larger than the other platforms, probably used as the main stage. At the moment it was empty as the generic low-bass music continued to play.

“So this informant, any idea how we’re supposed to find them ?”

“Patience, young one”, replied Obi-Wan.

The music suddenly changed and the lights dimmed so that the main stage was lit up. Both men looked at the stage as two twi’leks, one male and one female, start dancing along to the beat.

Here we go again. Just like every other night for the past two years, you sat in the dressing room getting ready for your performance. At least this time, you know two Jedi will be waiting for you for information. They should be easy enough to spot, even if they think they’re amazing at being disguised. Most of the time ordinary people don’t notice them when they’re not in their robes, you, however, could spot them a mile away so it didn’t really matter that you had no idea who the Jedi you were supposed to meet was. Hopefully, after you’ve dropped the info, your undercover mission will be over and you can get back to what you’re fantastic at : bounty hunting.

“Come on honey! We’re up!”, shouted Iyal’, a young yellow twi’lek that was your only friend among the dancers.

You took your robe off, revealing the provocative outfit and sauntered on stage as your back-up dancers, Iyal’ and another twi’lek, began dancing to the beat of the song. They separated to reveal you to the audience and you began singing.

As you sing and dance sensually to the song, you check out the crowd entranced by your performance in search of the two Jedi. Your gaze lands on the two men sat in a booth near one of the smaller dance platforms and you falter slightly as you recognise him.

“Kriff”

Anakin glances confusingly at his master’s swearing. The usually calm and composed Jedi master was visible flustered at the sight of the beautiful singer on the main stage.

“Master, are you alright ?”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and readjusted himself so as not to seem affected by the performance. When he was told to meet up with an undercover agent, you were the last person that he had expected to see.

You gave it your all on the final note, the club whistles and applauses your performance. The twi’leks move off-stage as the generic low-bass music returns. You walk off-stage in the direction of the booth.

Nervous butterflies were fluttering around in your stomach despite your confident strut towards the two Jedi. Holy Sith! Why does he have to be so hot? He was already attractive when he was a padawan but the long hair and beard just make him ten times hotter.

As you reach them, you coyly sit next to the older one.

“Of all the places I thought I would see you again Kenobi, this is certainly not one of them”

“Likewise my dear”, he responded coldly.

Anakin furrowed his eyebrows at his master’s cold greeting before introducing himself.

“Pleasure to meet you”, you reply smirking and coyly extending your hand for him to shake. Despite the coldness from Obi-Wan, you still had an act to maintain.

“Anakin, why don’t you go get us both drinks whilst I discuss matters with our informant”, Obi-Wan ordered.

“But-”.

“Now, Anakin.”

He nodded his head towards you both before getting up, slightly concerned at his master’s strange behaviour.

“ Master”, you say as if testing the way it sounded. “It suits you.”

“Yes well ... thank you”, he coughs. You smile slightly, glad you could break his impassiveness, even if only for a moment.“From what I understand, you have some information on a potential terrorist attack”

“It’s always straight to business with you, even when we were younglings”

“I hardly see why that’s a bad thing”

You smirk at him before gently removing a disc hidden in your bra.

“This disc has everything I could gather without being caught”

Obi-Wan briefly glanced down but quickly looked away before you noticed where he was looking.

“Your effort is greatly appreciated by the council”, he curtly replied as he took the disc from you.

You felt disappointed at the lack of reaction. You always knew that if you did ever see him again, the encounter would be at the least awkward, but you still hoped that somewhere deep down, he was happy to see you.

The sound of shouting above the music catches your attention. Anakin was stood with his fists clenched and struggling to stay calm as a Rodian screeched at him. The second you look at the scene, you notice a determined group walk in your direction. You recognise them immediately as henchmen from the separatist group that run the club as cover.

“Fuck, we’ve got to get out of here. Grab Anakin and meet me at the back”. If they figure out that you’re with a Jedi, your cover will be blown. You get up to meet the group of intimidating aliens, still maintaining your flirty persona.

"Hi fellas, what can a gal get ya’ ?" You flirtatiously greet.

" How about two Jedi scum.", growled the big Trandoshan. You try to hide your nervous giggle.

" Oh sugar, if that's what you want, you ain't gonna find any here"

"Really", he stepped closer to you, "then why did we catch you chatting them up." Crap.

"Oh, don't be silly. Those two fellas were just here for a good time. Here, let me grab you fellas some drinks, on the house"

You quickly turn away to escape but the Trandoshan roughly grips onto your arm. You slam your heel into his foot, causing him to yell in pain and let your arm go. Time to get out of here. You start running and pushing through the crowd of semi-drunk club-goers.

"GET AFTER THEM !"

The group draw their blasters and run after you.

You manage to run out into a dark and dirty alleyway with a dead-end.“Not so fast”, two Devaronians block both sides of the alleyway, cutting off your escape route. Oh, crap.

Suddenly the sounds of lightsabers and blaster fire catch your attention. Upon the rooftop, you spot the two Jedi deflecting blasts close to the edge. They make quick work of the thugs attacking before Obi-wan notices the trouble you’re in the alleyway below as the two Devaronians trapping you rush at you.

Without much thought -and to Anakin’s confusion- he calls your name and throws his deactivated lightsaber to you. You catch the lightsaber and ignite, smirking at the two thugs who suddenly stopped at the sight of the blue blade. They start firing their blasters but you gracefully deflect the bolts back to them before swiftly cutting one of the Devaronian’s arm off and roundhouse kick him in the face, incapacitating him. You promptly twist to face the other thug who had stepped back slightly in fear. Swinging the sabre skilfully, you use the force to pull the blaster out of his hand before slamming the hilt into his face, effectively knocking him out.

Both Jedi smoothly leap down from the roof to join you.

“You’re a Jedi ?!”, exclaimed Anakin incredulously.

“Was. I’m not any more.”, you admitted.

“Yes well, let’s get out of here”, said Obi-Wan, quickly cutting off whatever Anakin was about to say to your reply.

The three of you headed out of the alleyway and headed to the parked speeder hidden in the shadows. Upon approaching the speeder, you noticed that only seated two people and stood awkwardly looking at the men, wondering how we were going to get around the problem. Obi-Wan noticed the same issue as you. As Anakin sat in the driver’s seat, he took his place in the passenger’s side and simply patted his lap. You flushed at the action. When you didn’t immediately move, he looked at you with a slight smirk and raised an eyebrow.

Over the past two years, you became used to the flirtatious smirks and sexual remarks from both attractive and unattractive customers whilst working in the seedy club in the lower decks of Coruscant. You were used to dancing provocatively in front of an enraptured audience. But one simple hand gesture from him and suddenly you were blushing mess. You also realised this is the first time that he’s somewhat smiled since seeing him again. This only made you blush more. In an attempt to mask how flustered he made you, you moved to gently sit in his lap. He wrapped his arms around your waist to secure you, making you blush even harder and making the resurfaced butterflies flutter crazily in your stomach but thankfully he couldn’t see your face. Anakin, however, saw the entire exchange but decided not to say anything. He’ll have to question his master later.

Anakin flew the speeder to the Jedi temple, much to your reluctance. After the feeling of disappointing your master by leaving the order, the thought of ever returning made you feel queasy and the warmth of his arms wrapped around you didn’t help. As Anakin landed the speeder, Master Yoda, a blue and white astromech droid and a gold protocol droid greeted you. You stood behind the two Jedi, hoping to be ignored by your former master. No such look as he greeted you :

“Good to see you, it is, my former padawan”

“Master Yoda”, you greeted, bowing in respect, “it has been a long time.”

“Have become a fine Jedi, you would, but become an invaluable ally, instead you have. If correct, your information is, prevent losses, it may. Hmm. Been prepared for your arrival, a room has. Show you the way, C3PO will. Discuss further action with the council, we must. Talk later, we will.”

During the walk to your new room, you ignored the ramblings of the protocol droid as the familiar corridors of the Jedi Temple made you feel nostalgic. You remember the times you and Obi-wan would get in trouble as children. You shared everything with each other. But as you got older, you developed a crush that no amount of meditating would get rid of it. You had to hide your feelings as it was against the code to form attachments. However, it was far too late. You thought by distancing yourself more would make a difference but no matter what you did, his smile, his laughter, everything about him would make your heart flutter. Dismissing the droid once when you reached the room, you decided that a shower was in order.

The sound of the door knocking pulled you from the meditative state you had been in. After your shower, you started your bedtime ritual which included a small meditation session. Since leaving the order, you were no longer obligated to follow their rules and rituals but nothing helped calm you down better than meditating. It was currently three o’clock in the morning and so you definitely were not expecting anyone to come knocking. You opened the door :

“Obi-Wan ?”

“I realise it is far too late and I should be leaving you to rest but I can’t sleep.”

You silently gesture for him to come in before closing the door. As padawans, it wasn’t unusual for one of you to go see the other when we had difficulty sleeping. Nothing had to be said. You started making two cups of tea as he sat on the small couch near the window of your room. He wasn’t wearing his robes but a thin cotton shirt and trousers. For a brief moment, you both felt like padawans again.

As you handed him his tea, he shifted and the moment of nostalgia was over :

“I’ve come to apologise”, he started, “I was unfairly rude to you and I would also like to apologise for blowing your cover”.

“I somehow don’t think it was your fault. Something tells me that they had known about me long before you even turned up”

“You suspect they knew you were a spy ?”

“Yeah, call it a gut feeling”

He nodded in agreement, stroking his beard. You didn’t think he could be any more attractive but the sight of him sat on your couch in his casual clothes made everything seem intimate. You had to tear your gaze away from the hand near his mouth, hoping he didn’t sense what you were feeling.

“I hated being there anyway, so I’m definitely not upset over never having to go back there ever again”

His brows furrowed at your statement :

“More so than here ?”

“What ?”, you reply in confusion.

“I - Did you hate it there more than being at the Temple ?”

You looked at him, wondering why he would ask such a question. Normally, you would just ignore such a question and try to change the subject, but had been a very tiring day and something about the moment just made you want to give in.

“I never hated being at the Temple.”

A heavy silence followed your answer. When you left the order, you promised you would never tell anyone your reasons, afraid of rumours would spread and Obi-Wan’s devotion to the order and the code would be put into question.

“Why did you leave ?”

“Obi-Wan, I-”

“No please. I never understood why you left. I thought you were happy at the Temple. I remember the fun we had as children.”

“Obi-Wan please -”

He gently picked your hands up and held them, gently rubbing the back of your hands with his thumbs. The rough but soft caress of his thumbs made you feel weak and you felt resolve crumble.

“I loved you”, you quietly whispered. Hoping maybe he hadn’t heard you, but the sudden freezing of his thumbs confirmed that he had.“ I tried not to”, you quickly added. “ I tried so hard to be a good Jedi but it didn’t work. If anything it made me love you more. So I left. I didn’t want to ‘corrupt’ you. I knew how much becoming a Jedi Knight meant to you.”

You couldn’t look him in the eye, afraid of what you’ll see. Afraid that he would turn cold again and that it would truly be last time you ever see him again. Instead, you heard him move closer and felt his forehead gently rest against the side of your face. Confused, you gently turn your face to him so both of your foreheads rested against each other. He had his eyes closed and you closed your own. You could feel his warm breath softly flow over your face he slowly leaned in more. His nose brushed softly against yours as his lips pressed to yours. Your lips touched for a few seconds before he leaned in more, deepening the kiss. One of his hands moved up to gently cup your jaw.

After what felt like hours, but probably was only a few minutes, you both separated. You were in a daze and felt on top of the world.

AN : I had to repost this because Tumblr glitched, but anyways here it is. I spent way to much time on this and I’m still not entirely happy with it but I hope you enjoy it !

PS : Please tell me I’m not alone in struggling to find titles for their fanfictions.

[szynkaaa]

I more or less watched The Boy!!! And by watching, I mean I skipped more or less through the jump scare parts because I cannot do horror movies at all. I haven’t watched one since 2015 and The Boy was like the first horror movie after five years

Full disclosure, the ONLY reason I started watching the movie was because someone posted a gif of Greta standing close to Brahms who was all sweaty and breathing heavily n I was like “oh shit who dat he hot” and here I am 

Can anyone explain the sandwich scene to me? So Greta was scared shitless and locked herself in her room, but why did Brahms make her favorite sandwich for her?

I did some digging for interviews and generally what people have been saying about the movie, took some screenshots from youtube to put my thoughts and musing together too! 

Can anyone explain the sandwich scene to me? So Greta was scared shitless and locked herself in her room, but why did Brahms make her favorite sandwich for her? 

So first of all, let’s start with a low resolution photo I found on IG of James Russell without mask:

which brings me to my first musing/thought/question? 

It’s all under the cut, very screenshot and text heavy, you can find more Brahms drawing at the bottom though  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So at the end of the movie, we are shown a Brahms with a broken mask and his face being burned, indicating that he was in fact in the fire.

I assumed first that the fire was created by the parents to fake their sons death and then he had to live hidden inside the walls? 

But I’ve also heard apparently it was Brahms who set the fire to fake his own death or maybe an eight years old kid really was trying to burn himself down?? 

My other theory is that his parents made the fire and tried to kill Brahms and it did burn him but he survived, and the parents didn’t wanna go to jail sooo to hide everything they made their son live in the walls

i mean the responsible thing would be to turn their kid in and have him treated and stuff;;; listened to a murder podcast about two cases where kids murdered enough kids and how they are doing now interesting read Brahms made me think of those two cases 

I also do not think that the previous nannies were killed. Like, c’mon. You’d report a person missing and sooner or later it would go back to the Heelshire mansion and if the body counts piles up? Can’t look good and I doubt that the Heelshire wants the police investigating them close up. 

Also, when the mom was like “He’s chosen you if you’ll have him” to Greta? Is it just me or the wording or does it sound like a marriage proposal/arrangement xD 

Brahms is a brat and he sees the people around him as his possession or to toy around. But I also do think that he has some abandonment issues but not in the sad tragic kind of way lmao. Even if he was the one controlling and manipulating his parents from behind-the-scene (quite literally I suppose?), he was still told as a kid to live in hiding and that no one can know he is alive. I don’t know much about the human brain, but I can imagine how damaging that must be to his mental growth and set him back in some way? We don’t know too much about his relationship with his parents - but I assume that he must have still loved them in his own twisted way. Can’t imagine that he would have been indifferent about his parents suicide. 

The scene before Greta manages to back out - first he uses the child voice to beg her to come back and promises he will be good. That’s his manipulating Greta, but when that doesn’t work and she tries harder to open the door, he becomes more desperate to keep her there and then completely loses his temper and threatens to kill Malcolm if she doesn’t return. I’m pretty sure homeboy would have killed him anyway. And then later when she returns and he is all heavy breathing and smelling her hair and then jumps up when she shouts Brahms? Idk I def think there is some sort of abandonment issue going on. 

I don’t think he is a child stuck in a man’s body or manchild or whatever. I think that he does know how to take care of himself - but he just chooses to manipulate people with the facade of a kid to do his bidding and cater to his needs. 

Anywhomst, but clearly Brahms is also a very manipulative and controlling person based, based on how the mother was reacting on the destroyed bedroom, she really seemed to be at the end of her wits and just breaking down with her “you promised you’d be good”. It was very heartbreaking to watch and also scary because it really makes you realize just how much power Brahms holds over them?? idk maybe it was just me.

Next point: the CGI mask  + the burns 

So according to some interviews with the director stated that at the first test streaming, people weren’t really scared of Brahms because he was too handsome so they had to slap a mask over his face. The face was done after everything was filmed. I’m thinking the face burns were also added post-production when they were adding the cgi mask. Otherwise, James would have needed to go through the makeup department for some wicked face burns and it would have been visible during the filming and test screening too? Which would imply that at first the fire was supposed to be just  a cover story that their son is dead and it was changed later

Observation/thoughts on Brahms Heelshire

Love how he stands there with his hands behind his back and then nods when Greta tells him to go under the cover

James Russell is 191cm tall. So like. Brahms is really fucking tall. But I notice that most of the time he stands with a slight hunch. Could be due to him crawling through the walls and crawling out of places that requires him to do a lot of crouching. His bed in his hideout made me really sad, I’ll get to it later. 

Since James didn’t get many lines in the ten minutes that he appeared, I do think that his eyes did all the acting. They stand out even more with the mask on, there is just this crazy look on it. I also noticed during my rewatch that he doesn’t seem to blink much or at all. 

Oh yeah, he also peeped on Greta and Malcolm making out on the bed and then cockblocked them. We been knowing that he made a Greta doll and very likely jerked off to it. We also been knowing that he very very very likely wanted to bone Greta at the goodnight kiss scene still waiting for the maskeless kiss scene gimme gimme. I also highly doubt that Brahms has much first-hand experience with kissing n stuff. High key thinking he was trying to do copy Malcolm and do what he observed lmao

When I first watched the scene, I assumed that the hole behind the mirror has always been and it’s just another one of the hidden passages Brahms to slip in and out, but now that I’m looking at the shape of the holes, it seems to me more like the mirror and brick wall were broken at the same time?? If that is the case holy shit boy is s t  r o n g. I mean, he also punched through the closet door like no big deal so really what have the parents been feeding him. 

I’m also leaning toward the fact that he ran there because Greta screamed loudly. I don’t think he was in the room as them when everything went down there, it seemed more like he heard the scream and had to nyoomed over and then punched a way through to get out of the wall. And then went on to attack Cole. He must have known that Greta wanted Cole gone, since that what she whispered to the doll before going to bed. 

Tbh, I fully expected him to murder Cole in his sleep, but Brahms wrote a warning message in blood to tell him to get out soooooo like. Cole you were warned and now you gotta live with the consequences ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Brahm’s sleeping corner

This scene was shown at the end after Greta and Malcolm escaped. We also see them briefly during the part where Greta and Malcolm are trying to find a way out and stumbled into Brahms’ hideout. I’m not sure why the rules are slapped on the walls. It seems to me that Brahms is very very very set on that the rules / routine should be followed. In the movie, he called Greta and suggested to her that she should follow the rules, to which she then started doing it.

I headcanon that that’s the routine that he grew up with as a kid and it’s just very very very very very hard to break out of it - not that he is trying to break the routine. 

I’m failing to find a good way to put my thoughts into words, but I guess the rules and routine is sort of his coping mechanism? 

I suppose if you had an OC that you ship Brahms with and want to change stuff around the house, the OC would have to very slowly introduce new rules and routines. Baby steps, yknow.

Brahms has a violin hanging there! Honestly I would be surprised if Brahms didn’t know how to play at least one instrument. The family also has an old ass piano/clavichord (?) and Brahms loves classical music soo yeah. Love me a boy who appreciates classical musical hehe

I suppose the egg boxes are there to soundproof the room more - maybe so he can play the violin? 

There’s also music sheets hung around his attics, it’s not clear on the screenshots but when you rewatch the scene and shove your face close to the screen. Some are hanging next to the violin and there are some taped on the wall next to his bed and porn too

nice to see he has a fridge and microwave, I was concerned that he wasn’t well fed and that leftovers might not be enough, but then again. Dude is 191 cm so clearly he has been drinking his milk

Didn’t take a screenshot of his vanity, but there is a crocodile magnet stuck to the mirror hehe. I do think that he shaves and stuff, otherwise his beard would be much longer??

We can see more music sheets stuck to a pillar on the right. 

Loving the christmas lights that he has hanging there above his bed. It’s cute. 

On the shelf he has a bunch of tupperware and empty bowls. Most of hte things are neatly organized. We can also see some books and a pen

There’s some sunlight streaming inside - I do hope that Brahmsy stays warm during winters.

Here we can see more of the food that he has there - there is also a sink but I didn’t snatch a screenshot of it. I think those are potatoes in the pot? Maybe he does know how to cook some basic stuff, I do wonder if he has a functioning kitchen up there. Probably not for fire safety reasons lol

Yall see that thing on the note sheet covered pillar? Ngl, that’s a whole ass aesthetic right there.

He got a few potted plants up there. Took a closer look at them and it seems like they were healthy. So he knows how to take care of plants, which is nice to know I suppose?

Yes, we all know what he was doing with the doll and what the tissue balled up tissue implies. However, has anyone noticed the size of the bed??? 

If you scroll up a bit to the screenshot of Greta seeing the doll, it looks t i n y. The make shift doll takes up more than half of the space. 

Yall. this breaks my heart. Dude is a beanstalk. I’m pretty sure the bed is from when he was a kid shoved by his parents to live inside the wall, does he have to sleep there in his adulthood too??? 

Even though Brahms strikes me as someone who probably doesn’t sleep much or during normal times, that bed must be so tiny for him. He must be sleeping with his knees bend and shit unable to stretch out :((( 

Brahms: is a psychopath that smashed the skull of a girl and very abusive tormented his parents and then Greta Me: omg he needs a bigger bed that poor thing :(((

Brahms’ DIY corner 

Ah yes, Brahm’s little DIY/creative corner. 

Homeboy got lot of animal traps, cages and taxidermies hanging around, pointing strongly toward that it’s a hobby of it? 

Also at the end where we see him fixing up the doll, we can get a better shot at his desk, and I gotta say the threads and stuff are all very nicely organized. Brahms’s table looks more organized than mine does lmao. 

So we know he is a crafty boy. Not sure how difficult taxidermy is but I imagine it does take a lot of time to learn? Well he had all the time in the world anyway.

So yeah, that’s a wrap. Congrats if you made it to the bottom of my incoherent thoughts and ramblings, have a bonus drawing of Brahms wearing different masks: 

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

“YES, I CAN HEAR YOU”

Johnny “Coco” Cruz x Reader

Anon asked: could you write something angsty with angel or coco?

Warning: a little angst.

Word Count: 2.1k

Author comments: I hope you all enjoy. English isn’t my first language, I’m sorry if I have some mistakes with grammar. Gif isn't mine. Also, I didn't study anything about Medicine, but I like drama.

Tag list: @starrynite7114 @chibsytelford @dazzledamazon @mara-mpou 💥 (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

You didn't see the car, but you felt how you flew off the motorbike, falling into the wet ground. Last thing you saw were two girls screaming and running to you, covered by pain. The agonic kind you feel before die.

━━━━━━ ﹅ ━━━━━━

“What happened?!” Coco shouts crying when he finds the doctor. He's being followed by the crew, and Letti being supported by Chucky. She can't even walk without falling down.

“Johnny Cruz?”

“Yes, what happened?!”

“A car crashed her motorbike. She has several bruses, three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and... we had to induce her into comma. The helmet saved her life”.

The world falls down to his feet. His legs trembled. Tranq forces him to have a seat, while the crying of Letti floods thr hallway. The faces of the guys talk for them. Coco is sobbing with his head between his arms, shaking it. No air in his lungs for a few seconds.

“Is gonna get better...?” Creeper asks with trembling voice, something they want and they don't want to know.

“We don't know”.

“What do ya' mean, uh?!” Coco jumps off his sit about to take him by the coat. Taza and Riz hold him apart, trying to calm the youngest.

“Next... hours... are crucial”. The doctor replies scared, walking back two steps.

“Can we... see her?” Letti talks, leaving away Chucky, with her eyes and cheeks covered in tears. The man nods pointing the room. She runs, her father too.

Their lives fall apart when they find you. You're laying in the bed with a tube in your mouth and a lot of cables around your body: connected to some fingers, another in your wrist, two in your nose. The girl has to cover her mouth before start crying loudly. Coco wrapped in his arms tightly, giving her a kiss on top of his head. Angel can't go to the room, he's not ready to see you and it hurts his chest too much.

You've been there for them the last five years, always helping the MC with whatever they asked you for. And Coco's daughter is your bestfriend since you met each other. It's painful can't do anything to help you when you most need them.

“Sometimes, they can listen”. The doctor says, holding your medical record between both hands. “I recommend you talk to her as normal as possible. I mean, talk about how were your day, what movie you saw on tv...”

“Stay with her, brother. I'm gonna do all the paperwork”. Bishop puts a hand on his shoulder, stretching it for a second. “The club will pay everything”.

“You don't ha...”

“She's one of us, Coco. Club decision”.

━━━━━━ ﹅ ━━━━━━

Yes, you could hear them.

Members of Stockton, Yuma and Samcro went to visit you. They talked you about how was going everything and telling you that, when you came home, a big party would be waiting you. The longest one with the four charters together. And you would like to smile, to say that will be amazing, but you can't.

Bishop, Tranq and Taza visited you every night. They laugh about something funny happened that day. Maybe Chucky left the crane on and destroyed a car. Maybe Angel got slapped by one of Vicky's girl. Or the recurrent story in wich they tell you that a cat went inside the clubhouse and broke a whole box full of beers, before lick it from the floor.

Riz, Creeper and Gilly went often. Every three or four hour you heard them saying “hi, pequeña, we're here again to bother you”. Sometimes they argued about what tv show is better, or talk about they wanted a new tattoo and you should choose it when you're awake.

The Reyes family always went together. Felipe was the optimist one. He used to tell you about his childhood and adolescence. Funny stories of an old man. EZ and Angel are like your brothers, so seeing you in that kind of conditions was painful. But they were there too, telling you everything was gonna be ok and how much they were missing you.

Letti and Coco made the hospital their home. Bishop ‘gave a present’ to have a bigger room with comfy sofas where they could sleep better. The younger was forced to continue with the high-school, being picked up by Chuky to go back to the hospital. Coco never left you, holding your hand, kissing you all the time. He also cleaned your face every morning and every night. Brushed your hair and put some of his cologne in your pillow to make you felt like you were at home. When he wasn't reading you ‘Hamlet’, 'cause EZ told him was your favourite book, making a lot of additionals comments like ‘shit, baby, everybody dies here’ or ‘what the hell is happening’; he mostly was in silence, blaming himself for what happened that night.

It was raining. A rare storm installed on Santo Padre and the surroundings. You were mad because you came home and he wasn't there, even when he promised you to make dinner and have some free time of the chaos. You had the accident on your way to the clubhouse. Two young girls were driving a car without license. They skipped a red light, tripling the allowed speed. You were there. And, like the doctor said, the helmet Coco gave you for your last birthday saved your life. One of those with full structure wich covered your head, face and neck. But your cross motorbike broke into pieces. But this was the less important.

Because of the shock and the pain, you had a kind of respiratory failure. Your lungs couldn't work. You also broke the left wrist and dislocated the right shoulder. Three splintered ribs, bruises around your body and a lash on the neck. The good news were that you only would need three months of rehabilitation and one for rest, after it. The comma was something preventive.

━━━━━━ ﹅ ━━━━━━

“Dammit, mami! You look good in this white pajama!” Coco gives you a kiss on the forehead, laying on the hospital bed, when the nurses have showered you. He puts an arm under your neck, carefully, holding you next to his body.

As the days goes by, you have less cables connected. You also don't need a mask to breathe better anymore and the analyzes show positive results. The crew, your family, are happy and feels better.

“You know, we talked about marriage and this... bullshit, and no following traditions, but white is definitely your color, baby”. He has a smile on his tired face, stroking your hair. “We've to marry, you hear me?”.

Tears running again down by his cheeks, pressing his lips against your temple with all the love he feels for you.

“You...” Your throat is dry and it hurts a little, but you're feeling like life is giving you a second chance. So you take it.

“(Y/N)?” Letti jumps off of the couch, Creeper and Gilly walks to the bed. Coco is looking at you with his eyes opened like never before. Everyone is having a heartattack.

“Fuc... Fucking crybaby”. With a lot of effort you smile being sleepy yet.

“Baby! Mami! Can 'hear me?”

You nod one time, drawing a painful gesture on your face. Everyone goes crazy. Creeper shouts calling the doctor, Letti hugs you and Gilly starts to call the crew by phone. You can feel Coco's hand narrowing yours, kissing your lips once and again desperately.

“Shit, mami, you scared me”. He laughs in tears, while you try to put an arm on Letti's back. “How 'feel? Need something?”

“Wa-Water, please...” You mutter clicking the tongue.

Letti, literally, runs to the table three meters away to take a small bottle. Carefully she offers you directly to your lips with soft sips. Oh, god, it feels like heaven when the liquid falls down by your throat till your stomach. The headache is gone, as the pain that involved your body the last two weeks. The plaster in your wrist is a little uncomfortable, taking a look of it raising the heavy hand in air. You look around confused and kinda anxious. It wasn't a dream. You're really there.

“What happened? Where's my bike?” You inquire, turning your face to Coco with your mouth almost open. By his gesture you know he hasn't any good to say. Licking your inner lip, you nod.

“Two crazy chicks ran you ove’, (Y/N)” He stucks both ankles on the mattress, taking your hand between his to gives you some kisses. He closes his eyes stroking one of his cheek with it. You can see the black shadows under his eyelids and the beard in the jaw.

Moving yourself all you can, you take his other cheek with the tiny fingers, inside the cast around your arm, and a wince, bowing to him. You press your lips against his, softly, in a warm way. You need to say ‘thank you for being my anchor’ without words, and Coco can feel it. You love him. You love him the most and nothing else matters. Hugging him, you start to cry. He couldn't felt the pain in every inch of your body, but you felt every day his. And it was horrible couldn't say you were ok, and you were hearing everything he said to you, hold his hand or move your head.

“This wasn't your fault”. You say, brushing his lips with yours. “Don't say that again. It was those girls, not you Coco. Even the storm has more fault on it”.

“Must have been home, baby... Making dinner, waitin' you”. He shakes his chin, closed eyes, noses lifting perfectly as a puzzle.

“Coco, stop”. You demand kissing him again, before be interrupted by the doctor.

“(Y/N), is good to see you awake. How you feel?”

“Like I learned to fly in the worst way”. Trying to laugh, coughs some times. Letti smiles laying next to you. She missed you too a lot and, by difference, she was who talked you the most. Even Gaby went to see you.

“Sense of humor is a good omen. Do you wan...”

“Oh, god, please don't. I heard it a thousand times”. You beg for a moment. “Wrist, ribs, shoulder, neck, blablabla... How many time do I have to stay here?”

“If everything goes as good as now, maybe in one or two weeks you'll be at home”.

“You hear' that, mami? You should have your meds and do whatever doc' says, to come home next week”. Coco sounds excited, smiling for the first time since one month ago. He kisses you again all over your face, holding you in his arms.

“Enjoying your holidays?” Angel's voice sounds agitated, stopping at the door till your eyes meet.

In two big steps he reaches the bed, while Coco gives you some space to be hugged for the man with a biggest smile in his face. The crew start to arrive too. Jokes, laughs and kisses flood the room. You can see some colorful flowers around, even two huge balloons are floating in a corner. That probably was Riz's idea. You're pretty sure.

━━━━━━ ﹅ ━━━━━━

“You good, mami?”

Lights off and one of your legs on his waist. Coco has you between his arms, tightly and warmly. You're finally home, in your bed, smelling again like your favourite human being. Happiness isn't enough to explain how you feel, hidding your face under his chin.

“I always am when I'm with you, papi”. You say in a whisper, tangling your fingers in his shirt to put him closer. “Will you read me tomorrow a little more of ‘Hamlet’? It was my favourite part of the day”.

“'Course I'll do, baby. I'll do anythin' ya' ask me for”.

[octalove]

IX: Bullets (And Other Things That Don’t Go Back)

(Batgirl/Red Hood)

Description: Reader and Jason are out for revenge- it doesn’t go as planned. Previous.

TW: Description of gore!!! Seriously.

This was the Bowery. Darkness became blackness here; the shadows were mountains too steep to be climbed. Each clinical electric light on the Estate didn’t seem to make a dent in the depth of them. The air was suffocating, smelling of smoke and sewage. I knew what kind of people were tucked within it; a nest of hornets. The kind of people who kill women in their homes- their beds.

The kind of people who killed my parents.

Jason was beside me, helmet yet to be pulled on as we watched from the shadows, taking in the composition of the place. His warmth and sturdy presence was reassuring; I felt nervous, and I knew why. This was personal.

At the heart of this hornet’s nest was Adriano Cliffs. He’d successfully broken up the families and rekindled a war, blaming the Pellegrinos- Kane Pellegrino specifically- for Penelope’s death. With no marriage, the families were once again enemies and competitors, and pointing the finger at Penelope’s husband was the salt in the wound that finally spurred Olivier D’amici.

Jason told me that she signed Cliffs’ deal at her granddaughter’s funeral.

He was here, tonight. The old Estate was bought with D’amici money, and inside were a dozen armed men on the D’amici payroll. Drug packaging, maybe. I wasn’t too concerned with the particular crimes taking place at the Estate; there was only one crime I wanted revenge for.

The objective was simple; find Cliffs. Whatever Red Hood did thereafter, I wouldn’t stop him. Cliffs had no children, no family. Nothing but his depraved ambitions, and as far as I was concerned, the world was better off without them.

The inside of the Estate was something out of ancient Greece. White marble floors and limestone Corinthian pillars- including a Greek-style statue in the center of the large foyer. It depicted a dramatically-posed bearded man who appeared to be reaching skyward, with the direction of his upturned eyes, a cloth swirling around his form by grace non-existent wind; ever-frozen in time.

On either side of the grandiose room were large, winding stair cases leading to a second floor with intricate railing. It was the kind of house that was built before the Bowery fell to crime and poverty. Even in the dark, with all the boxes, crates, and plastic-covered furniture, the house was a work of art.

We could hear voices carrying from back rooms and hallways, as laymen busied themselves with packing the crates with who-the-hell-knows.

Red Hood was incredibly quiet for the two-hundred pounds he was. He fell into shadows seamlessly, so still you couldn’t see the motion of his drawing breath. We moved together, common tongue of small nods, and barely perceptible hand signals. Slow movements.

Toe to heel. Steady breath. Nice and easy.

Red gave me a slight head tilt, and headed for the East wing, while I crept down the main hall. A stark, stand-alone light was in the enormous living area, illuminating some internal construction- remodeling of some kind. There was paint, ladders, and tools strewn about. I moved forward cautiously, inspecting the many corridors that the living room made way for. The narrow hallway was nearly pitch black, but I heard voices from behind a couple of the closed doors. Hushed, urgent. I pressed my ear to one.

“...What’d he say?”

“Dunno. Somethin’ bout how Cliffs got some guys want him dead for this.”

“For what? Workin’ wit the old lady?”

“Nah, not that... says Cliffs was the one who bumped off the granddaughter.”

I strained to hear them more clearly, my ear and hands pressed to the cool wood.

“Hey!”

I whipped around just as two men rushed toward me in the dark hallway. I stood, and charged them before they could draw their weapons, hitting one in the temple, and kicking the other one into the wall with concentrated force.

I turned back around just in time to see the two men I’d been eavesdropping on bursting from their room, pistols raised. I ducked as one fired a shot- one that rang like an alarm and echoed off the marble and limestone.

So much for quiet.

I slid low, and swept my leg beneath the shooter, knocking him to the ground, then delivered a left jab to the throat of the other. It was too late- I had the attention of the entire mansion now- hearing shouting and footsteps coming from all directions. As three more men appeared from the corridor, I darted back into the open living room.

More gunshots came from behind me, and a reflexive cry escaped my mouth, as I rushed for some form of cover in the nearby structures. I ducked behind an old drywall just as spray of bullets cascaded along it.

Something grazed my right cheek, and I knew the laceration was there even before I felt it. I drew a sharp breath, back pressed against the wall.

Something that sounded like voices, shouting, could be heard outside. Gun flashes ripped through my peripheral vision, hitting the man that was firing on me, who recoiled and made a disgustingly grim sound as he fell.

The wound on my face stung with ruthless irritation. My hand moved absentmindedly to cover the flesh and keep it together, but I felt the immediate fervid heat of cascading blood flood onto my palm, and through the spaces in between my fingers. It had to be deep.

“Fuck,” I whimpered. “Fuck. Fuck!” I pulled myself from my hiding place as a goon ducked behind it, not having enough time to notice me before I delivered a mean right hook.

My knuckles hurt upon the impact, but then, my whole body ached, making it hard to tell. Lines of pain blurred. It frustrated me that I felt helpless. Floundering in what was sure to be a terrifying and inglorious death, full of bullets, to become another corpse for a team of men to find and send back to the City Morgue. Burned in a cremator and reduced to nothing.

The sensation of my own blood pouring over my arm made me panic. There was so much of it, and it was so thick, and hot. I listened for more adversaries, light-headed from the loss, and the adrenaline.

As I pulled myself back into the fray, I halted in the open room, just in time to find myself eye level with a gun, staring down the barrel like my own funeral.

My gaze trailed from the gun, along the arm of my assailant, and settled on the familiar face I’d been inches from at the D’amici party.

The last time I’d been this close to him was when I was afraid I was going to make him spill his wine. His blue eyes were hard and full of hate. My stomach dropped, because I knew it was the last thing Penelope ever saw.

I was going to die.

I held my breath, closed my eyes.

But nothing came. There was a thud, and a cracking noise. As I opened my eyes, he was on the ground, and Red Hood was standing over him.

“Wrong fucking move, Cliffs.”

Irately, he kicked his stomach. Twice. Then, he circled, swung low and grabbed Cliffs by his hair. He made a struggling sound and tried to grasp at Red’s armored wrists, to no avail.

“You wanna put a bullet in another girl, that it?” His voice was full of unraveled anger as he dragged Cliffs. Dropping him forcefully, then picking him up again.

“You picked-“ He slammed Cliff’s head into a marble pillar. The sound was soft, but I flinched, and then shrunk under the sound of Cliff’s agonized cry.

“The wrong-“ He slammed it again.

“Fucking-“ Again.

“One.“ Again. The last blow was a wet, squelching sound as all the flesh had broken away, revealing the skull beneath. When his body finally crumpled lifelessly, a torrent of blood followed, flooding across the marble. His face was featureless- pieces of broken skull fragments indistinguishable from the teeth jutting out in all directions, flesh and hair melding with the blood. My eyes were glued to it.

I let out a shuddering exhale; a breath I’d been holding since the barrage began. I hadn’t even realized I’d sunken to the floor until I felt the cold marble beneath my hands, steadying me.

Red Hood leaned back in a tired way, catching his breath, before turning on me. I was sure for a moment I looked afraid. He gave no indication that he noticed.

“Can you walk?” His voice was harsh, jolting me back to a reality I didn’t know if I wanted to face. Automatically, I nodded.

He knelt down, his leather glove tipping my chin as he surveyed my face.

“Who shot you?”

“I... I don’t know..” I breathed. My mind was still catching up, reckoning with the fact that I was alive. “He’s dead.” I added.

Satisfied with that conclusion, Red turned his wrathful gaze on the back door, where some echoing gunshots could still be heard.

He stood, and pulled me to my feet as well. I only swayed a little, before I composed myself with some desperate sort of intrinsic resolve.

Pull yourself together. You’re Batgirl, for God’s sake.

He held up a gloved hand as we reached the exit, scanning the darkness. Then, together, we paced into the open night.

I wanted it to be over. I wanted to run, so I moved quickly over the concrete patio. There was a small garden in the back- dead trees and bare bushes from the harshness of winter’s height. The chill of which pricked my skin.

Suddenly, Jason grabbed my arm, pulling me to a halt. He tugged my body closer with ease, muscles tight with tension. He surveyed the dark garden, and as I followed his gaze, only then did I notice the silhouetted figure at the back gate.

I was petrified. I crouched, and knew my mask and hood covered my face, but I felt utterly visible. Luckily, Nightwing seemed more interested in Red Hood, who stood there, equal opposite to him, looking like a pissed snake about to strike. I believed it. I’d just seen it. Very abruptly, the tides of my fear shifted- so much so that the pain in my cheek dulled to a lulling ache. I was afraid for Dick.

“Jason,” Nightwing said. It was an odd thing; I knew that everyone knew who he was, but all this time it felt like my knowledge. My secret. My Jason. Now, night and day were crashing into one another, and my illusion was wavering. It was all wavering.

“Jason, I’m sorry. What happened to you- I’m so, so sorry.” The emotion in his voice made my chest hurt. “But you can’t keep doing this. Just talk to us. I miss you, little brother.”

Looking at him, I knew Red Hood was all static; charged up and willing to take out the aggression on the nearest medium of opposition. Nightwing may as well have been talking down a brick wall.

“If you don’t move, brother,” Red’s robotic drag was a sneering mockery and an earnest threat all at once. “I’ll move you.”

I was cemented to the darkness that concealed me, and still reckoning with my wounds, I didn’t know if I could help in a fight. I wasn’t sure who I would fight. Nightwing drew closer, his footfall against the garden’s gravel and the rustling wind were loud in my still-ringing ears. Red shifted his weight, blood-coated hands hovering above his holstered guns.

I stood, slowly. What the hell kind of Batgirl was I if I watched them tear each other apart?

But then, I wasn’t Batgirl, was I? Tonight, I wasn’t the hero. Under all the blood and black clothing, I was just me.

I reached out, my hands grasping at the hem of Red’s jacket sleeve, holding the leather tightly, like if I let go, the night sky would fall from where it hung above us. I pulled softly, a wordless plea, tugging him away from the jaws of a fight, wherein no victory lie- not for anyone.

He stood firmly, and drew his gun. In the time it takes to blink, he fired a shot at a goon who was emerging from the house’s back door. Nightwing and I both jumped, and then he looked back and forth between Red and the man’s body.

After a second more of resistance, Red resigned, turning to usher me into the steep shadows. Nightwing didn’t give chase in favor of trying to save the man’s life-if he could- and we peeled away into the dark.

*

“Jesus. Fuck... fuck.” I was shaking. Muscles trembling from the adrenaline and heart racing from our near-miss with Nightwing, and the way Cliffs’ eyes and blood vessels and skull looked smas-

“Hey. Easy.” My hands were in Jason’s. I must have missed when he shed his helmet, gloves and jacket as we entered his safe house. His skin was warm, his hands still as death. “Easy, little bird.” His eyes were so dark and deep, they looked like the grim, black waters of Gotham River. It was impossible to identify the multitude of emotion that lay swallowed below his torrent gaze. Concern, apathy, vigor, anger, all of it. More, that I couldn’t begin to understand. It wasn’t fair.

“Sit down.” He said. I did, pulling my gaze from his and effectively breaking the spell. He inspected the bullet graze on my cheek, the skin dark with blood.

“I’ll get some gauze.” He muttered, turning away. I focused on my breathing as he pulled off his holsters and set them with a loud clatter on a metal desk he had. He sighed.

“Damn. I wanted Cliffs alive a little longer.“

I looked at him, but it was a full thirty seconds before I comprehended what he said. After that, there was sudden knock in my mind.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” I breathed, before I could think it through.

He studied me considerately. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because you just- everything went- you... you destroyed him. You didn’t stop.”

“Don’t tell me that actually surprises you.” I drew a breath, calming down enough to try and gather my thoughts.

“I don’t know. That’s... That’s not who I thought...“ It came out before I could think.

“Who did you think I was?”

I let his mind fill in the blank, because any answer I supplied was going to sound stupid. I didn’t know who I thought he was. Not good and not evil. He was decidedly human. I couldn’t look at him any other way, no matter how else my perception swayed depending on my company.

“A murderer?” He asked, an edge to his voice like a blade heating up in embers. I stayed silent. “A criminal? A psychopath?”

I bit the inside of my lip. A small taste of coppery blood.

“That was- I don’t... I did. I did think that. But then you... then you were Jason.” I said. He scoffed at that.

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me you didn’t see what I’d done before you started meeting me. Oh, no- wait, wait- you didn’t really think you could fix me? You’re smarter than that.” He was pissed now, and the look in his eyes was what I imagined Alphonso Kuznetsov saw before the coffin lid slammed shut.

“Baby, I’ve been a charity case before, remember? Just like you.”

“That’s not what I am.” I managed to fire, leaning forward. Maybe just to remind him I was worth my weight in a fight. But maybe I wasn’t, when it came to him. “I earned my place-“

“As Barbara’s replacement? I don’t think so.”

I let out a dry, frustrated laugh, and turned my head, letting the urge to yell and scream burn in my chest. A deep breath to smother the flame. Then, I retreated back to the previous point.

“You’re right. I did know what you’d done, and I knew what you were capable of. But that was before all of this.“

“And what is ‘this’?”

This- this this. This neurotic back and forth. Ebbing into him and flowing back to my family just to feel like whoever was more important to me was whoever I was with at the time. I wasn’t on the fence, I was the fence. I had no right of my own, no place on either side. I could offer mediation. Mediocre comfort. Nothing more.

“This. Us. Working with... with you and Batman, and I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong.”

“You don’t know?” He sounded disbelieving. “Face it, babydoll. He doesn’t give a shit about you, or what you ‘earned’. You’re a tool to fuel his fucking self-serving ambitions, just like your parents were.”

“Don’t talk about them.”

“Why? They worked for him and so do you. Only difference is they worked for Bruce and you work for Batman.” His tone was dangerously condescending. I was meeting ice with fire, and it wasn’t working. “You’re a brand. Just like Robin. Doesn’t fuckin’ matter who wore the mask before, or who’s gonna wear it next. You’re nothing to him.”

A long, strangled moment passed. I’m not even sure if he was awaiting a prolepsis, or thought I’d given up, but both of us were left to rot in the apprehension.

“I’d hate to die like you did.” The quiet, vicious acidity that dipped into my voice threw even myself off kilter. A consequence of months of keeping all these goddamn secrets. My head felt like some dark, noxious lightning in a bottle. The edge in my tone was just a cork coming loose.

He met my gaze, and for the first time, looked like he couldn’t tell what I was thinking. His eyes narrowed a little, his muscles tense, coiled deep.

“But just because he forgot about you doesn’t mean he’ll forget about me.”

His infuriating silence that usually encouraged me to open up now hung in the air, tremendous, and growing still, until it was bigger than both of us. I held my ground, even as his eyes bore into me with eerie, hollow fury.

[gardenflowerswriting]

Fucking Jelly (Syverson x Reader)

Summary: Reader is a Doctor who cannot stand the captain, yet when he asks for help, they can’t say no. 

Type: playfullbanter/fluff         Gif: andsowewalkalone               Word Count: 4k

You were threading a small stitch in a mans arm as you heard talking behind you, "this here is Y/L/N." You rolled your eyes, stopping to turn and see Syverson giving his tours to the new people, "go to her if you get a boo boo, she's good with those." You lowered your mask, "Fuck off Syverson, I'm busy." "She won't bite," his thick accent annoyed you to no end. You gave a joking silent laugh and flipped him off, your blue gloves too big for your hands. "Alright boys, this way." 

You tied off the ending of the string and gave the soldier some ibuprofen, lowering your mask and taking off your gloves, "read the label, and take what's prescribed," you picked up your clipboard and began writing, "if the pain does not subside, or you believe the injury to be infect, you must go to the base compound and be evaluated there. I do not have the supplies nor medication to deal with infections." You watched the blonde haired boy nod his head. You were just saying all the basic things they told you-you had to. You had that shit memorized verbatim. You wrote his info as you kept going, "I can provide you with alcohol pads that you can rub on them to clean them." You turned around to open the cabinet and hand them to him, "and for god fucking sake don't try to eat them or get drunk off them." He took them, and smirked "people do that?" You focused back on the form, "you would be surprised.” Returning to write down the soldiers name, “But, I'm done with you so can you get the next person if there is anyone?" "Yeah, thanks doc." You nodded your head and turned back to the small filing cabinet, you had to put his paper away and grab a fresh sheet. You washed your hands in the small sink and heard steps behind you as someone sat down, "alright," you got new gloves and you reached for your pen, turning, "what can I do for you toda-" you were stopped by a smiling Syverson dangling his feet off the one tall chair in the room. You dropped your shoulders, "What are you doing here?" "I came to see you doc." "Oh my god," you leaned against the tan cabinets, "For fucks sake? You know I have actual people to see and help, not you?" His brows moved together, "what? With the little needle you carry around?" You locked your jaw, "I could do a lot with that needle, and that's what they supply me with. Maybe if they gave me more I could do more." He smiled, lifting his hand to shoo away the conversation, "no ones out there anyway. Thought I'd ask you a question." You rolled your eyes, "Syverson, if you're gonna ask me to go on a date you know the answer already." He smirked, "now doc, is that all you think about? A captain asking you on a date," you crossed your arms and glared at him. You could see him try and hold in his laugh, "no, I do have a question, a real one." You raised your brow watching, waiting, "you know a lot about human biology?" "I'm here aren't I?" "Oo, doc no need to get sour on me, I just need you to take a look at one of the dogs that we found outside." You moved your brows together, "a dog? . . I don't know anything about dogs." "Yeah, well you know about humans, they're pretty close are they not?" You stared at him in disbelief, "what? No." "Come on, a quick look, you liked Aika, this dog is no different." You sighed, Aika was cute, and when you could, you made sure to play with her outside. "You never asked me to examine Aika." "I did not say 'examine'" You narrowed your eyes, "then what do you want." He smiled, "we might have some pups coming soon." Your face went flat, "the dog is pregnant?!" "Come on doc, ain't nobody in the hall for you, take a 10 minute break?" You stared at him, trying to decide if you should trust him or not. Finally, rolling your eyes you lifted yourself off the cabinets, "where's the dog?" He smiled, "follow me." You kept your gloves on as he led you through three hallways to his room. He got a room to himself, bastard, so he was somewhat far off from everyone else, "she's been here for a while and only moved to get eat or drink." He pushed the door open and you were greeted with Aika, "hi babes." You spoke softly at her as you began to scratch behind her ear.  She jumped up on you, "Aika down!" His tone was sharp and stern, like he was talking to soldiers who were under him. You gave him a side eye, "she's fine, you know that." "I'm trying to teach her not to do that," he sighed, "this way." He guided you to a bigger dog, fatter in her belly and her nipples were prominent, "you needed me to tell you she's pregnant?" Now this just seemed like a set up to get you in his room.  You bent down to kneel by her side, "No," you scratched her stomach lightly, she looked like Aika, but with the obvious belly. Her fur was also almost all black, "I need you to tell me when she'll give birth. She whines a lot at night and like I said she don't move." You looked up at him, and almost laughed, "Syverson," his stern features didn't shift, "I'm a doctor, not a vet? I have no idea when she'll give birth." He crossed his arms and you rose back to your feet, "all I can say is to wait it out. She will when those pups are ready." He put his hand to his mouth before scratching his chin through his thick beard, thinking, "I can't raise puppies." You smiled at him, "I'll help," he gave you a coy look. Which in turn, made you side eye him, "oh sweetie not for you," looking back down at the soon to be mom, who was panting in the heat, "for the puppies." He grunted and you looked back at him, "what'll you name her?" He squinted down at the dog, "I don't know yet. . . what's your middle name?" "Syverson-" You drew out his name, annoyed.  "No seriously, what is it?" You rolled your eyes, "Y/M/N." (Your/middle/name) "Settles it," he knelt down to the dog and rubbed behind her ears, "Y/M/N," he looked up to you and smiled. After then, you didn't think of the momma anymore, while Syverson constantly made sure to bring her up on your radar. But, today you had seen twenty-two guys which was far from normal, and being you were the only one on base who knew how to give proper stitches and offer medical care in your make shift clinic, you wanted to sleep. Your room was with some of the other female soldiers, but they were nice to you so you didn't care too much. As you were getting ready for bed, you brushed your teeth, let your hair down from it's bun and got it a little wet, so it would return to its normal form. You looked in the mirror and felt dead, wearing a tan t-shirt with no bra and shorts that were too short, but wouldn’t be uncomfortable under your cargo pants (in the instance you needed to get dressed quick). You shuffled to your bed and closed your eyes. "Y/N," you felt your body shake furiously and in an instant, your eyes opened and you reached for the gun you kept at the side of your bed. "No," the dark figure grabbed at your arm and when you went to scream a strong hand covered your mouth, "aye! It's me! It's Syverson." You squinted at the figure and could make out the beard, "Shumveson?" It was muffled because of his hand. He put his finger to his mouth, "shh, you gotta come with me." "Hmm?" Again, the idiot had his hand over your mouth. They really let the dumbest people be captains. "Y/M/N." It took you a minute but then you remembered and nodded your head. "Come on." He let go of your mouth and backed up. When you stood to walk, you whimpered from the pain in your feet, but you followed him to his room, the walk was silent except for your cries of pain. "I think she's having them, I gave her my shirt to lay on." You looked over to his body, "is that why you are suddenly without clothes?" He didn't wear a shirt and only his cargo shorts, which were loosely hanging around his waist. He rolled his eyes at you, "says the girl who's boobs and ass are hanging out." You moved your brows together and felt slightly self conscious, but turned your attention to the dog. "I need you to go to my office and grab two sets of gloves, and probably some Benadryl. Get me some food too." You lowered to be level with the dog. "You're hungry right now?" "Are you dumb? It's to put the pills in and feed to her. Go!" He did as you said and all you could do was scratch as the girls face, "shh, baby," she let out whimpers and you were afraid she would wake people up. He came back and dropped the materials next to you, "get the gloves on when the puppies start to come." He nodded his head and sat down on your free side, "okay baby, we're gonna help you." You looked to Syverson, "she should know how to do this herself, so it's just waiting. But when the puppies are all out, we will figure out the genders then lay them next to her so she can clean them, keep them warm, and let them eat," he nodded his head, receiving all your orders, "get the food you brought and lather them up in Benadryl." "Can dogs have that?" "yes, and it's all we have," she whimpered again and you both looked down to her. He shifted to grab something from the side of his bed, and when you looked, it was a jar of jelly. You almost gasped, "what the hell? You have jelly?!" He cracked the lid open and used his finger to scoop out a chunk, looking to you, "what? My mom mailed it over." You were still jealous. "I hate you," you muttered. He gave her two pills and you both sat watching on the cold tile floor, it was like watching water boil. After about half and hour, he jumped, exclaiming: "I see a head!" You put your hand over his mouth, "she needs to be at peace right now! Don't disrupt her." You felt his tongue against your palm, which made you with draw quickly, "ew!" He smiled, "you liked it." You could only roll your eyes, but you felt his arm wrap around your back pulling you to sit in between his legs, "look," his voice was deep in your ear, which almost put you in a sleepy trans. But you followed to where his finger was pointing, which was to the small head of puppy coming out. You smiled, sitting criss-cross in between his thick body, "you're gonna be a dad." You spoke softly. You could see his hands rest on his knees, "damn, that makes you the step mama." You couldn't help but laugh, while shaking your head, knowing he smiled at you from behind You didn't notice it, but as the longer you both watched the puppies arrive, the deeper you were in his lap. You laid your head against his fury chest while he rested one hand behind him to support you both and the other laid gently against your body. You had gotten so tired, you jumped when his deep voice rose again, vibrating against your head, "you think she's done." You rose quick and looked around, darting to her and the puppies surrounding her nipples to drink. "Um," you rubbed your eyes, "yeah. We can count them and know the genders I guess." "Alright," he shifted from his position, "we could've moved to the bed instead of making me sit on the hard ass floor." You shook your head, "I didn't mean to fall asleep," you yawned a little, looking over at him, "what time is it?" He checked his watch, "4:08" you nodded and moved closer to Y/M/N, he was close behind you, settling at your side as you both looked at her in awe. "Good job babe," you rubbed her head, she welcomed it and kept her mouth open panting. You could hear him getting his gloves on, "Let's see," he picked up one and checked the underside, "girl." You looked to the puppy, her little eyes were still closed and she was so tiny in his hands, "what's gonna be her name?" He took a long look at her, "Doc . . . for doctor." You rolled your eyes and met his gaze, "i want to keep this one and for her name to be doc." He looked so serious about it that you felt your heart pick up. You shuffled closer to him and watched as he set the puppy down, "fine, but the next ones name is gonna be cap for captain." You knew he was smiling, and by the end of you guys going back in forth with names, you had seven puppies, four girls (Doc, Ivy, Ace, and Lyn) with three boys (Cap, Sage and Hendrix). By the time you were done arguing on the names, it was 4:42 AM. You both got up at six hundred hours normally, and you knew if you fell asleep you'd be out. "What some coffee?" He asked after you two were done admiring the cute little puppies and their whimpers. You nodded your head, "you can sit on the bed, it's softer," he got up and disappeared from the room. You scooted to the mattress and first thing you noticed was how much nicer it was than your own. You leaned your head against the wall and when he came back with two mugs you gave him a glare, "your own room, a jar of jelly, and a soft ass bed." He smiled, handing you the cup, "it pays to have a momma that loves ya, and I guess a good position." You rolled your eyes and blew on the coffees surface, watching the steam rise from it. He picked up the container in one hand and tossed it on your crossed legs, "take it." You looked up at him and he walked towards you, laying down next to you, putting his weight on his elbow so he could look at you. You felt yourself frown, "I can't take it." He shook his head, "that's what I'll pay you in, Berry jelly." "Pay me?" He smiled, taking a sip of the black coffee, "for helping." That almost made you snort, "I fell asleep? Really Sy, you should have it, it's from your family. I'm good with the beans and noodles." "Let me see it," he rested his coffee on the bed, letting it sit against his chest as you handed him the jar and he unscrewed the top, showing you the delicious looking substance. You felt your mouth water, "take some." When he could tell you were resilient, he nudged it closer to you again. You pulled one hand from your coffee mug and let two fingers dig into the jar, coming out with a beautiful scoop of the substance. He watched closely as you put your fingers in your mouth and moaned, which made him all the more tentative. His eyes scanned over your body, and took a long glance at your chest knowing you weren't wearing a bra. Your eyes were closed as you threw you head back against the wall, "that good?" It was so sweet and tart at the same time, it almost made you feel like you were in his hometown. You could imagine him picking berries for the mixture and helping to smash them with his mom, it was so cute. When you finally opened your eyes, your smile was giddy, "like an orgasm." "Well doc if I would've know it was that easy I would've given it to you the first day I saw you." You looked straight at the paint chipped wall, still feeling in a daze of jelly happiness, as you shook your head, "no, you could never get me like that." He watched your every move, licking his lips, "wanna make that a bet." Your head shifted down to him, and you looked at him with the most loving eyes he had ever seen, "this was fun." Before lowering to kiss his cheek, you stopped at his ear, "I'll come by tonight and look at how the kids are doing?" He nodded his head and you pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was quick, but it left a warm print on his skin, and made your chin rub against his beard. "Bye Sy." He hummed, and watched you lift yourself from his bed. He watched your ass as you tiptoed and opened his door lightly, giving him one last glance before you disappeared into the hall. "Fuck." He muttered looking to the jar he laughed, "fucking jelly." 

[concussed-to-pieces]

To Tell You The Truth Part Five

Fandom: Prospect [2018]

Pairing: Eventual Ezra/Prospector!Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Dudes, real talk. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. Your support on this particular endeavor is just mindblowing and I love you guys so much (no this isn’t the end or anything I’m just in my feels right now). This installment has a monologue in it that I'm really, really stupid proud of. I hope you guys like it. Enjoy!

Tag List: @huliabitch @renegademustelid @wrestlingfae @zombiexbody @sporadic-fics @rzrcrst @lackofhonor @the-feckless-wonder @arrowswithwifi @fioccodineveautunnale

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains vague depictions of gore. Stay safe!]

You thought you heard someone running, heavy boots pounding hard on the ground. Who even has the energy for that, you wondered idly.

Oxygen abruptly flooded back into your helmet and you inhaled on instinct, hacking and wheezing. The bayonet twitched roughly, making you sob out before some of the pressure on the blade was relieved. 

"There. Detached it from the fucking thrower. You still with me, gentle soul?" Ezra, it was Ezra, talking loudly, tapping your helmet and seeming relieved when you barely opened your eyes once more. "I'm goin' to stabilize the bayonet, you understand me? We can't remove it or we'll do more damage. Have to stabilize with the patcher cream."

"Told y...you to...leave--" you gasped, grabbing desperately at his shoulder. "Miss the--sling...back…"

"Kevva was a martyr, you know." Ezra said suddenly. "A little bit Prometheus, a little bit Jesus. Shot himself into space so others wouldn't fear to follow in his footsteps, to give countless souls the chance to be reforged in booster fire. Always found martyrdom more trouble than it was worth, myself. Living on struck me as the more attractive option." He murmured, struggling with your suit.

The only reply you could manage was more of a wet gurgle of confusion. What was he even talking about?

"Now, we as human beings are taught that self-sacrifice is the loftiest of moral pedestals to stand upon. We are taught that puttin' the needs of others above ourselves is the pinnacle, the quintessential desirous trait." He carried on in a pleasant tone, like this was a normal conversation the two of you were having as he poured the antiseptic liquid over your abdomen. 

It burned and stung. You wanted to scream but you couldn't draw the breath, settling for a pitiful whimper.

"I cannot tell you how many times I roundly railed against the purported divine will of that miserable martyr when I found myself trapped on this forsaken moon. The last thing I wanted was to be slain before I finally got to revel in my spoils, reduced to no more than a cautionary tale of avarice and loss in the annals of time. Lo and behold though, despite all my tribulations, it appears I was not the one in danger of being a sacrificial lamb."

The clear dome of his helmet thudded against your own, and he tried to time your breathing for a moment before he gave up and just clicked the trigger on the patcher gun. You cried out hoarsely in pain and he echoed you with a groan, shaking his head.

"Instead, that malevolent bearded bastard sent me a precious gentle soul, one more gracious and generous than any harvest, to shield my worthless body from the slings and arrows of this hostile moon. But I do not accept the debt of another's life so free and easy, especially not when it's counted against all my sins." He continued relentlessly, tossing the foam gun aside. "You can urge me until your holy heart stops, yet I refuse to indulge you in your blasted martyrdom." The word was furious, hissed out between his teeth. "You will live. If I have to drag you back from Kevva's greedy, graspin' hand myself, I damn well will. You have suffered Purgatory long enough, gentle soul." 

With that emphatic declaration he heaved you upright, draping your arm over his shoulder and beginning the slow, tortuous walk back to the mercenary rock jumper. "Ez--ra…" you choked, your legs barely supporting you. "C-an't--"

"Hush, gentle soul." He said firmly, struggling to distribute more of your weight onto his shoulders. "I would carry you if I trusted my arm, but regrettably I am not at full-test. All the same, I'm putting you into that fuckin' pod even if I have to drag you every accursed step of the way." 

Your fingers dug into his suit and you straightened up marginally. Just enough for him to get a better grip on your body. "M' gonna'-" you coughed, red droplets hitting the dome of your helmet.

"Keep your free hand on that blade, gentle soul. The less damage we do to your internal machinations, the better." 

You obediently curled your glove around the foam-crusted bayonet, stabilizing the protruding weapon with what little strength you had left. You stared down at his leg, trying to get your own steps to match up with his so he didn't trip over the tether tube. You weren't sure whether either of you would be able to get back up if that occurred.

"Almost there." Ezra announced, making your head jerk up. You had been wavering on the edge of unconsciousness, just focusing on keeping your feet moving. 

He dropped your hand onto one of the railings for the pod ladder and you obligingly tried to pull yourself into it after he gave you a boost, ending up essentially throwing your body forward and to the side on the floor of the pod.

Ezra staggered up behind you, fumbling to shift you from your fetal position. "In the seat, gentle soul, we need to strap you in. Can't have loose cargo when we take off." He muttered. 

Your head felt too heavy. You let it loll against your chest while he essentially manhandled you into the passenger seat and snapped the harness around you as best as he could. "M'sorry…" Your voice was barely audible through your helmet. "Can't..."

"You manage those lungs of yours, don't worry about me." He replied tersely, yanking off his helmet and then tearing at the latches on your own. "You just keep breathin'. We'll be out of this in no time, gentle soul, no time at all." 

You nodded dazedly after he pulled the helmet off over your head. "Thank…"

"Hush, damn it." Ezra rasped, pressing his lips to your forehead. "Hush. Save your energy and keep that bayonet steady. We'll be on that freighter in a tick. Get you to a proper med bay." His voice trembled.

You were vaguely aware that he had strapped in beside you. There was the soft rustle of manual pages, then the deafening rattle of the pod boosters, the thrum of the engines as it broke the atmosphere. Light from Bakhroma's sun poured in through the triangular windows overhead, all but blinding you. 

Ezra weakly stripped your glove and then clasped your fingers across the center console as the freighter appeared, spindly arms of pods hanging suspended in the brilliant green and navy halo of the surrounding cosmos. "We have at last been delivered from our toilsome strife." He sighed. "Better days beckon us onward, gentle soul." He raised your hand to his lips, and you felt the brush of his facial hair when he kissed your open palm.

...

You were unsure of how much time had passed. You thought you were being removed from the pod, something about getting rushed through the triage protocols. 

An oxygen mask was snapped down over your face, the whirr of an intraosseous needle reaching your ears. Conversations around you faded in and out, random voices discussing your condition. 

Where was Ezra?

"If that bayonet had gone half an inch deeper-"

"I suggest you apply the brakes on that particular intellectual locomotive." You felt your fears ebb at the familiar sound of his drawl. "We are running on precious little sleep and I must confess to an unhealthy inclination towards impatience when I am deprived of my slumber. Now, my individual trauma can wait until you have available staff, but their wound will fester if it is left much longer." A large hand rested on your forehead, shielding your half-open eyes from the fluorescent lighting. "Take care of their potential pneumothorax, doctor, and I will be as docile as a lamb."

"Ez…" you whispered.

"Still tryin' to palaver? Gentle soul, now is not the time for idle conversation." His hand stroked your forehead as he soothed, "Rest now. We did it. You did it." 

With his assurance, you closed your eyes.

...

You were confined to a rehabiter chamber for what felt like a short eternity as the freighter made its laborious way back to Central, Puggart Bench and the overcrowded wards that dotted the outskirts.

All you had left physically to remind you of your ordeal was a slow-healing wound on your abdomen and muscles that felt like they would never stop aching. You had one hundred percent overdone it and, if the resident freighter physician had anything to say regarding the matter, you were incredibly lucky to be alive.

The freighter's lung scrubber wasn't exactly on par with the level of sanitation either you or Ezra needed, so you were kept on it at all times until you could be transferred to the Puggart Bench medicog. You were grateful to be weathering the travel in the freighter's dingy med bay, as strange as that was to say. You weren't sure how long it would be before you could travel in a pod without feeling deeply apprehensive.

Once dropped at Puggart, you barely even got to wave at Ezra (he waved back with a drowsy grin from beneath the oxygen tent) before you were whisked away to a different room and hooked up to something a little more high-test. 

Fully purging the dust took literal days of treatment. The preliminary scans of your lungs revealed what looked like thick, puffy cotton balls in the place of usual bronchioles. You could only imagine how bad Ezra's lungs must be if that was what yours were like.

The rest of your body continued to arduously heal. You spent the hours of solitary treatment quietly drawing on your memo pad. Once that ran out of pages, you began to save the napkins that came with your Pastors slurry. A kind orderly found you an abandoned clipboard and you would balance it on your knees to draw for as long as you were able before your stomach began to protest.

You did your best to not think about the Bakhroma Green moon. It was difficult, but you tried. The lushly poisonous foliage, the Queen's Lair, Damon-

Your sleep was fitfully restless, either due to the lingering pain of your wound or the nightmares that hounded you. You were unsure of the last time you had truly enjoyed a good night's sleep.

Once you had been off the scrubber for a full week, Ezra came to visit. You almost didn't recognize him sans the bulk of his suit and helmet, but the brilliant blond Mallen streak that jutted mischievously out from his right temple removed all doubt. He looked much better, which was to be expected. Clean food and fresh air had done him wonders.

"Gentle soul!" He exclaimed warmly upon entering your cubicle, his voice rasping slightly, "all those days of good behavior paid off. Your jealous warden has finally deemed me worthy of entry into your domain." 

"Good to see you too, Ezra." You replied with a smile, raising an eyebrow at the flowers he carried. "I won't take up much of your time, obviously you've got places to be." What was that weird pang in your chest? Were you jealous? Why would you be jealous? 

"Your modesty, while one of your finest qualities, wounds me deeply. These are for you, gentle soul." Ezra placed a hand over his heart, bowing grandly as he presented you with the bouquet. 

"F-For me? Oh." You felt a little ashamed of your strange jealousy now, fumbling to take the flowers from him. "These are so beautiful, you...you didn't have to, you know." You murmured, burying your nose in the soft petals. 

"What better way to celebrate you bein' on the mend?" He inquired incredulously, pulling up the chair beside your bed. 

"I'm kind of surprised you're still here, honestly." You confessed. 

"Whyever for?"

"Well I just...I assumed you would have set back out in search of the next big thing." You twiddled your fingers, keeping your eyes on the flowers. 

"I am full of surprises, I suppose. Oh! And in that vein." Ezra tugged free a long, flat box from inside the (obviously very new) blazer he wore. "Another surprise."

The box was wrapped simply in plain paper and twine, a bit like all your sketchpads had been. "Ezra-" you began to protest. 

He waved off your words though, gesturing impatiently for you to rip off the paper. "I have been burstin' at the seams to give this to you, gentle soul. Do not make me wait one iota longer, I implore you."

Laughing a little at his enthusiasm, you obliged. Your laughter caught in your throat as you turned the brightly-colored box over, the graphics on the front proudly announcing the contents. "This...Th-This is…" You stammered, swallowing hard. "I...Ezra-"

"It's the draw-pad! Y'know, the one we discussed. Brand new, hot off the line." Ezra looked insanely pleased with himself, fidgeting in the seat. "I saw it and I knew you needed it."

"Ezra, this is too much." You tried to sound like you disapproved, but you were relatively certain your fingers reverently tracing the brilliant logo gave you away. Just the box alone looked so crisp, the edges still sharp instead of crushed in and rounded with age.

"Now, this gift does come with a request." He drawled from his spot beside your bed. You glanced up, that old wariness creeping back in. "I want you to familiarize yourself with this tool. Not sure how long it'll take. I have faith in your tenacity and ability to adapt, however. Once you're confident in your skill, I would be most obliged if you would consider a solicitation of partnership. " 

"Part...nership?" You repeated, thoroughly confused.

Ezra nodded. "Yes, gentle soul. I am penning a semi-fictitious memoir and it would add a certain...gravitas if your sketches graced the pages as well, you understand."

You fairly erupted with excitement, "I would love to!" Your enthusiasm jerked to a sudden stop as you remembered just where you were, and how much debt you were probably in. "But I...I can't." You finished sadly, stroking the brightly-colored illustrations on the front of the draw-pad box one last wistful time before you pressed it back into his hands. "I'm sorry Ezra, I need to hurry up and heal so I can hurry up and find another job, work through paying off this treatment bill--"

"Gentle soul, I don't think you have a full grasp of your situation." Ezra interjected. "You are an incredibly rich individual." You stared at him, not entirely registering his words. "Have you truly forgotten just how much of the Queen your deft little hands plundered?"

"That's not mine, that's y-"

"Kevva above, gentle soul. If not for your steady skinnin' and de-blisterin', we wouldn't have secured a damn thing." Ezra leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers. "I turned a handsome profit as well, mind you. I am quite comfortably off with my harvest as it is. But you, gentle soul, you…" He cleared his throat. "I took the liberty of arrangin' an account for you while you were indisposed."

"There was enough for an account?" You squeaked. 

Ezra's laugh sounded raw. "The wonder in your eyes! I wish you could see yourself. Give me a moment, I'll pull up the numbers." He had apparently gotten one of those new, touchscreen Servs. He didn't even need a cable! You watched apprehensively as he tapped away at the tablet, swiping through a few menus. 

When he tilted the screen to show you your account, you were relatively certain you had gone into shock. You knew your mouth was opening and closing, but you couldn't seem to form any words.

"I daresay you may be able to afford your hospital bill." The man said dryly after watching you gawk for several long minutes. "And perhaps a few meager indulgences on top of that."

"That's...that can't be right." You whispered, reaching out to touch the numbers. Ezra chuckled when your clumsy fingers accidentally brought up another menu, the older man easily dismissing it. 

"It is indeed correct, gentle soul. The exchange was the cleanest I've ever done, and sported the highest rates I've ever encountered. It seems we returned from the Bakhroma Green in the nick of time, in more ways than one." 

"Ezra, that's...I-I've never even dreamed of having so many points. I…" you trailed off, biting your lip. Tears welled up in your eyes and, for the first time since Damon had been killed, you started to cry in earnest.

Ezra's hand rested on your arm after a moment and you let yourself be eased into his embrace, sobbing against his shoulder. "Steady now, gentle soul. You just let it all out. It's over, you understand?" He soothed, cupping the back of your head. "Over and done with. Your perdition is at its end. You are free from those terrible burdens." 

"I just...this doesn't even feel real." You hiccupped. "I feel like I'm g-gonna' wake up in that pod all over ag-gain."

"I know that sensation all too well. My sleep is poor, my dreams fraught with dark recollections." Ezra admitted quietly. "Safety and stability are luxuries I have not been able to afford for many years. Now that I have them, I am...unsure of what to do with them." He sighed, his chin resting on the top of your head. "We have endured so much worse than having a little good fortune, yet upon bein' confronted with it, we do not feel worthy."

You nodded into his shoulder. It was no surprise that he would know exactly how to put into words what you had been feeling. You jolted abruptly when you realized which shoulder you were molesting. "Oh! Your arm, I'm so-"

"Don't you fret, gentle soul." He released you and carefully slid his arm out of his blazer, the barest wince betraying him as he flexed the limb freely. "I'm on the mend, with a...zeal I did not realize I possessed. The matron in charge of my circulatory rehabilitation seems hell-bent on gettin' me to break a sweat." Ezra sounded rueful. "I'm just glad I can breathe unaided once more. I'll never take my lungs for granted ever again."

...

You doused the eggs with the brilliant orange sauce, shoveling a forkful into your mouth and groaning in appreciative delight. 

"Now normally, condiments are a compliment to the dish." Ezra delicately gestured at your orange-stained plate with his fork. "With you however, condiments appear to be the main course." He teased. Ezra had offered to take you out for breakfast on the morning of your release, he called it a daring escape from the confines of modern medicine. Hence your current locale. You had, however, insisted that the two of you split the bill.

"After so long eating Pastors Calori-pouches and bits bars, I...I need the color just as much as I need the flavor, y'know?" You mumbled around your mouthful. "My tastebuds are all brand new again."

"I meant no disrespect, gentle soul." Ezra reached across the table with a paper napkin and you jerked back on reflex, laughing awkwardly as you tried to play off your sharp reaction. He cocked his head, eyebrows drawn quizzically tight. "I said I would not ask, and I will not break that promise." He murmured, tucking the napkin into your limp hand instead. "If ever there is anything I can do though, anything I can say to...to ease these burdens you carry on your body, all you need do is ask."

This was far too serious of a topic to be discussing in a greasy diner with bright orange hot sauce dripping off your chin. 

Ezra skewered a bite of flapjack with his fork, dipped it in the vibrant condiment that smeared your dish and then popped it into his mouth. You gawked at him as he chewed, his eyes idly roaming the diner. You could take the man out of the communal mining canteen, but you couldn't take the communal mining canteen out of the man, you supposed. You remembered all too well the stands worth of others pilfering off your own tray.

"I know you are no doubt eager twice over to get your mitts on my draft and begin your creative process, but I must insist we allow you the time to reacclimate to city livin'." He changed the subject deftly, his fingers drumming on the scarred diner table as he spoke. "Elsewise you may just end up sealin' yourself into a studio like a cask of Amontillado and drawin' the day away." His eyes wandered back to your face. "Have you given any more consideration to which ward you might prefer to hang your hat in?" 

You gulped down a bite of toast before shaking your head. "I...I looked through the listings two days ago but I don't...I mean, I know I can afford to, but…" you trailed off. 

"Livin' alone holds no allure." Ezra's tone was sympathetic. He steepled his hands on the tabletop. "Permit me to suggest an alternative, gentle soul." You inclined your head. "We are two wandering drifters that, through sheer grit and a healthy sprinkling of providence, have managed to slog through hell together and survive without growing to loathe each other's company." 

You stared at him blankly, sponging the sauce off your chin. Ezra settled back in the booth, his body language enviably relaxed. 

"I am more than willin' to open my humble abode to you. For a few stands or simply until you find yourself despising my lugubrious company." He held up a hand as you opened your mouth. "I offer without any malice or intent of predation, gentle soul. I know that the return to non-floater spaces is not often an easy one, and I strongly suspect that you have been preyed upon in the past."

"I know you're not like that." You blurted out, flushing immediately afterwards.

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "I am grateful you don't lump my gregarious self in with the refuse, gentle soul."

"I just...I mean you've done so much for me already." You continued helplessly. "I'm in your debt, Ezra. By a lot."

"Nonsense." He scoffed. "Without you, we never would have escaped the Green! If we are to speak of debts and debtors, I must reason that I am still in yours. Shooting me would have been a ludicrously simple task, as I pointed out when we were still in that Kevva-forsaken place. Never mind the steady-handed salvage of my arm, your heroic duel with Inumon-"

"Oh yes, nothing more heroic than getting three-quarters killed by a grungy Krebine bayonet." You interrupted him dryly. "While hopped up on Brism."

Ezra chuckled. "Modest as ever!" He quickly sobered, his eyes serious. "My lodgings are more than adequate to house another individual, should you decide to grace me with your presence."

...

You didn't really have any possessions, which made your move relatively straightforward. All you had was your helmet, your suit, your underclothes and the contents of the pockets of said suit. Mercifully, everything had been decontaminated, so you didn't have anything to fear from throwing your familiar kit back on.

"I will offer you a change of clothes, but! We must venture out and acquire you new attire at your earliest convenience." Ezra insisted, already rummaging through his laughably barren closet even as you protested. "I doubt you wish to eternally linger in my dubious, threadbare garb." He suddenly stopped, snapping his fingers. "Wait. No. Kevva, we can order on the Serv. Unless you prefer the torment of physical fitting rooms?" He queried with a grimace, making you laugh.

You found yourself curled up on the couch several hours later, clad in one out of his two 'casual' shirts and your thermal leggings. You held the Serv tablet carefully in your hands as Ezra swiped through page after page of various clothing, the precocious man enthusiastically supporting any item you expressed interest in. 

"This will at least tide you over until you feel more comfortable wanderin' the streets of the Pug again. We should also find you some underthings and socks." He mused, tapping the appropriate area on the screen to bring up the search option. "I'll leave you to that, gentle soul." You hesitantly took over from him and he rose from the couch, stretching with a quiet groan. "Tea? I feel inordinately cozy right now." He offered cordially. 

"Mmhm." You nodded, a little distracted by the waves of choices available to you. Granted, at this stage all you needed were a few essentials. Undergarments that would hold up in the wash, good socks to ward off the chill. "Should I get shoes too, or wait until I go out for that?" You called.

"I feel it would be prudent to dally on that particular front." Ezra drawled from the kitchen. "It's best to ensure a proper fit in person if at all possible. Though, I hardly need to tell you that." He stuck his head back out through the doorway after a moment. "Toiletries tab should be the second to last on the right."

"I mean, I took the toothbrush from the hospital so I'm probably fine for-" His raucous laughter interrupted your reasoning and you scowled at him, uncertain of what could be so funny. 

"You've got more funds than most people would see in six lifetimes, and yet you purloined the toothbrush from your hospital room." Ezra managed to say after a few moments. "Floater habits die hard, eh gentle soul?"

Against your will, you felt giggles bubbling in your chest and you huffed out a breath, trying to ward them off. "Shush, you...you!" You retorted lamely, losing your battle with your own laughter. "Stop judging me, your moral high ground is subterranean."

"Subterranean, I like that!" Ezra exclaimed, his eyes shining with good humor as he passed you a plain white mug full to the brim with tea. "I'll have to pilfer that for my illustrious tale. Give you full credit, naturally."

You smiled at him over your mug. "You'd better."

He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. "I am a man of subterranean high ground, true enough. But I am a man of my word!"

Part Six

[magalidragon]

targaryen’s seven | a Jonerys drabble

A/N: I could not help myself and just threw down this Drabble. I  don’t want to post it on Ao3 just yet because is not a full one-shot nor is it going to be multi-chapter (in the near future, maybe one day I will come back to it) but thought you guys might like it.  Enjoy!

The wind bit at her exposed skin, cheeks pinking without any aide of blush or tint.  It whipped over her silver curls and braids, already pulled back taut from her face.  It would have chilled anyone’s bones, except hers.  Her bones were heated from the heavy thud of her heart against her breastbone, the rush of blood in her veins, and the fire raging inside her soul.  The fire which rose to sparkle in her lavender eyes, redden her plump and pursed lips, and thirsted for revenge.  

In the dark winter in the North, far beyond the everlasting lights and skyscrapers of King’s Landing, the craggy peaks of the Vale, and the marshy flats of the Riverlands, no one walking by on the quaint lantern-lit light posted street with its cozy restaurants, pubs, boutique hotels, and little shops devoted to preserving the heritage of the Realm’s largest, sparsest, and remotest kingdom.  

The woman standing against one of these lightposts, her hands in the pockets of her designer black trenchcoat, hardly paying attention to the bustle of people.  There were locals intermixed with tourists—it was the Dawn Festival soon—going from building to building, stopping to take photos in front of silly little cardboard cutouts of ice zombies and Northmen.

Only a few stopped in their tracks to glance at her, for she stood out among the darkness and the cold snow, her silver hair a moonlit beacon, her entire demeanor that of someone who should not be trifled with nor confronted.  One glance of her purple eyes and they were on their way, bewitched almost to forget she was even there to begin with.  

She lifted her left wrist up to peer at the heavy silver men’s wristwatch, ticking softly under the wail of the wind.  Daenerys Targaryen tsked under her breath.  “He’s late,” she murmured.  She supposed it was silly to think he would actually honor her summons.  He would not be coming then.

Well I suppose I will have to go looking for him.

Her heavy black combat boots crunched under the fresh snows, hands returning to her pockets, walking slowly down the sidewalk.  The last time she was here had not been pleasant.  The Northern History Museum had been far more difficult to crack than she’d originally planned.  She had barely made it out of there with the silver wolf circlet she’d broken in to steal.  Retrieve, she preferred, even if the authorities had different views on the matter.

The silver wolf circlet allegedly belonged to a Northern queen, who rebelled against the kingdoms and ultimately died of starvation when all her allies abandoned her. It was exceptionally expensive and the funds of which now had been siphoned into a series of orphanages the Northern government had been sorely neglecting.

Her walk took her from the local streets a bit farther off the beaten track, the lamps extinguished or nonexistent, the people fewer and fewer, until she was the only one on a darkened street.

Dany paused in front of a pub, glancing down at her phone.  A message from her hacker—Missandei—informed her his cell phone had been pinging from that location an hour ago.  She glanced up, smirked at the worn sign-- The Wildling -- hanging on one hinge.  It was not for charm, but because the owner no doubt didn’t care about it.  Perfect.

She entered the pub, which suddenly went quiet.  Everyone stared at her.  Dany reached up to pull at one of the buttons on her coat, her smile amused, gaze sweeping from one end to the other of the less than desirable establishment.  She was not a local, she should not be there, but she did not care, purposefully striding towards the ancient bar, where a gigantic man with thick red beard and wild eyebrows surveyed her with bright blue eyes.  

“Ale please,” she ordered, sweet.

The man chuckled.  “You’re not from around here.”

“Nope.”

“You lost?”

Dany smiled, taking another look over her shoulder at the clientele, all of whom were still staring at her. She met the man’s gaze again, shaking her head.  “Nope.”

They looked at each other, unblinking, for what seemed like several minutes, but was only a couple.  A boom of laughter finally broke their silent pissing contest, the man slapping his dustbin lid sized hand on the bar, pointing at her, grinning darkly.  “I like you.”  He reached under the bar for a pint.  “Attitude like that, first one’s on me.”  

“I was hoping you could pass something along for me to one of your regulars.”

“Can’t say anyone you know would be in my pub,” the man said.  He set her pint glass full of darkened ale.  He grinned again.  “But try me.”

Dany slipped her fingers into one of the inner pockets of her coat, removing a slim black box.  She set it down on the bar, pushing it with one red manicured finger towards him.  Another enigmatic smile did the trick. “This is for Jon Snow.”

The entire pub might as well have gone on mute.

The jovial bartender immediately hardened, those twinkling blue eyes now chips of ice.  He was gruff.  “Don’t know a Jon Snow.”

“I think you do Tormund Giantsbane.”  Dany climbed off her stool, took a long pull from the ale glass, and wiped the foam from her upper lip.  The gruffness of the bartender dropped like a mask at her sudden use of his full name.  She liked to stun them.  It was fun that way. She turned, calling over her shoulder.  “Put it on his tab.”

The heavy oak door swung closed behind her with a deafening thud.  Dany liked the taste of that ale, making a note she would have to return if she was ever in the mood for it again.  She tugged her phone out, now a message from her ghost, warning her that this was a bad idea and they should try some other way.  

Barristan had said the same thing.  So had Daario.  Grey and Gendry might have also agreed, if Missy and Arya hadn’t been as forceful as they had with their displeasure.  Sometimes it was bothersome to have members of a team fucking, but Dany accepted the two couples because they worked well together and did not usually let their personal issues bleed into the world.  

Plus they all had reason for this job.  Well, not Daario, but he would do anything she asked because he was in love with her.

They all tried to convince her to get someone else.  There were plenty who would kill to be a part of her team.  To join them in this endeavor.  No one else would do, she told them, calm and quiet.  

It had to be him.

She returned to her car, parked in a community lot near the main square, and paid the exorbitant parking fee, even if it probably would have been easier to just use one of Missandei’s contraptions to hack her way out of the 15 stags.  She drove off, humming along to a silly pop song playing from whatever radio station had been on when she picked up the car at the Winterfell International Airport.

Ah Winterfell, so many memories.  The castle loomed large over the city that bore its name.  It was a museum now, even if the Stark family still retained some ownership of it.  Somewhere on the other side in more modest accommodations a few of the Stark family still lived. 

The Starks weren’t as big as they once were.  They were desperate for cash.  All they had were their titles, such as they were.  Dany thought about Arya Stark, her ghost, who technically bore the honorific Lady, but if you thought of calling her that you would get a knife in the gut.  It was part of her reason for taking this job.  

They all had reasons and now she just needed the final player in the game.

In lieu of a hotel, as much as she would like someone to pull back her linens and prepare a fire for her when she turned in for the evening, she rented out a luxury cabin several miles away.  It afforded her privacy, stunning views, and a large sunken tub.  Dany liked a sunken tub.

She parked, walked up to the front door, and smiled to herself at the threshold.  So obvious. She slipped in the key and entered, turning to plug in the code for the alarm panel.  When she turned back, she slipped off her coat, and walked into the large stone paneled living room, with its great fireplace—already crackling—and mountain filled wall of windows.  

“Hello Jon.”

The chair before the fire turned, revealing its occupant, who sat rather bored, legs crossed and fingers tapped against his temple.  He looked the same as ever, she thought, if not better.  Dark raven curls, wild around his face, which had been chiseled from marble.  Dark beard dusting over his jaw and upper lip, his gray eyes black in the shadow of the fire.  All black ensemble, which she knew hid a body that was as chiseled as his face.  Smooth planes and sharp edges, he was a masterpiece.

And he was deadly.  

The gray eyes glinted, just a hint of red.  Could have been from the fire, or it could have been something else.  

Her smile peeled over her teeth.  “My white wolf,” she purred.

Jon Snow smiled in return, although it did not meet his eyes, rather cold, as cold as the storm that began outside, the faintest hints of howling wind sounding.  “Daenerys Targaryen,” he said, in his rumbling Northern burr.  He kept smiling, until he wasn’t.  

And then he was at her throat, his fingers digging into the slim column, tilting up her jaw, his breath mingling with hers, warm and raspy.  Her eyes threatened to roll back into her head and her body ignited, fire consuming her.  He barely touched his mouth to hers, barely breathing.  “I thought I said I would kill you the next time I saw you.”

Now it was her turn to smile.  She lifted her hand, his eyes rolling down to it.  The cold steel of her dragonhead knife was against his jugular.  Even if his thumb was pressing down on her carotid, threatening to cut off her oxygen, she knew he wouldn’t.  Just like he knew she wouldn’t kill him.  Draw blood maybe, but she could never kill him.  “Darling, I think you forgot, it was I who said that.”

“Hmm.”  He drew in her scent, nostrils flaring, and eyes going red again.  The wolf, she noted, her skin prickling, and her body straining towards him.  Not to break free, but to join him. There would be time for that later. His thumb dragged over her bottom lip and she darted her tongue out to touch it.  He groaned, his nose pushing to hers, laugh deep in his chest.  “You came looking for me.”

“I will always come looking for you.”

“I don’t want it.”  His dark brows arched, the feral wolf flickering over his features again, hiding his obvious desire for her.  She bucked her hips against him, reminding him.  He laughed.  “Peace offering, huh?”  He immediately let her go and flicked the box towards her.  He growled.  “You stole that from me.”

“And I’m giving it back.”  She opened the box, revealing the white wolf head pommel from the ancient Valyrian sword he kept in one of his many safehouses.  She sighed.  “I realized that it really belongs with you.”

“No, you realized no one would buy it.”

She shrugged, flicking the box towards him and he caught it one-handed, setting it down on a table behind him.  “Po-tay-toe, Po-tah-toh.”

“I’m not joining you again.”

Ire flared, her eyes darkening to indigo.  “I am no longer asking you nicely.”

“Funny was that what it was when you tried to kill me?”

Of course he would bring that up.  She waved her hand dismissively.  “It was an accident.”

Jon dragged the collar of his shirt down, pointing at a knife scar on his collarbone.  “That is not an accident!”

“Oh yeah, well you stole from me!”

Now it was his turn to shrug it off.  “That money needed to go to the Night’s Watch,” he mumbled, arms crossing over his chest.  

They squared off against each other.  This was not how she planned it to go, but nevertheless.  She narrowed her eyes on him, staring.  He stared back.  No one blinked.  Until they were at each other, grappling, tugging, and tearing at each other, mouths a frenzied clash of tongues and teeth.  She drew his tongue in between her lips to slide along hers, moaning into his mouth when his large hands slipped from her shoulders to cup the sides of her breasts, straining in their cashmere sweater cage.  She lifted herself against him, remembering every feel of him, every dent and ridge of muscle, every nervous quiver, and every bump and drag of scars.

He tore from her first, a hand tangled in her immaculate braids, fingers digging into the ridge of her skull, and another on her hip, holding her to him.  “The answer is still no,” he whispered.

Dany shook her head, whispering.  “You haven’t heard my proposition.”

“I’m out.”

“Even when I tell you the mark?”

He shook his head again, although she knew him.  She’d known him since they were teenagers, misfits and unwanted, trying to scrap by on their wits and wiles.  They had bled together, fought together, fucked and almost died together.  They’d gone to jail together.  She nibbled his lower lip again and he flinched, barely, but she felt it. He still wants to know. “No,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want it.”

She cocked her head, her fingers smoothing over his cheek, dropping to cover his heart with her palm.  Eyes steady, breath even, she smiled again.  “I need my second Jon.  I need my partner.”

They all wanted her to bring in someone else.  Even someone she might have worked with in the past, none of them matched to the trust she had with Jon Snow.  He was her equal, the one she could trust above all else, the one who knew her deepest and darkest fears and desires.  Jon Snow came from nothing like she had and built himself up.  He was the only one she would ever feel comfortable doing this job with.  

There was also the fact that she was still in love with him.

Trivial thing really, she lied to herself.

Whatever they said about him, she didn’t believe it.  He was out, he was done, he’d gone straight…all lies.  He was just like her.  They were wild, they could not be tamed, and he could never settle for a boring law-abiding life.  

The irony of Jon Snow was he was the most honorable criminal she had ever met.

“No.”

Now it was time for the final play.  Her other hand cupped his head and fingers twirled with his hair at the base of his neck.  “Even if I tell you that we’re going for the Targaryen crown and dragons?”

His dark eyes lifted to hers, his breath stilled.  He said nothing.  

Her tongue dabbed her upper lip, her pupils dilating wide, smile curving again.  “The crown and the eggs will all be in a single location, for the Conquering Day Celebration, and Tywin Lannister himself will be there, to give a speech, to commemorate the day.  Robert Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, and that little fucker Tyrion will all be in attendance.”  She brushed her nose over his, whispering.  “Can’t you feel it Jon?  That wolf inside your heart?  The one howling?  What does he want?”

She knew what it wanted, just like he did.  All she needed was for him to say it.  

Jon closed his eyes, shivering, and his arms tightened around her.  “Revenge,” he murmured.  He didn’t need to say it but draining the Lannisters of their stolen riches would also be a bonus.

“Exactly.”

He gazed down at her, lips dropping to hers again, and she knew it.  She knew before he even whispered the words to her, before he kissed her and before they decided to start talking terms.  

“When do we start?”

[evendeadlmthehero]

The Five Year Promise: The Aftermath (7/10)

Summary: Y/N Stark, a 20 year old, makes a promise with Peter, a 16 year old, that if five years pass, and they still haven’t found love, they’d go on their first date. Then the snap happens. Y/N is gone. Peter isn’t.

Warning: angst, mentions of drugs and alcohol, NSFW, swearing

A/N: this is my interpretation of how Peter will be if this had happened to him. Also, I hope you guys like this shitty edit I did of 2023 Peter 😂😂😂

The Five Year Promise Masterlist

During Avengers: Endgame (2023)

Five Years Later

Peter heard nothing but murmurs in Spanish and the sound of money being counted. He stood up in the roof and watched from the window, listening in with his Spider-Hearing. The night was humid, and Peter almost regretted wearing the Black coat around his noir suit.

He wore a beanie over his head with two holes near where his eyes were and a hat on top. His beard prickled against the material of the beanie. He watched as someone rolled in with a carriage filled with what he assumed was cocaine.

‘They don’t deserve to live,’ Peter thought, as he watched the men laugh, smoking illicit substances. He looked around to see if anyone else was around. When he made sure the coast was clear, he webbed himself over to the men, who got up from the sudden sound.

The men looked over to Peter, their face filling up with fear. They knew him. They heard the rumours. The man who killed others without mercy. The ‘Baba Yaga’ they called him, the man who came out of the night to kill. The man who donned a black coat and a hat. They all knew him too well.

The men then shakingly pulled out their gun ready to shoot him before Peter webbed them up. They were now stuck on the wall, fearing for their life. One of the men even let out a tear as Peter chuckled at them, taking a gun out from underneath his coat.

“P-please. I- I do this for them- the drugs- it’s- money has been hard lately-“ one of the man stuttered as Peter twirled the gun around his fingers, circling around the men as he watched them beg for their life. “Please, no, I have a family and a lover.”

Peter stalked over to them slowly, like a lion and its prey. The man begun shaking violently as the infamous man he had heard about walked over to him, pointing to cool metal towards his head. Peter had tilted his head, as he spoke the next words menacingly.

“So did I.”

Multiple bangs were heard before all the bodies of men hung from the web. The web was turning red as blood seeped from their bodies and towards Peter’s feet. He then wiped the gun with the pocket square in his coat before chucking it near the men’s feet. Lifting up the collar of his coat, Peter walked out of the cartel and into the streets of Mexico, deseperate to find a bar and drink himself to oblivion.

He takes off his mask and buttons up his coat to hide his suit, before lighting up a cigarette and placing it between his lips. Walking inside the bar, he orders 3 pints of beer, drinking it like it was water. Peter liked the way it tasted. How it made him feel. How it made him forget everything. He would be lying if he said he didn’t have a drinking problem. How could he not? Five years ago, he had lost everything. He then looked over at the watch you had given him.

2 hours, 32 mins and 5 secs.

He let out a scoff, before drinking another pint of beer, the bartender looking at him like he was crazy. Peter thought he used to be so naive, so naive to think you guys would actually go on a date. But now, he wasn’t naive. He knew how harsh the world was. And in a harsh world, you have to stand your ground.

Peter looks around until he spots a girl who smirks at him and gives him a little wave before giggling. He had noticed how she had the same colour hair as you, same colour eyes. She looked somewhat like you. But you were unique, you were too beautiful to have a doppelgänger. But the girl looked like a cousin maybe.

Peter smirked, and took another swig of the beer before placing it down. He then gave the bartender the money before walking over to the girl. He then threw his cigarette on the floor, stepping on it before nodding to the girl to follow him.

This happened everyday for Peter. It was an endless cycle. You were gone, May was gone, Ned was gone and he had cut ties with all the Avengers, including Tony who had desperately tried to stay in contact with him.

Everyday, Peter would go out murdering people who he thought didn’t deserve to live. Who he thought were villains and deserved to die in the decimation. Then he went up to the bar, drank till he saw the stars, then took the girl that resembled you the most to a motel.

The girl giggled as Peter walked her up the stairs of the motel. Peter was emotionless, as he pushed her against the wall, kissing her with no remorse. He then picked her up and chucked her on the bed before he sat down on the chair near the bed, unbuckling his pants.

“Suck,” he commanded in his now gruff and deep voice. The girl giggles, crawling over to him and placing her mouth around his member. Peter sharply inhaled as he held her hair into a ponytail, watching her go down on him.

She was teasing him, and that frustrated the man. So he grabbed her head and forced her down his cock, making her gag. The girl obliged and continued moving up and down his member. Before he could cum, he moved her head to the side and chucked her onto the bed.

He placed a condom on whilst the girl let out a cringey giggle, making Peter frustrated at her supposedly ‘dumb girl’ persona. “Shut the fuck up and be quiet.”

The girl went quiet but still smiled, looking like she was having the time of her life. Peter pushed her back before he thrusted into the girl with all his power, making the girl scream. Peter kept going, too drunk to think about anything. He looked over to the girl and for a secound he saw you. He saw your eyes looking back at him.

“Y/N,” he moaned, too drunk to care or understand what was going on. The girl also didn’t respond to the name, enjoying it too much to let him stop. He then looked over to his watch.

24 minutes and 43 secound.

After all was done, he kicked the girl out, not bothering to find out her name. He then grabbed a bottle a beer from the fridge and opened it. He looked around the dump that was his motel for the night and sighed, lying back on his bed.

Peter had given up on school, on university and on the ‘simple life’. He didn’t want neither of that. Because if you or Ned didn’t get to experience that, why should he?

He then looked at his watch that ticked away slowly on his wrist. One that you gave him and he couldn’t find himself to throw away.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1

The watch beeped. Peter stared at it, his jaw clenched. The sound from the watch was like a little taunt, like it was reminding him of what could’ve been. He bit his bottom lip before picking up the bottle of beer and chucking it against the wall as it shattered against the wall. He then picked up the chair, also chucking it against the wall and breaking in half.

“Fuck!” Peter yelled, punching the wall with his fist. His knuckles bled but he kept going. “I was fucking close! I was so fucking close!”

Peter put his hands on his hips, looking at the mess he created around him, the numerous bottles of beers around him, the knives and guns he had bought and a random female’s bra near his bed.

“I was so fucking close,” Peter whispered, his tongue against the inside of his cheek as tiredness finally caught up to him.

-

Tony let out a sigh, standing in the middle of the lab that you used to work in. Today, it was supposed to be your 26th birthday. So every year, since you were gone, Tony would go in the lab and just look around. He had demanded the Avengers not to touch anything. To leave everything as it was the moment you guys left.

There was the birthday hat on the table from your 21st birthday. A bunch of multicoloured pens around left lying around the table. Everything was as you left it, not an speck out of place.

Tony walked over to the chair, scared to sit on it. He didn’t want to move it. He didn’t want to move anything. But it was time. Pepper told him it was time, as her and Morgan stood near the door watching him. Tony shook his head before sitting on the chair. “Come here Morgan.”

Morgan ran over to him, sitting on his lap. Tony then proceeded to play with her hair, brushing his fingers along it. “This is where your big sister used to sit and make cool things.”

“When do I get to meet her daddy?” Morgan pleaded for maybe to thousandth time these couple of years, desperate to meet her older sister that her father wouldn’t stop talking about.

“She- she’s busy right now,” Tony’s face faltered for a secound, his eyes meeting Pepper’s. She gave him an encouraging smile, telling him that he was doing well. Because for the past five years, Tony had it hard. But thankfully for him, he had Pepper. She helped him see a psychiatrist. She helped him out of bed and eat food. Made him find a purpose again.

“Okay,” Morgan spoke, her head falling in disappointment. She then looked over the table, opening a draw from a table.

“Morgan no!” Tony yelled at her, not wanting her to open or move anything. He got Morgan off her lap, who ran to her mother, crying. “You can’t just touch things that aren’t yours, okay!”

Tony was livid, but stopped when he heard the sniffles of Morgan who was clinging on to the legs of her mother. Pepper gave Tony a smile before moving down to Morgan. “Hey Morg, how about we give Daddy some alone time yeah? He’s just cranky because someone ate the last Poptart.”

“W’okay,” Morgan mumbled as her bottom lip trembled, following her mother out of the room. Tony then sighed, angry at himself for making her upset, playing with the necklace that contained your ashes. He brushed his hair back before his eyes met the eyes of a red-headed women.

“Hey,” Natasha spoke, walking around before sitting on the table where you used to work, careful not to move anything. Tony nodded at her, biting the inside of his cheek. “How are you doing?”

“Well shit, but everyone keeps telling me to move on, that it’s been five years so,” Tony trailed off, not meeting Romanoff’s eyes. “So I came here, deciding its time to you know, open things up and actually put this room to use- but I guess I can’t do that yet.”

“No one’s telling you to move on Tony. You lost your daughter. Truth is, you will never move on,” Natasha spoke, carefully watching her friend of now 13 years let out a tear. She had never seen her friend cry, so this was new to her. “I don’t think I’ll ever move on either. But Tony, Y/N would have wanted us to go on with our lives, put it to good use, even if it’s small stuff like using this room again. Because if we don’t make good use of our lives, then Thanos should’ve killed all of us.”

Tony sniffed, quickly wiping his eye before other tears fell down. “Every time I look at Morgan, I see Y/N staring back at me. And every time Morgan speaks, I feel like it’s Y/N talking back at me. Like when Morgan tells me she loves me, it’s like Y/N is out there, saying those words. I-I just wish Y/N would have met her.”

“Yeah, me too,” Natasha nodded, grabbing his hand. Tony’s eyes wandered around the room before looking at the draw that Morgan opened, his eyes squinting. His hand moved away from Natasha’s as he moved closer to a paper that had your writing in their, grabbing it to read it.

He read the calculations that you had drew, standing up from his seat. Natasha also stood up, now curious. “What’s wrong?”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, look alive,” Tony spoke, as a holographic computer came out. He then started playing around, adding numbers and equations, trying to figure out what you had written.

“Tony, what’s going on?” Natasha had asked, as she watched a concentrated Tony typing away rapidly on the screen, before the screen said ‘loading’.

“Y/N was trying to figure out why her suit healed her. It was pure accident, happened out of the blue when she was messing around with Quantum and nanotech, b-but this equation- I think she was testing to see if her suit was-“ he stopped when the words ‘SUCCESS” appeared. Tony fell back in his seat as his hand covered his mouth. His whole body was shaking as his heart started beating rapidly. “She- she didn’t know.“

He went quiet, unable to speak. Natasha shook her head, unable to understand what the equation was and why there was a circular-shaped machine now displayed on the screen. “She didn’t know what Tony?”

“That she discovered time travel.”

-

Peter washed the blood from his hands, the water turning a light pink before going down the sink. He turned off the tap, shaking his hands before drying them with a towel. He then took his suit off, chucking them in the washer. He then looked at himself in the mirror, the various tattoos and scars scattered around his body. His whole left and right arm was covered and so was his chest.

Peter wasn’t the scrawny kid he used to believe he was. No. He had bulked up completely. His whole appearance had changed too. He didn’t even shave his beared, leaving it to grow for a month or two before giving it a trim.

He sighed, walking over to the fridge of his new Motel in Cuba and grabbing a beer from the fridge, ready to drink himself to unconsciousness again. He had a tough day and needed to unwind.

Peter had taken down a sex trafficking ring here in Cuba, slaughtering all the men who were involved. One of them had been harder to kill, as he was enhanced. Turned out they were prepared, just in case the Baba Yaga came around just like he did to all criminals. He had received a few cuts and bruises but eventually had stabbed him multiple times, getting blood on his hands, clothes and even droplets near his face.

He cracked open the beer, ready to drink it before his hairs in his arm stood up, telling him someone was in the room. He put down the drink quietly, his hands moving slowly to grab the gun that he hid under the coffee table.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” He heard a familiar voice speak. He let out a scoff, shaking his head as his hand fell away from the gun and instead reached the now lukewarm beer on his coffee table.

“After five fucking years, the great Tony Stark decides to pay me a visit.”

“You didn’t make it easy,” Tony spoke, walking over to sit on the couch in front of him. It was now that Peter realised Tony had aged, white hairs prominent in his beard and and hair. Tony too was taken back by Peter’s new appearance. He almost didn’t recognise him. “You never answered my calls, emails-“

“Let’s cut the bullshit Tony, if you’d actually wanted to find me you would’ve done it ages ago,” Peter spat out, chugging the beer in one go. He then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“So I guess you’re not calling ‘Mr Stark’ anymore. Does that mean I don’t call you Spider-Man anymore, oh great Baba Yaga,” Tony replied back, as Peter’s face faltered for a secound before going back to his emotionless facade. “Yeah, didn’t think I’d know about that did you? Going around, killing people Pete that’s not you, you can’t just decide who lives or not.”

“He did,” Peter spoke back, rage in his eyes as he thought about the Titan. “He took away my Aunt, my best friend and the one girl I fell in love with.”

Tony’s face dropped when he heard that both his Aunt and best friend were gone. He didn’t know. “Peter, why didn’t you tell me?”

“It doesn’t matter now does it,” Peter spoke, clasping his hands together as he moved forward. “I did what I did to get through life and you did what you did. You’re free to leave if you have cleared your conscious by checking up on after all this time. Want to donate to me too? Since you do that to all your worries in life?”

“Peter you need help. You can’t just be murdering people who you think deserve to die and drink yourself to oblivion,” Tony urged him, trying to speak some sense into him. He then saw a female’s underwear near his bed, shaking his head at him. “And sleep with god knows how many women. Peter just- just come with us. We can get you help.”

“No, you can’t do that now. You’re late. Five years too late. I’m not the same Peter you think I am,” Peter spat out, before standing up and pointing towards the door. “Now if you’re done pretending to care, I really do strongly advise you leave.”

“Peter, there is one more thing I need to tell you,” Tony spoke, letting out a sigh as his face turned into one of seriousness. “But you need to sit down for this.”

Peter let out a scoff, before sitting down on the couch. He then looked at Tony like if this wasn’t important, that he was ready to kick him out.

“Y/N the suit she created, she thought it was a regenerating suit,” Tony begun, shaking his head as he stood up. Peter’s face scrunched up in anger and anguish at the mention of your name. “But that’s thing! It wasn’t!”

“Are you seriously here to talk to me about fucking suits?”

“No! Listen!” Tony interrupted him, as he paced around the room, waving his arms around. “It wasn’t a regeneration suit! I mean- it kinda was but that’s not the point! The suit didn’t heal wounds, it took it back in time to the point when she first put on the suit when she wasn’t wounded! She- she wrote this equation but before she tested it out, she was gone!”

“What are you talking about Tony?” Peter spoke, now too standing up. Tony was talking too fast and too much that it all sounded like a blur in his head.

“It means Y/N discovered Time Travel unintentionally,” Tony spoke, breathing in and out heavily from walking around the room too much. “And I didn’t know what to do until Scott Lang brought Pym Particles. Pete- it means we can travel back in time, before Thanos had the stones. Before he destroyed them. We can get everyone back Pete.”

Peter stood their in shock, not knowing what to do. He then let out a sigh, trying to hold back tears from welling in his eyes. He had been trying to forget what had happened, he had no hope left. And now Tony came in her and told him they had a chance. “Get out.”

“Pete-“

“I said get the fuck out!” Peter yelled furiously, his whole body shaking. Tony stood still, not moving an inch. He wasn’t going to leave Peter alone again, not this time.

“Peter, I know this is a tough subject for you,” Tony begun, slowly walking over to the Parker boy. “It’s a tough subject for me as well. I lost a daughter and I also lost you. But we owe it to everyone to try. Even if it’s now or in the next ten years, if there’s a little glimmer of chance, we have to take it. For Ned, May and especially for her.”

“You can’t do this. You can’t- you can’t just come here after five fucking years and tell me you’re gonna solve things! That everything is alright!” Peter spoke, his hands still shaking from the subject of the great titan. “You guys did that last time. You tried to kill him and it didn’t do anything because he had already got rid of the stones. Please- just leave me alone.”

“No,” Tony shook his head, looking Peter directly in the eyes. “I did that five years ago and look what happened to you. I’m not doing that again.”

Peter shook his head as he clenched his fists. Tony had wanted him to come back and fight, but he wasn’t the same person as he was before. “You don’t need me to do this.”

“What makes you think we don’t?”

“I’ve changed,” Peter mumbled, sitting back on his couch and playing with his hand, a habit he had when he was nervous or guilty. “I’ve killed. I use women. I’m an alcoholic, a smoker- fuck Tony sometimes I even use the drugs from the drug dealers that I kill.”

“Peter, you’re not the only one that’s changed,” Tony spoke, walking over to sit next to the Parker kid. “Thor has a drinking problem too. Clint, he was out murdering people who he thought didn’t deserve to live. I had a drinking problem too when my parents died. And I would’ve had a drinking problem if Pepper was around. No one judges you Pete. We’ve all done things we regret.”

“Even if we want to bring everyone back,” Peter looked down on the floor, shame for what he has become slowly creeping up at the mention of you and the face of his old mentor right in front of him. He didn’t realise what he had done was wrong until the past caught up to him. “She- she wouldn’t want me back. She told me to live my life, to find love and to look after you. She made me promise her. I’ve let her down. No one would look at me the same.”

“You had to do what you’ve done to get by. She’d understand,” Tony spoke, walking over to sit next to him on the couch. “Now we have to do what we got to do to bring them back. So are you in or not?”

Peter looked at Tony, at his old mentor, his once father figure. He then thought about you, his aunt and Ned. He’d do anything to get you guys back, even if it meant dying. It didn’t matter if you wouldn’t want him anymore because of what he’s become. Because he just wanted to hear your voice again. See you again.

“I’m in.”

-

It was night time at the Stark Cabin. Peter and Tony stood in the lab, as Tony was playing with the computer. He was looking at all the suits he had made for Peter, before coming across the Iron-Spider suit. He then pressed start, making nanoparticles move before forming the suit.

When it had been completed, Tony picked it up and handed it over to Peter. He gently picked it up, a weird feeling consuming his body. He hadn’t been Spider-Man for almost 4 years now. He had gone as Baba Yaga, wearing a black suit. It had been a while since he wore a red and blue suit.

“I don’t know about this,” Peter spoke, as he tried to put on the ironsuit. It moulded in his body, nanotech surrounding his body. He forgot the feeling of the cool metal, always used to the fabrics of cotton and leather of his noir suit that he’d been wearing for eternity.

Looking at himself in the mirror, Peter held his breath as flashbacks started to play in his mind. He gulped, seeing flashes of planet Titan, you and that eventful day.

“It hurts so much,” you sobbed as Peter held you before you fell on the floor. He watched as dust particles formed and reformed on your hands. It was like life was continuously being ripped and reformed from your body.

Peter wasn’t listening to what you were saying when you spoke to your father. He was only thinking about you. How he promised he wouldn’t let you die, but there you were, dying in his arms again. Then you had whispered his name and all his attention had been on you.

He remembered pleading you, no, begging you not to turn off your suit. That it was the only thing giving you life. But you were in too much pain. And it was only getting worse and worse. So, you told F.R.I.D.A.Y to turn it off and Peter had to watch your body collapse like a horror movie.

Peter shook his head, trying to get rid of the images in his head. He started breathing in and out heavily, his face getting hot and his heart beating rapidly. He looked at Tony whilst grabbing his own chest. “I-I can’t do this. I can’t, I’m sorry.”

“Peter, you can, okay?” Tony spoke, walking over to him, before grabbing his shoulder. “You just need to take a breath and remind yourself about what you’re doing and why.”

“I can’t okay! I was slowly moving on and then you put this suit on me and I saw her face staring right back at me!” Peter yelled, clenching his jaw before scratching his beard. “It was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come here.”

“But you did!” Tony replied back, as he put down the pencil he’d been using to tap on the holographic computer. “It means you want to do it. You want to bring everyone back.”

“I can’t if I’m going to have a panic attack every time I put on this suit-“

“Daddy!” A scream interrupted him as a girl ran towards Tony and hugged his legs. Tony then looked away from Peter, bringing his attention to his daughter. “Mommy told me to say goodnight.”

Peter started at her, unable to believe that Tony had another child. What made it also more shocking is her resemblance to you. It was like a miniature you was walking around and for a minute there, he couldn’t breath properly. This had also managed to stop his panic attack.

“Goodnight pumpkin,” Tony spoke, picking her up to kiss her head. Morgan then faced Peter, looking at him curiously. She looked at the various tattoos that was sprawled around his neck but couldn’t see the rest that was covered by his suit. He also had a beard so Morgan knew he was ‘old’.

“Daddy who’s that?”

Peter kept looking at her, unable to get his eyes off her. Her eyes had eyelashes that gave her a cat eye look, just like you had. She had also the same dimples and nose. The only difference was the fact that Morgan had Tony’s coloured eyes, which you didn’t, you got from your mother. “She- she looks like Y/N.”

Tony stayed quiet, knowing this had sparked something in Peter. Maybe all Peter needed was a reminder, a little kickstart, to get his head back in the game. Sure, five years was hell for Peter. But if there was something that was consistent about Peter no matter what happened in his life, it was his consistent urgency to fight.

“You know Y/N!” Morgan jumped out of her father’s grip and ran over to Peter, looking up at him excitedly. “Is she here!”

Peter smiled at her, looking at Tony before giving him a nod, telling him he was ready. He was ready to get his Aunt, Ned and you back. He was ready to give life another go. And if you didn’t give him a secound chance, it would be alright. As long you were back.

“She will be soon.��

Taglist (CLOSED)

@kissingtrutharchives @autobotgirl15-blog @clockblobber @im-a-stranger-thing @isabella-bby @jonsnowdoesknow @fangirlingonrhys @trenchcoatedwhiskers @platonictrashh @misswritingintherain @itsbebeyyy @xs-hoodie @callmedaddys-blog @fangirling12566 @bubblegumholland @hollandinq @lordofthunderthr @hgacutan @colored-confetti @legendarydazekitten @maya-t-13 @house-arya @cutie1365 @buckysblondie @clipopex-writing @wifunozomi @babebenhardy @sadgirlhours247 @sweetdarlingholland @taliarosej00

[star-sky-earth]

untitled

bellamy/clarke | PG | 2200 words

warnings: brief reference to past underage (bellamy/clarke), references to pregnancy, references to breastfeeding, mild violence

for the anon who wanted protective!bellamy getting into a bar fight over clarke. i hope you like it!

this is kind of set in my sleep series verse, but this will make sense even if you haven’t read that fic.

<<Just got back with Joe. Have a good night.>>

Bellamy smiles and shuts off his phone, looking up just as Clarke starts to descend the stairs. She moves slowly, clumsy in heels after so long, and when she gets to the bottom of the staircase she pauses, taking a quick breath for courage before she looks up at him. Her hands pluck anxiously at the fabric of her dress, smoothing it self-consciously over her hips, the little swell of her tummy.

“How do I look?” she says, clearly nervous, unsure of herself in a way that she hasn’t been in years, not since they first got together, not since she was fifteen and undressing in front of him for the first time. “Okay?”

He swallows hard at the wave of tenderness that washes over him, heart thudding in his chest, the bloom of desire in his belly shot through with a sharp, protective edge. He should be ashamed of himself. He loves Clarke’s confidence, the attitude she’s gained since being at college, the easy assurance that adulthood has given her, but he can’t deny that something about her like this, the way that she looks up at him with those big, blue, nervous eyes, gets him weak.

After all these years, there’s still nothing he wants more than to take care of his girl.

Bellamy slides his phone into his pocket, reaching out for her, squeezing her hand gently when she interlaces her slender fingers through his. He runs a thumb over her bracelet, the slim silver bangle he gave her when she turned sixteen, then lifts her hand to his lips, dropping a kiss into her palm.

“Beautiful, princess,” he says, mouth against her hammering pulse, letting some of the desire he’s feeling bleed into his voice, a husky edge that gets her blushing, looking away with a half-pleased, half-embarrassed expression. “Always beautiful, baby.”

It hasn’t been an easy few months, for either of them. Amazing, overwhelming, terrifying, exhausting, yes. Sleepless nights crashing into bleary-eyed days and back again, brief glimpses of pure, euphoric bliss interspersed with dark moments of self-doubt, taken from the highest highs to the lowest lows, emotions Bellamy still doesn’t have names for. Joe was born four months ago, fighting his way into the world after a long, difficult labour and an emergency c-section, Bellamy blinking away tears above a surgical mask as he clung tight to Clarke’s hand and they finally watched their son, bloody and screaming, laid on her chest. The first few weeks at home were a blur, both Clarke and Joe doing little more than sleeping and eating, Bellamy hovering protectively over his tiny family, simultaneously proud and absolutely terrified. He’s never seen anything like Clarke during labour, still feels his heart catch in his chest when he lets himself think about it, how strong she’d been and yet so weak at the end, barely able to hold her head up yet still pushing long past the point of exhaustion.

To look at her now, you’d never know. Moving easy again, carrying Joe around on her hip like she was born to be a mother, the angry red scar slung along the bottom of her belly finally faded to a light pink line. Every inch of her miraculous body slowly putting itself back together before his eyes, just a little softer than before, a little more sensitive, her hips a little rounder in his hands, and her breasts…

God. Bellamy gets hard just thinking about her breasts, swollen from breastfeeding and exquisitely sensitive, skin so pale it’s almost translucent, like the finest, softest silk. He’s never been so eager, and yet so terrified, to touch her, and the contrast drives him insane. They haven’t had sex since Joe was born, and it’s got to the point where it’s all he thinks about, angling himself away at night so she can’t feel how hard he is for her, how desperate he is, ready to die rather than feel like he’s pressuring her. Added to all his first-time father worries, his love for Joe like a faucet he doesn’t know how to turn off, he feels like his heart has expanded ten times over and split open clean down the middle, emotion spilling out everywhere, on edge and almost vibrating with a nervous energy he doesn’t know what to do with.

God, and he’d thought he was crazy in love with her before.

They take it slow, their first night out, neither of them able to go more than ten minutes without checking their phones. He’s booked a table at their favourite mexican restaurant, and they both eat an embarrassing amount, practically inhaling tacos after weeks of living off Uber eats, grilled cheeses and the downright suspicious casseroles that Octavia drops off at irregular intervals. Clarke even has a glass of wine, giggly and pink after a year without alcohol, and Bellamy doesn’t know how he keeps his hands off her, so cute and adorable and insanely, distressingly sexy. Even when she was away at college, he’s not sure that they’ve ever gone this long without having sex before, and he’d happily wait another four months if she wanted to, but fuck, he hopes that she doesn’t want to.

After they eat, they wander along the riverfront, stopping to gaze out across the water, watch the light of the moon dappling across the waves. Clarke shivers, her jacket too thin for the crisp spring air, and Bellamy draws her in close, takes a chance and kisses her, slowly winding his arms around her waist. She’s sweet in his arms, and he feels like he’s falling in love with her all over again, a whole new level of love he never knew existed, like living your whole life in one dark room and suddenly opening the window, the warmth of the sun hitting your skin for the first time.

Eventually they end up at a bar, some tiny, half-empty place tucked in between two closed shopfronts, just one disinterested bartender that doesn’t even look up when they walk in. Clarke finds a booth in the back corner while Bellamy gets the drinks, glancing over his shoulder to catch her checking her reflection in her phone, running her thumb over her freshly-kissed lips.

“There you go,” he says, sitting down next to her in the booth, sliding her wine glass over. He puts his arm around her shoulders, leaning in to nuzzle against her neck until she giggles, squirming in his hold. Undeterred, he slides his mouth up to just under her ear, that sensitive spot that makes her swallow down a gasp, her whole body relaxing against him. He swears she smells different than she used to - richer, sweeter, milkier - and he just about stops himself from groaning as he inhales, feeling his cock harden under the table.

A loud peal of laughter echoes across the room, and Bellamy stops when he feels Clarke stiffen, raising his head to see a couple of men at the bar staring right at them, beers in hand. One of them - middle-aged, patchy beard, tribal tattoo winding its way around her rangy arm - lets his eyes drop to Clarke’s chest, and she sits up straight, pulling her jacket tightly around her. The guy leers even more, unabashed, unashamed, even when Bellamy stares him down.

“It’s okay,” Clarke says, putting her hand on Bellamy’s arm. “Leave it.”

Bellamy nods, but it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He hates it - hates the way that some guys treat Clarke just because she’s a pretty girl, hates the fear that bubbles in his chest when he thinks about what might happen if he wasn’t here, hates the intrusion into their perfect evening, how quickly their joy is dampened, like a pair of scissors snipping neatly through a thread. But most of all he hates this - the way that the light dims in Clarke’s eyes, the way her lower lip trembles as she presses her mouth tightly together, how her shoulders slump to disguise her shape, like there could ever be anything about her beautiful body to be ashamed of.

“Hey,” he says quietly, squeezing her shoulder gently. “You wanna go?”

She shakes her head no, managing a smile, and he takes her lead, doing his best to distract her with conversation, to make her laugh, get her feeling comfortable again. Their luck holds, the men at the bar thankfully staying silent, and soon Clarke is glowing again, staring up at him with adoring liquid eyes, wine glass empty, Bellamy unable to tear his eyes away from her smile, her soft pink mouth.

“You want another drink?” he asks, praying she says ‘no’. ‘No’ now, and ‘yes’ later, when they’re alone and she’s finally in his arms, naked and soft and his. Clarke’s tracing patterns across his hand where it lies on the table, even that delicate touch agonising for how it stokes the flames of desire in his body, threatening to reduce him to ash.

“No,” Clarke says lightly, looking up at Bellamy from under lowered lashes. She bites her lip, reaching up to trail her fingers over his forearm, running her nails over his skin to make him shiver. “Take me home, Bellamy.”

Bellamy’s not proud of how quickly he stands up from the booth, holding his hand out to steady Clarke as she follows, swaying slightly on her heels. He pauses, considering. A year without drinking means that her tolerance is at rock-bottom, and she’ll be miserable tomorrow if she’s hungover when they go to pick up Joe.

“Let’s grab a bottle of water for you, okay?”

He eyes the men at the bar as they approach, letting go of Clarke’s hand so that she can stand a little way away, by the exit but still in his eyeline. One guy has the good sense to avoid his eye, tearing at the label on his beer bottle, but the older man with the tattoo stands his ground, sidling closer to Bellamy as he pays for the water.

“Where do I get a girl like that?” he asks, slurring. His breath is sour with booze and tobacco, but Bellamy doesn’t let himself react, keeping his face carefully blank as he pockets his wallet.

“You mean my wife?” he says evenly, setting his hand down on the bar so that the light glints off the thick silver band of his wedding ring.

The guy snorts, shrugging his shoulders, taking another swig from his beer.

“Lucky man,” he says with a snigger, already laughing at his own joke. “Bet you never go hungry, not with that waiting for you at home.”

And then he grins. He fucking grins, and Bellamy doesn’t know how he stops himself from tearing the guy apart with his bare hands. Because not only is this man talking like this about Clarke. Not only is he talking like this about Bellamy’s wife, his best friend, the mother of his child, the centre of his entire fucking world.

He actually thinks Bellamy will laugh too.

Instead Bellamy smiles back, tight lipped and quick, and reaches for the guy’s hand. There’s just enough time to see the look of surprise on the older man’s face before Bellamy’s moving, twisting the guy’s arm up behind his shoulder, pushing him face down on the bar. The other man struggles, but Bellamy’s prepared, increases the pressure just so on the man’s thumb, causing him to cry out, freezing in place.

“Say it again,” Bellamy says, leaning down close, close enough that he can see each individual drop of sweat gathering on the other man’s brow, hear his laboured pants as he tries to breathe through the pain. Bellamy presses again on his thumb, just because he can, the bone threatening to snap, watching as all the blood drains from the guy’s face. “Say it again, I dare you.”

The guy’s friend, Bellamy notes dispassionately, doesn’t make a move to defend his friend, just stands there dumb and dumbfounded, still holding his beer.

“That’s what I thought,” Bellamy says when his opponent stays silent. He lets go, and the man slumps against the bar, breathing hard. Slowly he pushes himself up, rubbing his injured hand and staring at Bellamy resentfully.

Bellamy grabs the bottle of the water from the bar and heads for the exit, putting his arm around Clarke as he swiftly guides her through the door and out onto the street.

“Are you okay?” he says as soon as they get outside. Concerned, he reaches under Clarke’s chin to tip her face up towards him, heart racing as he searches her expression to see if she’s upset. “I’m sorry, I know you didn’t want me to make a big deal of it, but - ”

He’s cut off by Clarke’s mouth against his, her arms winding around his neck as she leans up, pressing her body against him. Stunned, it takes him a moment to react, to kiss her back, but then desire roars through him, the adrenalin of the almost-fight still racing through his veins, heartbeat pounding in his ears, and suddenly it’s like he can’t kiss her deep enough, can’t feel enough of her, can’t get her close enough.

When Clarke finally pulls back, her mouth is swollen, her eyes sparkling and wild. She’s breathing hard - they both are, each breath visible in the cold night air - and she smiles as she teases her mouth against his, Bellamy helplessly following each movement, just as gone for her now as he’s ever been.

“Take me home, Bellamy.”

[cavariously]

[Trying my hand at a fan fiction.

I love to write but I have never done anything like this before, so all feedback would be extremely appreciated (Grammer, Plot, Characters etc.).

I love Tokyo Ghoul so I really hope I don't fuck this up 😅. A big thank you to anyone who reads this ❤️]

Caution: Agressive Swearing, Offensive Language, Graphic Violence.

Notes: Takes place post end of TG:re, Reapers = Marshall version of Doves.

1. Crow - 24

City lights and the rushing motions of the landscape turn the 24th ward into a blinding and blaring circus. Humans. They crawl through this city with the assurance that they will be here tomorrow. They will be here a year from now. They will be here forever. They are the only lifeform with this assurance. All other creatures in this world live with the knowledge that their making it to the next moment is a fifty fifty

It is certainly a miracle that they last, noticing absolutely nothing at all. They don't see the effects that the fumes of their veichles have on the planet that they grip so tightly to. They can't begin to recognise that they are being continually watched and targeted by devices that could wipe them from the face of said Earth in less than zero. They don't even notice the apex predictor observing them from less than a mile above.

Humans simply move from one spot to another, only stopping to cause irrevocable disaster and reduce their surroundings to less than ash, and then move on to the next target. Someone said that humans are Parasites, and although it may be naive to believe this was wholly correct, it would be complete ignorance to dismiss it entirely. Ghouls do not indulge in such ignorance. Parasite is an apt description for a human, from the perspective of a ghoul, that and food.

The figure stands tall, wind rushing rapidly through their tied up hair. They can smell the putrescence of man-kind as they go about their sweaty and arrogant business. They would laugh if it wasn't so tragic. What do humans amount to? They are greedy and bloody bags of meat that fight and hate more than any other being, yet they are allowed to multiply and just be. It could be argued that ghouls are the same as humans in this aspect, but most abide by the one meal a month agreement, even though this arrangement can be hell for some. Unlike humans, who see violence as their God given right, when ghouls fight, it is rarely for anything other than survival. Perhaps this view doesn't take all ghouls into account, but all humans gorge themselves on everything, and fight for any fucking reason they want.

Twenty years ago, a disaster was meant to end this disparity. For the first time ever, ghouls and humans fought together to save the world they shared from the monster that had been designated 'DRAGON'. The defeating of this enemy was meant to end in equality, where ghouls and humans shared the world equally. Scientific leaps had been made. Synthetic meats that ghouls could eat, so they wouldn't have to harm humans. The corpse of Dragon even lead to dramatic advancements in the medical field. Humans were now benefiting from ghoul DNA, as it allowed them to combat most illnesses and increase their lifespan somewhat. After all that ghouls had done for them, weren't humans grateful? No. Ten years, then ghouls were back to being vile creatures to be hunted, and were forced back to living in the sewers. The deaths of so many perfectly good and innocent ghouls, just so that humanity could screw them all over again. What a funny tragedy.

Another figure appeared from the shadows, stepping in line with their comrade. Neither looking at the other, they both silently watched the ferris-wheel turn round and round. A world that they saw as rightfully theirs. They were hungry for it and they would have it. No matter the cost. In fact, the more human casualties... the better.

"Are you ready to go?" the newcomer asked, never taking their attention away from everything below.

"Yeah. Any longer and I might have to eat you."

"Like you could" came the cold, arrogant response.

"Just because you got five inches on me now, doesn't mean I can't still beat your ass Da..."

"Don't fucking call me that. While we're out here you call me Kuma and I call you... Blindfold, or Eyeless. Something like that." Even though his response had been quick and sharp, neither his tone nor his concentration had wavered.

"Eyeless" they conceded.

"Fine, Eyeless it is. Just don't go shouting our real names out in public. You're enough of a liability as it is without giving our fucking identities away."

Eyeless finally turned to look at their brother. They couldn't help feeling a pang of nostalgia. He had been so small once, constantly hanging onto their shoulders and making paper birds that he place all over their home. Those memories hurt, especially when they remembered what came after. He used to smile so much and now he's a moody little shit. They'd never been like that at fourteen, they thought smugly.

"Fine. Let's go KUMA before I rip your snarky head off." With that final retort, Eyeless turned and stepped off of the roof.

Kuma watched them drop six stories, landing with grace and poise. Why were they always so aggravating? Maybe he was jealous of their natural ability, or perhaps they were just a pain in the ass to be related to. With a sigh and a wandering look to the night sky, he followed suit.

* * *

The Marshalls finished up disposing of the ghoul. Bikakus are a pain in the ass Haruto thought, but it's better than a Ukaku. Haruto loved the fact that he was an intimidating figure. The ghoul had basically shat itself as soon as it had seen his large muscular frame, and cruel bearded face. The black trench coat they wore, that often announced the end for ghouls, probably didn't hurt either. He nudged the face of the corpse with his foot. He reckoned it wouldn't even be worth removing his Kakahou to get a new quinque. Taking into account the short amount of time it had taken him and Kenji to bypass his defences and cut him through the middle, he was a B rated ghoul maximum.

"Right, time we get back" Haruto sighed.

"Mhm" Kenji agreed. He never said much.

"Did you bring the body bag? You never know, you might be able to upgrade that piece of shit you call a quinque." Haruto laughed loudly. He loved taking the piss out of Kenji, especially when he knew his only retort woukd be 'mhm'.

As expected, Kenji responded with a grumbling "Mhm", and moved towards the body.

Haruto, turned to walk away, lighting a cigarette and beginning to inhale deeply. That Kenji was going to marry his sister. What's he gonna say when the priest asks him if he takes her to be his lawfully wedded wife? Mhm. Haruto chuckled to himself. All in all Kenji was a good guy, and one hell of a Marshall. He could use that crappy Ukaku quinque pretty damn well, even if it did come from a C rated ghoul. Kenji also took Haruto's kids to the beach when he and Mrs Haruto wanted a quiet weekend. He might be an ugly fucker with next to no hair, and a face that made you want to split him down the middle, but he was clean and sometimes smelt nice. Yeah, Kenji could marry his sister if he wanted. She could do a hell of a lot worse.

A loud splatter sounded out behind Haruto. He spun on his heels, instincts flaring immediately into action. Where the fuck was Kenji? Where his partner had been attempting to fit the ghoul into the black bag, there was now the cut in half corpse of his future brother in law, fallen to the sides with a blindfolded figure standing in the middle. His entire being twitched in anticipation of this thing making a move to kill him, but all it did was leasurly bend down and scoop something up from the gore beneath. As the creature straightened up, he saw that it was simply sucking on one of Kenji's bloody fingers. To others, this might signify a psychotic animal, but to a seasoned Marshall, this was a confident and calculating killer plain and simple. A powerful one at that. Their clothes were indistinctive; clad in thin black leather and fabric, however, their mask was a completely different story. Almost the entirety of its face was covered. Its mouth had a tight black fabric wrapped over it, with a skeletal smile that would open, revealing the snaking pink tongue underneath. The huge back leather collar surrounding it could be zipped up to hide all but the eyes from the world. Not that the eyes could be seen either. A bone white blindfold shut them off from view. Foreign symbols were drawn in deep black on either side, with the a closed eye taking centre stage. Although it was just a drawing, that closed eye was unearving, as if the lack of sight heightened its ability to see, instead of impeding it.

Now this was a ghoul. Just by its sheer presence Haruto could tell this one was rated A, or more likely >S. Haruto couldn't deny to himself that he was intimidated, but he was a senior Marshall, and always backed himself in a one on one. He looked down at his fallen partner and gulped. First things first, get into this guys head. Haruto scanned the ghoul, looking for weaknesses that he could exploit verbally. If he was lucky, the reaction could lead to him obtaining an edge. He noticed that this ghoul was slight in stature, maybe five foot five all told.

"You wanna end up like this other piece of shit, you fucking dwarf."

This garnered absolutely nothing.

Haruto couldn't take it much longer. This creature continued to lapp at the guts of his dead partner, that were splattered over its fingers. It obviously didn't give a shit what it looked like to others. It reminded him of a cat, publically cleaning its fur and genitals with no concern for the world. It was fucking reveling in its feast, and it made Haruto's blood boil.

"You killed an innocent man. He was gonna have a family and you ripped him apart. You monsters have no fucking souls and you all belong in hell. That's where I'm gonna send you. I'm a fucking senior Marshall you stupid shit. You have no clue how badly you've fucked up."

Again, the ghoul made no sign of changing emotion, continuing to dip its fingers in Kenji and take its time eating. Haruto knew he needed something else to get into its head so he scanned again. 'Shit' he thought, as the ghost of a smile passed over his lips. The majority of its body was covered in black that mostly obscured its shape, however, his keen eyes saw that although its grey hair was tied up, it was probably quite long when undone. At its chest area, although it was probably bound, there was the hint of a slightly tented structure. The hardest one to spot was the hips. Despite them being covered by black leather shorts, those hips were a tad too wide to be a man's.

"Alright you sick fuck. I'M A COMMIN FOR YA!"

With one last drive to uncover more courage, Haruto raised his Kokaku quinque and lept towards the ghoul.

"I'M GONNA FUCK YOU UP FOR KENJI... YOU BITCH!"

As Haruto closed the distance with extreme speed, to less than two meters, the shadow of another figure dropped from the sky, landing directly next to the first. Haruto skidded to a halt, taken aback by the new masked creature. This one was certainly taller, and its face was covered by a red, horned mask. It was only as his attention slipped completely that he realised his final mistake. For the first time, the blindfolded ghoul smiled widely, the skeletal mouth parting to reveal massive bloody teeth.

The next thing Haruto knew was that he was laying down on the ground, face to the sky. His neck was warm and dripping wet. He raised his hands to his throat as the oxygen escaped his body, feeling the deep gash that was releasing his blood. The ghouls started conversing.

"Which one you want?" the first asked the newcomer.

"I don't care. You killed 'em both so you choose" the other responded dispondantly.

"Well, you're the growing boy so you take the ghoul and the first Reaper."

"Damn, well fuck me if you ain't the best big sister" uttered the male ghoul sarcastically, as he casually walked over to Kenji and the dead ghoul. "Why you taking you're mask off you sicko? The guys not even dead yet."

"I like it when they watch me" the female ghoul giggled.

Haruto saw the shadow of something passing over his head. "Ken...Ke..ji" Haruto gasped.

Suddenly, from below him came a the same giggle. "Awww dude, I think these guys were close."

"Eyeless, eat the fucker and let's go" came the voice of the male.

"Hey buddy boy, look at me will you" said the female from his feet.

Haruto craned his neck, scared of what he might see, but thinking 'fuck it' to himself. What's did he have to be afraid of, he's already dead. When he finally focused on the face he was confused. She was chewing on a leg. His leg. When the fuck did she get her dirty hands on that? When she'd finished on his leg, licking the tips of her fingers with delight, she bent down and hovered over him. Eyeless? That's what the other one had called her, but that wasn't true at all. Now that her blindfold was off he could see the entirety of her murderous giddy face.

"You're very funny" she said. "Innocent man. Gonna have a family. Its really fucking funny."

The last thing Haruto would ever see would be a testimony to her names innacuracy. Staring at him excitedly was one grey eye, so remarkably human looking it was weird. The other eye was a pool of darkness... with a violent, blood red pupil that seemed to be trying to force its way out of its black prison. She snapped up the rest of him.

"Sicko..."

End