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rosewood-cafe · 8 months ago

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Eris Vanserra x Rhysand's sister.

AN: Omg, I have never written for Eris before, and I am so nervous. Sorry if the ending seemed rushed, I am planning for a part two, but it will take me a long time to do lol.

🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁

The sound of blood trickling down your back and onto the cold stone floor filled your ears. Drip Drip Drip. Another involuntary back spasm had you writhing with pain. Bile burned your throat as you empty out the contents of your stomach onto the floor next to you. Not having enough strength to move further away nor care to. Your cell was dark and cold. There was a small metal fireplace in the back. The fire was down to cinders and ash mocking you with false hope of warmth.

You were going to die here, you thought. Your wounds still have not healed yet. You had no proper clothing to fight off the cold, and you were stripped bare except for a pair of raggedy trousers. Shame hit you, clawing its way up through your chest. If the wounds would not kill you, you would surely die from the embarrassment alone. Being put on display in front of everyone, stripped, and had her wings taken. Even someone as powerful as the 'Princess of the Night Court' could not have saved her wings.

You wanted to laugh at the irony. You fought against Tamlin and his father to keep your wings, only for them to be ripped away years later. A small laugh escaped your throat at the cruel twist of fate. Hours had passed, yet you still bled, your fingers growing numb. Unstoppable tremors racked your body from the shock and cold still running its course. This must be what Hell is, you just knew it.

"I am going to die here." You finally admitted to yourself, tears collecting in your eyes. Dripping down your face in a steady stream, no matter how hard you tried to stop them. Screams echoed through the cell bringing you back to the harsh reality, you are still under the mountain, and you are going to die here.

'Where is Rhy's?" You thought of your older brother, surely he would gave come to help you out by now? No, you thought. There has not been a scrape at your mental sheilds, or no quick visits like times before. Just absolutely nothing since the... latest punishment. You trembled harder, knocking your upper back into the makeshift bed making you cry out in agony. Your wounds bleeding harder from the force, making you dizzy. A scrape of metal on stone grabbed your attention, and your eyes snapped up to the intruder.

"Hello, little Fawn." You looked towards the intruder with wary eyes, desperately trying to stay awake and aware. Your eyes caught the signature fiery red hair and those piercing amber eyes. Eris Vanserra was in your cell. You threw your arms over your bare chest, feeling the sharp claws of embarrassment digging into you once again. His eyes raked over your body, sending icy chills down your spine. A small whimper of pain escaped your lips at the slight movement.

"What are you doing here?!" you all but growled at the Autumn heir. A smirk formed on his lips as he stepped further in and shut the heavy door. You retreated further back into the cell, "G-Get out!" you hissed, venom laced in your voice. He ignored you, his eyes raking over you once again, noticing the blood pooling underneath you. Too much blood, he thought to himself. He wondered how you had even lasted this long bleeding out. "Where is Rhysand?" he asked. "Or does being Amarantha's whore take more priority than his dying sister?" You narrowed your eyes in warning. You knew of Rhys's sacrifices and the game he has to play. Amarantha's whore is a title he will bear for the rest of his life. Your eyes fell towards the stone floor before answering.

"I do not know where he is," you finally say after a few seconds of silence. He lets out a humorless laugh. "His precious little sister, Princess of the Night Court, lies on death's door, and he doesn't even bother to show up for your last moments?" You huff in annoyance, "Don't act like the Vanserras are anything but cruel. I would be careful, Eris. You have a mighty fine bounty on your head. I'm just waiting to see which brother takes it for his own personal gain."

"I doubt you'll get to see it, considering you'll be dead before the morning rises," he stated, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. As if on cue, another tremor hits you full force, and you scream out in agony. "If you only came here to insult me and my brother, You. Can. Leave." you gritted out slowly, the pain seeping back into your body. You let your arms fall from your chest, leaning over to your cot to rest your aching head. Eris studied you for a moment with a calculated stare. "I can help you if you like." A flame appears in his hands, its light casting eerie shadows on the cell walls. "I am no healer, but I can at least stop the bleeding with my flames." You remained quiet, until a scoff interrupts the stretched silence. "Unless you rather die? Let me see your wounds." Not a request, but a demand.

"Why do you care? I'm almost dead anyway," you ask, tears lining your eyes once again. He takes a tentative step towards you, his mask of indifference faltering. "Because you do not deserve to die here." Another step closer. "Because you deserve a better fate than this." He was in front of you now. "Because you do not yield, not now, not ever." Seeing you in this vulnerable state unnerved, Eris; he didn't know why he had offered his help to you. It was, as if he was under a spell, a string tied to his rib, drawing him towards you. Perhaps witnessing you this broken, stirred an emotion he thought had been snuffed out years ago. He did not, could not dwell on the feeling now. A frustrated tear steamed down your face as you let out a shaky breath. "Okay." You said, you feel like you shouldn't trust him, but the way his words seem so sincere... fuck it. You put your trust into Eris Vanserra, and hope it wouldn't bite you in the ass later.

His shoulders sagged slightly with relief as you turned your back to him, revealing your wounds. Eris walked over to the fireplace and with a flick of his wrist, ignited a small fire. "This will not last long; it's nearly all ash," he said. "But I need the light to see your wounds." He moved behind you. "May I?" he asked before touching you. You let out a small hum. "Words, Fawn." You let your head drop, "Yes." You stated weakly, the adrenaline, finally wearing off. He puts his hands on your shoulders and gets on his knees.

"I have dreamed of burning you and your Court with my flames, but never like this," he said, his voice carrying an emotion you couldn't quite decipher. "Forgive me Y/n, for, my flames aren't so forgiving." He places his large calloused hands onto your back. Your back was ablaze with searing flames, the agony so intense it made Aramantha's torture seem like child's play. A guttural scream tore from your throat, accompanied by scalding tears streaming down your face. You were engulfed in unbearable torment. "Stop moving so much," Eris grunted, firmly pressing an arm across your chest to keep you still as he continued his grim task. Your throat felt raw from the incessant screaming, the pain blinding and merciless. The acrid stench of burning flesh was so overwhelming, you feared you might vomit. You gripped onto Eris's forearm as a sob fell from your lips. "Stop! I-I Can't!" You almost pleaded with him, Eris let out a curse under his breath as you bucked against his hold.

"You can, and you will," he snapped at you, his brow furrowed in concentration, a bead of sweat trickling down his face. Blood smeared his hands and stained his clothes. "I am almost done," he muttered, more to himself than to you. The cell door suddenly swung open, crashing against the stone wall with a resounding thud. Eris froze, his eyes darting towards the door. Finally, he released his grip on you, and you exhaled in relief.

"What the hell are you doing to my sister?!" Rhys's voice thundered through the room, his fury radiating like a palpable force. "Rhys..." you whispered weakly, your strength ebbing away. You collapsed onto your side, letting the darkness envelop you completely.

#acotar #eris vanserra #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x yn #fanfiction #eris x y/n #eris x reader #eris vandaddy

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nerdanel01 · 8 months ago

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Lectionary Pursuits

Emmrich/F!Rook, Emmrich POV 3k+ wc | NSFW No spoilers for Veilguard, just smut.

EXCERPT: By now, Emmrich was not reading, not really—he was just using his eyes to recognize sound-shapes on a page, and using his tongue and his lips and his teeth to pass those same sound-shapes through his mouth. That language passed through him without leaving the faintest impression on him, without remotely registering in the cognitive centers of his brain; he was simply a transmitter, focused on the barest essentials of his task.

Every other iota of self-control and attention and discipline he could muster was being used to resist the urge to start driving his hips upward against hers.

“You can do this, Emmrich, you’re doing so well. Keep going.”

Rook’s encouragement was only a little breathy, just the slightest twist of mischief in her voice as she praised him and taunted him all at once. Her eyes were hooded, lazy and drunk with desire; from him, however, she demanded nothing but the sharpest attention and focus.

Firmly, she instructed him: “Pick up where you left off.”

The subaqueous glow coming from the meditation room’s fish tank cast Rook’s self-satisfied smile blue; an unearthly, dangerous beauty. Emmrich swallowed. A thin trickle of sweat was cooling sweetly on his neck; the chaise was firm beneath him. His trousers had been rucked untidily around his thighs, and atop him, Rook sat—naked as the day she was born—her warm legs bracketing either side of his hips, warming his lap… his half-hard cock fully sheathed inside the warmth of her body, so slick and wet and dripping around him that he was sure, if Rook moved but an inch, he’d find the thatched grey hair at his groin was soaked.

After dinner with the others, they had slipped off together—something that now happened with such regularity it no longer warranted comment from the rest of the team. They would spend what was left of the evening, then, in the pleasure of each other’s company, in conversation or companionable silence, often reading together into the night: Emmrich, catching up on the latest necromantic scholarship or perusing collections of poems; Rook, reviewing missives from their contacts abroad or (more likely) engrossed in the latest romance recommended by the Randy Dowager.

Tonight, however, Rook’s copy of Vigor Mortis lay abandoned on the shelf behind the chaise—because tonight, Rook had asked Emmrich to read aloud to her.

Of course, when she had asked him, this was not exactly what Emmrich had pictured.

She had curled up next to him, her head tilted sideways onto the chaise’s back, giving Emmrich her full attention while he began to read from his book, pausing only intermittently to catch her up on references to theorems or proposals made in earlier chapters. Emmrich had warmed with affection, but otherwise thought nothing of it when her hand had crept across the space between them to cover his knee; he had found it mildly distracting, but had made no comment, as that same hand began to climb up his leg, singeing the skin in its wake with desire.

But when she had raked her nails along the inside of his thigh—when he had felt himself begin to strain, unseemly, against the confines of his trousers—he had snapped the book shut with a satisfying dull fwump of closed pages and turned his head, ready to chastise her. “Rook—”

And then she had dragged the heel of her palm firmly over his trousers, along the swollen underside of his shaft—and all capacity for language swiftly abandoned him.

In the shock and excitement of reaction, his hands had seized upon the book, holding it tightly shut; now, even as the pressure of Rook’s palm was breaking the rhythm of Emmrich’s breathing and leaving him tight-legged and light-headed, the fingers of her free hand gently pried his loose, and opened the book again in his hands.

Told him simply, in her tone that brooked no argument, “Keep reading.”

And so, because he loved her (and loved her, especially, like this: commanding and demanding his obedience, unguarded and unabashed of her still somewhat inexplicable desire for him) he did—though the effort it took was tremendous. His eyes followed the words in the flickering candlelight, carried them to her ears in an embarrassingly breathy, hitched voice. Rook gently guided him so he was lying back on the chaise, then unfastened his trousers and stroked him to hardness.

It was a small miracle, then, that he could string a sentence together at all, never mind read from a page. When his cock was weeping and her hand was sticky from it, she stood—the sudden rush of chill in her absence left Emmrich gasping—then began, slowly, to pull her shirt over her head, to work on the fastenings of her pants.

He had thought he had paused only the length of heartbeat to admire at her—to watch as cloth peeled away to reveal the final layer of warm, soft, fragrant skin—but he lost his place on the page, fumbled, ended up reading the same line over three times as Rook stepped out of her smallclothes, smiling with amusement.

Then, without warning or prelude, she had draped one leg over his, aligned herself to him, and sank onto him fully.

She took him beautifully: warm and already wet, wetter than she had any real right to be, as untouched as she was. Emmrich could not help it, it was instinct as much as anything—a ragged gasp escaped him, and his back arched off the chaise as he tried to drive his hips against hers, to drive himself deeper into her warmth—but,

“No,” Rook told him, firmly, a hand on his stomach to push him back down. “Lie still. Behave. Here, let me help you with that…”

And with the very same hand that she’d been spreading his slick around his cock, she plucked the book daintily out of his hands. With two of hers, she spread it wide for him, just in front of her stomach. Large though it was, it did not provide nearly enough modesty to conceal the swell of her breasts… nor the dark hair between her legs, where she had sank herself around him.

“Don’t stop now,” she’d teased him, tapping the opened page with her finger for emphasis until he had begun, again, to read aloud to her.

And she had sat like that—by Emmrich’s count— for nine entire pages.

“Emmrich.” The first hint of a warning in Rook’s voice. “Pay attention.”

Emmrich swallowed around the lump of need in his throat. “Yes, dearest,” he told her, then resumed the passage. Rook followed his eyes as they scanned back and forth; when he reached the end of the page, he did not need to ask her to turn it. She did so, obligingly, her fingers delicate on the thin parchment of the pages. Emmrich used the half second it took her (time when, despite however good or obedient he would have liked to be, he could not possibly have been reading) to drink in the sight of her—the quirk of her mouth, the hairs on her arms raised in the cold—before Rook spread the book for him again, and dutifully, without needing to be asked, Emmrich began against to read aloud.

It was hell; it was heaven; the warm ooze and drip of her around his half-swollen cock (the firmness of which had flagged, somewhat, in the lack of attention or stimulation Rook had been offering it—but if she had noticed, she seemed unbothered by it; she had kept him still sheathed securely inside her warmth) and the siren-like look at her eyes as she stared at him hungrily over the top of the pages. By now, Emmrich was not reading, not really—he was just using his eyes to recognize sound-shapes on a page, and using his tongue and his lips and his teeth to pass those same sound-shapes through his mouth. That language passed through him without leaving the faintest impression on him, without remotely registering in the cognitive centers of his brain; he was simply a transmitter, focused on the barest essentials of his task while every other iota of self-control and attention and discipline he could muster was being used to resist the urge to start driving his hips upward against hers. He could feel a flushed heat in his cheeks, in his neck; he was sure he was red. She was warm in his lap and his legs were shaking underneath her with every minute shift of her hips, any adjustment in her posture on top of him. The quirk of her smile—

The self-satisfied grin imploded on Rook’s face as it tightened, eyes screwed shut; she dampened a strangled cry through clenched teeth, resolved the sound into a hiss. Emmrich was on the verge of keening himself, with the sudden flood of warmth and wetness that gushed out of her, smearing across his groin and trickling between his legs.

“I said behave, ” Rook told him, between deep breaths to steady herself, “or I won’t let you cum at all.”

“I am, dear,” Emmrich said, blinking at her in wide-eyed innocence. “Or, I genuinely thought that I was…?”

Rook let out a little huff, half amusement, half disbelief. Her best shorthand for, ‘get a load of this crap.’ One hand released the book to land, ever so lightly, on his stomach. “That wasn’t you flexing?” she asked him, running her fingers down the quicksilver path of hair that traced from his navel to his hips. “Misbehaving, making your cock jump inside of me?”

Andraste forgive him, but he loved the sound of the word ‘cock’ in her mouth, crass as it was—and this, in addition the teasing touch of her fingertips along his stomach was enough to have him swelling inside of her with renewed enthusiasm. Had he clenched his core, as she alleged, knowingly or unknowingly? “That—that wasn’t my intention.”

Rook huffed again. “Sure it wasn’t.” But whatever sudden rush of want or need had seized her then, she’d regained control of herself, now; her fingers traced back up his chest, circled pensively. A sudden gleam in her eye, she told him, “If you can make it to the end of the chapter without trying to fuck me again, I’ll start squeezing.”

A proposal she promptly demonstrated by tightening the clench of her cunt around him.

He could not help it: his back arched off the chaise; his eyes slammed shut; he practically shouted in surprise of the sudden blessed satisfaction, a sound he was not entirely confident had not made its way down the passage and out into the Lighthouse library. It petered out into breathy gasps, and supplications lined up to parade off his tongue. “Rook—”

“Mmm,” she practically purred. “You like that idea, don’t you?”

“Very much.”

“Enjoying this, still?”

“Very much.”

Her delighted grin widened, sharp enough to cut her face in two. She spread the book wide for him again.

Used her lowest, most obscene voice when she told him, “So keep reading, Professor. Don’t leave me hanging about the unexplored connections between veil lustration and fade harmonics.”

Fade harmonics? Is that what they were reading about? It was hopeless—he’d be re-reading this passage again tomorrow evening, and now he’d be lucky if he ever managed to get through it without becoming aroused. She was warm above and around him, and he was loose and tingling with arousal from his head to his toes, which were curling in his boots, ankles carefully dangling off the edge of the chaise so he did not grind mud into Rook’s furniture. His tongue was starting to feel thick and clumsy in his mouth, muddy, inarticulate; simply the vague promise of imminent tension and friction had eroded terribly what very little cognitive capacity he had left.

But he loved her, and he wanted to please her—wanted her wrapped and snug and secure in his complete surrender to her, as he was—and so he dragged his eyes back to the book spread in front of her stomach, held in her beautiful fingers (and he must not let his attention wander by thinking of all places he’d much rather those hands be holding him) and bound his eyes back to the page in front of him.

“ For further explication, we may look to the early experiments of Ligeia Argyra…”

Though Rook nearly undid all of the effort that had taken him in one fell swoop by smiling at him over the top of the book and mouthing, silently, good boy .

Then shattered his concentration utterly when she clenched herself around him.

Emmrich’s hands tightened around Rook’s thighs; the experiments of the late mage Argyra dissolved into a litany of overwhelmed, half-choked gasps of surprise and pleasure.

“You said— hha, Rook!” the accusation cut cleanly short as Rook deliberately tightened all the muscles in her thighs and her core around him, “ you said, ‘the end of the chapter.’”

“Did I?” Rook replied, innocently, sweetly.

“Rook.” He shaped her name into a devotion, a plea. “Rook, that feels—”

“Keep going,” Rook told him. Her voice was noticeably breathier now, a rosy tint to her cheeks. “Keep reading, or I’ll stop.”

Dizzy with need, the words on the page swam before his eyes—then, after a few deep breaths, finally settled. If he had thought this a struggle before, that was nothing. His progress down the page had slowed considerably, interrupted by terrible gaps where Emmrich had to close his eyes or catch his breath, when Rook was gripping so tightly around him he thought he might simply finish and spill inside of her without her ever moving her hips an inch.

“In the thirty-eighth year of the Towers age, after—after her first s-successful sublimation of the malign en-haa!—energies concentrated around—concentrated around—Aurelius’ Reach, Argyra began her study….”

And so desperate was Emmrich to focus—to behave, as instructed—to be good, for her—eyes glued to the page, he did not notice as one hand slipped free from the book and disappeared behind it. Did not notice Rook’s fingers circling between her thighs until, with a sweet, low moan, her hips gave an impulsive thrust against his.

It took him a moment to register the accompanying rush of slick warmth dripping out of her; a moment longer to realize she was so wet because she was now touching herself, and when it finally clicked his whole body shuddered deliciously. He watched, enraptured, as she stroked herself with middle and ring finger; felt his legs begin to shake behind her at just the sight and the sound of her bringing herself pleasure.

Faintly, in the recesses of his mind, a nagging—with a rush of urgency, Emmrich realized: she has not told me to stop.

Her thighs were trembling with coiling pleasure; the book had become unsteady in her grasp. Emmrich lifted one of his own from her thigh to secure it, had to lick his lips and swallow against the sudden dryness in his throat. And as the contractions of her soft, swollen sex began to accelerate, signaling her imminent finish, he forced his eyes back to the book.

“...of the phenomenon—scholars—would later t-term veil lustration, though of course—of course, no such designation existed in her time…”

Above him, Rook’s eyes widened. Gone, now, was the haughty, controlling demeanor with which this encounter had begun. She looked at him now with only open adoration. Emmrich kept reading, though he did not think she really heard a word that he was saying. But the look on her face only became softer and more vulnerable when confronted with such relentless obedience, and it was not long before adoration was slipping into desperation, need—

“Emmrich!”

Her whole body shuddered, curling around herself as reached her own satisfaction, drawing her climax out with tight little twitches of her fingers on her clit, and it felt—it almost never felt this good just to watch her finish, to feel her grip and writhe on him as her body sang with pleasure, but perhaps because she had done nothing more than sit on him until now, it was nearly enough to tip him over the edge.

But not quite.

It took Rook a moment to recover, breathing deeply, eyes squeezed shut. Still, she kept the book adamantly fixed in her grasp. And when she finally opened her eyes, she looked at him with such a smouldering, devastated look—a wild look—a predator daring prey to run, eager for the chase.

Emmrich swallowed. He turned his eyes back to the book.

“These early ventures would later form the basis of—”

Rook wrenched the book out of his grasp and in one swift, dismissive movement, tossed it to the floor.

Emmrich had about half a second to be consternated about this rough treatment of such a precious volume before Rook had pinned his shoulder in one hand and, leaning over him, began to fuck him in furious earnest.

It was too much, all at once; the stimulation; the friction; the brisk chill of the air in the meditation room every time she withdrew from him; the ecstatic warmth and velvety wetness of her when she took him inside of her again. The way she spoke to him:

“By the Maker, Emmrich, but I love your voice.” Nothing practiced or sultry about, pitched in a frantic, keening sort of tone that told Emmrich she really meant it; if he hadn’t already been red he’d be coloring from head to toe. “And you were so good. So, so good, so patient. So focused, even with your cock twitching like that inside of me—”

“Rook.” He practically wept her name. He could barely think, nevermind speak, body so alight with pleasure it had begun to crowd out everything else. “Darling, please, may I…?”

“Yeah,” Rook answered, emphatically—enthusiastically. “Yes, Emmrich, you can cum—cum inside me now, cum for me.”

And she began to thrust against him in the way she knew by now he liked best: grinding in his lap, long, smooth rolls of her hips against his, driving him fully to the hilt within her. Emmrich felt his own hips rolling to meet her, to match her rhythm—this time, Rook did not stop him. Then with a gasp and a shout every muscle in his body was diamond-tight and scintillating, though he shook like so much dust; and he spilled himself inside of her as she moaned his name and clenched around him, meeting his orgasm with her own.

…the warm weight of her in his lap; her sharp huffs as she caught her breath, her breasts rising and falling—the world came back to Emmrich slowly. With the book discarded, he could see plainly now the damp sheen on his stomach, the mess Rook had made leaking over him. A situation not likely to be improved in the short term, Emmrich thought, as he could already feel the the thick warmth of his own seed beginning to spill out of her, around his softening shaft.

And Rook looked at him… like he was everything. With a love that he had coveted in others but had come to believe he would never really possess himself.

Rook looked at him with a love that would make Death itself quake.

Slowly, delicately, she leaned her face down to his. Emmrich sighed, closing his eyes, expecting a kiss.

Instead, Rook pulled away; and opening his eyes in his ensuing confusion, Emmrich saw she had plucked the book back up off the floor, and was spreading it open again in her lap.

He was practically flaccid inside of her, but she had not unseated herself from him; it seemed, she had absolutely no intention of doing so. At least, not yet.

“Now, pick up where you left off,” she told him, “and keep going while you drip out of me.”

#emmrich volkarin #fanfic #smut #I swear I have insightful intelligent things to say and write about this character but for now he's just getting slammed down sloppy style

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star-liit · 2 months ago

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Rosewater makes me dizzy and I fear we're sleeping on them as a fandom - I want more??

(cw pseudo-incest, cousins by marriage)

Evan and Regulus, cousins by marriage, who spent every childhood summer tangled up in each other's orbit - left to their own devices, unsupervised and unsocialised, in the sprawling, overgrown grounds of a half-forgotten family estate in France.

Regulus was always an unpalatable little freak, moving through the world like he was already haunting it. He cycled through obsessive, all-consuming phases: pressing flowers between pages, cataloguing fungi, collecting the brittle bones of dead animals. He carried a notebook everywhere, full of spidery handwriting and frantic, meticulous sketches. He always wanted someone to ask what he was writing about - to let him talk about his latest fixation - but no one was all that interested in the youngest Black. Regulus was seriously fucking creepy, prone to sulking when the universe didn’t fall into line, and he dressed like a Victorian ghost even in the height of summer - it was incredibly off-putting.

Evan was quieter still - all blank stares and bruised knees, sleeves forever rolled up, a perpetual scab on one elbow that never healed because he kept picking at it. He didn't speak unless spoken to, and even then, his words came out flat and clipped, like each one cost him something. He was taller than the other kids, and blunt like a bat. If he'd been small and sweet, they might've called him shy, but tall and silent meant trouble. He always got the blame when someone cried, even if he hadn’t touched them - and he never wasted breath defending himself.

Somehow - even though Regulus looked like the kind of kid Evan would’ve beat senseless for sport in another life - they were inseparable.

Of course, everyone was a little on edge the first time they vanished into the woods together. One of the staff even made a quiet note of it, muttering about how Evan had followed Regulus in, looming behind him like a shadow.

When they finally emerged, hours later, Sirius looked ready to hex Evan straight back into the treeline - all righteous fury and big brother instinct, demanding to know where they’d been. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned that Evan had half a foot on him and shoulders broad enough to block out the sun.

Evan didn’t flinch - just raised an eyebrow, cool and unreadable. He never raised a hand unless cornered, and Regulus knew that, even if Sirius didn’t.

It was Regulus who stepped between them, flushed and indignant, voice cracking with conviction as he insisted that Ev was cool, actually, and that everyone had better leave him alone - or… or else.

That had been enough to shut everyone up. More or less.

After that, Regulus showed Evan every page in his stupid little notebook. And Evan looked - not with wide-eyed curiosity, but with steady, silent focus, tracking each turn of the page. He’d give a small jerk of his chin when Regulus paused, never flinching at the stranger entries. Never bored. Never dismissive. Just there, fully - in a way no one else had ever managed to be.

Evan never said he liked Regulus - and Regulus was the kind of person who usually needed to hear things like that. But Evan showed him, in his own quiet way. He always showed up. Sat beside him on the bottom step while he read. Stood over him like a silent guard while he sorted bones and feathers into neat, reverent piles. Stepped on sharp branches first so Regulus wouldn’t scratch his ankles.

Regulus let him hold the bones - because Evan, for all his dirt-streaked fingers and ripped trouser legs, was careful with delicate things. He wiped his hands before touching anything fragile, and he never held on too tight. Regulus knew that - because whenever Evan’s hands started curling and uncurling, the way they did when something felt unfair, too loud, too much, Regulus offered his own. No questions, no fuss. Just something solid to squeeze.

When they got to school, and the world got louder, they only got quieter.

Regulus had always been weird with crowds - twitchy, uneasy - and Evan could take or leave them. By eleven, Regulus was whippet-fast, all lean limbs and nervous energy, darting through corridors at Seeker speed. He’d vanish into the blur if not for Evan, who kept a steady hand on him - a grip at the elbow, a firm press to the shoulder - enough to keep him close. Evan was too proud to chase, and too attached to let go. He moved slowly, deliberately, like he knew the crowd would part for him in time.

They didn’t talk much in public - not even to each other - but they stared. Regulus knew what every flicker on Evan’s face meant: the twitch of his jaw, the dart of his eyes, the subtle curl of his lip when someone said something beneath contempt. Everyone else thought Evan was unreadable. Regulus just thought they weren’t paying attention. Evan communicated perfectly - quietly, precisely - and if you were looking, really looking, you’d understand him just fine.

Regulus grew into his cheekbones first. Got prettier before he got taller - the kind of sharp, ethereal beauty that made people look twice. The attention started in third year. Girls smiled at him in corridors. Boys teased him in ways that felt different now. And Evan - Evan started hauling him away. By the wrist. By the collar. By the belt loop, once.

Not out of jealousy, exactly. Evan didn’t exactly have a name for it. And he wasn’t worried Regulus would leave. He just didn’t see the point in letting him entertain it - why pretend he was meant for anyone else?

Evan got his turn the next summer. Fourth year, and he shot up nearly a foot - carved out of sharp lines and quiet intensity. The brooding thing started working for him. Girls stopped looking nervous when he walked into a room. They started giggling instead. And Regulus hated it. Hated the way they touched his arm. Hated sitting through breakfast while someone leaned across the table to ask if Evan liked Quidditch, of all things.

But Regulus did like the way Evan pulled his arm back - slow and deliberate, never a flinch. He liked the curl of his lip, as if the strange touch had repulsed him. He liked the clipped, deadpan “I like it when Reg plays” that shut the conversation down like a slammed door. He liked the way Evan would drop an arm around his shoulders instead - casual and certain, like a full stop at the end of a sentence.

By fifth year, Regulus had taken to sitting on Evan’s lap in the common room - like it was the most natural thing in the world. Evan never discouraged him, just rested his hands wherever he pleased: the small of Regulus’s back, the curve of his thigh, his thumb drifting lazily along the sensitive inner seam, slow, certain, without a hint of hesitation. Evan had never known shame, and Regulus hadn’t yet realised he was supposed to feel it. He never would, if Evan got his way.

Regulus - even then - proudly referred to Evan as 'my cousin' in front of strangers, always with sharp gleam in his eye, thrilled to watch people recoil when he turned back and kissed him. It was the only thing that made Evan smile in public. He liked that mean, needling streak Regulus had. Liked that it was his.

They never talked about it - never discussed dating, or what they were, or when exactly they stopped being just friends. But then again, they’d never needed many words to begin with.

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littleweezel · 4 months ago

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Chapters 1 & 2 (out of 7) of my latest Good Omens fic are posted!

Read on AO3

Rated E for Explicit Sex

Summary:

Crowley reluctantly agreed to help his colleague Anathema supervise a car wash to raise money to take their students to Pride. He wasn’t happy about it… until a gorgeous angel stepped out of a ridiculous antique Mini. Flustered, he asked the beautiful man to recommend a mechanic for his vintage Bentley, even though he already had a great mechanic, who also happened to be his best friend.

Excerpt:

Gently guiding Brian away from the car by his shoulder, he needed to put as much space between Brian and this car as possible—without allowing him too close to the Bentley either. “This car’s worth more than you are. Now step away, and keep your grubby ice cream hands offa it.”

“But I haven’t had any ice cream today,” Brian protested, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt in spite of that fact.

“Doesn’t mean you haven’t got ice cream on your hands. I know what you’re capable of. Now scram.” He swiped the soapy sponge from Brian’s hand. As he did so, a literal angel opened the car door and stepped into the sunshine.

Okay, maybe not a literal angel. Crowley didn’t believe in Heaven or Hell and all that nonsense. But this man—with his halo of blond curls catching the sunlight and plump, rosy cheeks, not to mention the twinkling eyes or the smile that practically knocked Crowley’s socks off—was the closest thing to a real-life cherub that he had ever seen.

“Um, hello,” the angel greeted him, slipping his keys into his trouser pocket and drawing Crowley’s attention to the way they stretched across mouthwatering thighs. “I’m here for a car wash, please.”

Thank you to @moderndayklutz and @nice-and-accurate-ramblings for the beta on these chapters!

Visit the AO3 collection Sweet_Spicy_Spring_2025 to see all the creations for the collaboration.

@goodomensafterdark

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #crowley #good omens after dark #good omens human au #human au #writers guild presents #writers of after dark #sweet spicy spring collab

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hellfiresky · 6 months ago

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In the drip of the moment

Summary: In a leaky underworld apartment, you and Fox share cup noodles.

Pairing: Fox x GN!Reader Word count: 2633 Warnings: swearing

Illustration: TCW and Cyberpunk 2077

Crack treated seriously based on a chat with @orangez3st. Thanks for the idea, vod!

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

It wasn’t rain. Not really.

But here, on the uppermost floor of your apartment building in Gavas-Eclat, a harsh neighbourhood in Level 3215, the underworld’s so-called "rainy season" might as well be a full-blown monsoon. The pipes in the structures overhead groaned and rattled, letting loose a deluge of runoff that hammered your roof. Leaks sprouted like weeds, dripping incessantly into the buckets and pans scattered around your apartment.

"CYARE!" Fox’s voice rang out from the bedroom. "THIS PART IS LEAKING AGAIN. FUCKING HELL, GRAB A BUCKET!"

You sighed, abandoning your attempt to shuffle another set of towels around the already waterlogged floor. The storage closet offered a lone bucket, battered from years of service. You grabbed it and made your way to Fox, whose patience seemed to be hanging by a thread.

"I told you it was going to get worse!" you called as you walked to the bedroom.

"I didn’t think the whole damn level would spring a leak!" Fox stomped into view, a soggy towel thrown over one shoulder and an empty caf mug dangling from his fingers. Half of his black undershirt was drenched, whilst his trousers were rolled up to his knees. “Please tell me you still have the nice caf. I can’t for the life of me go down to your apartment lobby and buy that shitty vending machine caf. Babe, you know how terrible that stuff is. It’s all sugar.”

“First of all, it’s not a leak - it’s a waterfall,” you corrected, pointing to the stream now pouring from the ceiling. "Don’t think a bucket’s gonna cut it. Second, new beans are in the second-to-right drawer in the kitchen. Grind it yourself.”

“Well, what do you want me to do, cyare? Patch the whole damn underworld?” He shoved the bucket under the latest torrent. “I hate this level. I hate it here.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Could be worse. At least this time it’s not raining some gas runoff or—”

“Don’t. Don’t even finish that thought,” he snagged his already-cold caf pot from the counter. “And you’re insane if you think I’m grinding beans in the middle of this fucking waterfall. I should’ve stayed at HQ. At least that place only smells like bantha shit half the time.”

Despite a fresh leak appearing alarmingly close to where he was standing, he poured what little caf remained into his mug, grimacing as he noticed the new wet spot on the ceiling. You were almost certain it was the eighth or ninth cup he’d downed today, but you didn’t have the heart to mention it. Or maybe you just enjoyed watching him spiral into caffeinated madness. “You’re so needy,” you sat on one of the kitchen counters, arguably the driest patch of the room. “Come on, Fox. Where’s that Marshal Commander efficacy? Surely you’ve got a strategy for this.”

“Strategy?” he repeated. “You want a strategy? Here’s my strategy: burn this fucking apartment down and collect the insurance. Problem solved.”

You gasped in horror. “Fox!”

“Oh, come on, like you haven’t thought about it,” he slammed his mug onto the counter with unnecessary force. "Why’d you even pick this shithole anyway? You could’ve at least chosen a level that doesn’t come with its own weather system.”

“It was cheap,” you said with a shrug, opening a jar of biscuits you’d bought from the corner shop run by a nice Ithorian lady in your building. You extended the jar to him, and his eyes lit up as he eagerly grabbed a handful of biscuits. “And I didn’t think my boyfriend would be over here complaining about caf and leaks every other day. Nobody asked you to come down here anyway, cyare.”

Months of dating had made you an expert at reading the man beside you. The way he leaned against the counter, sipping his caf whilst simultaneously munching on at least three biscuits, told you he was no longer upset. Fox was like a tooka, almost. Feed him, give him something to drink, and he’d settle down. It always amused you how much he loathed the Underworld, yet he still made the effort to come down to your apartment every other day. He knew the trek to the surface level was a hassle for you, and though he’d never admit it to you, he cared enough to make it easier. You watched him, an involuntary smile stretched on your face as he stared blankly ahead, a biscuit in one hand and his caf in the other. Just as you found yourself admiring the rare moment of peace, a fresh drip from the ceiling landed squarely on his shoulder. His scowl returned in full force as muttered a string of curses.

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled, brushing at the wet spot, “someone’s gotta keep an eye on you before this whole fucking building collapses.”

“Just admit it, babe,” you leaned towards his direction with a playful smirk. “You prefer being down here with me instead of in your sterile private quarters up there. For stars’ sake, the last time I stayed at your place, I thought I woke up in a medbay. Do you even own a single decoration? A plant? A poster? Anything?”

You gave him a light sideways punch to his shoulder, earning a low chuckle from him. It was rare to hear him laugh - most days, he was all work and discipline - but when it happened, it was like seeing the actual sunlight in 3215. “Decorate?” he echoed. “Cyare, I’m a soldier, not a fucking interior designer. What do you expect me to do? String up fairy lights and start collecting throw pillows?”

“Well, a few cushions and maybe a rug wouldn’t kill you. I don’t know, a holo-photo of the boys maybe? Something to make it look like an actual human being lives there.”

He snorted before taking another sip of his caf. “I live there just fine without all that junk. But sure, I’ll pick out a nice floral print just for you, sweetheart.”

“I don’t even like flowers,” you laughed, rolling your eyes. It was cute, really. He knew you hated flowers - they always reminded you of funerals. Instead, in lieu of flowers, Fox had developed a habit of giving you snacks from the Coruscant Guard vending machines. And not just any snacks. It was always the most ridiculous, random thing he could find! Neon-coloured jelly that you swore had some kind of caffeine in it, off-brand dried nerf strips, or those spicy crackers that nobody but him seemed to like. He always acted like it was no big deal, handing them to you every time you went out together or whenever he came down to stay at your place. He’d casually say, “Found this on patrol,” as if he hadn’t gone out of his way to snag them.

You grinned at the thought. “Honestly, I think I’d be more freaked out if you did show up with floral prints. Stick to your weird snacks - make a basket full of them.”

“Like a mini bar situation?” He turned his head towards you.

“Yeah, maybe with some drinks, and fruits, or whatever,” you shrugged as you grabbed a biscuit from the jar. “You could even paint that bedside table of yours red - it’d be a great pop of colour amidst all that sterile white.”

Fox snorted but looked thoughtful as he pushed off the cabinet and stood in front of you, hands resting on the countertop where you were sitting, right beside your thighs. “Funny you mention that. I actually saw a nice cabinet while I was patrolling around Calocour Heights the other day.”

“Oh yeah?” you raised your eyebrows. “What kind?”

“It was one of those, uh… modular things,” he gestured vaguely with one hand, the other still steady on the counter. “Real sleek, real clean. Bright red, with these glossy panels that fit together like a puzzle. The whole thing looked like it belonged in one of those fancy apartments topside - like it could double as art or something. It had compartments for everything! Drinks, snacks, gear, even these little hidden drawers you could lock. Thought it might actually make my quarters look less like a medbay.”

You tilted your head as you tried to picture it. “Huh. Sleek, red, functional, and versatile? Sounds like your soulmate, Fox.”

He lowered his gaze to the floor, chuckling as he shook his head lightly. “Yeah, well, the romance died when I looked at the price tag.”

“How bad?”

“Let’s just say,” he narrowed his eyes, “if I wanted that thing, I’d have to sell my speeder - which is a Republic property, my armour, and maybe half the Guard’s refectory rations for a month. And even then, I’d still be short.” He paused before facing you with a grin. “Or maybe I could sell Grizzer, and face Hound’s wrath.”

You laughed, nearly choking on your biscuit. “For a cabinet? Stars, Fox, that’s next-level.”

“Exactly,” he joined your laughter. “Because what I really need in my life is debt over some shiny red furniture.”

“Shame,” you squeezed his cheeks together. “You’d look good with a fancy cabinet. It’d go great with your style.”

“But if it keeps you from staying down here in this death trap of an apartment, I might actually consider it.” He leaned forward to get closer to you. From this distance, you could catch the bitter scent of caf on his breath. You lifted a hand, fingers tousling his curls as you let out a bright smile. “Oh, so that’s it? You’re secretly hoping to bribe me into moving topside?”

“Bribe? I’d call it... strategic persuasion.” He gave you a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m a tactical genius.”

You laughed as you playfully shoved his shoulder. “That would’ve been a hell of a flex. Commander Fox’s quarters featured in one of those interior design videos on the HoloNet. And the best feature? The overengineered snack holder.” Fox grinned, arms crossed with that smug look you had come to love plastered on his face. “Damn right. ‘State-of-the-art compartments for your snacks and fancy caf beans.’ I’d probably go viral.”

“Oh, for sure,” you joined his sarcasm. “People would flock to see the legendary Commander Fox and his impeccable taste in mid galactic modern design.”

“You’re not wrong. I’ve got fans everywhere.” His grin widened as he added with mock seriousness. “Have you seen those ladies lining up near the Senate Building? They’re all lining up to meet me,”

A belly laugh burst out of you, so sudden and loud you had to clutch your stomach. “Those old ladies?!” you managed between fits of laughter. “You can’t be serious!” Fox crossed his arms. “Dead serious. They’re lining up for me. Every single one of them.”

You wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, still laughing. “Okay, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s part of that Senate Elder Aid program. The Guard’s been running supply deliveries for the retired citizens in that sector. And who do they see when they open their doors? Me. In uniform. Doing my job.” He closed the distance between you again, lifting his caf cup to your lips. You grabbed the cup and took a sip before answering with a teasing grin, “Let me guess. They’re thrilled to see such a dashing young man handling their deliveries.”

He snorted. “They tell me I remind them of their grandsons - or in some cases, their late husbands. One of them even gave me a pie last week.”

That sets you off again, making you laugh so hard. “Oh, stars, Fox. You’re out here breaking hearts and collecting pies.”

“Hey, don’t laugh. Those pies are no joke,” he opened your fridge and groaned when he saw nothing in it. “One of them had so much jogan spread in it, I swear I saw the Force. It was orgasmic.”

You shook your head as you watched him rummage through your kitchen. It struck you then - this wasn’t the same Fox you’d first met. When you started seeing him many moons ago, you had no idea what to expect. He’d always been grumbly, guarded, the kind of man who carried a lot of baggage on his shoulders and refused to let anyone lighten the load. His brothers had even warned you, “It’ll take a few drinks to get him to crack a smile.” But here he was now, standing in your leaky apartment, cracking jokes about orgasmic pies and cursing at the leaks. This side of him, the side that raided your kitchen cabinets and made jokes about burning down your apartment, felt like a secret he shared only with you. Outside, the relentless sound of dripping water finally eased, and the oppressive atmosphere of the leaks seemed to lift with it. “Fucking finally,” you muttered under your breath.

“Yeah, fucking finally, babe,” Fox agreed, looking over his shoulder with a smirk. “Guess we don’t have to burn down your apartment now.” He muttered as he continued raiding your cabinets. “Aha - found it.”

He pulled out two cup noodles, the ones he’d given you last week with a ridiculous backstory about a senator who brought them back from an Outer Rim trip. He tossed one to you before tearing into his own. “You saved these?” he asked in disbelief as he filled the cups with hot water. “I thought you’d have devoured them by now.”

“They’re souvenirs,” you said with a shrug. “Figured I’d save them for a special occasion.”

He chuckled, handing your cup back and settling beside you on the counter. “Well, I’m glad I could be here for the big event.” You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder for a moment. The two of you sat there in the quiet, eating noodles and listening to the last echoes of dripping water fade away. Fox slurped a particularly long noodle, before kissing the top of your head. “I’ll stick to raiding vending machines for you, cyare. Much easier on my wallet.”

“Oh, don’t think this means you’re off the hook. You’re still making me that snack basket.” You elbowed him, and sipped the spicy noodle soup from the flimsi cup.

“Yes, boss.” He signed dramatically at your request.

“You’re such a baby.” You laughed again, resisting the urge to start a food fight. Fox held out his cup noodle above his head like he just received some kind of award for being a decent partner. “And yet, this baby just saved your apartment and provided dinner. I expect proper gratitude, cyare.”

“Gratitude?” you raised an eyebrow. “I’ll think about it. Maybe after you build that basket.”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound warming you like the noodles you were eating. Both of you would get back to cleaning up soon, hoping the hot water was still working so you could finally take a shower and wash off the day. You thought about dragging him to The Wharf tomorrow for a quick fix for the ceiling leak - he had mentioned it was his off day. Maybe you’d stop by that little diner he liked on Level 4780, grab a plate of fried dumplings, or finally let him show you the vendor that sold the ridiculous milky gummies he kept sneaking into your cabinets.

But you pushed those thoughts aside for now as you turned your attention to him. His serious expression as he ate his cup noodles made you smile. You decided to stay in the moment. The galaxy outside could wait - its noise, its demands, all the things neither of you could control. For now, it was just the two of you, sitting shoulder to shoulder in your leaky kitchen, sharing a moment of peace that, somehow, felt like it was always meant to be.

#star wars #hellfiresky #the clone wars #clone wars fic #one shot #the clone wars fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #my fic #commander fox x reader #star wars one shot #coruscant underworld #commander fox #fluff

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5typesoftrash · 5 months ago

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MumScott Week Day 1: Overworking / Lazy Mornings

Mumbo’s pushing himself too hard. Scott’s been watching his gradual decline. He’s so engrossed in his latest redstone project, it’s all he really seems able to talk or think about even when he’s not up to his elbows in repeaters and dust. Scott loves him dearly, and he’s been missing his beautiful boyfriend.

Thus, his plan.

Mumbo wakes up around 0900, and is usually gone when Scott finally drags himself out of bed. So Scott sets himself an alarm for 0845. (Spoiler alert: he regrets it.)

He groans at the cheerful ringtone, blinking his bleary eyes open. He mumbles something foul and profane, his hand fumbling for his phone. It takes him several tries to slap the Stop button, but once the irritant alleviates, the lines in his forehead smooth out and he sighs happily, rolling over in bed to drape himself along Mumbo’s side. Mumbo makes a soft and exceedingly British noise.

“Morning,” Scott mumbles into his boyfriend’s collarbone. Mumbo’s large, warm hand comes to rest on the back of his head.

“Morning,” Mumbo breathes. “What’s got you up so early?”

Scott smiles against his skin. “Wanted some time with my handsome gentleman caller before he disappears to his true love for fourteen hours.” The words are slightly barbed, but he knows Mumbo will recognize his playful tone and won’t take it as an insult.

True to form, Mumbo huffs a laugh, gently stroking Scott’s cerulean hair. “Darling...” he replies, the smile evident in his voice. Scott lifts his head to meet Mumbo’s eyes, resting his chin on his folded hands, and pouts.

“Come onnnnnn,” he pleads. Mumbo rolls his eyes fondly.

“I love you,” he promises. “It’s just... a surprise.”

Scott’s eyebrows fly into his hairline. “A surprise?” he repeats. Mumbo smiles.

“A surprise,” he agrees, but refuses to elaborate.

Scott pouts even bigger, making Mumbo laugh. “I’ll tell you when it’s done.”

“But I wanna see it now,” Scott protests.

Mumbo’s warm fingers brush through his hair, his hands worn from years of working with redstone. Scott likes to kiss his callouses and feel Mumbo’s skin against him. Mumbo’s always so gentle and he cares so much, even when he’s a bit preoccupied with work.

“Do you want some tea?” Scott murmurs. Mumbo smiles, his moustache brushing against Scott’s forehead.

“I would love some tea, darling,” he replies. Scott groans, disentangling himself from his love, and pulls on some trousers. He glances over his shoulder to find Mumbo leaning up on one elbow, watching him appreciatively, the duvet bunched around his waist. Scott winks, and Mumbo gives his happy laugh.

“You’re very silly,” Scott informs his boyfriend, and Mumbo grins.

“You love me,” he replies, which is not a statement that conflicts with Scott’s assertion at all, but Scott definitely can’t argue with it.

Scott sets about making two cups of tea, and just as the water is boiling, Mumbo appears behind him, wrapping his arms around Scott’s waist. Scott tips his head back to rest against Mumbo’s shoulder.

“Good morning,” he says happily. Mumbo hums happily against him.

“Morning, my love,” he replies. Scott twists in his arms, holding tea.

“For you,” he says happily. “Just a touch of milk.” Mumbo nods at it but doesn’t take it, his hands resting on Scott’s waist. Just to tease him, Scott takes a sip of his tea, which elicits a mildly irritated face from his boyfriend. Scott smirks. “Well, if you want your tea, you’ll have to take it.”

Mumbo gives a put-upon sigh and lifts one hand to take the mug. He brings it to his lips, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. Scott smiles, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Mumbo’s cheek, then pulls back to collect his own tea.

“If you give me two hours to work, I can show you your surprise,” Mumbo offers, apropos of nothing. Scott meets his eyes.

“Are you sure?” Mumbo smiles.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Just let me run out and pop some finishing touches on it, then I’ll come get you and I can show you.”

Scott pouts, taking another sip of his drink. “Alright, fine,” he agrees. “But I’m calling you in two hours, and if you’re not done, you’re showing me anyway.”

Mumbo takes another drink. “Promise,” he replies.

Mumbo keeps his word. One hour and fifty-eight minutes later, just as Scott is finalizing some designs for his latest build, the door unlocks and swings open. Mumbo enters, looking thrilled. “Alright, it’s done,” he declares. “Come on.”

He grabs Scott’s wrist, grinning from ear to ear, and pulls him off the couch. Scott laughs, smacking save as many times as he can and trying to keep his laptop from toppling onto the floor. “At least let me put a shirt on,” he requests. Mumbo rolls his eyes affectionately.

“Very well, if you must.” Scott blows him a kiss, then disappears into the bedroom to put on some real clothes. Mumbo is clearly vibrating with excitement, bouncing in place and wringing his hands when Scott returns. As soon as he catches sight of Scott, fully clothed and looking enthused, he brightens, takes Scott’s hand, and pulls him out of their base.

It’s a bit of a walk to the location of Mumbo’s surprise. They make their way through a savanna, a mesa, plains, and finally to a small flower forest. Mumbo puts his hands over Scott’s eyes, leads him into... somewhere. There’s a slight drop in temperature, so he gets the idea that it must be a cave or other natural formation of some kind. Finally, Mumbo lifts his hands away, and Scott takes it all in.

It’s... a little flower farm. But it also doesn’t look like a farm, it’s aesthetic. Mumbo has decorated it in pale blues and reds and pinks, an S on one side and an M on the other in white concrete. It’s beautiful.

“You made this for me?” Scott asks, astonished. Mumbo nods.

“You like flowers,” he says quietly, awkwardly, and Scott huffs a laugh. “And I know you’ve been looking for lots of dyes for your new build, and... I dunno, I just wanted to give you something nice that you could actually use.”

Scott tears his eyes away from the farm, turns to look at Mumbo, and kisses him deeply. “It’s perfect,” he promises. “I love you.”

Mumbo smiles back at him. “I love you too, Scott.”

@mumscottweek2025

#mumscott #redstone snap #mumbo jumbo #scott smajor #trafficblr #trafficshipping #life series #mumscottweek2025

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tehhzeebcouture · 1 year ago

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pomegranatecrab · 10 months ago

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So, I wrote a thing where Tony has an asshole cat for a bit of light hearted stony, but I’m reposting because I’ve changed how the cat looks. I feel like it’s pretty obvious why I did it and I think it adds more to the story. This is around 2k now but when it’s done I’ll post the rest on ao3:) (also there’s more now)

Steve had met Tiddles once, the cat aboard HMS Argus during the war that enjoyed tugging at the bell-rope. He had napped in Steve’s shield, killed a few mice and accepted ear scratches during his brief stay. He wasn’t unfamiliar with cats. They mostly liked him. The strays near his old building would peer out at him from the dumpsters while he wheezed, furious, on the ground after his latest fight.

Tony Stark's cat, Palug, was the sickliest, scrawniest looking cat Steve had ever seen.

He’s small, more tail than anything, a mottled combination of blonde, with sharp little teeth that he licks every few seconds. He had been steadily watching Steve for a good few minutes while he waited for Mr Stark, eyes brimming with suspicion.

Tony Stark breaks the tension by striding into the mansion's living room, beaming at Steve and Palug, hands in his pockets. He’s dressed impeccably, black shoes with an artful heel, cream coloured trousers and a navy jacket atop a well-fitting vest. His tie hangs over his shoulder, collected almost immediately by Palug, who trots over to the couch with it in his mouth.

“You’re the first to move in, but everyone else isn’t far behind.”

It’s his second time in the house, and he had forgotten when he accepted the invitation that the devil resides not in hell, but at Tony Stark’s personal home.

He had to get new shoelaces for his boots, darn holes in his socks and take the blame for a trodden on petunia that Jarvis had glared something fierce at him for the first time he had visited.

Steve shoots a smile at Tony, and a wary look at Palug.

“He’s cute, isn’t he? He won’t bother you.”

Cute isn’t usually a word that eludes a tiny cat, but the pure anger radiating off him is enough to chase off the allegations.

“I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” Steve says, tightening his resolve.

There were more important things to worry about in this new century than a cat. Iron Man’s friendship, getting to know Tony Stark, their generous benefactor, and dealing with the awful reality that everything he knows is gone.

————

His socks are missing.

He has three pairs, and they’ve all vanished.

A set of Stark Unlimited socks, given to him when he woke up, and two plain white pairs that he bought after collecting his jaw off the floor at the sight of the little price tag beneath them.

It was more than enough.

Steve scratches his head, and shoves his feet in bare. Any blisters would heal before they’d become an annoyance.

Iron Man is in the kitchen, sipping something green from a straw. It looks frankly, hideous.

The sight of him is enough to draw a smile. If there was one thing that had been consistent since he woke up, it was Iron Man. He lends Steve books without a second thought, discusses movies from the 1930s with him, shoves new foods at him whenever he can, eagerly awaiting his reaction despite not being able to enjoy the meal with him, and of course, basketball.

“Shellhead! Ready for a game?”

Iron Man straightens. The faceplate, devoid of emotion, does nothing to negate his enthusiasm as he nods.

“Winghead! Are you ready to lose spectacularly?”

Steve grins. He wonders if Iron Man is smiling under the mask. The voice modulator works well, but his joy bleeds through all the same.

“No flying this time.”

There’s a rather smug silence, broken by the obnoxious noise of Iron Man sucking up the last dregs of his drink.

Steve turns on his heel, heading for the gym.

“Or rollerskates.”

“You can keep up, though!”

————

“Come on.”

“No.”

“You have superhuman balance and reflexes, you’d be fine.”

“No!” Steve laughs, reclining backwards on his hands, the basketball rolling pathetically between his legs.

“Roller skates are just as great as flying,” Iron Man says, sitting propped up on the wall next to Steve, tapping one finger restlessly against the ground.

“You’ll get them in a garish colour.”

“What’s garish about red, white and blue?”

Steve rolls his eyes and shoves at Iron Man’s shoulder.

Their game had been cut short by Palug, who came trotting in when Iron Man left briefly to grab them some water bottles, and sunk his teeth right into the hole meant for the pump.

Iron Man hadn’t cared that the ball was popped, plopping down with his customary straw, red and gold, and chattering about how J.R.R Tolkien had been a stain on earth.

“He wasn’t as popular as he is now,” Steve mentions, “it was all about Steinbeck.”

“Have you ever read the Gift of the Magi?” Iron Man asks.

“Heard of it,” Steve offers, “but I’ve never read it. Only ever read what was in the library.”

“It's very short, but nice. You’d like it.”

“I’ll add it to the list.” Steve pulls himself to his feet, offering a hand and pulling up the armour with ease.

The long, long list.

“Mr Stark has a copy.” Iron Man collects the deflated ball, tucking it neatly under his arm. “I’ll make sure he gets it to you.”

“I don’t want to bother Mr Stark,” Steve says.

Or his feral cat.

“You’re never a bother, Steve. Now, come on. I’ll show you the mansion's library.”

————

The rest of the Avengers move in soon after Steve does, filling the mansion with a range of personalities. Jarvis is unphased by the variety of character, and soon bans Hawkeye from the stove, which Steve thinks only encourages the build up of empty pizza boxes.

He’s eating his breakfast outside, savouring the taste of eggs, the salty richness of bacon and the odd texture of mushrooms, something he’d never tasted before. The silence is odd. There should be bare feeding slapping down the dilapidated road, children ready for the long walk to the library or the corner store, walks Steve usually couldn’t make.

Tony Stark’s mansion boasted a large garden, impeccably maintained and secluded from the bustle of New York. Cobbled paths coil around the large expanse of grass, weaving through beds of flowers, ending at the gazebo that Steve sits in. It overlooks a small pond, home to some brightly coloured fish that had flocked to the surface the moment he stepped onto the platform.

Steve’s watching the orange one he’d dubbed ‘Monocle’ when he notices them.

A pair of his socks, filled with suspicious holes, floating amongst the reeds.

He sighs, scraping his chair as he stands, and is glad that he’s at least tall enough to scoop them out of the water easily, plucking the drenched fabric between two fingers.

There’s a familiar jingle behind him.

Palug jumps elegantly from the stairs onto the table, nose twitching over the bacon. He snaps it up between his teeth, hops onto the chair and politely chews on his prize, before hacking an awful, chest rattling cough.

Steve scowls at the cat.

“You-”

“Steve!”

Steve straightens, pretending like he hadn’t been about to engage in a petty squabble with a spoiled house cat.

“Mr Stark.”

Mr Stark waves a hand, rolling on the balls of his feet as he looks around, darting small glances at his face, before settling on Palug, who was still clearing his throat, plopped on the table and flicking his tail.

“Tony is fine, please.” He holds out the book in his hand, faded and worn. “Iron Man mentioned you were interested in this?”

It was a copy of The Gift of the Magi, a thin book with a painting of a woman with long, gorgeous hair on the cover. Belatedly, Steve realises this is the book Iron Man had recommended.

“You didn’t have to go out of your way for me. Thank you.”

Tony smiles. He steps forward to rub a hand over Palug’s back, inciting a heavy litany of purring.

“I first read that at school. The librarian let me take out double the amount of books usually allowed. I’d take them all down to this big tree right on the edge of the school grounds and read until curfew.”

Steve runs a thumb over the wrinkled lines marring the illustration, yellow cracks that web across the fine paper.

“She must have liked you,” he murmurs.

“She said I was the only boy that didn’t carry on like an imbecile,” Tony grins, “high compliments.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, stepping stiffly around Palug, who still gazed at him with fiery eyes, despite the content rumbling bubbling from his chest.

He all but books it back to his bedroom.

————

Steve reads the Gift of the Magi twice and thinks about his old life each time.

He’s jealous, really, that these characters got to make their sacrifices and come back to each other.

But Iron Man had been right. He did like it, and it’s on the third read that he notices the library loan card at the back.

‘Tony Stark’ is etched in careful handwriting in every single box, the dates all varying.

At the bottom a loopy scrawl had been left in black ink.

Mr Stark, you’re the only boy in school who checks this book out. It’s yours. Enjoy your summer.

Mrs Rembly.

Steve’s lips twitch.

It’s a bit backhanded, but thoughtful.

He imagines Tony as a young boy, utilising his precious free time with the sprawling, imaginary worlds at his disposal.

The clock on the wall, ticking monotonously, points glumly to the number three. He hasn’t slept all night.

Steve sighs, standing from the comfortable armchair he’d pulled over to the window, and heads into the hallway, treading quietly to the kitchen. There’s soft voices trickling in from the room, audible to Steve only because of the serum. Warm light pours out onto the floorboards, relieving the heavy darkness that the mansion boasts at night.

“I tell you to rest and you never do. Instead, you sneak outside and pick fights with cats twice your size. Do you know how that makes me feel, Palug?”

Steve pauses beside the elegant archway that connects the kitchen to the hallway.

“It makes me very anxious,” Tony says. His voice is stern, though obviously fond.

Palug chitters, a soft little sound that’s nothing like the awful howls he’s normally capable of.

“You’re an utter bastard,” Tony murmurs, right as Steve reveals himself, stepping quietly into the light. Palug is lounging on the counter, his tiny head rubbing light circles into Tony’s hand. He glares at Steve, stretching out his skinny legs, all wrapped in brightly coloured bandages.

“Was he attacked?” Steve asks, worried, even with evil little blue eyes staring holes into his soul.

Tony frowns at Palug, arms akimbo.

“More like who did he attack,” Tony grumbles, “he can slip out beneath the slightest crack in any window and he goes off to fight Maine Coons and the largest alley cats you’ve ever seen. I’m sure he’d have moved on to mountain lions by now, if we had any in New York.”

Steve raises an eyebrow; silently judging Tony’s cat for being an idiot.

Just yesterday morning he had watched the cat wheeze his way over to his water bowl.

“He’s the size of a rat,” Steve says, “and not even a big rat.”

“I know,” Tony groans, rubbing lightly at his chest, the fabric creasing stiffly under his hands.

“Maybe you could take him on walks,” Steve offers.

He had seen it himself at the park, cats leading their owners into shrubbery from a thin lead, usually only to get shooed away from the native fauna.

“I tried, he just chokes himself to death on his harness. He’s a stubborn little thing.”

Steve shrugs, stepping a suitable distance away from Palug while he grabs a glass of water, frowning at a bottle of green smoothie that was half full.

“Iron Man must have left this here,” Steve says, emptying out the contents into the drain, Tony’s wide eyes following the movement with dismay.

“Yeah,” Tony says, after a minute of blinking, “I’ll tell him not to do that.”

He was rather pale, but dangerously beautiful in the low light.

The tips of Steve’s ears begin to burn, an awful realisation crawling into the midst of his stomach and settling like a stone.

Palug blinks demurely at Tony, before turning his gaze to Steve, tail flicking in immediate displeasure. A small paw stretches out, innocently, and pushes Steve’s glass right off the ledge of the counter.

It doesn’t shatter, thankfully, thanks to Steve’s quick reflexes, but it does spray water all over his socks.

He thinks the cat might finally get his comeuppance, but it never comes.

“Palug,” Tony groans, “don’t do that! You could hurt yourself.”

He fusses with the bandages on Palug, checking them all, muttering under his breath.

Steve stares at Tony, who had, only a second ago, been staring at Steve from beneath thick eyelashes. He hadn’t realised how blue Tony’s eyes were, very much like Iron Man’s, startling and intense in their colour, and brimming with cleverness.

“Goodnight, Tony,” Steve says quickly, stepping back towards the door, his only escape. He looks pointedly at the ceiling to avoid the allure of ethereal eyes, and walks silently back to his room, red right down to his chest.

He was not allured by Tony Stark, or jealous of a sickly, scrawny cat.

#tony stark #stony #my writing #616 #616 stony #steve rogers

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