#Frank fell out of a tree.

[fadedrainbowbookshelves]

Need a little help there, Neighbor?

[sixosix]

5k event request :P

Kazuha, light stick, and fluff please

a/n hi anon! when i saw light stick, i instantly interpreted it as those kpop light sticks,, im not sure if u meant something else like those glow sticks, so i am hoping this was what u meant HAHA

wc 700, idol!kazuha/fan!reader, im sure u guys have heard of the 6REEZE group somewhere, meet-cute; disclaimer i only know how auction works from my classmates roleplaying them so ignore accuracies for fic’s sake. bless.

5K EVENT SPECIAL | EVENT MASTERLIST

Kazuha, to be frank, felt a little embarrassed.

His features stood out too much, his friends told him. To go out and enjoy the fresh air of the day, he had to not enjoy the fresh air with a face mask, conceal his red streak of hair by clipping it back and burying it under a cap, and wear green-tinted sunglasses (also to disguise the red of his eyes) that he was struggling to get used to.

In his defense, His friends weren’t any better. Aether’s braid could be recognized with only that, Venti’s glowing braids weren’t any better, Heizou’s shade of hair and green eyes would stand out—if not his unique voice, and everyone knew Xiao even if he were to shave all his hair off. Scaramouche could be salvageable, but one word from his mouth and his fans would fall to their knees—it could be his voice, but it would be the attitude.

Kazuha felt a little too hot with his disguise, but he wanted this, so he would go through with it. He tugged his mask under his nose, relaxing at the scent of the open air. The mall had an open area with trees all over; the leaves fell to the ground, and the wind brushed past. Kazuha couldn’t feel it, having been stuffed under layers, but he was satisfied.

Although it felt embarrassing to be clothed in this disguise, he couldn’t go outside this freely before. He was going to make the most of it.

And then he passed by a stall that had him doing a double take. Kazuha took a few steps back, lighting up with recognition. He couldn’t be mistaken, not with that familiar symbol of Anemo. The stall displayed a light stick of their group, released only a few days ago.

His friends would have a blast if he came back with it, most likely, Kazuha mused. Maybe he could bring it back as a gift.

A hand shot out from the side, blocking his view of the light stick. Kazuha blinked, a little surprised. He followed the arm's stretch and came face-to-face with an angry stranger.

“Hey, you!” you said. Kazuha felt like he needed to stand straighter at the tone. “I had my eye on this one first, ‘kay? Whatever number you have in mind—keep it. I finally get my hands on one of these; I’m not letting it go!”

“Oh, this was an auction?” he asked curiously. The stall didn’t seem to be being run by anyone at the moment, and no one else was there.

“Well, no,” you sniffed, “but I would win. I already told the seller I called dibs on this one—wait until she gets back.”

Charmed, Kazuha smiled. “Two thousand.”

“Three.”

“Three-thousand, five hundred?”

“Five-thousand, three hundred.”

Kazuha had to wonder: “How much do these usually cost?”

“Five thousand, if you’re lucky. I’ll make it ten thousand, easy. Are you still not backing down?”

Kazuha laughed under his breath. Were you serious? Were you actually willing to drop that much for this? “Alright, I cede. I apologize for attempting to defeat you.”

You grinned, eyes sparkling quite literally as your gaze slid back to the lightstick. You were very pretty. “Yeah, I thought so.” You eyed him curiously; Kazuha suddenly felt a little shy. “Are you a fan as well?”

Kazuha nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from your genuine smile for a few moments. His eyes drifted down to your shirt, which had the same Vision of the lightstick—but there was something else. “You could say that.”

Your shirt had maple leaves swirling around the logo, and Kazuha could recognize it all too well because he was asked to sit down and draw it for their merchandise—something personal for each member. Did Kazuha have the right to suspect what it meant that you were wearing his?

Emboldened, Kazuha gestured at the lightstick. “As a fellow enthusiast, may I extend my offer to cover this purchase?”

You blinked and stuttered. “W-What— You don’t have to! I literally stole it from you!”

“So you confess that you pried it off of me?” Kazuha teased.

“That’s not—Listen—” You stared at him, then got flustered. “Hold on, are you hitting on me?”

“Yes.” He took off his sunglasses and tugged down his mask, flashing a sweet smile that he knew was utterly unfair. Your face bluescreened out of pure shock. Without the mask muffling his voice, it was clear as day. “So, will you let me?”

[loaksky]

— 𝘨𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘳, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳

the lowdown — neytiri’s his first love, but you’re his forever…he swears.

the who — jake sully x fem omatikaya!reader

the word count — 3.2k

the tags & warnings — possible language, she fell first / he fell harder, first love / last love, arguable tension

the notes — based on this request ! ideally this takes place before anyone dies & everyone is happy :) 

masterlist

You and Jake have always been a sticky situation.

Because it didn’t always start with the two of you. At first, he had eyes for someone else, could only bear the thought of being with one person in the whole of Pandora, and that came in the form of the clan’s most important daughter. And you watched from the outskirts, watched as lessons in life turned into lessons of love.

To be frank, you don’t know when the adoration started, when the feelings began to bloom. Your heart was arid territory, but the seeds were planted and the roots were festering.

Maybe it was his dedication to the people, spirit one with the village. He was allegiant to Pandora down to every last blade of grass, every leaf, every insect. And he was kind, offered his heart and full efforts to every endeavor.

You admired him silently, learned to love him quietly, even as the passion between him and Neytiri swelled until it was ready to burst.

You hadn’t really realized that he’d noticed you until one day nestled among the trees.

“Is this where you disappear to everyday?”

Your neck swivels so hard, you almost get whiplash. The project you’re working on, another satchel to replace your own, bunched tight in your fists as your eyes scan the expanse of forest floor wildly.

Jake stands a few meters below, hand resting casually on the hilt of the dagger strapped across his broadening chest.

All that sounds in the quiet between you is the bobbing of your throat as you swallow, eyes wide and unblinking.

“You don’t really talk much, do you?”

You suppose you don’t, not when you’re used to blending into the edges, spending your days lounging around village grounds and finding odd and ends to tend to.

“Nothing?” Jake presses, weight shifting as he peers up at you.

“Not everyday,” is your only response, still unmoving from your perch on the branch.

Jake only nods, conversation coming to a painfully quick lull.

“What are you up to?” he prods, shifting again.

“A bag.”

Your cheeks are warm under his unrelenting gaze, mouth dry because you’ve spent months admiring him from afar, watching him slowly meld into becoming one of the people.

“A bag,” he repeats.

You nod.

He lets out a puff of air that sounds an awful like a humorless laugh and he scratches the back of his neck. He’s folding his cards first this time around, unsure of how to trod such uncertain territory with you.

“See you around, ________,” he says, giving you a playful salute as he peels away.

Your heart skips as he saunters off, timbre of his voice sweet around your name.

Jake continues to find you in that spot often.

Graduated from holding brief conversations from different elevations to propping against adjacent branches enjoying your company, he comes to find out that you're awfully shy. 

Painfully so. But when he makes you laugh, and you timidly smile with full heart, he feels your facade crumbling.

And as chance meetings after duties turn into promises, you can’t help but wonder what's changed. Every moment with you means a moment unspent with his lover. It makes equal parts pride and dread swell in the pit of your stomach.

Whispers about him ripple through the village, that he’s learning quickly, catching onto the way of the people with great ease. There’s talk of a ceremony, of accepting him as one. It makes something sour, bitter, curdle inside of you in the ugliest way possible.  

Because a ceremony means selection and selection means solidifying the relationship he has with the leader’s daughter. It means no more limbo and the time you’ve spent trying to guard your wanting heart is shot to shit. 

It considerably dampens your mood, something that takes Jake a mere glance over your body language to read. 

“Something’s bothering you,” he observes, head tilting to the side. 

You bite the inside of your lip, eyes golden and gooey. They’re the only thing that betrays the stoic expression that colors the carve of your jaw and the curve of your cheekbones. 

It takes every ounce of effort to not visibly melt at the way you carry yourself. 

He doesn’t know when it started with you, how you could have possibly caught his attention when all you did was wash out in the background, bleed through the edges. But you had. Had captured his attention enough for him to second guess such a fleeting barrage of emotions when it came to the future tsahik. 

Neytiri was a force to be reckoned with, but you were a gentle gust of embracing wind. Jake didn’t feel any pressure with you, didn’t feel like he was wearing the skin of someone else. He felt like him. 

“Our time will end,” is all you say. 

It takes him a moment, but he notices the slick of your lashes, the almost imperceptible hiccup. 

His five-fingered hand cradles your chin, and for the briefest of breaths, you want to ease away, want to put as much distance as you could between you and the very one who has the power to nurture and shatter your heart all the same. But something glimmers like liquid gold in Jake’s eyes and you crumple.

“Why is that?” he whispers. “What makes you say so?” 

“Do you think I’m a fool?” you ask.

There is no malice in your tone, only a lingering thread of defeat. 

“Far from it,” Jake answers, nudging you to meet his gaze when your eyes flicker away. “You are the most intelligent and capable person I know.” 

Your breath hitches and you swallow down a petulant rebuttal. 

“I hear what they say about you, Jake Sully,” you say lightly. “They want to make you one of us.” 

A gentle smile twitches upon his lips, something triumphant flickering over his features. 

“You against it?” he asks, eyebrows quirking.

You shake your head, fingers wrapping around his wrist to guide his hand from your face. When you try to pull away, he threads your digits together, tugging you so that you shift closer to him. 

“You do great things for the Omatikaya,” you say. “They are very proud of you.” 

“Are you?” he presses. 

“Am I what?” you ask, voice caught in your throat. 

Jake draws you impossibly closer. You can make out the constellations of blemishes on his face, the smattering of glowing freckles across the expanse of his muscled chest. 

“Are you proud of me?” he wonders. 

It’s a loaded question, one that makes a shiver rip down your spine and your cheeks to warm. 

Of course you were proud of him. You’d watched him from afar for far too long, had seen every accomplishment, every failure. Had seen the spectrum of his emotions, every jubilant moment and bouts of discouragement. 

“Yes,” you answer simply. “Very.” 

The smile that cracks the lush of his mouth makes you swallow hard. 

“Good,” he hums. “I’m glad.”

He’s searching your face, eyes glazed as he takes in all of you before him. The silence is thick, pierceable by the bluntest of edges. When you show no intentions of breaking the quiet, Jake speaks again. 

“Now tell me,” he says, voice rumbling in his chest. “Why is our time ending?” 

Your lips purse and something like annoyance shutters over your pretty face. 

“The tsahik’s daughter has made her intentions with you very clear,” you say, trying to sweeten the acidic words on your tongue. “You cannot waste anymore moments with the likes of me.” 

Jake bites back the widening of his smile, but he can’t help it, not when this encounter solidifies every suspicion he’s had about you and him. 

“You’re right,” he says simply. “Neytiri’s asked her parents for their blessing for us.” 

You try not to let the disdain cloud your features, try to tamp down the twitch of your frown, but you can’t get anything past him, not when Jake’s favorite subject to study is you. 

“I’m sure they are delighted,” you respond, making a move to peel your fingers from his. 

Your chest is tightening and your vision is clouding. 

His grip squeezes and the film of tears that sheen your eyes makes his heart go soft. 

“They do approve,” he adds, pausing to pick his next words carefully. “But…”

Your gaze flicks to meet his again, heart stuttering when you find that his gaze hasn't left your form. His eyes are mapping every one of your features, pausing a moment too long on your lips. 

Your cheeks blaze.

“But?” you fill. 

“I refused,” he replies thoughtfully. 

He could laugh, the way your lips part, brow bones shooting up as your eyes blow wide. 

“Why would you–” 

“My heart belongs to someone else,” he finally admits. “It has for a long time and it was stupid of me to think that I could ignore it.”

“Oh—” Your breath hitches. 

“But I can only act on my heart if she’ll have me,” he says, searching your eyes. 

“Do you think she—” 

Jake breathes out a laugh, tugs you so that your front presses against his, close enough to feel the fan of his breath against your lips, to smell the delicious spice of bathing herbs clinging to his balmy skin.

“You’re torturing me here,” he groans, throwing his head back. 

You see the way his Adam's apple bobs and you fidget in your seat. 

“I—”

“Jesus Christ, love, put me out of my misery and tell me you’ll have me, please.”

You only manage a noise of surprise before his hand cups the back of your neck to guide you forward, lips pressing desperately against yours. His mouth is warm and when he leans into you, you taste the sweetness of berries on his tongue. 

His hands wander, gliding over the smooth expanse of your flesh like he’s committing every curve and edge of your body to his memory. 

“Wait, wait,” you whisper breathlessly. “What about Neytiri? She… She loves you.” 

Jake’s dazed, disoriented because the taste of you makes him far more delirious than he’d expected. 

He presses his forehead against your own. 

“She’s got nothing on you, angel.” 

Everything shifts on its axis after that, but there’s one thing in particular that remains—the seed of doubt that had rooted that sunny day under the canopy of the jungle’s oversized leaves. 

Perhaps you’re being cynical, a little paranoid, but Jake’s yet to claim you before Ewya despite officially becoming one with the people. And you could stomach it, the idea that maybe he’s just prioritizing a smooth shift into life with the clan, but lately he’s been sneaking around, blowing you off. 

You don’t want to give that niggling feeling of insecurity any stock, not when he’s so lovely to you when you two are intertwined, but you happen upon them by chance and you feel stupid. It was silly, really, to expect Jake to cut ties so abruptly when his fickle heart used to all but thrum for the future tsahik. 

They laugh on the embankment, sitting a little too close for comfort.You want to look away, tell yourself that you’re being too much, but he hesitantly tucks a braid behind her ear and your breath hitches in tandem with hers. 

You can’t force yourself to expel the breath in your lungs, eyes locked on their figures like your pupils are tethered. 

You wish you didn’t stick around, wish you’d just continue on in ignorance, because as Jake leans to give Neytiri a closer look at whatever he’s toying with in his hands, the distance starts closing between them. 

They look like they belong together, two bodies that perfectly fuse.

“Oh—” You hadn’t meant to make a sound, wanted to escape quietly, but just as easily as the breadth between the two of them had closed, a chasm forms between their lithe bodies. 

“________?” he calls, voice layered with alarm. 

You turn on your heel, pushing through the curling foliage with blurring vision. 

“Hey, ________, wait!” he calls out, feet splashing from the water as he climbs from where he’d been sitting with his ankles plunged beneath the surface. 

When his footfalls fast approach and his fingers wrap around the width of your forearm, you quickly dash away the pooling tears before turning to face him head on. 

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, cupping your rounded cheeks in his palms. 

His fingertips glide down the length of your neck, brushing over your shoulders as he examines you. 

You shake your head quickly, forcing down the insecurity that bubbles hot like magma under your burning skin. 

“Nothing,” you say, clearing your throat before finally meeting his worried gaze. 

“Oh, come on,” he sighs, pushing the hair from your face to take a better look. “It’s just me, ________. You can tell me the truth.” 

You lick your drying lips before gently breaking away from him. 

“It’s nothing, Jake,” you reassure him with a small smile. “I’m just being silly.”

He opens his mouth to protest, taking a step towards you. 

“Jake Sully!” Tsu’tey’s voice thunders through the forest as he claps a hand down on his comrade’s shoulder.

Jake turns a warning eye towards him, mutters that now isn’t the time as he swats his hands away, but when he turns to face you, you’re gone. 

You feel guilty. 

Guilty because you fear that you’ve blown things way out of proportion, guilty because Jake’s reserved to giving you your space after another failed attempt at coaxing you from your shell. And infinitely so because he holds you close, when your breathing is steady and you drift in and out of sleep. You hear him, like the gentlest of lullabies. 

I love you. 

It haunts you, those three words. And you guess you’re no better than him. The weight of solidifying your union before Ewya is a heavy one, Jake knows this. But such human words weigh the same to him. And you know that to hear such a lofty sentiment rasp from your soft voice is all he could ever want. 

“He is at his wit’s end, you know?” 

You pause your laundering, allowing your loincloths and woven tops to sink back to the shallow bed of the river. When you crane your neck to find the source of the voice, you’re surprised to find Neytiri leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree. 

Your response is delayed. 

“...Huh?” 

“Jake,” she says simply, and your cheeks warm. “You worry him.” 

You turn back to your chore, spine stiffening when something rustles and Neytiri moves to sit next to you. 

“May I?” she asks, reaching for one of your intricately beaded tops. 

“Okay,” you whisper, unable to meet her sharp gaze. 

“I was hurt when he denied my parent’s blessing,” she says casually, like the thought alone doesn’t make your heart ache for the tsahik’s daughter. You can’t help it. “But I wasn’t surprised.” 

Your head snaps up, meeting her eyes reluctantly. 

“When I first brought him back to the village,” she says, wringing the corded fabric. “You caught his eye, but you didn’t even glance his way.” 

And truthfully, you hadn’t. Dreamwalkers were trouble and you had no intention of ever crossing paths with him. But then you began to see more and more of him, began to feel the weight of his presence on the village and you couldn’t help but give into the fall. 

“He started asking about you,” she laughs quietly. “Every time he’d see you. Said that you never paid him any mind no matter how close he got.” 

You roll your lips nervously, watching the way she reaches for another one of your garments and washes with increasing frustration. You almost miss the tears welling in her eyes. 

“I wished for so long that he would let it go, let you go, but you have a hold on him, ________,” she rasps. 

You blink in disbelief, shaky fingers reaching to touch her own. 

Her face tilts towards yours and her grip on the fabric loosens. 

“Jake Sully is a good man,” she whispers. “Don’t waste something good because you are scared. It will not only be a disservice to him or me, but yourself.” 

You swallow, nodding slowly. 

“I’m–” you take in a shuddering breath as your head bows. “I’m sorry.” 

A wet hand comes up to your cheek. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Neytiri coos. “Just be grateful. Be fearless. It is Eywa’s will.” 

Jake almost thinks you’re a vision when he sees you making quick strides towards him. He breaks away from the circle of villagers just as you press yourself into his chest and those not privy to his relationship with you watch with widened eyes. 

“Hi,” he breathes, combing his fingers through your hair. “Hi.” 

You don’t say anything, arms looping around the narrow of his waist as he throws an apologetic look over his shoulder and walks the two of you towards a quiet area outside of the circle. 

“Everything alright?” he asks, trying to peel you away from where you’ve buried your face in his chest.

You mumble something unintelligible, something that makes his ears prick hard to hear, but your cheeks are hot and you aren’t sure if you can handle seeing his softened eyes as you utter the words. 

“What?” he asks, pulling away enough to see the flush across your face. 

“Said Iloveyou,” you murmur. 

He freezes, like his brain is short circuiting when he pieces the words together. 

“What?” 

You steel your nerves, suck a deep breath into your lungs, and find his sunny eyes.

“I love you, Jake,” you say shakily. “I love you and—”

The laugh that leaves him is giddy and you have half the nerve to melt, but he’s kissing you for the first time since that day in the forest and you’re putty in his hands. 

“Wow,” he whispers when you break away to stand on your tiptoes and wind your arms around his neck. “I didn’t think…”

You’re kissing him again, fervently, like you’re trying to make up for lost time and he can’t help the tickling behind his navel or the heat that starts from his toes and burns all the way up his chest. 

Your skin is plush under the pads of his wandering hands and those three words, spoken into the hum of the surrounding jungle is all the confirmation that he needs that it’s you and him forever. 

“Wait, wait,” he sighs breathlessly. “I have–” 

A hand snakes between your bodies, fingers digging into the pouch strapped across his broad chest.

You watch with viscous eyes as he pulls what looks to be a gilded ring, tiny in circumference. Two pieces of thin vine cord through either side, beaded with pearlescent stones and smooth gems. 

“I…” he trails off, scratching the back of his neck as you fall back on the heels of your feet, arms loosening from around his neck to give him the room to hold it up to you. “It’s one of the only things I care about from Earth.” 

Your browbones twitch. 

“The ring’s been in my family for a while,” he says gently. “But it’s probably too small and I know that Na’vi don’t wear things on their fingers and–” 

“It’s beautiful, Jake,” you say softly, palm pressing against his chest. 

He grins, sliding the heirloom up your wrist to rest snugly around the flesh of your bicep.

“Perfect,” he murmurs to himself. 

And when your eyes swing from the gift to meet his gaze, you find him already staring down at you tenderly.

“I don’t…” you trail off, suddenly shy under such intensity. “I don’t have anything for you.” 

Jake barks out a laugh, corner of his lips quirking up in a lopsided smile as he cups your face in his hands and brings his forehead to yours. 

“Don’t need to give me anything,” he says quickly, breaths warm and lips a hairsbreadth from your own. “Just tell me you love me again, that’s enough.” 

Your face is indescribably warm under his cool touch. 

“And maybe another kiss,” he adds coyly, then a hand skims over the small of your back, dangerously close to your tail. “Or more…if you want.” 

neng © 2023

taglist; @nao-cchi , @jkiminpark , @philiasoul @amart-e , @s-u-t , @junieswrlds , @tayswiftlovebot , @dumb-fawkin-bitch , @neteyamo , @fanboyluvr , @mazemymirror , @theycallmesia , @girlpostingsposts, @athenachu , @hiya-itsamber , @morks-watermelon , @sanfransolomitatm , @lovedbychoi

[m3lonpire]

Frank Taking Care Of His GF With A Broken Arm

Tags: @dreamtofus @agirlcandream84 Cowriters: A Girl Can Dream A/N: Jesus, this has been in my drafts for a long time... sorry. xD Also, this is not related to the poll!

Frank was always protective of you, but after you broke your arm? He was practically your personal doctor. You were sitting in a tree, just chilling. It was a habit since you were young to sit in trees just to think and watch the sunset. However, as soon as you heard the branch you sat on creaking beneath you, the last thing you thought was "Dammit.". You fell out of the tree, flopping onto your arm with a yell. Frank immediately rushed outside, and he seemed extremely pissed. The ride to Curtis's place was one of silence, except for the occasional distressed mumbling of Frank. "You've got a goddamn death wish, I swear to god..." Eventually, Curtis got you into his car and drove you to the hospital, since you were all pretty sure Frank wouldn't be welcome in said hospital, what with being the literal Punisher. After a small surgery and getting a cast, you were on your way back to your and Frank's shared hideout. He couldn't stop staring at your cast, and you chuckled a bit at this. "Frank, hon, I'm fine." "Your goddamn arm is broken, how in the hell can you say you're fine?", Frank asked with a frustrated sigh. "I know you, you've got the pain tolerance of a toddler." You rolled your eyes, chuckling a bit. "I do not." "Right. Go rest, for god's sake," he responded, crossing his arms.

[this-is-a-name-dont-worry]

things that seemed reoccurring this update:

- Meat

- peas

- jelly

- Hibernation

- Eddie's absence

- Acting out a script (Sally mumbling asking if it's her cue and Howdy changing the script of the narrator in Homewarming storybook, characters general interactions with the narrator, different moments in the video, like the Sally and Frank ad break or the song a barely silent night, where the two literally fight over who get to sing, Sally mentions she wrote the lyrics, and Frank says she already has a song. yeah all of these are easy to see as meta goofs in the original material, but it's the fact there's so much of it this update) (of course all this wrap up with the end of the video where Eddie and Frank are obviously acting off script)

- Being alone (Eddie not having any news of anyone and not even seeing anyone outside (which is interesting as the story says that Sally was up in a tree near his home and saw him fret over having nothing to do), Wally saying it's so quiet during Homewarming and it's just he and Home for a while (potentially the show putting out a christmas special and then being on break? can a show do that?), and in the normal website material, the end of "An ode to hibernation", Frank saying "Where all that's left is me", the "me" being a "...me?")

- Welcome Home being used to sell stuff (cigarettes, medicine, eggnog, cereals, and the cookbook lists ingredients that are a specific brand)

(I'm putting under read more my rambling thoughts so you can just reblog the list without having to see them)

so I can't really make sense yet of all the food stuff. Maybe there are cultural elements/expressions I don't know that explains it? But I still find it very interesting how fucking unhinged that cookbook is yet the commercial and the website treat it normally. The cookbook is overall extremely interesting, because some of the recipes seem to actually be written by the characters; Barnaby who only presents you weird hot dog dressings with pictures but no recipe (and all jokes), Frank who lists not just the ingredients but also the material, and overexplain each steps (at least overexplain compared to the other recipes. it's actually interesting to know why you do x or y), and Julie who turns her recipe into a game at the end, and felt a bit harder to follow? anyway.

The cookbook, the Homewarming tradition of hanging a ham in the tree, Santy Claus being said sometimes instead of Santa, the ham for Santa? Once again, the christmas commercials being so casual about some of the weird stuff it says and presents? This almost feels like an alien who only has a blurry grasp of Christmas and what humans enjoy made the cookbook and the live commercial.

Sometimes, Welcome Home feels like it never actually aired and produced things, but we're making it retroactively exist. Something is making it exist. Like a retcon of the universe, "What do you mean you never heard of Welcome Home? No, of course it always existed and was very popular, look at all this old material we find!"

So maybe whatever is making it exist doesn't fully get humans and accidentally creates things that are weird to prove its existence. Like a cookbook that tells you a single pea in a buttered plate is a classic meal, or that of course you give Santa ham on Homewarming! (tbh almost getting an AI weirdness feel)

But in total contrary, in its story, Welcome Home also feels like it always existed, but got somehow completely wiped from people's mind, as something caused its sudden stop, and its characters gained consciousness of what they are and their world. As an existential dread fell on them one after the other, slowly realizing something isn't right. As Eddie felt anxiety and nervousness over no one being there or contacting him, to then having the story acts lightheartedly about it, the narrator saying things have been solved but he doesn't feel it, and suddenly Home is staring at him.

Both "It never existed but the universe is being retcon into it existing" and "it existed but something terrible happened that erased it from peoples mind" seem plausible. If two theories contradict each other, that means there's a third one that needs to be found.

Maybe it existed. Maybe it truly was popular, but something corrupted it, leading to its disappearance. A disappearance so big it stopped to exist. And now the thing that corrupted it is trying to crawl back, make it exist again, but it's making it come back completely off.

Anyway.

Also, I think the show may have been on hold during the Holiday season, "hibernating", and the character who got some self awareness realized that something was off. They're alone because there's nothing new, so no one is there bringing life to the neighborhood.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the busted engine

lilac, chapter one

a/n: the plot of this series came to me like fucking lightning, essentially all at once with how quick it fell into place. sometimes it's like that, sometimes magic happens in your brain. I hope you all enjoy this ride as much as I am having writing it. get ready for everything, because I've got twenty chapters planned out and ready, and spoiler, they aren't all just gonna be insanely wholesome small town cuteness... we getting angsty... we getting the drama.... but most of all, we be getting slutty. strap in folks.

summary: “I, um,” your eyes briefly flickered to the bundles of firewood needly stacked in the back of the pickup, “my car broke down and my phone conveniently also decided to run out of battery, so, uh, could I perhaps borrow yours just a moment? I just need it to make one call, that’s it.”

warnings: lumberjack!frank castle x reader, lumberjack AU, pete castiglione era, past domestic violence, crazy ex trope, slow burn, car trouble, meet cute

word count: 2674

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Your vision couldn’t help but linger every time it drifted over your hands gripping the steering wheel. The immense weight the sight of your bare ring finger lifted off your shoulders was so overwhelming that you found yourself fighting tears from blurring the road before you. 

The sun was beginning to set as you had been driving all day long, not stopped for even a second to let the gravitas sink in of what you’d done at the crack of dawn. 

The fear of Preston stirring from his slumber and finding you in the midst of sneaking out still hadn’t settled within your gut. Your paranoid brain still compelled you to check the rear-view mirror every couple of seconds just in case the sleek sportscar of your former fiancé would appear.

You had finally done what he had drilled into your mind you weren’t capable of. You’d left him for good. 

Equipped with only a small backpack of your belongings, the last thing you’d done before sneaking out of the apartment had been to toss the ring he had so insistently forced upon your finger into the trash. 

Ripping you out of your cloudy thoughts, your car suddenly began to cough like a mythical monster that was dying. 

“Oh shit…” you felt the vehicle begin to slow as ominous smoke started to billow out from under the hood. Mindful of the bushy pine trees framing the road, you guided it to the edge just in time before it gave out. 

Stepping out with an exhausted sigh, you promptly cracked the front open to take a look, though what you saw within didn’t soothe your worries as all of the fumes oozing out only made the broken engine look like that much more of a mess. 

“Fucking great,” you mumbled heatedly, fiercely slamming the hood shut in an effort to relieve some of your abundant stress. Curving back around, you swung the passenger side open and rummaged for your phone, though when you located it, the only solution it flashed you was a blinking red battery icon before the screen went completely black, “seriously?” 

Not knowing if you were about to scream or burst into tears, you chucked it back inside before hurling your spine against the side of the car, leaning against it as you cursed up at the grey sky. 

Was this the universe showing its true bias? You’d hoped that was the one thing money couldn’t buy, but perhaps you were wrong, just like he always said you were. Perhaps it would be best if you went back to the city. His reaction towards a stunt like this couldn’t be that bad compared to what you had endured before, could it? 

The sound of another vehicle cresting the thicket on the rural road caught your ears and you turned your head to see a navy-blue truck appear.

Your hand shot up to wave it down before you could even ponder the action. Fearing that it was a lost cause by the speed the driver was going at, it caught you by surprise as it suddenly came to a halt a ways in front of you. 

“Are you alright, ma'am?” the driver asked as he slammed his door shut behind him. The tall man certainly looked like the type to call the area his home. Dark beard scraggly and hair in unkept waves long enough to tickle the furrow lines decorating his forehead, his wide palm traced the lines of the truck as he made his way towards you.

“I, um,” your eyes briefly flickered to the bundles of firewood needly stacked in the back of the pickup, “my car broke down and my phone conveniently also decided to run out of battery, so, uh, could I perhaps borrow yours just a moment? I just need it to make one call, that’s it.”

Eyeing your busted vehicle a moment, his low timbre then rumbled out once more, “sure,” as he reached into his pocket and fished out his telephone.

“Thank you so much,” seizing it, you swiftly clicked it to life, “you have no idea what a lifesaver you are–, oh fuck,” your vision zeroed in on the lack of bars in the uppermost corner, “of course there’s no fucking services out here,” your eyes briefly screwed shut and your jaw clenched in an effort not to scream, “it’s fine, it’s fine! I’ll just walk then!” you tried not the throw it as you handed the phone back to the helpful stranger, “I’m sorry that you had to stop for nothing, but thank you anyways.”

Swinging your door open to yank out your stuff, the stranger’s feet stayed fast, “what direction are you headed?” 

“Dunbrook,” you answered as your body folded to reach your tossed telephone.

“You wanna catch a ride?” he unexpectedly offered, causing you to bump your head on the roof of the car.

“Ow–, what?” you blinked back at him through the windshield as your hand shot up to rub the top of your now sore head, “no, I couldn’t… I–, uh, I kinda recognise this area, the town is not too far from here, so I can walk, it’s fine.”

“Yeah, but it’ll properly still take you all night. Please, it’s no bother, I’m headed in that direction anyways.” 

Gnawing at your bottom lip, you slowly retracted out of the vehicle, “you sure?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded, attempting a faint smile in order to soften his gruff and intimidating features. 

“Alright,” swinging your backpack on you slammed your busted car shut, “thank you.”

Sliding into the passenger seat, you clicked on the seatbelt and slotted your bag between your legs. Fiddling tensely with the straps for a moment, it dawned on you how your sleeves were still rolled all the way up to your elbows from when you had checked under the hood. Pulse instantly picking up and thumping in your ears, you hastily tugged them back down to cover the lavender bruises peaking out. 

Had he noticed?

Hearing the door slam to your left, being too caught up in your own mess, it only caused your form to jump in the seat.

Trying to play it off as nothing, you attempted a casual, “I’m Y/n by the way,” though your voice came out much more strangled than you’d intended. 

Catching your flickering eye a moment before turning the key, he likewise enlightened, “Pete.” 

Your bottom lip didn’t escape the prison of your teeth the entire ride, gnawing subconsciously at it as you purposely stare out at the wild flora you passed in order to not look at the advantageous stranger. 

Though after you passed the crooked sign welcoming you back to your small hometown, Pete’s gruff voice broke the silence.

“So, where can I drop you off?”

“The inn,” you turned your head to inform him, “the Lilac Inn, if you know where that is.”

“Yeah, I know it,” he nodded, sucking in a knowing breath as if he didn’t need any more information to figure you out, “so you’re a tourist? One of those nature people who come out here to hike or something?”

“Not exactly,” was all the explanation you offer as you watched the familiar scenery come into view. 

Dunbrook. To call it a town was very generous indeed as the whole population could properly fit under the same roof if they really wanted to, and they often did. The rolling fields of wildlife that surrounded the village also divided and broke up the infrastructure of the old settlement, causing most of the homes and businesses to not all the clustered together as you had grown accustomed to seeing after moving to a metropolis as vast as New York. 

Every familiar structure rolling by evoked memories long ago buried and forgotten. The corner where you fell learning how to ride a bike. The quaint general store where you once stole a lollipop, walked for all of 48 seconds before turning right back and apologising to the owner with tears in your eyes. But most of all, the large Victorian structure at the bottom of the tiny town by far held the fondest of memories in your heart. 

The dust puffed up around the truck as you rolled down the narrow dirt road, the bushy lilac trees that flourished all over the property haven not quite yet come into bloom, yet still forewarned your destination that already peaked over the tops. 

“Here it is,” Pete exhaled as the car came to a stop before the vast veranda, “the Lilac Inn.” 

Eyes glued to your childhood home, you stepped out of the truck, “thank you,” slamming the door shut, you turned to add awkwardly through the rolled down window, “and also thank you for not turning out to be an axe murderer or something,” a nervous laugh swiftly bubbling out at the notion.

Glancing back at your bumbling form, he simply flashed you a tight-lipped smile and said, “you have a good trip, ma'am.” 

“You too–, I mean, you have a good, uhm, rest of your life,” you fumbled as your feet slowly backed up, “it was nice meeting you, Pete.” 

“Yeah, you too,” he just managed to reply before you spun your mortified flush away from his stare and scurried up the steps of the porch. 

Pushing the creaky, stained glass adorn front door open, you tiptoed inside. 

The lighting dim and the atmosphere nothing short of comforting, a smile finally bloomed upon your lips as you let out the breath you’d been holding for who knows how long. 

Peeking around the corner into one of the sitting rooms, you only spotted one patron sitting by the small round table next to the crackling fireplace, working away at a puzzle. Either the others had gone to bed already or this fellow was the only one staying here. 

“Excuse me,” you gently interrupted from the archway, “would you happen to know where the owner, Harvey, is–”

Though before you managed to get out the remainder of the sentence, a bustle from the kitchen answered your question for you, “every time I forget to whisk long enough and every time I say it’s gonna be different, but this time I mean it!”

Sharing a knowing look with the guest, you chuckle, “never mind…” 

“This time I won't just stop when my arm feels like it’s gonna fall off,” even though it was clear he was talking to himself, his usual vibrato still carried, “oh no, no, you just wait and see how light and fluffy you turn out this time, cake!” 

Poking your head through the ajar door, you spotted the familiar greying man grumbling into the contents of the bowl he was furiously beating with a whisk. 

“Dad?”

Nearly jumping out of his skin, your father gasped, whisk jolting upright as he laid his eyes upon you, subsequently splattering some batter across the kitchen, back near the sink, “Y/n?” he exclaimed, his eyes growing to the size of saucers, “is that really you? Is my little baby girl really standing in my kitchen or is this a hallucination?”

“Hi,” your head tilted in a soft chuckle. 

Staring at you as if you were just a newborn puppy, “oh, come here, munchkin and give your pops a hug!” the moustachioed man’s arms went wide and pulled you in, dropping whisk still in his hand as he blubbered into your hair, “ah, I’ve missed you so much,” squeezing your form in the magical way that only parents could, “I haven’t heard from you in, well I don’t even know how long, that’s how long and if you ask me then that’s too long,” he pulled back, cupping your cheek as he gazed at you, “you don’t write, you don’t call.”

“Not true, I do write,” you corrected him light-heartedly, “and you don’t have a cellphone.” 

“Well, there’s the telephone out in reception, why would I need more?” he shrugged, lending you to then slip out of his grip, swiftly boosting your own form to hop onto one of the empty counters, “also, your last letter was 10 months ago.” 

“No, it wasn’t, was it?” you gasped, thinking back.

“You can check the date, they’re still in the cookie tin up there,” he gestured to one of the top shelves before reuniting the whisk in his grip with the large bowl on the table. 

Only briefly glancing up at the enamel box, you already knew that you didn’t wanna revisit them. However vague the letters were, which they always were, you were still certain that they’d have the power to send you right back there into Preston’s iron fist, even though you’d never even mentioned him once in all the years you’d been with him. They only ever really contained small talk and pleasantries, never about something so personal as to whom you were dating, but you also didn’t share at all as things took a turn for the worse, when you were in so deep that you felt like you couldn’t escape. Perhaps it was out of pride, perhaps it was to shield him from the truth, or maybe even in a way yourself, not admitting to the fiend you had welcomed into your own bed, creating some false reality as a coping mechanism. 

Averting your gaze, you then uttered softly, “I’m really sorry dad,” gliding your right thumb over the jagged edge of the counter as you gripped onto it with both fists.

“Ah, it’s fine,” he waved a hand, “you’re young, out there living your life. You shouldn’t have to check in with your father every few seconds. I am aware that you’re 29 after all. Although, you know I wouldn’t be a pose to just a little bit more…” he winked, playfully bumping the side of his hip against your shin before picking up the speed of the whisk once more, “so, did I forget it’s my birthday or did you just miss your old man?” his jovial glance flickered between you and the batter. 

“Can I stay here a while? I just need some place to,” lay low, “figure things out, you know?”

Whisk halting, his gaze upon you grew in concern, “of course you can, honey. Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay, I just–, uh… needed a change,” not looking him in the eye, you spoke, “I don’t know to where or what I’m gonna do next, but I do know that I don’t wanna go back,” you felt a lump of emotion swell up in your throat, “and I won’t just stay here for free, I’ll pay you rent,” you tried to appease the stubborn sensation of being a nuance to everyone, even to your own kin, “though I don’t really have any money right now, so I’d have to get a job first, but that’s fine, I’ll figure something out–” 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” your father cut you off, “you can stay here as long as you want, it never stopped being your home even when you moved away. Still keep your room exactly the same, just in case,” he offered you a warm smile, his silver moustache stretching wider, “how about you just give me a hand around here, huh?” 

“Alright,” you exhaled, “deal.”

His grin turning more mischievous, he then noted slyly, “you know I’ve always dreamed of you taking over this place one day, running the family business…” 

Rolling your eyes, you chuckled, “not this again…”

“Just think about, you could–”

“Dad, I’m not gonna take over the inn! Running a place like this isn’t what it used to be back when your parents opened it up. You might have always been dead set on taking over it, but I haven’t.”

“I know, I know,” he gracefully backed down again as he always did, “you want adventure, isn’t that what you called it when you went away for college?” 

Adventure… it was that kind of philosophy that had sent an innocent young girl into the arms of a devil…

© 2023 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[theweightofakiteofdreamsingold]

Dreams – D. Wagner

Warnings: Explicit sexual content; mature themes; fingering; oral sex (fem receiving); unprotected sex; language; MINORS DNI

A/N: Apologies for being late to the Christmas Party, you guys. I ✨almost✨ abandoned this fic in the swamp, but I’m glad I went back and read it tonight with fresh eyes. Ken’s been trying to get me to finish it for days. Anyways, enjoy a little reunion fic bc late Saturday nights are for Danny smut, apparently (I don’t make the rules).

Bajabule,

-Han

As you moved about the kitchen, straightening the countertops and wiping them down, you found yourself lost in the music that drifted throughout the house. The sound that came from the turntable and speakers in your living room made your entire body feel warm, despite being simply clad in your favorite pair of underwear and one of Danny’s old oversized Christmas sweaters.

You’d decided to get a jump on getting into the Christmas spirit, as you’d found it difficult to do so this year with him and his brothers touring on the other side of the world. The first half of December seemed to have sprinted and crawled by at the same time, and you’d only just put up your Christmas tree and decorations the day before. Today, you focused on making treats for when Danny did come home, which wouldn’t be for another two or three days. Doing all of the decorating and baking did well to change the course of your thoughts, and you took advantage of this.

You mixed ingredients, baked gingerbread cookies, and put together a Christmas simmer pot, all while slowly losing yourself in the silky crooning voice of Frank Sinatra as he sang your favorite holiday classics.

After you’d finished your festivities for the day and cleaned everything up, you decided to trudge up the stairs and settle into bed with a nice, cozy blanket to watch a Christmas movie. After you turned off all the lights, you turned on the TV and flipped through your options. After settling on a movie, you snuggled up in your dimly-lit bedroom and watched the screen until your eyelids grew heavy.

As you closed your eyes and drifted to sleep, you heard the soft, muffled voices from the TV fade as your dreams overtook you.

Your dream started out like the Hallmark movie that was playing on your TV when you fell asleep. You were in a small, cozy cabin in the mountains for the holidays, and Danny was meeting you there. Whenever you arrived first, you went to the nearest store and bought things to bake. On your drive back to the cabin, Christmas music was playing on the radio station you’d tuned in to, and Frank Sinatra’s silky voice wrapped you up again as he slowly sang the first verse to “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.” You hummed along as you pulled up to the cabin and carried your groceries inside.

You put the first set of gingerbread cookies in the oven and set a timer to take them out before you started mixing ingredients to make your second batch. Still humming the song from earlier, you’d just started mixing when you heard the front door open. Excitedly, you turned around, watching as Danny sat his bags down and slipped out of his jacket that was peppered with snow.

You turned back around and continued mixing your batter while you listened to the soft sound of his socks padding across the hardwood floor. You felt him slip his arms around your waist and squeeze you into his frame, his chin resting softly on your shoulder.

“Smells amazing in here. Making my favorite, I see?”

You grinned at him and let out a little giggle. “Of course.”

“You’re so sweet,” he said softly, his hands toying with the hem of your sweater, and tickling the skin on the tops of your bare thighs as he gently swayed the two of you back and forth. You relaxed into him, and he straightened. You looked up at him from below and took in the shape of his face like it was the first time you’d ever seen it; the shape of his nose and lips, the curls in his hair and the tiny flakes of snow that hadn’t managed to melt just yet. He looked down at you and you watched as the sweetest smile slowly spread itself across his face, making the corners of his deep brown eyes crinkle the tiniest bit. He leaned down and met your lips with his, bringing one of his hands up to cup the side of your face.

When he pulled his lips back from you, he kept the tip of his nose touching yours while his eyes softly held your gaze. “I missed you so much, honey,” he said, the pad of his thumb softly skimming over your cheekbone.

“God, I missed you, Danny.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you whined, feeling him press himself into your back.

“Well you don’t have to worry. Because I’m here now, sweetheart.”

You huffed a breath, squeezing your thighs together and holding them.

His hands migrated from your hips at this, and he lifted the hem of your sweater, slowly dipping his hand into your underwear. You sucked in a sharp breath when his skin met yours. “Your hands are freezing!”

“Mm,” he hummed against your ear as he slipped his fingers between your folds. “Sorry,” he chuckled, “you’re so fucking warm I can’t help myself.”

His fingers circled your clit and you moaned, feeling his cock grow harder still behind you. “Fuck, Danny. Keep going,” you said, your breath getting heavier by the second. He did as you asked, and right as you were about to cum, you jolted awake, your chest heaving.

You felt a jolt behind you, making you jolt again, turning your head and your sleepy eyes around to see Danny, eyes-wide, staring back at you from under your blanket.

Lost for words, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes and opened them again to still, despite your belief, see Danny sitting beside you in the bed. “What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice still heavily laced with grogginess from your nap.

“We decided to change our flights at the last minute. I think we were all just ready to get back home. I wanted to surprise you,” he said, giving you a small smile.

“Well I’m glad you did,” you said, rolling over to him and straddling his hips. He readjusted the blanket around you as you leaned down to kiss him. The two of you took each other in for a bit, and he pulled back just far enough to speak.

“I missed you so much, honey,” he whispered.

You froze, remembering the exact moment in your dream that he uttered those words and what he was doing when he said them. You replayed it in your head, and felt warmth spread between your legs. “I missed you,” you said, pulling him back to your mouth. You felt his cock start to harden rather quickly under you, and you immediately rolled your hips into him, your breath starting to pick up.

“Is that my sweater?” He asked, his eyes glinting at you from below.

“Yeah,” you said, unsure of what he would say next.

He smirked and flicked his gaze from the sweater to your eyes. “It looks really good on you. I like it.”

You slipped the sweater over your head and let it fall to the floor. “Does it look better now?”

His hands gripped your hips and he let out a hard laugh. He flipped you over so that you were under him, and he peppered kisses from your mouth to your breasts, taking his time to spoil each new area he encountered, leaving your heat more soaked and needy for him than it ever had been.

Once he’d met your underwear, he lifted his head as he hooked his fingers around your waistband and waited. You lifted your hips, and he took his cue to pull your underwear down your legs. He paused after he dropped them on the floor.

His eyes flicked from your dripping pussy to your eyes and back. He let out a small huff of air and chuckled to himself.

“What’s so funny?”

He looked at you and raised his eyebrows before he spoke. “I’m toast.”

“What do you mean?” you chuckled back at him.

“I’m not gonna last two fucking seconds in there. There’s no way.”

“Why do you say that?”

His eyes widened as he dramatically glanced back and forth again. “Baby I’ve never seen you wet like this for me. Ever. And it’s been way too long. This is gonna be a fuckin’ mess.”

“Is that a bad thing?” you asked, raising your eyebrows with a smirk.

You watched his jaw fall slack as he stared at you, almost in a daze, before he slowly started slipping his clothes off and tossing them in the floor.

Once he’d fully undressed himself, he settled his shoulders between your legs leaving soft kisses on your inner thighs, slowly moving closer and closer to your heat. The closer he got, the faster you huffed, your heart hammering with anticipation for the feeling of his mouth; a sensation you’d thought about every single night that he was gone.

Your hands lightly shook as they reached for his hair, knowing full-well you didn’t have the self-control to keep yourself from finishing just moments after he delved his tongue inside of you. Once he was happy with the number of kisses he’d given you, his hands crept up your thighs, and he used his fingers to separate you just a bit, giving his tongue easier access to your already swollen clit.

He started slowly, running his tongue from your entrance to your clit before giving it a few soft flicks before descending again, making your legs involuntarily twinge with every flick. Your hands softly gripped the roots of his curls as he continued.

Slowly, he began to move faster, shortening the time between the flicks on your clit, making you whimper as he did so. Your grip tightened as you felt a burning in the pit of your stomach already. “Shit, Danny,” you moaned.

His eyes flicked up to you from below. “What is it? You need some more?”

You moaned again, his voice making you wetter with every syllable. It was then that he slipped his middle and ring fingers into your folds and moved them around, collecting your juices before slipping them languidly into your core. Your back arched at the contact and your fingers completely wrapped themselves around his hair and pulled harder than before, making him moan into your pussy as he sucked your clit into his mouth. His fingers curled, rubbing the perfect spot, and you cried out, your hips bucking shamelessly into his face. The pit of your stomach was seething, and you didn’t even try to quench the fire.

“Oh god, Danny– I– ohhhhh fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck–.”

He quickened the pace at which his fingers pumped in and out of your entrance, and you immediately felt the warmth of your first orgasm spread over your entire body. His pace was unwavering, and you continually writhed under him and bucked your hips, physically begging for him to be deeper inside you.

You moaned again.

“What is it, sweetheart?” He cooed, “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” His eyebrows raised, soft and expectant.

“Need you–,” you choked between whimpers, “to fffffff–.” His fingers slowed, giving your brain a moment to work through the numbing haze he was causing with his fingers. “Fuck me,” you whispered. “Please.”

“Been dreaming about hearing you say that to me for months, honey. Dreaming about how you’d look with me buried as deep as I can go. Is that what you want?”

The only bodily function you could manage was a vehement nod of your head, making him let out a breathy chuckle. He removed his fingers from you and leaned up, gently placing his lips on your forehead as he lined himself up with your entrance.

You watched as his mouth hung open while he slipped the tip of his cock into your core, letting out a shaky breath like it was the first time all over again. You sucked in a sharp breath as you adjusted to his girth, feeling him stretch the walls of your pussy so slowly you had to make an effort not to drool. Your head fell backward as your chest heaved at the feeling of fullness between your legs while your hands gripped him by the roots of his curls again.

Moving deeper still, he let out a deep groan, fighting the overwhelming urge to press the rest of the way into you to satisfy himself. He lifted his head to make eye contact with you, his mouth still sitting agape as he slowly continued to slide into you.

“Goddamn, honey. You’re so fucking perfect. So fucking perfect.”

Once he reached the furthest he could, you whimpered, very lightly rolling your hips up into him.

“Mmm, you really did miss me, huh?”

“Mhm,” you whined. “Every fucking night, Danny.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, smirking.

He started pulling his hips back and pushing them in, helping you grow accustomed to the feeling of his thrusts before speeding up. You moaned with each push, already reveling in the depth that he could reach in his current position. Unable to help himself, he pushed into you quicker and harder second by second, his grunts being muted by the slick sounds from your core and the sound of his skin meeting yours over and over.

His breath quickly left him as he continued sharply rocking you back into your pillows, trying his best to hold himself up for as long as he could. His rhythm was impeccable, as one would expect, and you felt your second orgasm creep up on you much quicker than you’d anticipated.

“Danny. Danny. Fuck,” was all you could say before your lower stomach burst with warmth again, leaving your legs trembling on either side of his perfect hips.

“Mmm keep going, sweetheart. Just feel it, yeah? Right there?”

You moaned, nodding your head, focusing everything on the feeling oh his cock sliding in and out of you, like he said. Heavy breaths fell from your lips, and your chest was absolutely burning. It was then that he straightened, removing his cock from you entirely and backing himself off the bed, standing at the end of it. His hands encircled the bottoms of your calves, and he gently pulled you to the edge of the bed; so close that your ass was nearly hanging off the end.

He opened your legs wide and lined himself back up before plunging deliciously deeper inside your core, making you cry out for him. Your hands gripped the sheets under you hard enough to turn your knuckles white. He knew you loved being as close to him as possible while he fucked you, so he slid his arm behind you so that the crook of his elbow rested perfectly behind your neck, his hand firmly gripping your shoulder while his other hand rested on the top of your head. You felt warm and wholly connected to him being wrapped in his arms like this, and you knew he felt the same. He planted a lusty kiss on your lips, lingering there, slipping his tongue into your mouth on occasion.

Once he broke the kiss, he pulled his hips back, pulling his cock out of you about halfway, and pressed down with both of his hands, bringing you to him as he brought himself to you, pushing himself into you deeper than he’d ever gone to date. Your back arched, pressing your chest up into his and he forcefully met your hips with his own, the sounds between the two of you becoming louder and messier by the second. His grunts turned into sharp exhales as he tried with everything he had to hold out and pace himself for his own climax, desperately trying to finish you off for a third time before he indulged.

“Ohhhhh my fucking GOD, Danny,” you moaned. “You’re so fucking deep. Don’t stop. Please don’t fucking stop.”

He moaned, and you could tell from the sound of it that he was tiptoeing on his edge. You tried with everything you had to squeeze his cock as hard as you could, and you thought you had him. His eyes screwed shut and his mouth fell open, and you watched him fight with his entire being for every second he could stand it.

His grip on your shoulder and your hair grew much tighter as he grit his teeth together, his chest heaving harder than you’d ever seen it. He pulled you impossibly closer to him, every inch of your skin burning against his as he pounded into you the hardest he had all night.

“Cum for me, sweet girl. Show me how bad you needed my cock while I was gone, huh? Come on,” he coaxed. You arched again, harder than you ever had, and you cried out for him again, your entire body trembling as he kept his rhythm perfectly again, making your legs twinge from the immense stimulation.

Soon after, you felt his hips quiver, and it took mere seconds for him to start his release. You did what you could to squeeze around him while he rode out his high, milking his cock while he grunted and moaned into your neck, eventually laying his upper half against yours in a heaving pile. Your hands trailed the expanse of his back as his chest pressed into yours with each breath he took.

When he rose from you, he slipped out from between your legs and padded off to the bathroom for a washcloth. After he’d cleaned the both of you, he settled himself at the head of the bed, pulling you to him. You laid your head on his chest and threw your arm across his torso as he pressed his lips against your forehead, reaching for the TV remote on the nightstand.

After flipping it on, he looked at you and grinned.

“What?” You asked, reflecting his smile on your lips.

“That must’ve been a really good nap earlier to put you in that big of a mood,” he said, waggling his brows at you.

You blushed, looking away from him for a moment with a giggle.

“Actually…”

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Taglist: @sunandthemoontwinflames

[alistairtheyrin]

the bard of riverbrook farm, pt. i

la belle dame sans merci, frank bernard dicksee

aemond targaryen x lowborn!reader

masterlist | ao3

summary | the people of the riverlands begin to find peace once more as the land recovers from the dance of the dragons. in an unremarkable village, a musician draws the attention of a peculiar stranger

tags | secret identity, soft romance, bard!reader, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, discussions of trauma related to war, gender-neutral pronouns

wordcount | 3k

likes, reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated 💞 please let me know if this is something you'd like to read more of!

Days like this rarely fell on the Riverlands.

Days when the sun shone, the brook that babbled through your village took on a glimmer, and there was an air of ease about. The green of the leaves on the trees seemed richeron a day like this, branches growing heavy with fruit. The cobblers and tool sharpeners who wandered from village to village plying their trade only had to reach their arms overhead to pluck a golden apple to go with their lunch. Sometimes, they’d even pull down a spare apple to pass to a beseeching child, not because the child needed food but because they wanted it.

That was the best thing about days like this, times like this - the children weren’t hungry, not anymore. Only years ago - when you’d been but a child on the cusp of adulthood - these lands had burned. Your people and your fields had been fodder for dragons and great men playing at war. But then the dragons - and the men in armour - vanished. Travelling bards told stories of Good Queen Rhaenyra putting down her brother’s rebellion and striking a triumphant peace with the Dowager Queen Alicent, her late father’s wife. It had taken time for the Riverlands to recover - time when your stomach had felt hollow, and your father would have gladly sold the farm for a crust of mouldy bread - but aid had come when a peace was brokered. Food and seed from the Reach, timber from the North, builders from the Westerlands. It had taken time, but recovery did come, and your baby sister - born in the Year of the Dragon’s Peace - had never known an empty belly like you had.

So your steps were light as you made your way down the stony path from your father’s farm to the village. The evening air was warm and syrupy with the scent of summer blooms, and your lute bumped happily against your back. Up ahead, the village inn - The Fine Fool - was already buzzing with life, as tomorrow was a day of rest for most, and the townsfolk wished to make a merry start. You could hear a constant stream of chatter from the open doors as you approached the inn with its thatched roof and warm, glowing windows. You slipped inside and saw it was crowded already. The farmers and their farmhands had dirt under their nails and flagons in hand, smelling faintly of sweat from a day on the fields. The wives traded news and gossip, some with children underfoot or babes in arms. The innkeeper - a ruddy-cheeked man everyone called Good Beck - was yanking a wheel of presumably stolen cheese out of the hands of a wily boy with a grin on his face. You weaved through the villagers, smiling at all as you went, and a ripple went through the gathered throngs around you.

“The bard!” A man called.

Good Beck looked up at that, “Aft’noon, bard!” He called over the sea of heads to you as you made your way to the little raised stage in the corner. You tilted your head in greeting at him.

“The Bard of Riverbrook Farm!” A woman this time called, and you winced at the name a little. You were no more a bard than a peasant with a pitchfork was a great army general. Just someone born with a halfway decent voice and a mind for melodies, courtesy of your mother. And a lute, of course, courtesy of your father - a gift he’d bought when he’d been courting your mother. You’d picked up the lute when your parents’ evenings had become filled with tending to the baby, and you’d been left in want of something to do. When the villagers complained of the lack of musicians on the Riverroad these days with the terror of war still so close to memory, your father had let slip what a good player you were becoming, playing gentle tunes before the fire in the evening and softening the babe’s worst tempers with a lullaby. Good Beck had been at your door within the sennight, offering fair coin and mead on the house. Honestly, how could you refuse?

It had been a tremendous success so far - Good Beck had music livening his common room, you had extra coin in your pocket to help about the house, and the village was near as cheerful as it had been before, in the halcyon days of your childhood.

You took to your stage, avoiding the gazes of the onlookers as you always did. You always felt nervous when you were cold. You pulled your mother’s loot from your back, took a deep breath to steady yourself and block out the noise, and gently strummed and fiddled with the pegs for a second, finding the lute singing sweetly - just as you’d left it. You hummed as you tuned, feeling your throat warm. Good Beck sent a serving girl over with your first tankard of mead. He was good to you, and the honeyed drink was smooth in your throat.

Once you judged yourself ready, you took in the crowd. Some watched eagerly, and some carried on their conversations. The melody leaping from the strings hushed more voices as you sprang into a lively rendition of The Bear and The Maiden Fair.

Before you were three songs deep, the townspeople were singing along and setting up impromptu dancing sets. The ale was flowing freely tonight, you could tell, and you quickly set out your cap for any coppers the townspeople might throw your way. The sound of music drew in more spectators and revellers, and soon, Good Beck and his serving girl were fighting to keep up with the flow of thirsty patrons at the bar.

During a particularly ribald song, you looked out upon your crowd, and your eye caught on a group of men unfamiliar to you in a darker corner of the room. It was a small village and faces totally unfamiliar were quite unusual, but the berth the villagers were giving the men told you all you needed to know. Their clothing was shabby, their faces sunburnt - they were former army men, the sort who still wandered the Riverlands. Likely Aegon the Usurper’s, but it could be some of Queen Rhaenyra’s Northmen who had no wish to return to their frozen homeland when the fighting was done. Many had sustained injuries to their person, many more to their minds, and had nothing to return to from whence they came. So they wandered, eeking out a living by offering help on the farms or sites of construction whenever needed. It was a hard life, and you felt for them, but the wariness of the townsfolk made sense - such men were known for causing trouble when they had nothing left to lose.

One of them caught your eye, and you looked away in a hurry.

By the time your song was finished, you were huffing and puffing for breath, and the villagers were no better. Dancing sets had turned into barely contained circles of swinging, spinning, and chaos. Everyone was laughing, and the mood was high, but it was also growing desperately warm in here, with many a man or woman wiping sweat from their brow with a yellowed sleeve.

Time to slow it down, you thought, as you watched the patrons join the queue at the bar, desperate to quench their thirst. Good Beck looked flustered behind the bar - pleased but flustered - so it was time to allow him to catch up and rake in the good custom. You sat on your stool for a moment and took a long draw from your tankard of mead. Now was as good a time as any to try something new you’d been working on, one of your first original songs. If it went over well with the townsfolk, that was great, but if not, at least you weren’t killing the good mood but giving them a well-earned chance to recover before they spun into more dancing.

You cleared your throat and drew a breath, striking a chord that rang clear above the chatter.

The river runs red, my dear, can you see it?

High in your tower, the earth is bleeding,

The home burns, the water breaks

Upon the tomb at our love’s wake

Is it too late for us? Your beacon, my fire,

We were just children drunk on sweet desire,

Where did that go? What did we do?

What has become of me and you?

Save your prayers for your Gods, for I want none,

I only want the honeyed words on your tongue,

Fly with me now, stand with me at heaven’s gate,

Only love’s forgiveness can change our fate,

You trailed off in the soft, mournful ballad, for that was as far as you had gotten. There was a small round of appreciative applause around your stage, but most were more concerned about getting their drinks refilled. That didn’t bother you, though. You’d played it aloud now to someone who could offer more feedback than a squalling babe - as sweet as your sister was. It was time for you to take a quick break, and your mind buzzed with the possibilities of what you could add and change as you squeezed through the crowd to go and get some fresh air.

The sun had set outside and the sky was that soft purple it was before it was truly night. You stepped away from the throngs outside the inn and found yourself a quiet patch of wall to lean against and catch your breath. Your breathing slowed, and your heart settled as you took in the inky sky, the lighted windows in the village, the distant trickle of flowing water. On your leg, you tapped out the metre of your ballad and sang softly to yourself, thinking of the next words and the stories that had inspired them.

“I’d never heard that one before,” the accent was unusual for these parts - crisp - and it took you a second to realise the voice was speaking to you.

You looked up and felt your stomach lurch. One of the army men was approaching you in the quiet patch outside the inn you had chosen. His head was shaved to the scalp - probably lice - and his left eye was covered by a battered leather patch. He wore a sword on his belt - not unusual in these parts, but not exactly welcoming either. You didn’t want any trouble, and you certainly didn’t want any unwelcome attention.

“It’s mine,” you explained. It answered the question but didn’t invite more conversation.

“That explains it,” the man said. Your ears hadn’t been deceiving you - his accent was smooth, his tongue precise on the sounds. He wasn’t from here. He wasn’t from anywhere you had ever seen. “You have a talent for playing and for writing, then.”

His features betrayed no emotion, and you wondered if he was as insincere as he sounded or if you were just being paranoid. “You’re too kind,” you said in the absence of a better response.

“What inspired your work?”

The flinty look in his remaining eye was putting you on edge. “Stories,” you said, “from… real bards who have passed through. Their tales are a good inspiration. Otherwise, all my songs would be about harvests and plough horses. Not much going on around here, not much to keep a curious mind occupied.”

“You don’t have books?” He asked.

You scoffed like he’d just asked if you could fly. “What use are books if you were never taught how to read?” You asked. Who was this man, with his refined tongue, thinking that farmers have use for books?

He had the decency to look embarrassed at least, and the softening of his gaze, the flicker of his eye, and the way his cheeks darkened made you feel calmer. He wasn’t angry. Most men would be angry at being talked back to like that - your father had often warned you about it. Not because you tested his patience - he was a good man, a kind one. He just prayed his firstborn’s quick tongue wouldn’t cause more problems than it fixed. 

“That was foolish, I beg your pardon,” the man said, and you were so confused by his humility that you nodded your acquiescence without a second thought. He drew closer and leaned his shoulder into the wall by you. “My earlier question stands, however. What inspired your song?”

You raised an eyebrow. “A tale from a bard - the tale of the Dragon’s Peace,” you said. You swung your lute down by your side to trace your fingers over the strings, like a focal point for the frenetic energy you felt as the man asked his probing questions. “The tale is all over the realm - how Queen Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent came together to stop the war and the shedding of innocent blood. Words saved the day when swords could not - I guess I liked that.”

He raised an eyebrow. There was something deeply morose about him. His features betrayed no warmth - in fact, he was so still it was like he was cold-blooded. “It’s just that you… you sounded like you were singing of something more than just a peace accord.”

Obviously, you thought dryly, but you were still wary enough of this man not to provoke him outright. “A peace like that does not just happen. The two Queens were friends in childhood. I just thought… they could have been more. What if they were - still are - more? It must be a… special friendship to forgive what they have had to forgive each other of.”

His brow creased as his frown deepened. “Is such an unconventional… friendship not a dangerous thing to sing of? To even imply?”

You felt a heat rise in your cheeks. What a fool reason not to speak of it, to hide behind euphemisms and platitudes, you thought. “The only dangerous thing is forbidding certain loves for the form they come in. Love is the one thing, the only thing that ever saves us from ourselves.”

He hummed thoughtfully at that. It struck you as just another thing that was strange about him. Anyone else might have laughed, made fun or cursed you for an ungodly wretch. But he seemed to be thinking of your words with a deep seriousness. “Is it finished?” He asked. You must have looked confused because he clarified, “The song, have you finished it?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m trying to find the words, the tune to express the betrayal but also the loyalty. The joy in spite of the suffering. I’ve only just begun writing my own songs in the past few moons - I think I’ll need to practice it.”

“If I am any judge, I think you have made a good start.” His eye looked almost purple in the dusky light, reflecting the soft hues of the sky.

“And who are you?” You asked, bold all of a sudden. “To judge, that is?”

He gave you a smirk like you’d just told him a slightly amusing joke. “Just a man with an interest in that tale.”

“Because you fought in the war?”

He was quiet for a second, and you wondered if it was because he was considering lashing out or fleeing. “Yes,” he said instead. “I did.”

You nodded. “And now you have… nowhere to go?”

“I have… somewhere,” he said, considering. He looked far away, far into his own mind. It was not an uncommon look on the men who had seen war. “It was just never truly home. And now I don’t know how to return or how to be that person again.”

“You can never go home,” you said. It came out blunter than intended, but it was something you had found to be true. “Not really. Figuratively speaking. I… home to me is before. Before the hunger and the bodies and the fear. That home no longer exists for us; you can’t go back.”

“So what do we do then if we cannot go home?” The moon had emerged and cast shadows on his face. He was beautiful, you realised, with a thud in your chest. With his long nose and carved cheeks and strong jaw cast in sharp relief by the flood of moonlight. You wondered what colour his hair was when it was not shorn. Maybe chestnut, like your father’s plough horse. Or golden, like wheat at harvest.

You wished you had an answer to his question, but you didn’t. “I don’t know,” you said truthfully. “I don’t know.”

He looked a little crestfallen but nodded like he hadn’t foreseen any other answer. “Maybe I should just start anew, then. Build a home, sow a field, fall in love.”

You smiled. It was all any of you could hope for - a chance to start again. It was all any of you dreamed of. “There’s many an empty croft and field around here, since the war. And many a girl who wishes for a handsome husband with a good sword arm.”

He smiled back. It wasn’t like the earlier smirks - icy and guarded - it was warm, liquid. It nearly reached his eye. Nearly. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

You took one last look at his face before you turned. It was high time you were back on stage. No sooner had you turned away than a hand caught your wrist. You looked back. Like a thrice-damned fool, you looked back.

“You need to finish the song,” he told you. His gaze was so sure, so serious you felt that he must know everything about you. Like your every waking moment could be felt through the joining of skin, the index finger he was tracing on the inside of your wrist. “If you cannot go home, you must at least finish the song.”

He raised your hand to his lips and kissed it.

Like he was a knight. Like you were noble. Like the words passing between you carried the bond of castles and gold and histories and dragons.

“I will,” you said, and your voice trembled just a little.

“I truly hope it is not too late for them.” He spoke of the Queens in the song. He spoke of himself. He spoke of you.

“I hope so, too.”

[zepskies]

Break Me Down - Part 5

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

AN: Get ready, there be some surprises in store for this one…

Word Count: 5,100

Warnings: 18+ only. Smut (m. receiving oral and implied smut), SB’s attempts at flirting lol.

Part 5: Morning, Night & Day

Now that you were allowed to roam the mansion freely, you were able to confirm that it was huge. And it was beautiful…if a bit dusty. 

The house boasted Spanish style arches and textured walls, cherry wood furniture and rod iron lamps and wall sconces, not to mention various art pieces on the walls that looked well-curated. No doubt Soldier Boy had hired an excellent interior designer.

You were more interested in the garden outside. It was tucked away behind the pool, in the shade of large palm fronds and bigger trees. Peeking through them was a lovely view of the mountains. 

Though it reminded you of the damn cliff where you fell, Soldier Boy saving you, and of course, being an arrogant asshole about it. 

Your lips pursed in annoyance. What a dick.

Expelling a heavy sigh, you shook the thought of him out of your head as best you could, and tilted your head up to the sunshine. You’d found a nice stone bench to just sit and be, and try not to think about why you were here.

“Lunch time,” Frank said, encroaching on your solitude. He wasn’t a chatty man, always one to hand off your meal and leave. Escort you back to your room and leave. 

You were bored enough (and perhaps lonely enough) to attempt a conversation.

“You seem to be the brains of the operation,” you remarked. “Yet he’s got you babysitting me. My condolences.”

Frank gave you a bland look. He wasn’t a hothead like Tony, but he was starting to look annoyed as he was still holding out the plate to you. It looked like a roast beef sandwich on rye with some mixed fruit on the side. At least they were trying to keep you healthy.

“I’m not a fan of rye bread,” you admitted. “Tastes like sour cardboard.” 

But you took the plate anyway. 

“Want to sit?” you offered a place next to you on the bench, before Frank could scurry off. “I doubt doing Soldier Boy’s bidding is more fun than ignoring me for a few minutes.”

You could tell he was about to leave anyway. So you tried one more thing.

“He’d probably want you to watch me,” you pointed out. “Make sure I don’t choke on a grape or something.”

Frank’s mouth twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. After a moment of indecision, he surprised you by sitting down with you. You’d been trying to get Frank to talk to you for days, but he was definitely the strong and silent type. The good soldier, following his orders. 

You were a curious person by nature, but more than that, you wanted to know what kind of men your captors were. You weren’t just learning Soldier Boy. You had to learn his team too.

So you offered Frank a grape. He met you with a raised brow, but he didn’t take it. You shrugged and popped it into your mouth.

“So,” you started, tucking into your sandwich next. “Ex-military, turned private sector?” 

Frank shot you another look. He was older than you, though not quite old enough to be your father. He could have been around M.M.’s age.

“You carry yourself like an military man. Marine maybe,” you guessed. 

Frank sighed and gave a short nod. “Good guess.”

“My father was a Marine,” you said. And that was the truth. Military men ran in your family—from your father to your grandfather, though you’d never met the latter. He’d died of liver and kidney failure, thanks to good old-fashioned alcoholism.

Frank snorted. “My condolences.” 

You eyed him with a small smile. “You got a family? Wife and kids?”

He hesitated, casting his gaze ahead. You sensed it was a question with a potentially loaded answer, so you let it be. 

“Yeah,” you said. “I know the feeling, being married to your job. Harder to quit than heroin.” 

When you offered him another grape, this time, he actually took one.  

Being able to tell between night and day somehow told your body that the night was no longer for sleeping. So your wandering continued that night. 

Moonlight poured through the tall windows outlooking the garden, but most of the mansion was dark and eerie and all but silent, except for some quiet rain pattering outside. 

It’s like an episode of Scooby Doo in here, you thought with a shiver. The long halls were empty and mostly dark, with just a few dim wall lights along the way. Still, you’d rather be alone than run into one of Soldier Boy’s goons, or even the man himself. 

But you wanted to rejoice when you found the kitchen. Finally, you could put together a meal for yourself that wasn’t a damn sandwich. 

Both the pantry and fridge were fully stocked with expensive-looking ingredients. At the moment though, you weren’t so hungry for a heavy meal as you were for a snack. Maybe something for your incurable sweet tooth. 

You rifled through and found something you recognized: a family-sized tray of Chips Ahoy. 

Ooh, success! With a grin, you ripped open the top and rifled through the cupboards for a glass.

“The hell’re you doing?”

You jumped with a yelp at the voice that startled you. You looked over your shoulder and frowned in annoyance when you noted Soldier Boy in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. A snappish retort was on your tongue, but at the last moment, you held onto the threads of your temper.  

Don’t be difficult, you reminded yourself, however much the thought grated.

“Midnight snack,” you replied, nodding to the open parcel of cookies. “Want some?”

You took out two glasses without looking at him, but you could hear him approach. When you went to the fridge to look for some milk, you noticed him take a seat at the kitchen island in front of you, where there were three stools. 

“What’re you, a fucking eight-year-old?” he remarked. You raised a brow at him and took no less than five cookies from the tray. 

“You’re never too old for milk and cookies,” you said sagely. You were a proud dunker, and you did so until your cookie was half-soggy with milk. You shoved an entire one into your mouth and looked him in the eyes when you did it. 

His lips tugged upwards, dryly amused, while his gaze not-so-subtly raked over your form. You almost rolled your eyes, but you resisted. He could take in your oversized shirt and sweats all he wanted.

“‘S that a man’s shirt?” he asked. 

“Yeah. Not a lot to pick from here at the Holiday Inn,” you quipped. You were running out of clean items that would actually fit you, and you weren’t about to run around here in some of the slutty shit you’d found.

“Can’t sleep?” You distracted him with the question, then slid a glass of milk in front of him. Regardless of what he said, he’d glanced at those cookies twice. 

This was an opportunity, you thought. A chance to get into his head, see what the fuck made him tick.   

Soldier Boy eyed the milk, then you. After a moment, he grabbed a cookie and took a bite. He didn’t answer your question, and instead asked one of his own.

“How’d you get caught up with Butcher?” he asked. 

You smiled behind your glass. It seemed he was curious about you too. 

“I work at Supe Affairs.” That was easy enough for you to admit. And if he was smart, he would’ve had Frank run a background check on you. 

Soldier Boy snorted. “Yeah, I figured that fucking much. Doesn’t answer my fucking question.”

So damn rude. You wanted to sigh. 

“I help run surveillance,” you said. But before he could ask his next predictable question, you continued, “Grace Mallory recruited me because I was a private investigator…and like you, I worked at Vought for a while.”

His attention piqued at that. 

“Though your tenure was a bit before my time,” you couldn’t help a light jab. 

His lips curved again. “Why’d you take a job you couldn’t hope to win? You got some vendetta against me, like Butcher?”

You arched a brow, watching him shove another cookie into his mouth. If anyone had a vendetta against him it was M.M., but trust Soldier Boy to conveniently forget murdering the man’s grandfather.

“You’re asking if I’m obsessed with you? I think not,” you said with a genuine chuckle, then sipped at your milk with some decency. Unlike your companion, who already had a pile of soggy crumbs on the counter beneath him.

Soldier Boy shot you a frown, and his eyes said he didn’t believe you. He sat back in his chair, his jean-clad legs falling open casually. His gaze on you, however, was anything but. You wouldn’t admit it, but it made heat creep up the back of your neck.

“Really?” he said. “‘Cause I gotta tell ya, sweetheart. During your slutty little seduction act, you were pretty fucking responsive.”

He rubbed his palms slow down his thighs, like he could still feel yours wrapped around his hips and grinding your hot core against his slacks. 

You stared back at him as your lips pressed together. 

Soldier Boy tilted his head at you, his smile turning smug. “The filthy sounds I was getting outta you…”

You set down your glass on the counter. Reaching for another cookie, you rested your elbows on the counter and leveled him with a teasing smile of your own. 

“Unlike you, Ben, I’m a good actor,” you replied. 

His brow twitched at that, however subtle. You couldn’t tell if using his real name annoyed him, or if it just added to the game you two were playing. But it felt right, stripping him of at least that façade. 

He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t even a superhero, really. He was just a man. 

Albeit, a super fucking strong one with an ego the size of Empire State. But a man. The same kind you’d dealt with all your life. 

And he crossed his arms, like he was starting to lose his patience with you. 

“Then why’d you come out here?” 

Munching on a dry chocolate chip, you answered, “To get paid. Why else?” 

Again, it didn’t look like he believed you. 

“You don’t look the type,” he said.

“Don’t I?” you said. He seemed to know you were holding something back, but not willing to admit he wanted to know it. 

And you weren’t willing to give it to him. He didn’t need to know that you’d taken this job to support your family. Because what the hell would he know about family? 

…But at the same time, his curiosity just made it all the clearer: in whatever small way, you’d piqued his interest. He wanted to figure you out. 

And maybe that was the real reason you were still alive. 

It started to happen like that more often.

Midnight snacks, as you’d continued to call it in your head. When you couldn’t take being alone with your thoughts (or being alone at all), if you made your way to the kitchen you often found Ben.

Whatever was keeping him awake, he seemed to crave the company as you rifled through the pantry. From alfajores, macarons, and chips, to the entire leftover ham from dinner, he often smoked a large blunt and ate whatever you found. 

You’d taken a hit once when he offered, but the shit was so strong than you abstained afterwards. You wanted to be in your fully right mind around him.

And you talked—about the old-ass TV shows he never got to see the end of, and the new music he hated. You’d enjoyed (gently) teasing him about being an old man who didn’t understand Cardi B when you played it on his phone. You suspected he didn’t quite understand how all the bells and whistles worked on an iPhone yet. (But he’d taken it back from you before you could text anyone.)

“In my day, there was a little more fucking class,” he’d said. “Sinatra. Nat King Cole. Christ, the fucking Beatles.” 

You’d rolled your eyes at that. You liked all those guys too, actually. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t bang out all the words to “Bodak Yellow” and “Please Me.” 

You also talked about the movies he missed out on. The ones you thought he’d probably enjoy, like the Terminator sequels and Liam Neeson’s Taken (if only for the sheer irony). And all the while, he asked you probing questions he likely thought were subtle. 

“What did you do at Vought?” he asked over chips and salsa. 

You thought the salsa was a bit too spicy, but he was lapping it up. It both amused and disgusted you. 

Until he licked some of it off his fingers. Catching your gaze, his became mischievous. He slid his fingers out of his mouth with an obscene noise. All the while, his deep green eyes held yours. 

You would never admit to being turned on, but you felt your cheeks warming up as you fought not to react, watching the juices drip down his fingers.

“I ran down criminals for the supes to ‘catch’ them,” you managed to reply. “They just got to do the sweeping in part.”

“Lazy shits,” he remarked, licking off the remaining salsa from his hand. You tried not to focus on the sight of his tongue. Afterwards, he gave you reprieve by wiping his hands on a paper towel.

What the fuck is wrong with me? You inwardly shook your head at yourself. 

“Back in my day, we actually ran down our own leads,” he said. “Sure, we got tips every now and then, but we did our own busts.”

You didn’t know how much of that you could believe, considering he’d never even fought in World War II, despite his numerous claims of pounding Nazis up the ass.  

“How’d you end up there, anyway?” he asked. 

“Vought paid more than private practice,” you wryly replied. 

He eyed you then. “And before?”

Before? Was he just bored, or did he genuinely want to know about your life? 

Still, this was starting to veer into things you’d rather not talk about.  

“Worked for my dad’s P.I. firm,” you said, making an effort to untighten your spine. “I learned what I know from him.”

That much was the truth, though you hadn’t spoken to him in over a year. 

Ben chortled, making you frown. “‘A’ for fucking effort there, sweetheart.”

You huffed. Yes, you did realize the irony of being kidnapped by the man you’d hunted down (sort of). Didn’t mean he had to be such an asshole about it.

“He must be fucking proud,” he added. Your gaze sharpened with irritation. 

“Like your dad was proud of you?” out came your pointed reply, before you could stop yourself.  

His amusement faded, likely as he stared back at you and saw that you knew for a fact what he’d told Butcher.

A fucking disappointment.

He didn’t bother lying, but his lip curled into a sneer. 

“Be careful, sweetheart,” he warned. You heard the underlying threat in his voice. You forced yourself to keep your mouth shut, lowering your eyes. The act was grating on you, boiling your blood.

But it seemed to mollify him enough. He let out a low chuckle. 

“I’ll let that one go,” he said. “Next time, I might not be so fucking nice.”

You believed him. 

It was a week of this, before you finally found out the hard way where Ben’s room was. 

You were wandering down a long hallway on the second floor, over in the west wing of the house. Your room was in the east, so you really hadn’t seen this side of the mansion before. The problem was, all these halls were looking the same to you. 

And now you had no idea how to get back to the main hall, where by now you could navigate downstairs to the kitchen, the back garden, the pool hall, a study room (with several shelves of books), a gym, and even an indoor movie theater. 

Suddenly, you thought you heard a woman’s voice, high and giggly. What the hell?

Your natural curiosity led you farther down the hall, where you could see light and movement beneath the closed door. Whatever (and whoever) was in there, you really should just let it be. 

You’d been able to successfully avoid Ben for the past few days, and you didn’t feel like dealing with the headache of another encounter with him—for as long as you could manage it.

So you were just about to turn back and keep on your merry way.  

But when you heard a slap, followed by a feminine cry of pain, you halted in your step. With your brows crunching in concern, you couldn’t help but approach the door again. You leaned in to listen.

Another slap, another pained mewling from the girl. Your mouth turned down in an angry frown of alarm. 

What the fuck is going on? You didn’t know what kind of sick shit he was into, but if he was hurting some poor girl for his own entertainment, you knew you couldn’t just walk away. 

After one more second of hesitation, you gripped the door handle and shoved it open. 

What you found seared your eyes. 

In unblinking shock, you took in the shambled state of Ben’s room. Clothes strewn haphazardly about, remnants of lines of coke on the coffee table, plates of half-eaten delicacies left on a wheeled in buffet, bottles of liquor, half-empty glasses and shots rolling around. 

And a California king bed occupied the center, where the sheets and pillows had fallen off while Soldier Boy fucked no less than five prostitutes. All looked to be of various ethnicities and a wide age range. The oldest of them looked saggy enough to be in her seventies, but she was working as hard and skillfully as the rest of them.  

One of the younger ones, maybe around your age, was getting spanked by one of his large hands while another girl’s head bobbed over his lap with gusto. The other three were finding things to do, whether on the man himself, or to each other in front of him on the bed. 

In reality, you probably took all this in for just a few seconds. 

But a gasp fell unbidden from your lips, along with a “Jesus fucking Christ!”

Ben looked like he had been working up a mild sweat. Broken from his concentration though, he glanced up at you. And then the broadest, Cheshire cat fucking grin spread across his face. 

“Hey, baby doll,” he greeted mischievously. “You here to join in? Here, tag in for, uh…what’s your name again, sweetheart?”

He looked down and grabbed the shoulder of the girl in his lap. She released his cock out of her mouth for a second to answer, “Jasmine.”

“Sure,” he said with a nod. Then he frowned and gestured to his still rock-hard dick. Your eyes widened in shock—both at the audacity, and at the size of it. You blushed hotly.

“But don’t fucking stop now, Jesus,” he said to the girl. And he looked over at you with a raised brow. “Unless you wanna jump in…but seriously, don’t make me wait all fuckin’ day here.”

Your face contorted in disgust. 

“There’s not enough fucking therapy for this,” you muttered. 

Then you fled the room, slamming the door behind you so hard that it rattled. It still didn’t muffle his laughter behind the door. 

Your face, neck, and the tips of your ears were on fire as you hastened down the hall. 

By the time you got to the kitchen, you could even hear your rapid heartbeat in your ears. You set a hand over your chest and felt the thump, thump, thumping under your palm. 

Images continued to flash through your mind—naked flesh, bouncing tits, shockingly adept wrinkled hands. And then the man’s chiseled bare form, planes of tanned skin over muscle, and strong-looking hands.  

Fucking hell. You shook your head to try and rid yourself of your brain’s ongoing loop, but it was a losing battle. With a long and frustrated sigh, you reached into the fridge and grabbed all the ingredients you needed to make a damn sandwich. 

You knew Ben had hired a personal chef (Simone, you thought her name was), but you were pretty sure she was currently part of the service the supe entourage today. 

You slapped together a turkey and provolone sandwich with some lettuce, mayo, and a pickle for added “razzle dazzle.” 

Though on second thought, you put the pickle back. 

With an aggravated huff, you stood at the counter and tore into your dinner (you were too angry to sit at this point). You devoured half of it and nearly a whole bag of Doritos by the time that cocky bastard strolled in like the cat that got the cream, and clearly, more than once.

He looked freshly showered, and finally clothed in casual pants and a buttoned down shirt, rolled up on the sleeves.

Ben eyed you with a smirk. You raised a brow at him. 

“That was fast,” you remarked. “I expected you to be in that fuck dungeon all night.” 

“I wouldn’t call it a dungeon,” he said, leaning on the other side of the counter opposite you. “More like a cellar of fine delectables.”

You snorted. “All right, Hugh Hefner. I want to scrub my eyes with bleach.”

“Didn’t look that way from where I was sitting, doll face,” he quipped. His brow rose at you with a salacious, curling smile. You leveled him with a look. 

“At the very least, you would’ve ended that little dry spell of yours,” he added playfully. 

Your gaze sharpened at that. You dropped your sandwich on the plate to glare at him. “Excuse me?”

“What’s it been?” he asked, leaning closer into your personal space with a more knowing grin. “Don’t really fucking tell me it’s been three years since somebody’s laid you out right.”

Despite your outrage at his audacity, your mouth fell open the slightest bit. 

“What…”

Again, he eyed your form, and not subtly at that. Today you’d found a pair of jeans that you’d managed to squeeze into. The polo shirt clinging to your waist and ribs and tight across your breasts wasn’t helping you either.

But you were honestly surprised he could still be looking at you like that when he’d just been doing some Olympic-level fucking. 

Your spine tightened nervously when he straightened to his full height, walking around the kitchen counter towards you. His hand slid across the surface, his head tilting at you in amusement. 

“It’s amazing what you can hear on shitty hotel roofs,” he said. 

Your eyes widened when you understood what he was getting at. When you were on the phone with your sister… 

“Maybe then you’ll—and let me not shock you here—meet someone,” Louisa had said. “And finally put an end to that three-year goddamn dry spell.”

And that prickly feeling you’d felt then, licking up your spine and raising the hairs on the back of your neck…

“You were watching me,” you realized.  

Ben just looked down on you with a deepening smirk. His green eyes were alight with mischief, and yeah, probably lust too.   

“You fucking creep,” you said, with both a sigh and a roll of your eyes (despite your growing blush). 

He chuckled and raised a hand to lightly grip your chin. “That’s not very nice.”

You glared up at him, too angry and stubborn to remember to mind your temper. He seemed to like it though, working you up. He teased and prodded you enough, almost like a little boy trying to get a girl’s attention. Except this one was the most powerful supe alive.

So why does he like it so much, this stupid cat and mouse thing?

Not for the first time, you wondered why he decided to keep you around. And you had a feeling it wasn’t just to bait your friends. Maybe he just liked toying with you, seeing how far he could push until you snapped.

And then what? you wondered. 

Though if you were honest with yourself…you were just as into this little game as he was, albeit for different reasons. You wanted to understand him. 

At first, it was the job. Know the man you’re after.

But now, it was more. Knowing Soldier Boy, getting to know Ben would be the key to making it out of this situation alive. You just knew it…if only he didn’t make it so damn frustrating. 

“Seriously, tell me,” he said, still with a deceptively light grip on your chin. The pad of his thumb brushed your full lower lip, making your breath hitch. He glanced down at your mouth, then back into your eyes. 

“How fucking long’s it been since that pretty pussy’s been touched?” he asked. “‘Cause in my opinion, that’s a crying shame.”

For a moment, your breath got stuck in your throat. You felt a hot blush rising in your cheeks, down your neck…and maybe warmth between your legs at the mere suggestion.

You inwardly steeled yourself, clamping down on your anger and your embarrassment. Instead, you leveled him with a cool smile. 

“Not forty years, I’ll tell you that,” you said. 

While he raised a brow, he let you slowly push his hand away. You left him in the kitchen soon after, but he watched you go. Whether you meant to or not, the sway in your hips and your delectable ass in those tight fucking jeans made his dick twitch. 

Figures, he thought, that you’d get all fucking huffy. He shrugged and picked up half the sandwich you left behind. 

You found nothing else for your frustration but to head outside.

With a sigh, you sat down at the edge of the massive pool and just dipped your legs in. You didn’t have a swimsuit, and you didn’t want to take any chances by getting your clothes wet around here. Or even worse, stripping down to your bra and underwear. 

You blushed at the memory of Ben’s proximity, his touch, his rich, teasing voice that dripped with lustful promise. And that just reminded you of the scenes from his room, which flashed in your mind every so often like a bad porno. 

Shit. You absently bit at one of your nails. Ben had also heard that entire conversation with your sister. That meant he knew about her, and that gave you no small amount of anxiety. 

But he already had you. He hadn’t tried to extort you for anything (yet). You knew though, that if he threatened Luisa, or tried to use her to manipulate you in any way, there wasn’t much you could do but play along, like everything else. 

Right now, anyway… 

You noticed a dark shape out of the corner of your eye, and for a moment you were annoyed, ready to tell Ben to give you a moment’s peace. 

But it wasn’t him. It was Tony standing near the end of the pool. He must’ve been freed from desk duty, or whatever Ben had him doing while he presumably recovered from his injuries.

“What up, Tony?” you greeted, unable to resist a teasing smile when you noticed the large boot for his broken foot. Now plus a few extra bruises from your last tussle. They were dark, but yellowing around the edges. 

His lips twitched at a cold smile. “They’re letting the little mouse out of her room now?”

You shrugged, smirking.

“You look good,” you replied. “How’re the balls though? Still broken?”

Tony expression tightened into a glare. “You better watch it, bitch.”

“Or what?” you challenged.  

There was enough distance between you and him across the pool for you to feel comfortable, but really, you weren’t too afraid of Tony.

Yeah, he was a dick. But you’d taken him down before. You could literally break his balls again if he needed more encouragement to fuck off. 

Tony just smirked back at you, deciding to leave you alone for now. You watched him head back into the house with sharp eyes. He wouldn’t take you by surprise again.

Frank was waiting for you when you got back to your room. You were more relieved to see him than you’d like to admit, and you greeted him with a genuine smile, before you noticed the shopping bags in his hands. 

“What’s this?” you asked. Frank dutifully handed you the bags, and inside you found new clothes. They actually seemed to be your size. 

You looked up at Frank, both shocked and grateful. “You got me clothes?”

“Boss’s orders,” he revealed. Your brows rose high at that. 

“He told you to do this?”

Frank expelled a breath through his nose, hesitating, like he was debating how to frame his reply.

“He provided them,” he said. It felt like a confession, one that made your eyes widen at the implication.

Soldier Boy bought you new clothes? 

You didn’t know how to compute on this one, honestly. But you still answered with a tentative, “Oh. Well…thanks.”

He nodded, and soon left you with your thoughts and your spoils. You went into your room and dumped the bags onto the bed so you could examine their contents. 

There were casual shirts and yoga pants, a couple pairs of jeans, some sneakers, thank God. All the bras and panties, however, were lacey and expensive.

You shook your head with a smile, eyeing the labels. This man really went to Victoria’s Secret to buy you new underwear. 

It was both kind and somewhat sleazy, knowing he was going to be imagining you in the sexy, but admittedly tasteful lingerie. 

The “kind” part took you by surprise though. The clothes overall weren’t revealing or obnoxious. Even the underwear and bras were in styles you’d probably wear, under normal circumstances. 

So you put together an outfit out of one of the shirts and a pair of jeans, breathing a sigh of relief when you could peel the old ones off. 

This was a far cry from bullying and annoying you, and generally being an arrogant son of a bitch. 

The truth was, Ben was confusing you.

Perhaps now more than ever. 

AN: 🤭 Well, one would argue that she saw more sides of Ben than she thought she would (or wanted to). 😜

Let me know what you thought of this chapter! Things are definitely going to ramp up in the next one...

Keep Reading: PART 6

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List:

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @pallographsunspot @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26 @spnwoman @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden @syrma-sensei @muhahaha303 @123passwort @xoxovienna @magnificentnightmarehadi @lollag0w0 @globetrotter28 @nancymcl @ashbatz @yvonneeeee @fckinel @secretdreamlandmentality @kristophalis @wonderland2022 @waters-2567 @emily-winchester @shelh93 @sl33pylilbunny @spoonmynoodle @chernayawidow @buckybarnes-1917 @secretdreamlandmentality @asgardprincess97 @sometimes-i-sing @itsyellow @karnellius @kimberleymjw @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @iamsapphine

[lullxby]

can you write a frank zhang x reader where reader is a daughter of venus/aphrodite and super flirty (especially and specifically with him) and he's like totally in love with reader and is super obvious lol but thinks reader likes someone else because of how they are yk please

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ OBLIVIOUS (f.z.)

summary : in which two demigods pine over each other, wishing the other would realize.

w.c. : about .7k

a/n : i loved writing this, ty for the request hun!! enjoy!

wattpad: poet1cmystery

warning(s) : none!

| riordanverse masterlist | navigation |

frank zhang was nothing if not oblivious. he saw your confident personality with others, and despite your constant flirting with him, made out to believe you liked someone else.

you could have anyone, he had told himself, why would you want him.

but there you were, sitting right next to him, your legs tossed over his thighs. he just thought you liked being his friend, nothing more

but how he wished it was something more.

he’d never admit it, he’d never express his love for you. he’d never tell you how he could never get mad at how, he’d never tell you how just your presence brought a smile to his face.

how much he smiled when someone mentioned your name.

he liked what you did now, how you were still all over him. if things would just be like this for the rest of his life, without any hint of a relationship, he’d be fine.

that’s what he told himself.

meanwhile, you thought he didn’t like you at all. despite how he’d let you have his seat if it was crowded, or would be the first to make sure you were okay if you looked upset, you thought he disliked you.

in your mind, you had been so painfully obvious about your feelings for him that the only logical reason he didn’t reciprocate it was because he secretly didn’t like you.

despite being openly flirty with him, you expected him to make the first move. so, you didn’t ask him out. plus, it’d be highly embarrassing if he rejected you. you weren’t one to get nervous like this about affairs of the heart, but you really liked him.

so here you were, sitting against a large tree at the camp, watching the sunset. you were curled up in his sweatshirt, the fabric hanging off of you.

he wouldn’t let you know how much he loved the sight of it.

you were deep in thought, too spaced out to notice his staring. if he didn’t like you, why would he give you his sweatshirt? he could just be being friendly, but you never saw him do that with any of his other friends.

you needed to speak up. if he rejected you, he rejected you. but if you didn’t talk to him about your feelings, you’d always be wondering what could have been.

“frank?” you called out softly, turning your body towards him.

he hummed in response, trying to act like he hadn’t just been staring into the depths of your soul. if he were a cartoon character, he’d have hearts in his eyes.

you hadn’t thought over your exact words, so you decided to just be blunt.

“i like you, like, as more than a friend,” you explained, watching his face closely for any sign of a reaction.

his mouth fell open slightly. he couldn’t believe what you had just said. there was no way you just…

“are you kidding?” he asked, his eyes wide.

you took that as rejection, your tone changing more into a slightly frustrated one. obviously you weren’t kidding. still, there were nicer ways to reject you. what happened to letting people down easy?

he noticed your mood change, and mentally slapped himself for how rude that sounded.

“no, no i-“ there was no use explaining. he didn’t know how to formulate the thought either.

so, the boy went against everything else he knew. he leaned forward, using one hand to cup your face, bringing you closer as he pressed his lips to yours.

the kiss was short, but it said all unsaid feelings. you pulled away a bit, a smile on your face, your cheeks heating up as if it were your first kiss again.

frank knew now was the time to speak his feelings. he couldn’t just kiss you to replace the question.

“can i be your boyfriend?” he asked sweetly, a smile on his face, mirroring your expression.

“i’d like that,” you responded, nodding.

you leaned forward again, pressing another kiss to his lips. you had waited so long to do this.

and there you two stayed the night, surprisingly not getting caught.

the sun disappeared behind you, barely of notice as the stars rose in the sky.

frank zhang taglist: lmk if you’d like to be added!

lace dividers made by h-aewo!

[persefolli]

𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐌

𝐊𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞

𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝

𝐀/𝐧: 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬, 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐡

“So you want me to take my ass all the way down to California to capture this guy for 500 caps. You've lost it.”

“A thousand.”

You tilted your head and inspected the photo

“15 hundred.”

The fat man groaned and rolled his eyes, “Fine.”

You folded the paper and slipped it in your back pocket. 

It had been about a decade since you woke up. You were a long way from California. What was once left of Oregon was filled with sandy terrains. Sweat dripped from every exposed part of your body and for miles there was nothing but dunes. It was crazy how much a nuke can alter a landscape, back a couple hundred years ago the Pacific Northwest had grass and tree filled mountains with lush rivers. Now everything reminded you of a Frank Herbert book. 

The longer you walked the more you accepted that you weren’t gonna find a shelter for the night. Slowing down, the fatigue caught up to you and you fell to your knees, face down into the earth. 

“Emergency alert system has been activated, this is a national emergency. All broadcast and cable systems shall transmit this emergency action notification message.”

You sat with your mouth hung open along with your team as you were getting ready for another shoot. Before you could even think of calling Cooper, armed men bursted into the room, shooting every living thing in sight. You screamed loudly and dropped to the floor, but was grabbed by one of the soldiers and dragged out of the filming studio. 

You stumbled barefoot behind the soldier, then paused.

Everyone fell silent and the world stopped.

The familiar mushroom cloud that was only shown in demonstrations was stretching beyond the skyscrapers of L.A. 

“We have to go now!” One of them yelled and dragged you to a bunker shaped building. One you’d always thought was a set but apparently not. They shoved you in, and you stood in your robe, alongside other girls you recognized as Cola girls.

Soldiers guarded the door as they motioned for the doors to be closed. "W-wait." You walked up to one of the guards. "My....boyfriend is supposed to be bringing my lunch he...he has to be driving up the hills by now can't we wait?!"

"No. We're closing this vault now!"

"I never signed up to be here! I want out. Now!"

"Have you fucking lost it?" One of the soldiers pushed your shoulder. "We're gonna be skinned dry if you don't move the fuck back now!"

"I won't be-"

The guard raised his gun and clocked you right in the face.

You woke up to a dog licking your nose and whimpering. You opened your eyes to see you were at a gas station, or what once was. Sitting up you looked at the german shepherd that sat and began wagging his tail. "Hey you." You smiled and pet the dog.

"She's awake? Great!"

A man came trudging from the gas station in an abnormally large backpack and a severed head.

You instinctively reached for your gun but realized you’d been stripped of all your items. The man shook his head and you scowled at him. You averted your eyes to the severed head and the man rolled his eyes.

"Oh this?" He raised the head. "Long story."

You stood and wiped your hands on your pants. "Where is my stuff?"

"I have it. Put away. Safe."

"Thanks but I'll be needing it back." 

The man didn't move and he cleared his throat. "I am Thaddeus. Squire of the Brotherhood-"

“Ah, ah, ah, listen,” You interrupted him. “You seem like a knightly man and all but I need my bags."

"Listen. I found you. A woman alone in the wasteland. And as a sworn protector I must take you back to-"

"The Brotherhood?"

"Yes."

You stared at him for a moment before sighing deeply and cracking your knuckles. "No."

"What?" Thaddeus nervously chuckled.

"I'm not going. You can't make me."

"I mean....physically I can but....."

"Oh can you?"

Thaddeus sighed and dropped his backpack along with the head. He began skipping on his feet and rolling his neck. "I usually don't mean to use force on a woman but you've left me no choice." He lunged at you but you quickly jabbed his throat which caused him to grab his neck and wheeze. He fell back onto the ground and groaned.

You took the chance to raid his backpack and get your things out of there. You then paused and picked up the head.

"This worth money?"

Thaddeus panted on the ground, unmoving.

"Gonna assume yes." You clicked your tongue and began walking towards what seemed like a small city in the distance. 

“...blood pressure of 120/80, heart rate of 72 bpm….” The male's voice faded as you fluttered your eyes.  

“Where the fuck am I?” You moved your mouth to speak but nothing came out.

Doctors and nurses moved around you and eventually helped you sit up. “Y/N…Y/N L/N.”

A man in a suit and briefcase smiled and stood at the edge of your hospital bed. “You must be confused.” He smiled. “Let me explain some things. Get you situated.”

You looked around and realized how strange it was to be  in a hospital after nuclear bombs had dropped. You reached up and grabbed your head. 

“209 years ago you signed on to be a Cola girl for Nuka-Cola! Well, Vault-tec is the mother company of Nuka-Cola. You only served out a few months of your contract and now you need to serve out at least 14 more years-”

“Fifteen years? You just said it's been 209!”

“Yes. We preserved you during cryosleep so you can finish the rest of your contract.”

“I want out. Hit me with a firestorm of lawyers I don't care.”

The man in the suit began laughing and shook his head. “You don't understand sweetheart. There is no law there is no…way out.” He nodded. “Vault-tec runs things now. So how about you get washed up and you can get ready for the photoshoot later.”

You made it to this place called ‘Filly’. It was a few miles from the hills, or what used to be. You were a good distance away from Santa Barbara, you and Cooper's favorite place. Cooper. You bit the inside of your cheeks everytime you found yourself thinking of him. Imagining how close he was to the bunker before they shut the doors. The guilt ate you up day by day.

There was a singular store in Filly, to which you walked in and sat the head on the counter of the old lady’s shop. “Who’s looking for this and for how much?” You nodded at her.

“What’s a lady like you doing carrying around-” You pulled your jacket pocket back and flashed the gun, not to scare her, but to show her there were female bounty hunters that passed through California. 

“You can give it to Vault-tec….or I can try and get you connected with Moldaver.”

“Get me the Moldaver guy.”

The lady nodded and began flipping through the book. The bell on the door rang notifying everyone that someone had entered.

“Also,” You started. “You seen this man?”

The woman let her glasses fall and nodded behind you. Surely it was the man on the sketch. 

“He hang ‘round here a lot?”

“Stays right in that hotel across from here, sits his creepy ass outside everyday all day till he gets drunk and disappears to god knows where.”

You watched him through the glass door as he walked over to the motel. “I think I’ll be staying here for a while.”

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐋𝐨𝐥 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐭.

You’d never taken this much time to wrap up one of your bounties and send them off to get your money, but this Ghoul guy was one of the most difficult to get alone. The lady in the store was right about him sitting on the front porch of the motel everyday just staring at people.

When you walked out of your motel you made sure to keep a bandana on your face so he wouldn’t notice how much you lurked around. The plan was to wait until he got drunk and stumbled off, knock him out, tie him up, then rent one of the trucks and drag him to the Oregon border but this was one of the first times you actually felt nervous about capturing one of your bounties. 

The Ghoul had gotten into a bar fight a few days back, and he ended up blasting the whole structure with his explosive bullets so half of Filly was exposed to the dusty wasteland. The townspeople didn’t like that so they vandalized his motel. But he didn't care, the next day he just sat right back out on the porch.

“Sweetheart.” He called to you once.

“Get me some tomatah’s yeah?” He threw you a few caps.

You nodded and kept an eye on him while you bought a bag of cherry tomatoes from him. He had that southern accent. Cooper used to speak just like him. You handed him the remainder of caps and the bag of cherry tomatoes. You left him alone after he gave you a thank you and a wicked smile.

Frustrated with your progress, you decided to focus on more important matters. The convenience store lady was able to get you a meeting with Moldaver’s people not too far from here. The morning after the cherry tomato incident, you set out of Filly, walking towards a place called Shady Sands. 

You treaded on a desire path, one that walked on the edge of the crater of where a small city once stood. You stopped seeing a standing billboard. A Nuka-Cola billboard, and the Cola girl that happened to be on there was you. You furrowed your eyebrows and drew your gun quickly, blasting a hole right where your face was plastered, replacing it with the blue sky.

You hated yourself for signing that contract, you hated doing photoshoots all the time, and you hated that you didn’t do more to save Cooper that fateful day. 

Whatever, that was hundreds of years ago.

A few miles from Shady Sands was an abandoned school, and you knew Moldaver was there based on the sets of footsteps that were in the ground that led to the entrance. Inside, you saw two armed guards standing beside a woman with long black hair. You narrowed your eyes and scanned your surroundings, making sure you weren’t falling for any traps.

“Heard you were looking for a head.” You held up the severed head. 

The woman smiled, standing and walking forward to inspect it. “Nice to see another woman in the industry.” 

You said nothing and rocked on your heels. “What’s so special about it?”

The woman sighed, “Cold fusion, can basically power up New York City without actual electricity. It's a complicated concept.”

You nodded, “So…how much is it worth?”

“I got 10 thousand caps for you.”

“Ten thousand?!”

“Well that was the bounty, and you brought it right to me.” She narrowed her eyes at you. “Everyone’s been looking for this head and you just have it. And you don’t care that you're just handing it over.”

“I don’t have much to care about anymore…not really.” You shrugged. 

Moldaver recognized the look in your eyes. The look that told the same story a thousand ways, that you had lost everything.

“It’s getting dark. Take your caps and go.”

“Wait!” You stopped her and pulled out the bounty for The Ghoul. “Why is this thing wanted?”

Moldaver narrowed her eyes and looked at the photo closely. “Oh him! Just a pain in the ass.” You were surprised at the reason he was wanted so badly, but whatever, you needed the money, but not so much anymore after turning in the head for thousands of caps. 

After the meeting you hiked back to Filly, thinking of all the different ways you would spend the money tonight, maybe a bigger room, or a couple of drinks, but you were shocked to come back and see people scurrying around and yelling. You went through the tunnel and saw The Ghoul in the midst of the chaos grunting and punching the ground. You drew your gun, assuming he’d gone feral, but he was just drunk, and upset.

“Who shot the board? Who did it! Come out right fucking now!” He snarled.

You raised an eyebrow and approached slowly, drawing your gun. The older lady from the store grabbed your arm to stop you, shaking her head. “He has explosive bullets.” She reminded you, pointing to a large hole in Filly’s infrastructure, where the bar once was. 

“I got this.” You reassured her. 

The Ghoul looked up at you and heaved as you got closer to him. “The fuck do you want. You know who did it?”

You silently stared at him as he jerked, waiting on an answer. You jumped hearing him yell. “I won’t stop! til I find out who shot my baby’s face!” He yelled.

“That was my face you dipshit.” You tugged down your bandana and his pupils dilated. He visibly calmed down and dropped his arms in disbelief. He was still on his knees, so you held the gun to his head. “Dead or Alive. I think I'm just gonna take you now.” You said. 

“Oh Y/n….Y/n.” He grabbed at your jeans. “This can’t-....how?”

“Stop moving!”

“Wait!” He exclaimed. “It's me! It’s me, baby. It's Cooper!”

You furrowed your eyebrows and tilted your head in confusion, scanning his face over again. How could you have not made the connection. The voice, the mannerisms, even down to the way he dressed. “It’s me, baby. We had a dog named Roosevelt, a house in hidden hills, and you have a birthmark on your right asscheek.” He panted. “You always covered it before a shoot because you didn’t like how bright it was.” 

You dropped the gun, stumbling back in disbelief. Over 200 years later. The man that was the cause of your coldness, was now here in front of you. You dropped your gun and began crying, sniffling and shaking your head in shock. You’d been hunting your own man all these months, ready to kill him. You dropped to your knees and cradled his face. He began to cry as well, dryly since his ducts had been burnt out long ago, and he nuzzled his face in your neck. His arms wrapped around your waist and squeezed you close to him. “That board….That’s all I had left of you.” He whispered. “I tried going home and finding a picture I just couldn’t-”

“Shhh.” You rubbed up his neck and the back of his head. 

The two of you situated in the middle of a chaotic filly, holding one another in shock and love.

You reached in your pocket and raised the bounty paper in the air, letting it fly off into the dust beyond.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

More voice line posting! Because I like digging them up and I always want to see/hear more of Isobel.

At some point you were able to have Isobel join your camp by herself even after letting Shadowheart kill Aylin - a game state that's no longer possible, as Aylin's death means Last Light falls, too. But all the voice lines and dialogue trees are still there. I haven't had a chance to try, but manually messing around with the "SHA_Nightsong_State_PermaDefeated" flag might be able to get these lines to trigger.

Here are some highlights (and transcripts) from the Moonrise reunion and the camp conversation that we now only see the "take care of my angel" branch of.

Isobel: You did it. I knew you would. Player: Yet you don't seem glad. Isobel: Oh, I am. It's a momentous day. I suppose I need to catch my breath or the momentum will outpace me.

Player: What will you do now that your father's gone? Isobel: Oh, I don't know. Change my hair colour. Buy a horse. [Curse was lifted] Isobel: In seriousness, I intend to help you fight the Absolute - what lies behind the Absolute, that is. Isobel: None of us will be safe until that looming horror is defeated. When the time comes, I'll fight at your side.

[Curse wasn't lifted] Isobel: In seriousness, my home needs me. It's still enveloped in Shar's horrific curse. If it can be cleansed, I'll find a way. Isobel: But I admit that plays second fiddle to helping you. None of us will be safe until the horror behind 'the Absolute' is defeated. When the time comes, I'll fight at your side.

Player: Why wait? Isobel: To be perfectly frank, I'm exhausted. It feels a bit as though I've been dropped into another dimension. Isobel: A little time to rest and reflect, and I'll be ready to go at it anew. What say you? Player: It's not over yet. A nautiloid is on its way to Baldur's Gate. Isobel: Gods. One day, you go to sleep and everything's square. Then you wake up, and it's a dodecahedron. With tentacles.

-

You could also talk about Aylin specifically. If you were feeling particularly horrible, you could lie and convince Isobel she could still find and save her beloved. Presumably, however you played this, she would leave your camp either hating you or trying to save Aylin - which is a bit similar to how the Act 3 Lorroakan betrayal pans out.

Player: Aylin - do you mean Nightsong? Isobel: Nightsong? What do you mean?

Player: Ketheric captured her and was using her to fuel his invulnerability. She was called the 'Nightsong'. Isobel: She... what?! Does this mean she's still alive? I've got to find her - set her free! Tell me everything you know. Please.

Player: It's too late for that. She was dead when I found her. [Roll Deception] [Roll succeeded] Isobel: My father said she was gone. I'd tried to make peace with it. But... she was so special. So very dear. Isobel: When we met, it was like a lightning strike. My father wasn't sure about us - she was immortal, after all - but I never doubted. [Roll failed] Isobel: Liar. Wicked, wicked liar. Murderer.

Player: Give me your map. I'll show you where she's being kept. [Roll Performance] [Roll failed] Isobel: You're lying. She can't be saved, can she? My father told me she was... gone. It's true, isn't it? Isobel: Why would you lie? What's the matter with you? [Roll succeeded] Isobel: Thank you - thank you so much. I'll gather some supplies and head out shortly. Aylin... I can't believe she's alive. Before the day's end, I'll have her in my arms. Incredible.

Isobel: I hope Aylin's alright. I can't wait to have her in my arms again.

Player: Never mind. Isobel: As I was saying, I fell in love with Aylin swiftly. It was as easy as breathing.

Player: That's what Ketheric and his chums called her. Killed her myself. / It's too late for that. I killed her. Isobel: You what?! But she was immortal. How could she... how could you...? She is the Moonmaiden's daughter. And you call yourself a Selûnite?!

Player: It was the only way to make Ketheric vulnerable. Isobel: Was it? Was it truly? I don't believe that. Not for a second.

Player: Shar got the better of me. It won't happen again. Isobel: Oh it won't? Then I suppose we'll just forget this little misstep, file it under 'lessons learned'?

Player: It was a mistake. One I bitterly regret. Isobel: I should hope so. I can't imagine what insane course of thought led you to murder someone so dear. Isobel: Get out of my sight before I do something you'll regret.

Player: When the Lady of Loss speaks, her faithful act on her behalf. Isobel: You're disgusting. You've killed someone so precious, so good. I knew Shar was wicked. But I'd hoped for better from you.

Player: I couldn't hold my companion back. She had a mission to fulfil. Isobel: A mission? A mission?! That Sharran murderer destroyed someone so precious, so good...

[glossysoap]

okay awesome!! what do you think about like showering w frank after a mission? i literally cannot stop thinking about it like getting the spots on his back he can’t reach and the gentle silence

sanctuary ; frank castle

sanc·tu·ar·y. noun: sanctuary; plural noun: sanctuaries.

1. a place of refuge or safety.

thank you for being my first request in a long time !! i hope you enjoy.

warnings : some spice near the end, not actual p/v smut though. beware of it though, just in case. purposeful lowercase.

if frank could think of one word to describe you, he would have to say sanctuary. you were his safe haven that he could always return to, away from all of the tears, death and bloodshed that came with his line of work.

everything about you from your voice and your eyes to your touch, makes his heart flutter.

he could listen to you talk about the most boring shit and he would think that you were reciting some lovey-dovey poem to him, instead of the morning weather report. shit, you could be reading the obituaries in the paper likely a result of his work last week, and he would still be hanging onto every word that fell out of your pretty lips.

don’t even get him started on your eyes. he loves how expressive they are, how he can tell your mood just by the way your eyelids wrinkle when you laugh or how you roll your eyes when you’re frustrated or annoyed with someone. even if he’s the one you’re annoyed at, he still thinks you’re too cute for your own good when you roll your eyes at him.

fuck, even your smell drives him crazy. he can’t help but take a deep inhale whenever you even so much as walk past him, all so he can get a whiff of your vanilla bean scented body wash paired with whatever fruity perfume you had chosen that day. he can always tell which shampoo and conditioner you use whenever he presses a kiss to the crown of your head or hugs you from behind.

in fact, the smell of your fresh mint and tea tree scented shampoo is what brought him out of his thoughts and back into the shower where the two of you were.

the two of you were sitting in the spacious bathtub, his back against your chest and your legs wrapped around his waist so your feet were resting in his lap. your nimble fingers were massaging that shampoo into his thick hair, gently massaging his scalp at the same time.

frank let out a pleased rumble from deep in his chest, making your lips quirk up into a grin.

you took it a step further by moving your hands a bit lower to the nape of his neck and rubbed gentle circles into the taut muscled skin. every once in a while you would use your thumbs to rub down the column of his neck.

once you found a particularly stubborn knot, he let out a groan and tilted his head back to lay on your shoulder.

you could see his adam’s apple bob as you leaned down to press a tender kiss on his shoulder, right next to a nasty bruise. your eyes remained trained on his face as you continued kissing a trail up his shoulder until you hit the crook of his neck. his breath hitched every time your lips touched his sensitive skin. you watched him, committing to memory every flutter of his lashes and sharp inhale of pleasure when you pressed an open mouthed kiss onto his pulse point and sucked.

frank lets out a particularly shaky exhale as you lick over the love bite, soothing the skin. as much as you enjoyed the sounds he was making, you knew the blood and sweat still needed to be washed off.

after ensuring that there were no open gashes down the span of his back, you grabbed the loofah and pumped some of his body wash on it. keeping in mind the bruises that littered his broad back, you made sure to have a light hand as you scrubbed his skin.

once all the soap was rinsed from his back, you leaned down to press wet, open mouthed kisses down the trail of his spine. your hands moved to caress his chest as you sucked marks into his skin, pulling delicious moans from frank’s lips. your left hand found purchase over his heart and you savored how you could feel his heartbeat race with every bite you suckled into his flesh. how you could know without any shred of a doubt how much of an effect you had on him.

he covered your left hand with his before lacing your fingers with his and bringing your hand to his lips. “you’re always takin’ care of me,” he whispers against your hand before placing your hand back against his heart, where it belonged. where you belonged.

“always will.”

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

[getinthefuckingjaeger]

the problem with Scamanders

for @jakes3resin (you did a lot, my turn for presents now)

“You could have written, you know.” 

Bucky’s legs stopped as though glued to the cobbled street of the little village he found himself wandering that night. His shoulders fell back along with his head, neck tilted almost painfully to the night sky as he heaved a great sigh. Christ and Merlin, here we fucking go.

He stayed stubbornly still, ignoring the crick in his neck the longer he tilted his head like that. It's not a bad view - an explosion of stars in the night sky fills his eyes in the absence of a German air raid. The shops in the highstreet of this unassuming village in Ipswich are all asleep around him. Thin fog that isn't really a fog flows languidly between his military-shine boots before climbing his legs like vines to a tree. The magic is warm like sunshine and soft as a caress when it touches Bucky’s hands. He flexed his fingers to disperse the white wisps and tuck them into his trousers pockets. 

He still absolutely refuses to budge. No, sir. 

“Merlin, you���re still as stubborn as a Hippogriff, aren’t you Johnny?” A low chuckle cuts through the otherwise quiet night and Bucky can hear the sounds of expensive Oxfords getting closer to where he stands, until there is a wall of flesh and magic by his side, a firm shoulder pressing against his. “Come on, then. Give us a smile.” 

Bucky grimaces at the sky. Looks down at his feet with another sigh. Then looks to his side, and into a face so much like his own. 

With wizards' lifespan as long as it is, the face Bucky sees had barely aged from the last time he saw it. The same gold skin tanned by Quidditch, the same dark mahogany curls falling from its coiffed hairstyle and hanging over the same dark blue eyes - almost navy in the darkness.

But where there’s an absence in signs of age, there is stark evidence of war on that familiar face. Bucky notes the discolored scars peppering the left side of the man’s face like something exploded too close for comfort, the way his nose sits a little crooked like it was set-wrong and far too late to rectify, and - Bucky paused a moment to stare - a thin, barely visible line that runs from under his left ear to his adam’s apple. 

Familiar aftershave fills his lungs, reminding him of a childhood on a vast estate and the summer sun warming his back, as he paddles through cool sparkling waters of the massive fountain on the cul de sac of their mansion’s driveway. He can almost hear his aunt’s exasperated complaints and boisterous laughter of his cousin and uncles, the sounds of struggle as his father tried to push Newt off his perch on the edges of the marble fountain. 

That was another life, then.

“Auror Scamander, sir.” Bucky lets the mask of Major Egan take over as he steps away from his cousin. “Hope you’ve been well, sir.” 

Only years with Buck could ever prepare him to withstand the quiet, appraising look that Theseus is giving him. The stare weighs heavy on his chest as he looks just over Theseus’ shoulder as he would to any senior officer in the USAAF.  Theseus, damn the man, tilts his head just so and catches Bucky’s eyes - his smile is tired, resigned. 

“I’ve been better - the ah, hunt keeps me on my toes, so to speak.” Bucky watches as Theseus tugs lightly at his coat and white silk scarf. “Newt sends his regards, as does Tina - he also sends his thanks, for looking after Frank the... Thunderbird?” 

Bucky and Theseus share a commiserating look, the first one in almost a decade since Bucky was sent back. It wasn’t a chore to disapparate from Texas to the deserts of Arizona after lights out a few times a month. Certainly one of the most rewarding things he’s ever voluntarily done, to be able to run his hands over the beak of such a majestic creature. It’s through Frank that Bucky realizes the calm that one can find sitting in the middle of a literal storm as the massive avian flies over his head. 

I fell in love with the big birds, Buck told him once. Bucky had agreed, but couldn’t explain that his big bird is a little more literal than Gale’s. And that it creates thunderstorms when it flies. 

The glint of Theseus’ cufflinks pulls Bucky away from desert storms and back into the cold English night air. The Scamander crest twinkles under the starlight like a taunt. Bucky didn’t even realize Theseus had put out all the street lights. Goddamn aurors. 

He moves to a parade rest to remind himself of who and where he is now - that he’s no longer just John Egan, cousin of Newton and Theseus Scamander, the three remaining Scamander. 

“Why haven’t you written, Johnny?” Theseus remains a respectable distance from him, but Bucky can tell how much he’s probably itching to shake him by the shoulders in frustration. “Years of silence from you and your mother’s family in Wisconsin. Newt tried to look for you when he’s stateside, but you’re always never there. It's like you vanished - if Frank hadn’t hinted at it, or if your likeness weren't still moving on the family tapestry we’d have thought you dead.” 

Bucky tenses just as Theseus rocks back on his heels like the weight of his anger was a physical thing. 

“What was it all for then, if we thought you died, too?” 

It plays out like a picture reel in Bucky’s head - him, at eight years old with his right hand in Theseus’ left as they walk down the carpeted floor of the Scamander ancient mansion. 27, a war hero, as tall as the suit of armors that used to dot the hallways and the greatest wizard he’s ever known. Then there was Newt, only a year younger than Theseus, his figure painted in hues of red, purple, and green from the large stained glass windows - Bucky can still recall Newt’s excited chatter about all the wonderful creatures on the estate and the Hippogriffs that Aunt Artemis has in her enclosure. 

Then Bucky, at thirteen years old and shaking with barely suppressed excitement as he clutched his shiny new broomstick that Theseus gave him for Christmas. The grand bubble of joy that buoyed him through the entire afternoon of flying lessons with Theseus, half the family sitting on picnic blankets spread over snow covered grounds, the fabric charmed to be warm and dry. The lightness he felt as he shot himself across the estate grounds despite Theseus’ yelling is something he has tried time and time again to recreate as his fort lifts-off. 

And finally at eighteen, once again walking down the carpeted floor of the Scamander mansion. Alone, at night, confused and hurting. Aunt Artemis had gone to town that autumn morning with his parents but none returned. Newt has disappeared - likely on another errand for Dumbledore - and he has never seen Theseus so angry as he threw Aurors, his own colleagues, out of their parlor. 

The subsequent argument he had with Theseus - just the memory of it brings him shame of how it inevitably ended. 

“You need to go, Johnny - Grindelwald is hunting us down.”

“I can fight, T - I’m of age!” 

“I know, I know, you can. I just can’t allow you - think of the family, Johnny. Grindelwald will try to kill you and Newt to get to me, and I can’t protect both of you at once.”

“Fine, I get it. Can’t trust the half-blood to take care of himself, huh?” 

“You said I needed to go and I did what you told me to.” 

Bucky drops the parade rest and shoves his hands in his pockets where Theseus cant see how they shake. Un-fucking-believeable that he’s flown multiple missions, have survived so many things he shouldn’t up there where hell resides above the clouds, but his hands have never shaken like this. Not once. “I had a lot of time to think and I realized - as much as I fucking hated it- you couldn’t afford distractions.”

“It’s not like that-”

Bucky shakes his head and shuffles in his boots. He itches for a cigarette. “I ain’t saying that to be an ass, T. I understand that now more than ever - this war I’m fighting… it puts things in perspective.” 

“I see.”

And Theseus does see - Bucky holds his gaze for as long as he can stand. He kicks a loose stone and it skids neatly over to Theseus’ toes. His cousin nudged the stone back to Bucky. They share a grin. “How bad is it, your end?” He falls back into parade rest, puts away John Egan who was once Mr. Scamander to his peers in Hogwarts, and brings Major Egan to the forefront once again. 

“As well as it is going for yours, I’d imagine Major.” Theseus, always the best one out of the three Scamander scions at reading people, adjusts his posture from soft and imploring, to hard and imposing. Demanding respect, like the Head of the British Auror Office. He pursed his lips in thought. “You may want to properly practice your wandless magic, Major Egan. I’ll take care of MACUSA and the Ministry.”

Bucky splutters. He thinks of an alder wand that used to be an extension of himself and how the yoke of his B-17 can never replace that kind of power.

“How do you expect me to do that, sir?” He grits out. Easy, John, easy now the Buck in his head soothes his ire. “Between the suicide missions and trying to keep everyone’s head on straight - how the fuck do you expect me to do that, sir?” 

“You’ll figure it out, Major.” It came out like an order. Theseus’s lips quirked. “You apparrated from one state to another back in your Muggle flight school, didn’t you? Apparating from London tonight must have been a breeze. Power like that needs tending to. Particularly when you have talent for wandless casting.” 

“With all due respect, sir, but last I checked you’re not my CO - you ain’t even an American, so you can kindly shove-”

“Do it for Major Cleven and your boys, then.” 

The ensuing silence rings through Bucky’s head as the streetlights come back up one by one. Theseus’ hard look softens just a touch as he walks backwards and away from Bucky.  

“I heard your boys are flying a mission tomorrow morning - Bremen again, I think - arresto momentum and subtle shielding charms will do.” Theseus winks, then apropos of nothing, said “I’ll come round’ for tea.”

That broke through Bucky’s bewildered suspension, but not fast enough to stop Theseus from disapparating with a soft pop. 

“Goddamn wizards.” 

Bucky spun and disapparate just as the last streetlight returned.

[rorylovesmatt]

Unrequited love - Madison beer

summary: The second Y/n laid her eyes on Madison, she knew she was in love, but she also knew she couldn’t have her. At least not yet.

warnings: NOT PROOFREAD, bad ending!!! (i think that’s it?)

word count: 1,000

a/n: yes i did come out of my month long hiatus just to publish a fic for my girl WHAT ABOUT IT (idek how long it’s been this is a wild guess)

Y/n stood on the balcony of her apartment, overlooking the shimmering city lights of Los Angeles below. The night was quiet, with only the distant hum of traffic and the occasional gust of wind rustling through the trees. She leaned against the railing, her thoughts heavy and tangled.

She had everything she could’ve ever wanted. Friends, a successful career as a musician, and a life in a city where dreams were made. But there was one thing she couldn’t have, the love of her life.

It had started innocently enough. She met Madison a year ago at the Sturniolos birthday party. She was everything Y/n could’ve ever asked for in a partner (does that made sense?..) Talented, kind, and stunningly beautiful. Despite her celebrity status, Madison was extremely down to earth, warm, and genuine. She didn’t know who she was at first, which only seemed to endear her to Madison more. As the night went on the two of them talked about everything. Their favorite bands, their most embarrassing moments, their dreams and fears. By the end of the night, Y/n was captivated. She found herself thinking about her constantly, longing for the next time she could hear her voice, her laugh.

But there was a problem. Madison was already in a relationship. She knew it from the beginning, yet she couldn’t help herself. The more time she spent with her, the deeper she fell. Y/n cherished every moment, every text message, every late night phone call. She lived for the times when Madison’s hand would accidentally brush against her own or when she’d look at her in a way that made her heart skip a beat. She knew that they didn’t mean the same thing to Madison as they did to her.

Madison saw her as a friend, someone she could trust, someone who understood her in a way few others did, but Y/n saw Madison as so much more.

One evening, after an emotional recording session (is that the proper term?) , Y/n invited Madison over to her place. She had written a new song, one that she had poured her heart into and she wanted Y/n to be the first to hear it. As she sat on her couch, listening to her sing, Y/n watched her closely, hoping to see something in her eyes that would tell her that she felt the same way. But when the song ended, all she did was smile and tell her how beautiful it was, how talented she was.

“Madison..” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “have you ever wondered what it would be like if things were… different? like If we had met at a different time under different circumstances?”

She looked at her confused. “What do you mean?”

Y/n hesitated. She had rehearsed this conversation a hundred times in her head but now that the moment was here, she wasn’t sure if she could go through with it. “I mean… if you weren’t with someone else. If we could be more than just friends.”

There was a long silence as Madison processed her best friend’s words. Y/n’s heart pounded in her chest, every second feeling like an eternity. Finally, she spoke.

“Y/n, you’re an incredible person. I love and care about you so much, but I’m with someone else. I can’t just throw that away.”

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. Y/n had known this would be her answer, but hearing it out loud still broke her heart. “I understand,” she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Madison reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “I don’t want to lose you Y/n. You mean so much to me.”

She forced a smile, even though her heart was shattering. “You won’t lose me. I’ll always be here for you. I promise”

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — One

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none for this chapter, just Tom being grumpy and hating the world

— WORDCOUNT: 3k

— A/N: This is a fic that was commissioned by @localravenclaw as a gift for @esolean 💕 It's going to be a bit of a rollercoaster, with angst and fluff and smut galore. I plan to post twice a week, Mondays and Fridays. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you will have fun reading it, my dears! 💚

I

Tom was twenty-five. It had been seven years since he graduated from Hogwarts, and just as many since he started working at Borgin and Burkes. Now, he found himself in a sweltering place with the world passing him by. Trapped, for his sins, in a moving metal coffin. If this was hell, it looked like rolling hills, houses nestled in the fog, narrow rows of poplars and puffs of grazing sheep, all set to the tune of clinking chains and carriage shuffles. He hated this assignment.

After taking the train from London to Dover, he caught the ferry that sailed to Calais, and from there took a series of coaches and trains meant to take him on to Italy. To Rome. They had just stopped in Lyon to pick up more passengers, and now they were on their way again.

He had fought with Burke regarding the logistics of the whole thing. Why couldn’t he just use Floo like a normal wizard? But the miserable old stoat said he’d sooner trust muggle transportation than Tom’s pronunciation of Italian or French — and besides, was Floo even networked all the way down there? It didn’t matter anymore.

Tom was convinced it was all done to save costs, and perhaps for Burke to not have to call in any favours. So off he went with one measly suitcase and two billfolds of franks and lira — all of which were merely enchanted oak leaves. They would inevitably transfigure back to their original form in a couple of weeks or so, but by then Tom should be long gone. Who said money didn’t grow on trees?

He tried to distract himself from all this misery by checking his notes again. His little book cracked open, snapping at the spine, and its insides were revealed to him like a cadaver cut through with a black spidery scrawl. It was a list of books and authors, with observations added vertically on the side to save space.

“The Secrets of Wisdom, N. Tamisso 1650 — high priority, any edition. The Lost Word, B. Trevisan 1661 — low priority, optional. Delomelanicon (or The Invocation of Darkness), A. Torchia 1666 — first edition, mandatory.” The latter word was underlined three times. His notes continued with the instructions Burke had given. “Check the rare book dealers, antiquaries, private collectors if necessary. If you can not find it, find out who can. If they will not sell it, take it anyway.”

Tom’s lip curled. Whatever joy there was in being away from the squalor of Knockturn Alley was soiled by what he had to do in Rome. It wasn’t the books he minded, and in fact, he quite admired Burke’s taste in this matter. But to be flung so far away from home on such short notice, and for such a length of time, was pitiful to him. The heir of Slytherin turned errand boy…

“Excuse-moi, est-ce que — Oh, bonjour.”

Tom turned his frown toward the sliding doors of the compartment, between which stood a young man in his twenties. Lanky brown locks fell into his eyes veiling the crinkles of a smile.

“Yes?” sighed Tom.

“I was wondering if this was free,” said the boy. And without waiting for an answer, he dragged his luggage inside — three suitcases, all leather with copper fittings looking ready to burst — and closed the doors behind him.

“I suppose it is,” mumbled Tom. He subtly closed his notebook and tucked it back into the messenger bag at his feet while he kept track of the stranger from the corner of his eyes.

The fine quality of the newcomer’s clothes was somewhat disguised by how carelessly they hung around him. His white and starched shirt was loosened at the top, revealing a hint of tanned skin sprinkled with sparse curls. A golden pin kept a red and blue striped tie affixed to it, and around his pinky finger was a silver ring thickly laid with marcasites and crowned with a malachite stone. His lips were full and purple-stained from wine. His eyes were a bright blue. Judging by his pressed trousers and clean leather shoes, he was a gentleman who had arrived at the station by car — or, at least, he was the spoilt brat of one.

“Clement,” the boy grinned, extending his hand.

“Tom,” he replied, giving him a firm, brief shake.

“I’m on my way to Rome!” Clement sighed, plopping down onto the seat opposite him. Almost immediately, he cracked open a cigarette case and started fishing for a lighter in his trouser pocket. His luggage lay strewn all around the floor, suitcases filled with junk, no doubt. “You?”

“The same,” Tom said and instantly regretted sharing anything at all. With people like these — the overly friendly types — it was best to not encourage conversation.

“Oh, magnificent. Vacation?”

“Work.”

“How sad,” tutted Clement as he popped a cigarette between his lips. He offered one to Tom as well.

“Don’t smoke.”

“Ah.”

He closed the case with a loud click and set it on the table between them. With a smooth, almost theatrical motion, he lit up his pocket lighter — silver, older than him, probably an heirloom, engraved with an elaborate floral motif featuring a fleur-de-lis — and let the flame dance on the tip of his cigarette until he was satisfied.

“Don’t talk much, either,” the boy chuckled. He kept his eyes on Tom as he took a drag, then started puffing away without a care. He attempted to blow rings of smoke but failed. “What do you use your mouth for, then?”

“Cursing, mostly.”

Clement laughed. “The same!”

Tom doubted it.

The compartment soon filled with smoke, and the narrow window open at the top only made it dance around inside. The muggy summer fumes were driving Tom to madness already, and he could only hope the train moved fast enough to clear the air. But as they went further into the rural parts of France, the scent of sheep took over. Maybe it’s not too late to try to Apparate directly at the station, he thought.

“So, what do you do?” asked the French boy, vowels gliding altogether in one breath between his lips. His arm extended elegantly to tap the ash into a cheap tray by the window.

It took Tom a moment to look at him and answer. “I’m in, er, publishing.”

“Truly?” he said, excited enough to lean over the table. “That’s magnificent. I intend to be published too.”

“Oh? What do you write?”

“Poesies.”

“Poetry? Ah, not my area, I’m afraid.”

“But you must know some people…”

Tom wanted to tell him that if he were any good he’d have found a publisher already, but intuition told him to temper himself.

“I might,” he said, “but I’m afraid I’m full up at the moment.”

The boy puffed away nervously as he tapped the round gemstone of his ring against the window, and kept his eyes on him. Tom turned to watch the view rolling past them, seeing without seeing. The sensation of being watched was as familiar as it was discomforting. It crawled down his thin cheeks, his narrow neck, and from there sank into his clothes like sweat. He gazed briefly at the tapping ring from the corner of his eyes in irritation, before focusing away again. For a few moments, he thought he’d successfully ended their conversation.

“Well, I’m in show business,” Clement said instead, grinning brilliantly. There was a gap between his first incisors that made him look boyish and pure. “Theatre.”

“Your parents must be very happy.”

“No,” he laughed. “Miserable. But,” he shrugged, “it is not their decision.”

Tom hummed and said nothing else.

“Your parents are happy with your job, no? You go on important business trips to France, to Rome, and… erm. Well, it is a good job, for sure. Makes them proud, yes?”

Whatever sunshine beamed through the window was chilled and clouded by the glare in Tom’s dark eyes. Why did this bothersome Frenchman have to talk to him? He wasn’t going to keep doing it the whole way to Rome, surely…

“I wouldn’t know,” he finally said. “They’re dead.”

“Oh… Oh, I am so sorry...”

“I’m not,” he mumbled. He didn’t think Clement had heard him, but he wouldn’t care even if he did.

The boy pulled the ashtray closer and put out his cigarette, then leaned his head against the glass. Fidgeting, he held the silver case in his hands and clicked it open and closed, open and closed… He did that for quite a while.

Tom could feel him staring. Could even sense to some extent the messy thoughts inside that head: curiosity, intrigue, and joy.

What could be joyful about that moment?

Well, if Tom was being honest, this wasn’t the first time he’d had such an effect on people. Memories of Burke’s clients came back to him accompanied by the customary shiver down his spine. Clement had the same flippant merriment about him that all the others did, those careless old witches and wizards. That unguarded look of innocence surrounded by the fog of greed. An airy absence of thought and feeling. Must’ve been the side effect of all that money.

Tom had once envied such people. Had even flattered himself with the knowledge that he, however distantly, was one of them. What greater destiny than to be born to glorious old blood? What greater tragedy than to be fallen from it…? He could even remember, with much clarity and shame, how he’d spent several months during his third year obsessing over the Gaunts and Riddles, chasing up on genealogies, and smattering the back pages of his diary with heraldic designs.

But the more he understood the upper classes — their uselessness, their inborn idiocy, their paradoxical sense of superiority which stood impervious to anything reality threw at them — the more he grew to hate them.

“I am sorry if I offended…” said Clement rather softly. “Sometimes, I talk too much.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t notice.”

“No, but I do, I do…”

Tom had overshot his subtleties, apparently.

“So you are not happy with your job? Forgive me for asking…”

“No, it’s quite alright.”

“A pity, you know…”

“Why?”

“To not like it.”

“Oh, it’s not too much trouble most of the time. Why? Do you like your job?”

“But of course!” he said, blue eyes twinkling.

Tom cast a scathing look his way. How strange… He couldn’t imagine enjoying any form of employment — other than the coveted post of DADA professor at Hogwarts.

“Why are you in Rome, then?” Tom asked.

“On vacation. I am, erm, meeting a friend,” he whispered with a grin.

“A girlfriend?” asked Tom with a smirk.

Clement shook his head and giggled. “A boy friend.”

Tom’s brows nearly reached his hairline. He’d never heard of such things being bandied about quite that openly before, at least not in England. Clement seemed not to care. Must’ve been a habit of his, as he seemed to not care about much at all other than enjoying life.

“You have a fun vacation ahead of you, then.”

“More than you know,” he winked.

Tom curled his nose at that and sat back, away from the whole conversation. But Clement leaned closer, arms braced over the table lazily, eyes flashing excitedly.

“We will rob this old fool, and run with his money.”

That captured Tom’s attention again. The boy was waiting eagerly for his reaction, and not a thought ran through his head that Tom might’ve been untrustworthy. Of course, far be it from him to ruin someone else’s fun, but the scenario Clement proposed was too absurd to be believed.

So what else could Tom do but laugh? The sound of it filled the cabin, and so out of use were those muscles that his cheeks began to ache. The sight of it seemed to delight young Clement. He leaned back and gave another one of his brilliant smiles.

“You can join us, if you like,” he offered smoothly.

“Sorry,” said Tom, his cheeks still flushed. “My schedule is full.”

“Oh, pity, pity… You would like my friend, I think. His name is Donatien. He is more serious, like you.”

“Is that so,” said Tom distractedly.

“By the way, what is your hotel?”

II

They entered Rome on a train that ran six hours late, and wobbled on its tracks, and stank of mouldy cheese and wine rust.

Clement talked most of the way there, and seemed to be satisfied with Tom mostly reacting with brief hums and tilted smiles. They even exchanged gifts. The French boy was enchanted by what was, in Tom’s estimation, a fairly average switchblade. He’d only taken it out to peel an orange. It was something he’d bought in London right before his seventh year, and although it was quite plain, it did have some delicate embellishments on its ivory handle of two writhing snakes. That seemed to appeal to Clement, who offered his own blade in exchange — a Swiss army knife that also had a screwdriver and bottle opener tucked in its red body. Considering it a more efficient deal, Tom shrugged and accepted the trade.

Faint details came up now and then about his plans with this Donatien, but most of it was lost in smoke and loud metallic rattles. As much as Tom hated flying on brooms, even he could agree it would’ve been preferable to this…

But at least he didn’t have to fear any Ministry or Aurors in these parts. Not any that were familiar with him, anyway. The Italians had their own Ministry of Magic, of course, but it was all the way down in Mirto, Sicily, and foreigners were a low priority for them. There were so many people from all over the world in Italy those days that it wasn’t worth keeping track of them all, or at least so Burke had told him.

The train slowed and pulled into the station, and pulled, and pulled… It groaned as if in pain. Clement took the jolt of inertia as it all came to a stop with cheerful clapping, and promptly got up to collect his bags.

“So, we are agreed?”

“Absolutely not agreed. Besides, I doubt my lodgings would be to your taste.”

“Ah Tom, you do not know my taste!”

“Very well, but best keep your complaints to a minimum once we get there.”

They struggled to get everything off the train with four suitcases between them. Tom was travelling light with just the one, about which Clement made some snide comment that he soon forgot, but he helped him anyway. His own belongings consisted of plain muggle clothes and some books that Burke wished him to barter with, if it came to that. Between the lines, and between Burke’s sparse and slimy brows, Tom understood he was expected to use his charms to get a bargain price — as per usual — but he did not intend to let some fat old antiquary put his grimy hands on him. Not this time. Besides, conversing with Clement had stained his dignity enough.

Being away on the continent had one advantage, at least: he was no longer under the vulturous watch of his employer.

Tom stepped out onto the platform, muscles sore from days of sitting down, and looked ahead as if he knew where he was going. People were chatting all around him, filling the cool hall with murmurs all the way up to its dome — some in German, some in French, others in variously accented English. Tom wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve and picked up his suitcase to follow Clement, who was hunting for a trolley to load his luggage onto.

As soon as they stepped out onto the street, the heat of Rome in August hit Tom in the face like an oven door and he, frail and pallid thing, was not prepared for it. He squinted in displeasure, to Clement’s great amusement.

“This way, Tom!” he said as he popped on a pair of sunglasses. “I see a taxi!”

Tom had spent most of the journey brushing up on his Italian with the help of a conversation guide he picked up at the Gare du Nord. His extensive knowledge of Latin came in pretty handy. But now that he saw Clement handle things, perhaps he needn’t have bothered. His companion could easily direct the driver to the dingy old hotel Tom was staying at, the Gallienus on Via Domenichino, and chatted a bit more besides.

“Vacation in Rome often, then?” he asked.

“I just know some phrases,” Clement smiled. “You don’t need much with these people.”

The driver pretended not to understand the slight.

“Where do you want to have lunch, then?” Clement asked.

“Lunch? I’m certainly not in the mood, not now.”

“Oh come ooon…”

“You can eat on your own.”

“We can leave our stuff and take the taxi to this place I know on Via della Mercede. They make the best seafood, the best!”

It had not been until now, with this journey to somewhere far away, that Tom realised how limited his world had been at Hogwarts. He’d once felt equal parts ashamed and at a strange advantage next to the other Slytherins, his peers, all purebloods, for knowing both the magical and muggle worlds. Now, exiled for this assignment among strangers, it seemed to Tom as if he were starting life all over again. He looked out the window and everything was new, everything was strange. The buildings, the street, the people, even the clothes were different. The city, like London, was massive, but the streets were broader, blazing white. Some disappeared into little alleyways that slithered like dark serpents. Tom could easily see himself getting lost in such a place.

It was… humbling. He didn’t like it.