#and suddenly the colour doesn’t feel so heavy and tasking… suddenly it feels like love and companionship…

[beskar-cowboy]

A Close Call

Part Three of The Best Things Dwell Out of Sight Series

Summary: After bounty hunting in the jungle, Mando comes back to the Crest with many pent up... feelings. (6k words) ao3 link here

Warnings: NSFW, smut, canon typical violence, descriptions of injuries, blood, yearning, mutual pining, rough sex, the helmet stays ON, breeding kink if you squint cause its Mando, also no season 2 spoilers

A/N: this series will be uploaded in a non-linear order! i realize that this way of doing things might not be everyone’s favourite so please let me know if you would like to be notified when all the parts are uploaded (which will be linearly in my masterlist) <3

The sweltering heat was heavy, drowning you in your own sweat as you walked deeper into vines, tall grass and thick foliage of the unfamiliar jungle.

The air was humid, the forest vast and dense, filled with shades of greens that you never thought you’d experience with your own eyes. You were seeing colours you had only previously dreamt of. It was such a stark contrast to the ice planet you had been on maybe a week prior to this. You weren’t sure which extreme you preferred but you were not the biggest fan of the way the humidity was making your hair puff out, curl exaggeratedly and stick to your neck and forehead with the sheen layer of sweat coated on every inch of your body. Your clothes were beginning to stick to your skin as well.

Mando was a fan of that, however. Yet the helmet gave away nothing, as always. 

The moment you landed on the planet, he noticed the way your chest heaved, taking in the supple, fresh air for the first time. The look of wonder in your eyes, taking in the flora and fauna you could only have only ever dreamed of previous to this. You were very endearing, it made his heart feel heavy, tense, as if you were squeezing it in your perfect little hand, bleeding him dry.

You couldn’t believe this was your life now; travelling with a deadly bounty hunter, caring for him and his adoptive child day and night. What was even stranger, perhaps, was that you were having the time of your life.

No matter how cold Mando could be, how rude, closed off or just straight up silent he could get some days. You wouldn’t trade it for anything. This was much better than your life on that dingey planet, working that dead end job in the scummiest bar in town. You tried not to think too much of your past, but you couldn’t help the few untamed thoughts that crossed your mind every now and then. You shrugged them off with relative ease, usually being whisked away in some task the Mandalorian asked you to complete, or by the cries of the Child.

No matter how hard the days could get, no matter how lonely you felt some nights, you were thankful for the loving affection of the kid, you were thankful for how much he seemed to care for you. And you cared for him in return. Not because it was what you signed up for, to more or less be his babysitter, but because you truly cared and maybe even loved the little green booger like he was your own. He was very sweet, kind, curious and reckless like Mando. You liked how they seemed so similar in some strange little ways, it made your heart feel heavy.

Heavy with some emotion you wouldn’t dare name because it would only fuck you up further, fuck up the missions, fuck up your tasks, fuck up everything. That sickening feeling you got in the pit of your stomach everytime you caught Mando talking to the Child, staring at him sweetly, catching the way he seemed to stare at you sometimes too. At least you think he was. Whatever, that helmet made it near impossible to ever tell what he was thinking, feeling or even just looking at.

No matter how little he was actually beginning to warm up to you, he was still extremely apprehensive and closed off. He had his moments of perceived kindness, gentleness or whatever it really was, but he always seemed to take five steps back when he realized he had been too vulnerable with you. 

You couldn't blame him though, he was on the run from people who were trying to take the kid from him, or busy chasing after bounties himself, he didn’t have time for… whatever it was you were feeling. Whatever emotion you were terrible at suppressing, you know without a doubt that Mando didn’t have time for such trivial, childish things.

You huff and look down to your side, the Child’s pod floating seamlessly along your side, the two of you just a few steps behind Mando.

The Mandalorian was tracking a bounty and he said there was a good chance he’d be on this jungle planet seeking refuge with a friend or something like that. You had literally begged him to come along, not wanting to spend another day alone in the ship with the Child. It had taken a few days to get here, and you desperately needed to stretch your legs and breathe some fresh air. Mando was reluctant, very reluctant, but after enough begging and pouting from you he allowed for the two of you to come along, figuring it would be a pretty easy quest anyways.

Oh how he was wrong about that.

His visor display was showing multiple footsteps having walked in the same direction that the three of you were now walking. The footsteps were strange, seeming to be left by a herd of long bodied, four legged animals. Mando had no way of knowing if they were a threat or not, but he had a feeling he’d be finding out soon enough. The Child’s safety and… and yours was not something he felt like gambling with today.

Mando stopped dead in his tracks and you nearly walked right into him, having been engrossed in a more or less one-sided conversation with the Child.

“Head back to the ship.” Mando commanded, his voice trying to give the sense that there was no room for discussion. He barely even turned around to glance at you, but you noticed his hand hovering over his blaster.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Your own hand now hovers over your own blaster, technically Mando’s but he had trusted you to wield it after that one stunt back on Batuu when you saved him and the Child.

“Animals. Too many of them, you’ll be safer on the Crest.” He turns to glance at the Child who coos back up at him, his ears turning downwards as if he too knows of the animals which creep up on the three of you.

“No, I can stay and fight. I’m not leaving.” You, I’m not leaving you, you want to add. But you bite your tongue.

You can’t see because of the hemet but Mando is rolling his eyes at you, at your stubbornness but also your resilience. How eager you are to stand by and help him almost blindly. He doesn’t doubt that you judge him or criticize him in your mind, but he doesn’t think he’s ever heard a negative comment leave your mouth. You’re always sweet to him. Sweet girl.

“Our job is to take care of the Child, make sure he’s safe,” He huffs, pressing a few buttons on his vambrace and suddenly the Child’s pod is floating away at a leisurely pace, back in the direction you’ve just come from. “Follow it back to the ship, close the hatch and do not leave until I’ve returned.”

You glare at Mando and how he’s given you no choice but to head back to the ship. There was no way you’d leave the Child floating unattend, and without Mando’s directions, you had no way of finding the ship again on your own. You sigh but turn on your heels after the pod, following its lead through the jungle and back to the Crest like Mando had programmed it to.

//

It’s been hours.

Or at least it feels like it’s been hours. You aren’t aware of the planet’s day cycles so you have no idea if it's been minutes, hours or days but it was dark now and you’d been trying to keep the kid occupied, distracted from the fact that his dad wasn’t here and you had no idea when he would be.

Luckily, the Child was in an agreeable mood so he was distracted pretty easily, playing with various shiny things that he usually reached for on the ship. You made him a couple of snacks with what you managed to find stashed away, he took a nap and you cleaned up the tiny mess he made. Overall, a pretty good day for him.

You on the other hand, were fucking stressed.

It was dark, really dark, and Mando hadn’t even contacted you on the comlink, not that he even did that before but you think that if he comes back- no, when he comes back - you’re definitely going to make that a new rule.

The Child was rocking sweetly in your arms, you had been trying to get him to fall asleep for the past thirty minutes and he was finally getting a bit dopey. Those big eyes of his seeming to get heavier, his blinks growing slower. His little hand was wrapped around your thumb and you quietly hummed a random song to him, maybe it was one your mother sang to you, you’re not quite sure but it seems to be doing the trick.

You can hear small disturbances outside the hatch and you use your hand which isn’t holding the Child to hover over your- Mando’s blaster. You lean against the wall, blaster in hand, hoping, praying it’s him.

Please be him, please be him, please be him.

The hatch groans as it releases its locks and opens slowly to the ever humid jungle. That familiar beskar glints and shines in the moonlight like a precious jewel. You exhale a much needed sigh of relief, Mando was back.

You tuck the blaster back into your holster as you watch him roundup the quarry into the ship, pushing him aggressively up the inclination. He stands wide, broad and big as he does his job. He’s tired and annoyed, you can tell. You can always tell, but he’s strong too, always strong.

The quarry’s hands are shackled, his face beat up and bloodied. Mando really did a number on him… 

The quarry’s eyes meet yours, take in the sight before him, a beautiful young girl cradling a strange little green baby. He seems confused, he looks back to the intimidating Mandalorian inquisitively. It’s the last thing he sees before he’s frozen into carbonite.

You say something something to him, to Mando. You sound worried, but he can barely make it out. He had seen the way the quarry’s eyes racked the length of your body, landing on the Child as well. Mando saw red, his adrenaline still pumping heavy and potent in his veins, coursing through his body from the chase, the act of hunting. 

So much so, that he hadn’t even realized he had come to tower over you, caging you in against the wall which you had been leaning against.

You look up at him with wide, worried eyes, you look flustered, lips red and swollen. He wants to touch you, he… he wants to do more than touch you-

The Child’s sleepy cooing breaks him out of his wicked mind. He looks down at the kid who reaches for him sleepily with his tiny hands, eyes half closed. He takes him from you, out of your motherly hold. Your hands brush and he wishes he wasn’t wearing gloves.

“W-What did you say?” He finally asks, remembering you had said something to him and he heard absolutely nothing.

“I said your arm is bleeding, Mando.” Voice so small, gentle. 

Mando huffs, barely acknowledging it before he steps away from you, turning to the Child’s pod and placing him gently inside. It closes with a hiss. You suck in a shuddering breath.

Mando rummages around for a few moments before pulling out his tool kit, sitting down on the edge of his cot and pulling out his taser-like contraption. You watch almost dumbfounded, trying to piece together what exactly it is he’s doing. He reaches for the tear in the thick material of his sleeve, pulling on it and tearing it further to better show off his wound and his… his skin.

Flesh. Mando’s arm.

Maybe you weren’t supposed to be looking, maybe you were breaking his creed by seeing part of his skin but you couldn’t look away, and he made no motion for you to do so either. So you stand transfixed as he begins to shoddily cauterize his tanned skin.

“L-Let me help you, please.” You take a step forward, towards him, hands reaching out.

“I’m fine.” He basically growls at you, his rough tone startling you, stopping you in your tracks.

So you stand by idly, watching him burn his own skin, attempting to close his open wound.

You only interject again when he starts taking longer breaks between each electrifying tase. When his hand starts to shake and his movements slow down, motivation and determination leaving him as he slowly accepts the pain of the deep gash on his arm, blood trailing down his toned bicep.

“Here…” You say quietly again, hoping he listens to you this time. You reach into the tool kit, pulling out his bacta gel before coming to stand in front of him, your knees grazing his bent one from where he sits on the edge of his cot. 

He seems to have listened, his movements having stopped, the taser held weakly in his hand. You take it from him, setting it back in the metal box before zeroing in on his bleeding cut.

You shudder at the sudden proximity, his pent up adrenaline and anger palpable, intoxicating. It lays thick and heavy in the air between your two bodies. Your hands shake as you gently douse the wound with the gel, trying to stay focused, trying to get the bleeding to stop. You fingers brush gingerly along toned, scarred skin and you try, you try so fucking hard to focus. To not let your fingers linger, not let them wander to regions unknown to any other living thing.

Mando groans as it begins to seep into the wound and you wince as well, feeling his pain as your own. You mumble a quiet ‘I’m sorry’ but continue to apply the thick substance to his bicep. 

His gloved hand suddenly shoots out and latches onto your hip bone, fingers grasping the clothed flesh in a deadly grip, as if trying to ground himself to you, to the ship, to ignore the throbbing pain. You didn’t realize it would hurt that bad, maybe it went deeper than you thought. 

When you’re finally done with the gel, you turn slightly to get some gauze to wrap the wound in. Mando’s touch never leaves you, his hand seemingly welded into your form. His thumb begins to absentmindedly rub up and down in soothing motions, you try to ignore the way it makes your heart pound but… but it's not really a big deal is it? No, Mando’s touched you before, what's so different about it now?

The air? The tension? The way he looks up at you, through that mask, begging to be seen?

God, you wonder what colour his eyes are.

You bet they’re soft, beautiful, kind. They probably give away how secretly gentle he is, something no one else would notice or dare assume about the deadly Mandalorian, but you know. You know because he’s been touching you more lately, especially since the ice planet. Just passing touches but still, you can’t imagine how much significance a simple touch holds for a man covered head to toe in armour, and who’s never shown his face to another living being in decades.

“Who are you?”

His voice startles you. It’s dropped several octaves since he last spoke, it felt like hours had passed since he last spoke- or more, growled at you.

“What?”

“What are you? H-How do you do this to me?” He helmet tilts to the side as he gazes up at you and your heart fucking pounds in its cage, trying to escape and expose itself to this metal man, expose everything you’ve been feeling since you met him.

“Mando-” You don’t understand what he’s saying, he’s not making any sense. Could the pain really be that bad? Making him this incoherent?

“You’re not real… you’re too good, to us, too good to the child… to me-” He was rambling. Mando was rambling. When has he ever spoken this much to you before?

Never.

“You’re good to me too.” You interject meekly.

“But not as sweet… not as sweet as you.” His words make your next intake of breath sharper than usual, no doubt he catches it by the way his helmet tilts up further. You wonder if he’s looking you in the eyes. It sure feels like he is.

“I-I don’t know what I would do if, if anything happened to-” His fingers tense on your hip as he lulls over his words, tossing them around on his tongue, afraid. “The Child… or you.”

“You keep us safe Mando.” You try to reassure him, but you’re not sure if he’s listening. His left hand joins his right one, both sides of your hips now engulfed in his large, strong hands. You throb everywhere, your body pulses for him.

Mando thinks about just letting his helmet fall forward, to let it rest against the softness of your belly but.

But he can’t. He’s too fucking scared. You scare him more than anything. More than any unknown animal in an unfamiliar jungle, more than any quarry, bounty chase, Mythosaur. More than anything, you scare him more than anything because this is the only domain Mando truly always fucks up. Feelings or whatever the fuck going on in his head right now.

“You take such good care of us.” He says, deflecting your words.

He pulls on your hips and you rock forward, almost losing your balance but your hands come forward to lean against his beskar covered shoulders, dropping the gauze you held. You shudder at the cool bite of the metal on your warm, overheating palms. Mando barely budged at your added weight, and you look down at him from where you now tower over him.

Your eyes rake over the sharp edges of his helmet in the low light of the hatch, down to his wound which still needs to be wrapped up but he was... Seriously distracting you for lack of a better word. You notice the heave of his chest, the heavy fall of his breaths like he’s having trouble getting oxygen into his body. And then you notice- you notice the bulge forming underneath his thick pants.

Mando takes you in as you do the same, watching as you finally notice his state, finally notice what you do to him. What you’ve been doing to him since the moment he met you.

“Take your pants off.”

You think your brain short circuits.

Because there’s no way that’s what Mando has more or less just ordered you to do, judging by his harsh tone.

“Wha-”

“Take them off or I will.” He groans, hands squeezing your hips again.

You whimper and bite your lip, trying to see through the pitch black T of his visor, trying to find the man underneath the beskar. You remove your trembling hands from his shoulders, standing up straighter and letting them travel down, down, down towards the button and fly of your utility pants.

“M-Mando, I-”  

“Don’t make me ask you again, sweet girl.” You whimper at the nickname, it wasn't the first time he used it but this was probably only the third time at this point. With his thumbs relentlessly caressing your hip bones, you shiver underneath his touch.

You had been dreaming of this for months now, dreaming of his hands on you, sexual or not, you were so deprived of intimacy, having gone months now only barely touching, grazing each other. You both needed this, both needed this more than fucking anything esle right now and you were no one to deny him of what he wanted.

Mando keeps the helmet trained on you as your nimble fingers pry the button open, admiring how easily persuaded you were by his thick, lust-laced words. He couldn’t believe he had managed to draw this out as long as he did, his urge to just tear your clothing away from your body and sink his raging cock into your tight heat the moment he entered the Crest was…. overwhelming to say the least.

But he had barely touched you up until now, and he wanted to work you up to it, no matter how much restraint that meant he had to have on his part.

The sound of your metal zipper sliding down below your belly button tests that restraint. He keeps his eyes on you even though he knows you wouldn't be able to tell where he’s looking. He knows you feel it, knows you feel the way his eyes burn holes into you, devouring you silently, pleading with you, please, please show me.

He feels your hands come to rest over top of his gently, as if you’re still nervous about touching him. You interlace your fingers with his and lower your pants, shimmying them down your hips and thighs together. It makes Mando’s breath catch in his throat and his heart pummel in his chest. 

Never had he undressed someone before. Never had the patience, never cared to. But with you, oh with you.

Maker, did he care.

Maybe cared too much, but now was not the time for such ill inducing thoughts. You were becoming more and more bare to him as the seconds passed. You only let go of his hands once your pants went past your knees. Pushing them down to your ankles, you stepped out of them, kicking off your boots as well.

There you were, standing before him in a black tank top and that fucking thong of yours… of course that’s what you had decided to wear today. Mando groans as his hands come up to touch you again, tentatively this time. He can’t believe you were allowing him this, letting him touch you, letting yourself be vulnerable with him when he wasn’t sure how ready he was to be vulnerable in return.

Maybe he could learn.

His hands travel up to your hips again, toying with the thin waistband of your panties, letting his gloved hand run along your pristine flesh that was once covered in ugly bruises. He-

He thinks he wants to be the only thing to bruise you. From now on, he made a promise to himself (and to you, secretly) that he was the only thing in this galaxy that could mark you up, claim you.

Mando’s hands travel back, reaching for the supple meat of your ass, clutching it in his large hands, kneading it before he pushes you forwards again, into him. You yelp as you land in his lap, catching yourself quickly as both of your knees rest on either side of his hips. You readjust and sit back down, your minimally clothed cunt coming to land on his hard bulge, you gasp, eyes wide as you look into his visor. He was so hard, he felt big too.  

“S-Sorry I didn’t mean to-”

“What are you apologizing for now, hmm?” He asks tauntingly, helmet tilting slightly to the side, as if he were considering you. 

His gloved hands come up your sides, going underneath your tank top and brushing along the underside of your breasts, feeling the tight skin. You unintentionally rock in his lap, creating friction on your already embarrassingly wet center. Mando’s hands tighten at your sides, groaning as he tries to still your movements but. But it feels too fucking good to stop.

He brings a gloved finger to your lips, running the worn leather over the pillowy flesh as if to let you taste it. You look at him, confused.

“Bite.” He instructs, voice clipped, sharp. 

Without needing further instruction, your teeth latch onto the absolute tip of his glove, letting him slip his hand out of its leather confines, revealing to you the most precious amount of skin of his you’ve ever seen. 

Tanned skin, thick fingers, large palm, perfect. Him. The urge to litter the rough calloused skin in kisses, lick his entire hand, just put the whole fucking thing in your mouth was all consuming. Yet you sat there in his lap staring at his hand like it was a vase of water and you were a flower, parched for water. He asked you to do the same with the other glove and of course, you did as he asked. You quickly found yourself wanting to please him.

You stared at his bare, rough, strong hands in awe, watched as he let them peek underneath your thin top to skim along your silky smooth flesh, an expanse unknown to him. His fingertips brush over your nipples, feeling how the pretty buds pebble for him. He twists and pulls them in between his fingers, watching the way your face contorts in pain and in pleasure. It’s his new favourite thing, he feels drunk off of you already.

“Please.” You aren’t quite sure what you’re begging for, Mando isn’t really sure either. But he knows one thing, and it's that the sweet sound of your voice, begging for him, begging for anything, just so desperate, was enough to make him cum in his pants. His fingers dig into your skin, trying to cool his overheating mind, trying to slow down a bit before he actually does cum in his pants, before he’s even properly seen you.

His bare hands come down to your panties, toying with them again between his agile fingers.

“You want this?” He asks, daringly pushing your panties to the side, getting the smallest glimpse and your slicked up and drenched pussy. He thinks he could die right now, die happy, never want anything, ask for anything again.

“Yeah, yeah I do, always- have.” You choke on a hiccup, emotions welling in your eyes already from how fucking built up all of this is. You feel like you were both about to burst at the seams. You still couldn’t believe this was happening, even if it were to stop now and not progress any further, you couldn’t believe he had allowed you this much of him.

Mando wraps his arm around you completely, gripping your waist tightly to spin you around, pinning you underneath him in the tight space of his cot. You gasp, shriek at the sensation of it all, as he comes to rut against you, grinding his thick bulge into your cunt.

You notice how his arm has begun to bleed again, the skin ripping open and the deep red liquid trickling down what little part of his bicep was exposed, further proving his humanity, exposing the man beneath the beskar. You really felt like you could cry.

Lost in your whirlwind, Mando pulls off your thong, throwing it somewhere unpreciously behind him before doing the same thing with your tank top. Completely vulnerable, you laid bare before him as he hovered above you, covered head to toe, save for his hands, in beskar. That fact alone made you throb deep inside. The sheer power and size of him enough to get you off. 

You knew what little he had already decided to show you was all he could afford, you were so grateful for it anyway, that he was even willing to show you his hands, the little glimpse of his bicep. His skin was beautiful, but you couldn’t possibly grasp the words to tell him.

So you hook your legs around his backside and pull him to you, silently begging him to do something, anything. You would take anything he gave you, you’d even thank him for it at this point.

“Fuck.” Mando growls, bare hands coming to work at unbuttoning his pants, pulling them low enough to pull out his engorged, thick cock.

Mando was… he was huge.

This came hardly as a surprise to you, however. You would have had to be blind to not noticed how he walked. He walked like it was big, talked like it was big, fought like it was big. But fuck.

You were not prepared for that.

“Mando, I-I don’t know if it’ll-”

“It will.”

You moan and arch your back towards him, needing it now, needing that sweet burn and stretch that you know is about to come.

And oh does it come.

Mando thrusts into you without further warning, giving you no time or preparation to adjust to what he was packing. 

He makes you take it. He makes it fit.

The stretch burns, it bites and it knocks every single breath and thought from your body as he nestles himself all the way up against your cervix. Your body convulses in retreat, trying to push him away from the aggressive intrusion but your mind wants more, needs more. Needs him to fucking split you in half on his cock.

You scream and Mando growls, loud, his helmet falling forward and resting in the crook of your shoulder which meets your neck. His helmet is cold and your skin is burning hot, it creates a fog on his visor and he desperately tries to wipe it off on your skin, trying to look at you so up close. The way your eyes screw shut, squeezing tears out, watching the beautiful dew drops roll down your cheek so perfectly.

It hurts. Maker, does it hurt but fuck does it feel good. The pleasure overrides the pain more than you could imagine and you find yourself begging him to give you more even though he’s already started thrusting into you like he’s on a mission, a mission to sever you in half with his cock.

He was surely succeeding.

Mando watches you cry in pleasure as he fucks into your pussy with such aggressive fervour, like someone had a gun to his head. One hand on your hip and the other around your neck, bruising your skin in that beautiful way he always wanted, how he always dreamed of. He holds you in place so that his hips don’t drive you up his cot because they surely would from how fucking deep and hard he’s pounding into you. Stars, you think you can feel him in your stomach, in your throat.

The hand on your hip travels up to one of your bouncing breasts, kneading the sotf flesh in his palm and watching you wither beneath him. So desperate -

“S-so helpless.” He moans, watching your body bend to his will beneath him.

“Mando- oh my god.” You cry, hands and arms flailing at your sides, not knowing where to put them. Mando sees your struggle and takes both of your hands into each of his, pinning them above your head and using it to drive into you even harder somehow.

Your pussy squelches obscenely, trying to suck him in deeper, keep him inside forever. The only sounds in the cot are fucking lewd, skin on skin rhythmically slapping. You pray the Child can’t hear any of this from inside his pod, you pray he’s asleep.

“So fucking wet... You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” You nod your head so fast you think you’d give yourself whiplash.

“A-Anything, anything Mando- fuck.” That familiar coil was beginning to tighten in your belly, your toes curling, fisting gripping onto his, no doubt cutting off some of his circulation.

Eyes rolling into the back of your head, your chest arches up, up, up your breasts rubbing against unforgiving beskar. 

Underneath said beskar, Mando felt like he wasn’t getting nearly enough oxygen into his helmet, his skin flushing underneath the heavy armour but the pleasure rolling off of you and into him would be enough to sustain him for hours, he thinks.

Your pussy was squeezing him so tight, the ridges of your inner walls so soft, warm, wet, inviting. You felt like home. Absolutely fucking drenched, no wonder you were able to take him whole with almost zero preparation, you had fucking wanted it that way. Wanted him to be rough like this.

“I’ll never leave- never leave this sweet pussy...” He moans, hips stuttering, rolling and grinding deeper and deeper and you felt your orgasm quickly approaching, his words were only bringing you that much closer.

“Please, I- I…”

“Cum for me ner mesh’la, need you to cum for me.” He groans, cool and sharp edges of his helmet resting on your cheekbone.

You envisioned the faceless man deep inside you, what his face must look like now, deep in the throes of pleasure only inches from yours. You pictured the tanned skin covering his entire body head to toe, flushed and splotchy, hot to the touch. 

Would his eyes screw shut? Would his mouth hang open, little pants, groans, moans slipping through swollen lips, only loud enough for the ears of his lover to hear?

Your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, you try to look into his visor as your orgasm wipes your mind blank, eyes screwing shut, an endless stream of tears falling onto already damp cheeks as you moan and cry his name into the tight space of his cot.

Mando.

Mando.

Mando.

You don’t think you could recall anything if anyone asked you. Not the name of the planet you were currently on, not the name of the planet you were born on, the bar you used to work at, your old bosses name, your name. Nothing.

With two, three, four more thrusts, Mando’s hips still after he drills himself into the deepest and darkest parts of your hot cunt, spilling white hot cum into you with the lowest moan you think you’ve ever heard flowing deep from within his chest. You gasp at the sensation, that warm pleasant feeling of being absolutely stuffed full, somehow more than you already were.

He draws his cock out before pushing it back in, plugging you up with his cum, pushing it deeper and deeper inside of you. You cry, bordering on overstimulation, his cock only softening in the slightest so the hard intrusion was almost too much for you to bear.

“Fuck Mando I’m- I don’t have the implant..” You whimper, suddenly worried, voice coming out uneven with your ragged breaths. 

Mando feels another surge of blood to his cock at your words, groaning as his dick twitches and thrusting into you a few more times…. For-

For good measure, he thinks.

Not that he would necessarily want that right now but fuck. Fuck did the mere idea of it make him painfully hard against his own will. You…. swollen with-

“Fuck.” He growls, pulling away from you a bit to better look down at you. Your eyes are shiny, lashes coated thick and wet with your precious tears. Lips swollen, chest flushed. You look worried, but beautiful. His. 

Mando remembers your old job at the bar…. Wouldn’t they have made it mandatory for all the girls to have the implant to prevent them from getting pregn-

“But- your job, you-?”

“I didn’t do that, I didn’t fuck them… just drinks.” You smile up softly at him due to fatigue, bashful nonetheless. 

Mando likes that, it puts him at ease in some fucked up way to know that those men in those types of places couldn’t get too far with you, even if they wanted.

“We can, I can get it for you on the next planet if- if that’s what you want?” He asks, hips still gently thrusting into you and you start to see stars behind your eyelids. You whimper, feeling his cum mix with your and gush back onto his cock and down the backs of your thighs.

“O-okay… thank you.” Mando nods but says nothing, pulling his cock from your fluttering pussy. You gasp at the sudden loss, feeling terribly empty and used. More cum dribbles from you and you quickly cup your cunt with your palm, trying to stop it from leaking everywhere on his cot.

Moving quicker than you would have expected him to, Mando stands up straight and tucks his wet cock back into his pants before walking away abruptly. You, however, barely notice as you lay flat on your back, head staring up at the ceiling with eyes closed, trying to catch your breath, regain some sense of self after getting all of it fucked out of you.

You’re made aware of Mando’s return by the touch of a warm and damp washcloth to your abused pussy. You gasp and sit up on your elbows, looking down the length of you to see the Mandalorian between your thighs, wiping away the mess that both of you made. Together.  

You want to thank him again but you can’t find the words within you, all of them lost to you because of this sudden display of dare you say affection.

“Stay here, gonna put us into hyperspeed. Once we’re up there, go clean up.” Mando orders softly, nodding his helmet at you. You nod back, still breathless, still shaking.

[insomniasymphony]

Machi Komacine x Female Reader [Closer]

Constellation: Machi Komacine x Female Reader Prompt I got: → You should be more careful so you don't get sick again Rating: General Audience

                             ►► Her hands are soft like velvet,                                      Dancing across your skin.                                      Give her one more moment                                      To wash away your sin. ◄◄

The quivering of your shoulders doesn't subside for a moment, even as the damp, hot towel touches your back. One of Machi's hands is on your bare skin while the other washes the sweat from your body, and although you shouldn't be embarrassed, since you are both women, you can't help covering your breasts and lowering your head.

Her touch is so light, so deft, that there is something almost clinical about it. The only physical contact you really share is her firm grip that won't let go, accompanied by the shame that makes heat rise in your head that can't be shaken off. These are seconds when you are grateful to the fever of the cold.

The wet towel brushes your waist, makes you wince, cast a help-seeking glance over your shoulder because it's uncomfortable and, admittedly, kind of weird. But Machi's gaze hangs focused on the piece of cloth. You have no place in her mind. Not at this moment. So you look to the front again.

You have barely exchanged a word since she settled in your small appartment. Actually, you had wanted to show her how much stronger you had become while she was away, so that you too could become a member of the spiders, to spend every spare second with Machi. You may not be a couple, but you're making an effort and she hasn't once turned you down so far.

Until today. Or rather, since the whole week she's been with you but acts like you're just a foreign object within these four walls. At the same time, her facial expression is so rigid and blank that you don't even know whether she is angry or annoyed by your behaviour. The only thing you can say for sure is that you've caught a serious cough and a high fever from training rigorously since you didn't even take a break from your plan when the icy cold rain trickled down to your bones. You deserve this cold.

And Machi's care is clearly a bonus in all this.

At the same time, it's also devastating because she knows why you're sick and also why you're training so hard. She came over to spend time with you and you confront her with the flu. She's probably annoyed with you.

The sigh on your lips is soft, yet heavy, so Machi's movement stops for a moment before she takes the towel back and releases her hand from your shoulder. “You can get dressed.”

You ignore her, wrap your upper arms more tightly around your cold torso and sink further into the feverish thoughts that become more colourful with each additional thought.

But Machi doesn't give you time to drown in them. Before you can imagine her taking you lovingly in her arms, she has already thrown the light shirt of your pyjamas over your head. It is only a gentle touch of fabric, but it makes you startle, and you glance over your shoulder again, this time meeting the pretty blue eyes of the woman you have adored since you first met.

Cautiously, you reach for the textile. Her eyes watch you, every single movement. She doesn't take her eyes off you as you slip the garment on, nor when you sit up properly in bed again. The heat under your skin is parching but the cold on top of it makes such an extreme contrast that you don't dare to crawl out from under the duvet any further than necessary.

“I'll handle the food now.” Her gaze remains fixed, her posture dismissive, her tone terribly monotone, so you know nothing to reply. All you do is nod, watch as she exits the room and leaves you here alone.

Though her disapproving manner is clearly oppressive, the time alone in this room is frighteningly lonely. You'd rather have Machi keep silence than have your own thoughts echoing far too loudly in this room.

You want to do something, fix things, because even if Machi has never shown much affection, she is still a woman with a heart who has often kept you company and doesn't reject your pathetic attempts at flirting. Experiencing her so distant hurts, feels wrong, pushes her so far into the distance that your heart in your chest hammers painfully against your ribs. Strong enough to force a lump into your throat. The cold isn't just making you physically weak, that's for sure, and the burning in your eyes is hard to suppress.

Machi will probably be back at any moment with a dish she ordered from one of the nearby ordering services. She does that every day. One of the reasons why she charges so damn much for her services. She enjoys good food and likes to test things out. Since she's been with you, she's ordered only the best – presumably for your health – without once giving you a chance to say thank you.

Your heart weighs heavily at the thought that she is so close to you and at the same time seems so far away. You can't help but fall backwards into the sheets. To get up and run after Machi would only make all this much worse. So you close your eyes.

Behind the blackness of your lids, she is waiting for you, pink hair, petite, pretty, and at the same time strong enough to leave you behind at any moment. You reach out to her, but she doesn't come within reach, stays there in the distance where you can only look at her.

Machi cannot go.

“If I wanted to go, I'd be gone already.”

Hectically you open your eyes as the air finds its way sharply into your lungs and you immediately sit upright in bed. Machi has settled on the edge, a small tray with a bowl of soup on her lap. Her gaze pierces you, not allowing any of your twitches to escape unnoticed. The heat inside you is as stifling as all the sweat that is once again clinging to you, clearly conveying that you must have drifted off for a brief moment. On top of that, you must have spoken. She probably knows what's going on in your head and you can't help but look away from her and eye your own knuckles.

“I love you, Machi,” it comes over you. It's not the first time you've said it, but her response always remains the same.

“I know.”

"And I don't want you to be angry with me because-"

“I'm not angry,” she interrupts you curtly, before carefully yet firmly setting the tray down on your legs, with the tiny request that you start eating. Of course, you instantly pick up the spoon, but you can't bring yourself to eat.

“If you're not angry, why...are you being so distant?”

She sighs. A soft, long sigh, before she settles into a chair beside you, folding her arms and crossing her legs. Then she looks at you. The silence between you is nerve-wracking and you can feel your fingers trembling. Twice you bang your spoon against the bowl before Machi closes her eyes and lets blunt honesty win for a moment. “Do you really want to become a member of the Phantom Troupe?”

“I do,” you return promptly, almost so hastily that it seems embarrassing.

“You know how dangerous that could be?”

“We could be a team.”

“And you think you're up to the tasks? Killing ruthlessly and carrying out any order Boss asks of you?” One of her brows lifts. “Can you leave me behind if you have to?”

You open your mouth, wanting to agree, but you both know better. You love her and leaving her behind when she's in danger or hurt isn't even remotely an option. Before that, you would provoke war with her leader and that would only bring more problems.

“I like you the way you are. Right here, in this home,” Machi states all at once, before she gets back on her feet and comes to you. One of her hands gently rests on your cheek and you follow her touch, savoring every second. “You don't have to overdo it.”

They are just tiny messages, carrying a warmth that assures you that Machi cares about you too. She is with you even though you are sick. She tells you not to go to the spiders because she knows you could never be happy in all this, and she subliminally tells you that she doesn't like it if you kill yourself because of her. It's not much, and she certainly knows that you don't consider being in a long distance relationship with her as being happy, but her posture and closeness make it clear that she prefers that to seeing you sick or hurt.

Maybe her way is indeed the only hope for you to be together because, by God, the world is rougher than you'd like to admit some days.

“I'm... I'm sorry, Machi.” Dejectedly, you lower your head. The soup on your lap suddenly seems like a mirror, showing you how frighteningly naive you've been about this, but Machi takes it with so much diligence that it almost creeps oddly through your body. Your heart skips a beat as she takes your face in both hands and lifts your head, giving you a brief glimpse into those gorgeous blue eyes, before she presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, and moments later takes her distance again as if nothing had happened.

“Is it alright...if I get at least a little stronger for you?” Almost indecisively you purse your lips as she sinks back into the chair.

“You should be more careful so you don't get sick again.” A thin smile graces her lips. “The soup's getting cold.”

Far too hastily, you turn back to the bowl, grab the spoon and shovel the first four loads into yourself as you wrinkle your nose in disgust and your throat seems to dry up instantly as your taste buds scream silently for help.

“That's awful!” you spit out. “Where did you get this? It's totally over-salted...”

For a moment she makes no reply before an almost grumbling, “I cooked it,” creeps across Machi's lips and you feel all colour drain from your face in the same instant. A glance in her direction proves that she isn't thrilled with your reaction and you can't help but inwardly smack your forehead.

Sometimes you curse yourself for doing and saying things without much thought. At the same time, you can't help but feel the heat inside.

Machi has made this soup for you.

And even if it is horrible, it will heal you – for sure.

[Picture is from a card collecting game!] [Interested in more stuff or ready to make a request? Check here!]

[amydancepants-peralta]

(maybe this time) I’ve hit a home run ⚾️♥️

(a one-shot inspired by @jamy-peraltiago‘s fandom challenge prompts, written in a flash of inspiration!) (x) 

*

“Okay, so run me through this one more time.”

Squinting against the sun; Jake turns towards his girlfriend of nine months, a frisson of joy running through him as he realises how seriously she’s taking the task in front of her.  “Fry first, then gummy worm.”  He demonstrates with a grin.  “Another fry, then dip the whole thing into the sundae, and enjoy.”

Amy shoots him a dubious look, following the instructions carefully and trying her very best not to cringe as she shoves the unnaturally colourful combination into her mouth.  From his position closely beside her, Jake grins, and vaguely he hears the commentator’s voice crackle through the speakers around them. 

Today he and Amy are attending a Mets v Phillies game at Citi Field - Amy’s first live baseball game ever - and once they’d made it to their seats, Jake had been eager to show her the combination of snacks that he has long since considered tradition.  “Amazing, right?”

Licking her lips, Amy reaches out to rest a hand on his leg, squeezing gently.  “Two things,” she begins, and Jake nods.  “First, I love you.  And second, please don’t ever make me eat that again.”

Incredulous, Jake lifts up the Peralta Combo in veneration.  “French fries, sour worms and ice-cream?  That’s the perfect combination of salty and sour and sweet, Ames!  It’s a culinary delight.  How can you not love it?”

Shaking her head, Amy takes a sip of beer to wash the taste away, and Jake leans in to kiss the remnants of froth from her upper lip.  “There is SO much sugar in that, babe.  If you ate a whole tray of that, I’m certain you would be able to hear colour and smell sound.”

“And who wouldn’t want that?!”  Tilting his head to the side, he grins.  “You know, I bet magenta has a real screech to it.”

“Definitely a high vibrato of some sort,” Amy nods, and he bends down for another kiss.  “But probably not something we’re ever meant to hear, you know?”  She winces, adjusting the tip of her baseball cap and craning her neck upwards.  “I’m sorry, babe.  I know it’s your favourite snack, but I don’t think I could stomach more of that.”

“Ames, it’s totally fine.  More for me, anyways.”  Giving a reassuring smile, he lowers his treats to the empty seat beside him and wraps his free arm around Amy’s shoulders.  “And I love you too, by the way.”

(It’s still a little exciting, finally being able to vocalise those three little words, and the way they both returned the sentiment so eagerly makes it all the better, every single time - rolling eyes from surrounding audiences be damned.)

The Phillies fans in the stadium cheer as Eickhoff's swing hits the ball with a heavy crack, and as Amy leans forward to watch the action Jake sneaks a peek at her expression, desperately curious to see if she was enjoying the game or not.  He’d been oddly anxious about today; worried that she wouldn’t feel the same thrum of anticipation amongst the crowd, or - even worse - that she’d find the whole thing ridiculous.  Baseball was something that had been a part of his life since he was old enough to remember, and while he wanted to share it with Amy, the fear of her not enjoying the game was stronger than he’d anticipated.  

But then he’d been waiting at his apartment earlier today, nervous as all hell, when she’d shown up in a newly purchased Mets jersey and sneakers that matched his own.  Stood in his kitchen with a proud smile, spouting out stats on some of his favourite players as he’d finished getting ready (all of which had clearly been recently researched); and he knows that this probably sounds ridiculously schmaltzy, but he swears he fell even more in love with her right there and then.  

Eickhoff stops his run at second base, eyeing off the Mets’ shortstop Cabrera as he lobs the ball back to the pitcher, and Amy joins in on the applause that litters the crowd.  “Shortstop - that’s what you used to play, right?” 

Jake nods, his eyes suddenly trained on a moment a few rows forward; watching as a young boy no older than six shares a joke with his father, meeting his offered high five with obvious glee.  “When I was in little league, yeah,” he mumbles as the nostalgia washes over him.  

There was a time when that would have been him; wearing his team jersey with pride as he ate too many hotdogs, laughing with Roger, riding high on his shoulders as they waded through the crowd on their way home.  When they were watching baseball, there weren’t screaming matches filtering through closed doors, or strange lingerie stuffed in-between carseats for him to ignore on the way to school.  At the stadium, it was just Jake and his Dad - a place where, for nine blissful innings, the rest of the world seemed to simply fade away.  

It had been mid-season and a month after Jake’s seventh birthday when Roger had walked away from it all, and now - much like the tin of baseball cards that Jake had stashed far to the back of a cupboard - the value of his memories are only sentimental (but priceless all the same).

Amy’s knee nudges against his thigh, and Jake’s met with a pair of beautifully gentle eyes when he turns towards her.  Her voice is soft as she asks him if he’s okay, and he adjusts the back of his own cap, running a hand along the base of his neck.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  Just … thinking.”

She nods, twisting in her seat and resting her elbow along the back of his.  “Did you keep playing after Roger left?”

Nodding, Jake leans back into his seat, fiddling with his hat again as the memory of sitting at Sal’s Pizza for hours after the game, just in case Roger might swing by, surfaces from the corner of his mind.  “Just for the rest of the season.  I guess for a while there, I had sorta convinced myself that he would be coming back any day now.  My plan was to just keep doing everything I normally did, so that when he did come back, it would almost feel like he’d never left.”  Amy’s hand falls onto the nape of his neck, sweeping slowly in soothing strokes, and he sighs, relaxing into her touch.  “But as the months went by, and the phone calls grew fewer, the idea of putting the uniform on again just seemed … I don’t know … wrong.”

Letting out a tiny hum of assent, Amy’s fingers card into the bottom of Jake’s hair.  “You still like watching the game, though?”

He nods again, a smile growing onto his face as he explained his mother’s insistence on taking him to games after Roger left.  “She’d never quite gotten a grip on the right terminology, and always cheered for both teams regardless of who was playing; but her enthusiasm was definitely contagious.”  It had worked incredibly well at reigniting the love Jake once had for the game, and over the years he’d branched out and watched matches with college buddies and friends from the academy alike.  

It was unexpected - but also so completely typical of dating someone like Amy - for today to be the day when all of his childhood memories came out in force.  “Sorry, babe.  I’m really dragging the vibe down here.  Maybe we should - mmmh - ” Jake’s last few words die in his mouth as his girlfriend presses her lips against his, the palm of her hand resting against his cheek in a kiss that he only knows as being quintessentially Amy.  

She smiles when they part, brushing away a stray lock of hair from his fringe.  “You don’t ever need to apologise for talking about your past, Jake.  I want to hear all of it, regardless of where we are.  If it matters to you, it matters to me.”

Mumbling another I love you, Jake draws Amy in for a longer kiss, hand wrapping around her waist and pulling away only when the crowd cheers at Herrera’s fly ball.  It was pretty amazing, how talking about memories with Amy rarely felt painful, and on days like today he has the strongest instinct that it’s largely because with her, he can already see his future taking shape.  

Leaning her body into his, Amy’s arm comes to rest comfortably on top of his upper thigh as she turns her attention back to the game in front of them, and softly she murmurs, “This is way better than watching the game in Manny’s living room.”

The sun feels warm against Jake’s skin as he links their fingers together, planting a kiss to the top of her baseball cap in silent agreement.  It was a beautiful day in a lot of ways - the Met’s current lead of 2-0 a fine example - and getting to spend it with Amy made it all the better.  

It’s at the bottom of the third inning that Amy twists away from Jake, rustling through her backpack before returning to her previous position and holding up a bag of nuts with unconstrained pride.  “I thought we might get snacky.”

“You really are the perfect woman.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls you bring here.”

Wrapping his hand around Amy’s wrist, Jake squeezes gently.  “Apart from my mom, and occasionally Gina, you’re the only girl I’ve brought here, Ames.”  It’s a small distinction, but one he feels is important to make, and the soft smile that Amy gives him in return reaffirms his instinct.  

She kisses his cheek, brushing her lips against his skin as she moves to whisper in his ear.  “Keep talking like that Peralta, and you’re going to see some solid third base action tonight.”  Another kiss, this time to the base of his earlobe.  “Maybe even a home run, once you see what I’ve got on underneath this jersey.”

(It’s an entirely new experience, trying to avoid getting an erection in a stadium while your girlfriend chuckles softly beside you - but one that Jake doesn’t totally hate, if only for the knowledge that the wait is going to be completely worth it.)

He’s fully reclined into his seat, one arm wrapped around Amy’s shoulders when the Kiss Cam pans onto them at the top of the fifth inning, breaking into laughter as he watches Amy’s face quickly turn a delightful shade of pink.  He’s still considering a humble peck to her cheek when she swivels in her seat, coiling her hand around his waist and pulling him in for an almost non-PG13 kiss before another moment can be wasted, and as the crowd cheers and Sixpence None The Richer plays in the background, Jake knows that he is totally, utterly and madly in love with the one and only Amy Santiago.    

There’s an oversized foam finger occupying Jake’s right hand, and his girlfriend’s fingers twisted around his left as they leave the field hours later, riding the high of another Met’s victory as they shuffle towards the exit.  He listens contentedly as Amy chatters excitably about the potential for statistical analysis of the game - something about sabermetrics that only makes him think of Star Wars - and it’s as they head towards the carpark that Jake finds himself completely distracted once more.

He watches as a family in front of them move along the footpath, both parents holding onto one hand each of their child as they swing from their parent’s arms, the overjoyed giggles filtering through the noise of a departing crowd as they bounce on and off the pavement.  

It’s the feeling of Amy’s hand in his, and the still unspoken assurance that both of them are in this for the long haul that allows Jake’s mind to wonder of the possibility of such a moment ever belonging to him.  He can almost see it: a chuckling toddler bounding between his and Amy’s arms, wearing their favourite jersey and singing the team song as they head home, just in time for bath and bed and some well-deserved Mommy and Daddy time (aka, falling asleep on the couch).  It’s a future so simplistic, but for the longest time seemed unthinkable, and Jake breaks out into a wide grin at the sheer notion that something so great as a lifetime with Amy could ever be more than just an unrequited dream.  

Amy’s hand squeezes his as they draw nearer to her car, her face growing curious as she looks up at Jake.  “What’s got you so smiley all of the sudden, Peralta?”

Shrugging nonchalantly, Jake hunches slightly to drop a quick kiss to Amy’s lips.  “I’ve just spent an afternoon in the sunshine with a beautiful woman beside me, watching my favourite team win.  There’s a lot of reasons to smile right there, babe.”

Resting her weight against her passenger door, Amy rests her hands on either side of Jake’s waist and looks up at him with an equally happy grin.  “Thank you for taking me here, Jake.  I loved every second of it.”  Lowering her grip slightly, she digs her fingers into his side in a request for closeness; and Jake bridges the gap for another kiss, letting both of them sink into it as the lack of surrounding strangers lends to a sense of privacy.  

The subtle scent of her perfume lingers over his senses as Jake pulls away, held closely still by Amy’s curled fingers around his belt loops, and he leans his forehead against hers.  “What was that you were saying earlier about hitting some bases tonight?”

He chuckles as she pushes him away with a gentle shove, giving him the Santiago wink (also known as a slow blink).  “How about we head back to my place and I show you what I mean, detective?”

The car fills up with laughter and the easy conversations of two best friends in love as Amy navigates them through the streets of Brooklyn - and as they head closer to home, Jake already knows that whatever the future may hold, with Amy by his side, they were going to knock it right out of the park.  

[scribeofmorpheus]

Himmeløyne [21/?]

Pairing: Loki Odinson x Reader

Catch Up Here | Masterlist

Warnings: None

A/N: Nothin’ to report Cap’n

Taglist is open! Reblog, comment or leave a like please ☺

~Odin

The Allfather conjured old memory and returned himself to it; the last moment he ever conversed with his old counsel, Mímir.

“The boy must know of his lineage. He is the only one who can end this war. Bridge the sides. This rift was formed by lies, and lies will only pry it further.”

“Silence!” the younger Odin shouted, his stave burrowing into the floor from his surge of emotion. He was always quicker to temper before. Thor and Loki were still babies, Odin had yet to taste what truly came with fatherhood. Fatherhood would give him the burden of a different kind of love, of temperance, but in this moment, he was still ignorant to it.

"I know why you do this. You think by keeping this a secret, by refusing him his past, you will stop the inevitable, but not even you, old friend, can stop the Fate of the Gods.”

“I said silence!” Odin’s shout shattered the glass in the throne room. Mímir’s detached head simply blinked his outburst away. "You think yourself clever because you can see fate's web? Tell me, Mímir, can you see with only on eye?"

Odin loathed that condescending stare. It made him feel obsolete, limited. Without thought, rage bubbled to the surface, filling his vision with red. Then there was blood on his thumb, and  Mímir screamed. The fluid of an eye coating his thumb.

“You truly are your father’s son,” Mímir spat.

“Twilight will never be!”

“I know what you will do. I have seen it. This will be my final gift to you: the truth will crumble at the price of your father’s belt.”

Odin returned to his older form, now realising that the last words Mímir spoke had been misconstrued. He had sworn never to wear it, never to use his father’s belt even if he was to face a formidable foe. But Mímir had tricked him, manipulated him into locking it away. Locking it in the one place is was meant to be taken from, ironically.

A knock interrupted his thought.

“Who is it?”

“You sent for me, My Liege. It’s the Captain of the Guard.”

He sighed. As much as he yearned to see his son conscious again, to find where he’d hidden Frigga, he dreaded the outcome of such a success even more. No matter what, he had to get his father’s belt back, and stop Y/N at all costs. “Enter.”

  ~Heimdall

He watched Y/N get drawn into the light. The mirror screamed, but Y/N did not react to its piercing shriek.

Sif folded hunkered low from the pain, hands pressed to her ears. A mangled scream poured into the room, but her mouth never opened. The sounds, the shrieks, they were a thousand disembodied voices, all coming from inside the mirror. He felt unease, a desire to pull Y/N away from the harrowing sounds in the light. Then she was gone, and everything turned as silent as a graveyard, the mirror shattering into dust.

“We should have stopped her,” Sif wiped the blood from her ears onto her trousers. “That was Jotun magic. Forbidden magic!”

“I know,” he stood upright.

“Fascinating,” The Collector clapped his hands as if he’d seen the most impressive performance yet. “I’ve never seen anyone survive entering the Mirror of Fate.”

“You’ve never what?” Heimdall’s actions were quick, his large hand finding the uncollared space of The Collector’s neck.

The Collector laughed, a streak of lunacy to the twitch of his lips, bearing his teeth as though it’d been aeons since he had found something amusing. “I’ll be honest, it was never the belt that I was interested in.” He turned to look at Y/N’s eye in the crystal skull.

Heimdall lifted The Collector off his feet, “Explain yourself!”

“Have you ever seen an empire built on the bones of lies crumble?”

“I will not ask you again!” Heimdall struck The Collector into a wall.

Sif grabbed his arm to try and calm him, “You won’t get anything from him if he’s unconscious.”

“Someone’s coming,” Hogun whispered before disappearing behind a column.

A shadow grew larger by the entrance. Sif followed after Hogun to try and counter manoeuvre whoever was closing in. Heimdall didn’t care, he wanted answers, his grip on The Collector’s neck growing stronger.

“Why is it, as of late, we’re always getting tangled in one misadventure or another?” Fandral asked, arms on his hips, a devilish smirk pulling his hideous moustache closer to his nose.

“Fandral,” Sif let out a sigh of relief, closing in for a hug. “Am I glad to see you.”

“Don’t be too happy just yet,” he straightened out, his tone turning for the graver. “Odin said you stole something from his vault?”

“It’s a long story,” Sif said.

“As I’m sure. You’re lucky I managed to convince him to let Volstagg and I get the lead, but we don’t have time. His guard will not be far behind. We must leave, get you back to Asgard before you are apprehended as prisoners, so you can plead your case to the Allfather.”

Hogun side-eyed Heimdall, “It’s not that simple.”

 “Speak,” Heimdall demanded, ignoring the commotion around him.

“All I did was keep a promise to an old friend,” The Collector revealed.

“Who?”

“The one who placed that amulet in my care,” he wormed around Heimdall’s grip. “She told me someone would come for it, and when they did, I’d finally get to see the fruits of her labours.”

Suddenly, the skull began to glow. Runes appearing all over. Heimdall recognised some. Y/N’s eye acted as refraction material, displaying a doorway built into a mountain into the space of the emporium. The ground was the sky and the mountain had no base. The peak glistened with ice, a beautiful sunset presenting itself in the orientation of a sunrise.

“How do I get her back?” he slammed The Collector into the wall a second time.

“Gahhh! Never took you for a man able to relinquish control, anger suits you.”

“I won’t lose her,” he could feel his heart racing, thrumming in his ears. “Tell me!”

The Collector glanced at the skull, “To enter Verdenspeil, a spell is required. A two-part spell. The first half is the sacrifice of sight. The second was to recite the words of the Giants. The entry is one way. Every other person that’s ever sought out the mirror has never managed to recite the words. Until now.”

A torrent of light, heavy with every streak of colour, poured in the streets outside. Heimdall could feel the magic of the bridge, someone had opened the Bi-frost.

“That’s not good,” Fandral stated.

Sif and the others moved into position as several of the Allfather’s guard came wielding weapons with shields drawn.

“Heimdall!” Sif warned. “We’re running out of time.”

“Then buy me what little you can,” An agitated growl left Heimdall, “How do I get her back?”

“There—” Hogun shouted, “—pull that lever!”

A loud thud echoed into the room. A large, golden gate descended as a barricade. A red dot grew larger around the barricade, melting the metal.

“Did Odin send The Destroyer too?” Fandral’s jaw dropped. “What in all the Nine did you steal?”

“What madness have you gotten us into?” Volstagg demanded.  

Heimdall was close enough to The Collector’s face to see that there was no fear in his eyes, only the dilation from oxygen starvation.

“If she makes it passed the maze, the doorway will open, there,” The Collector pointed to the apparition coming from Y/N’s eye in the skull.

“I’ve seen this peak before,” Hogun closed in on the apparition. “Recently.”

“The runes,” Sif pointed out, “They’re the same as the ones that were drawn on Y/N. Wait… Heimdall, that’s Gjallarhorn!”

“Gjallarhorn?” Fandral backed away, terror in his eyes. “Then… that means… this is connected to the Twilight of the Gods.”

Heimdall set The Collector down, the eccentric man laughed between coughs. He ignored him and walked closer to the doorway that Sif, Hogun and Fandral stared at. One rune, in particular, made Heimdall’s veins turn to ice.

“Jotunheim,” he said. “That doorway is in Jotunheim.”

“But there's no snow, the sky isn't darkened. It doesn't resemble Jotunheim in the least."

"Jotunheim wasn't always the desolate place you know today. The Great War took more than just lives."

"How can you be sure?” Sif asked.

“Because, only one other has ever possessed Gjallarhorn, and Odin tasked me with his imprisonment. That is where I hid Mímir’s head.”

Sif pieced everything together, “Mímir? Of course! This all makes sense now. Then the Mirror of Fate—”

“Is his invention, yes.”

The Destroyer had made it through the door, its face covered the hole and a second burst burned a scorch mark across the floor. The Collector rushed to a display case and pushed it aside, there was a hidden lever there. He pulled it revealing a false wall.

“In here, there’s a dais in the level below. Take the skull, it is the key to opening the portal.” The Collector ushered them closer.

Heimdall frowned, “Why should we trust you?”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice. Whatever that girl is connected to, it has cause to make Odin worry. And, it seems, it was designed to happen exactly as it has. I have fulfilled my promise, now I get to watch chaos unfold. For someone as old as I am, there are few things as joyous as seeing order fall to chaos.”

Sif grabbed the skull and the apparition dissolved into the air like steam.  

Heimdall waited for Sif and the others to head for the lower level first, then he turned to The Collector to ask one final question: “This old friend of yours, was it Mímir’s sister?”

The Collector smiled, warm and affectionately, an odd emotion to see on his face. “It was.”

  ~Y/N

Birth. A child’s first steps on steps of stone. Runes drawn into the snow. Blood on ice. A village on fire. Pieces of a home, blackened by soot and ash. Wings in the light. An arrow whistling through the air. Clear. Sweet. The rush was more than images layered over one another, morphing into one another, it was sensation too. The feel of the cold on the stone steps. The muscle memory from tracing the rune. The drip, drip, drip of blood streaming down a frost sword and splattering on ice. Heat from flames. Smell of ash on the throat. These moments were yours, animated and swishing around in this viridian green atmosphere. You had made it into the Mirror World.

You spun around, searching for a path or a marker of some sort. There was nothing but thick, green fog all around you.

“Hello?” you asked the expanse. It didn’t echo. No one replied. “Oracle?” you called out for the whisper that you conversed with in the emporium.

You shouted out again and again until you heard a reply.

Child of the Sky, welcome to Verdenspeil. 

You spread your fingers over the fog, the memories were torn like seams, visions dissipating and then reappearing. “What is all this?”

The Nexus of Fate. Your fate. Once you step out, you will be subjected to all fates intertwined with yours. 

“How do I know what to look for?”

Desire. Search your mind for desire. It will light the path to the answer you seek. 

 “And my desire will lead me to the answer I seek?”

Yes… and No. Nothing in this realm is as it appears. This world is not meant for the living. It will try to coerce you. Lead you away from the root of its power. 

“Root of its power?” you were distracted by a glimmer, then the memory of you and Loki’s first meeting by the balconies came to life. Then you thought of the kiss on that very same balcony, and suddenly the world reshaped itself to project that memory. You realised then that the world wasn’t just showing you fate, it was feeding off your memories too. A give and take. “This world isn’t real is it?”

Real is a matter of perception. But yes, this world is ancient, a thread within the fabrics of all the universes, tapped deep into Yggdrasil. 

“What is its purpose?”

Cause of effect. This world is a maze. I am the effect, but I cannot see beyond my bindings, see to its cause. I do not know what lies in the centre. All I can do is mark a path. Follow it to the source. Free me, and I will make this world show you what you seek.

You focused on what you desired. Flashes of Loki came to life I the fog, but so did images of your mother.

“We will see each other again,” your mother’s voice spoke through the fog.

The rune on your palm burst with red light. Glowing, iridescent like eels, it lit the path ahead of you. The second rune on your forehead rippled, almost as if it were an appendage. Trembling fingers reached for it and were greeted by the aqueous of an eye—a third eye. You gasped, shocked at how real the runic eye felt. You closed your one human eye and tried to see through the third.

Runic vision was strange, the Mirror World was all reflections and memory, and the expansion and contraction of matter. The rune on your palm acted as a torch in darkness, revealing the world that was previously magically concealed. Branches, stretching endlessly, all intertwined and meandering, were revealed. Each branch glowed with a different colour, some colours you’d never seen before. To your immediate left, a branch absorbed the colour of your hand’s rune. 

“Follow the path,” you reiterated.

With your human eye closed, you walked as if a blind woman, letting the magic guide you, letting it see for you. The walk was long. It felt like the seconds had rushed to hours and hours faded to days, but your muscles didn’t give in, they didn’t even feel like they were moving. Air raised your chest, but your lungs seemed as heavy as rocks.  

Yes, you are close. I can hear it. The beginning of my name. I can hear it! A little further!

Over the edge of the path, to the right, there was a branch that looked to be severed. The only singular branch untouched or intertwined with others. A coldness prickled at your skin.

“What is that place?” you shuddered. 

There was a brief pause, a small voice in your head told you to turn towards the edge and look over it.

I… I do not remember. 

“It’s calling to me…”

Child of the Sky! Do not stray from the path!

But it was too late. That same pull you felt to the light was drawing you towards that severed branch that led to a drop.

“I have to…” you took your first step away from the red of the path. The colour of the world began to leech away, all turning to that viridian green. The fog of the world covered the tree slowly, returning everything as it had been.

“Be careful!” a stranger’s voice shouted, her dialect foreign to you, yet you understood it.

“By the Gods!” you gasped in shock. Except, it wasn’t you. You hadn’t opened your mouth to speak. It was your voice, in the same dialect as the stranger’s, coming from the edge.

“Look at the size of him!” the stranger continued.

Then there was an animalistic cry, creature-like and deep. And the whoosh of rushing water. And a rumble in the earth.

“Stop! Don’t hurt him!”

“Hurt him? He displaced half the ocean!”

“Trust me!”

“I hope you know what you’re doing!”

“So do I…”

Your foot reached the end of the path, a whirlpool sucking up the air where you stood. The voices stopped too.

“That was my voice. What was that?” the real you asked the Oracle.

I suspect, something yet to be, or something never to be. 

A trance came over you. A need to step over the edge. Deep in your bones, you knew that stepping off the path needed to happen, that it was fate leading you to the whirlpool at the bottom of this universe.

“Y/N?” Loki called your name from below, but he did so in a manner a stranger would. "Never heard of you..."

“What happens if I stray from the path?” you peered into the spiralling clouds sparked with thunder and lightning. Watched the whirlpool tear those clouds apart like dandelions in the wind.

I… I do not know. The maze is endless. Getting lost could be a life sentence.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m mortal,” you took a controlled breath and dove off the edge. 

Half mortal.

The whirlpool opened, the crack at its centre allowed darkness to slither through. A tendril touched your skin. Then another. The darkness spread like the drench of rain. Soon, you and the darkness were one.

[doomstypewriter]

abt the last ask: u dont have to include it ofc (if u write it at all) but i thought id let u know that its based on the mental image i suddenly had of j climbing up to pats window, knocking on the shutters, pat pulling him in by his lapels and immediately kissing him (if you can even call it that with how hard theyre smiling) & then sometime later pat hearing like his dads footsteps coming toward his room as theyre making out so pat scrambles off his bf & shoves him in his closet (the irony)

Anon, finally, here you have it, but with a twist. This got completely out of hand, as per usual when I write anything. Since you were so nice (/li) to send me your request in two parts, I will actually break your prompt into two parts, otherwise, it’s never going to end. I hope you’re pleased by the first part, also, I am answering to this first because it matches the content of the first part. 

Thank you so much for your lovely prompt! Hope you enjoy! 

If anyone wants to be tagged for this let me know in a comment!

AO3

Chapter 2 >>

We call it an affair because it’s a forbidden romance

Summary:  An encounter in the dark. The disdain of society. A forbidden romance. Royalty is involved and a title is at stake. Will an aspiring count, Patton Morandi and his rogue lover Janus overcome the barriers laid in front of them?

(We're in it for the drama)

---

“So long away and what I least expect is not you saving my life, but finding myself having missed your nonsense”.

“Is it nonsense when I make you smile like this?”

Word count: 3848

Pairings: Moceit, future Prinxiety.

TW:  Homophobia, internalised homophobia, deadnaming a trans person, misogyny, mentions of religion, hopelessness, ideological things you would expect from the period (I'm not sure if there's anything else, but please tell me).

Chapter 1 of 2: 

Balcony kiss

How the moonlight shone in its quiet dance with the nightly air. It was a mostly clear summer evening, the second day of the week-long festival. The sounds of music and colourful lights could be heard and seen from the distance, but gradually decreased as a certain thief made its way across the gardens of Villa Morandi. For certain, the head of the family would not be excessively happy about the entire ordeal, but no disgruntlement could come out of those things of which one has no knowledge of, and Janus surely intended to keep his entanglement a secret. 

He crossed the bushes and jumped over marble balustrades expertly, careful to avoid the lights of the servant quarters, where their residents were reading themselves for departure. 

“Signor Morandi seems to be in good spirits lately, it is fortunate that most of us can leave for the festival”. 

Any news about the man was something worth listening to, given his situation, so he decided to stay and see if they mentioned something useful. Also, he, admittedly, enjoyed gossip. 

“Loretta! Don’t be such a bragger in front of us!”

“Why? I’d say the only one lamenting not being able to go is you. You should be ashamed for dragging poor Virginia in with you to make yourself sound less self-centred”. 

Janus silently nodded. 

“That is not true! I am merely trying to make the newcomer feel welcome! And here you are making her feel excluded, who is now in the wrong?” 

Weak retort, wannabe-partygoer, he thought. 

“Va, va…” the other maid answered dismissively “Quit holding her like that! Don’t you see she’s uncomfortable?! Povera bambina”. 

“Come on Virginia, don’t you think it’s a waste for such a wrinkly woman to be let out instead of us?” 

“Who are you calling old?!” 

“You did, but now that you so kindly brought it up, you are old! Turning wrinklier by the second!” 

Alright, at this point, Janus could not help but be rooting for Loretta, going for the old card was the low-hanging fruit. 

“I may be your senior, but I promise you that regardless of that nonsense about wrinkles you’re babbling I’m ten times more fair looking!”

“Ah!” she exclaimed with feigned indignation. “Can you believe her? She’s delusional!”

“Well then, the delusional one will not search for a man at the festival, such a pity I will not be introducing anyone to you this week!”

He smiled at the comeback. Way to go, Loretta. 

“Loretta! Just because you had the luck to get engaged doesn’t give you the right to rob others of their chances. Don’t be so mean, I’ll apologise if I must”. 

“Alright, but never dare call me wrinkly again, for you will owe this old woman when I find you a husband. Virginia, I can help you too if you want it, I know plenty of young lads who would love to…” 

“Oh, no, I’m not really interested”. 

At this point Janus had quenched his thirst for amusement and begun to lose his interest, having more pressing matters to attend to. But, one new comment made him reconsider the usefulness of his eavesdropping for longer on the ladies’ conversation. 

“That’s right, Loretta, don’t you see she’s here on official duty. To suggest for her to slack off with men… ts, ts… “

“Oh, you shut up! Don’t fret, Virginia, dear, I should have remembered you were sent for an urgent matter”. 

“True, true! Tell us if you can, is it as they say? Was her ladyship done in by pirates?” 

“Elda! Such crude language, you dare call yourself a lady, how can you say something so insensitive?”

“What? You want to know as badly as I do, besides, if it is true, then there is no changing it, and if it’s not then it’s fine, as her ladyship is still alive”. 

“I’m so sorry, Virginia, just ignore her”. 

“Don’t worry. As far as I’m willing to say, her ladyship still lives but I cannot disclose any further information”. 

Oh. 

No. 

When one spies on others, bad news exists as a possibility, but, usually, in the form of getting caught. This happened to be worse. Being spotted? That he could deal with. Having his heart ripped out after one stellar month? Not so much. 

He ran. 

Not from his problems. More or less towards them. 

The marble balcony seemed as unreachable as ever. A sense of dread loomed over his thoughts, while a mix of feelings, now turned into urgency, settled in his heart. 

Raising a hand Janus willed his trustworthy companion to fall from the nightly skies. Meanwhile, he began to climb the walls of the manor. There was an undeserved elegance in his motions, not becoming of such an honourless goal, and, nevertheless, fitting for a thief like him. 

The hawk swept inside the room from a window and cast the doors to the balcony open. 

Janus promptly grabbed onto the bass of the marble balustrade. One month ago he had received news of something that would simplify his life. He knew he should not care, it was going to end poorly no matter what. But, rereading two months worth of love letters and hoping for an uncertain future, he could not help but feel happy. That made his resolve to return in time for the festival. 

From the room came a sound of rushing footsteps. 

Three months of yearning to see a face again. 

That image made Janus more desperate, and, in his haste, he committed one fatal mistake. His grip on the marble slipped. At a thirty feet height, the ground beckoned him. 

But, just when his doom seemed so certain, he was caught by the front of his cape and safely gathered against a pair of lips. 

With such smiles stretching their faces, it could barely be called a kiss. But, the intensity of the affections behind it rendered the notion meaningless. 

“My love”, Janus muttered as they parted ever so slightly. 

“You scared me, silly. I miss you for three months and when you’re returned to me I almost lose you for good”. 

“Let’s be happy you were there to catch me”. 

“Thank the Lord, and if He wills it, I will always be”. 

“I ought to be grateful to you, my dear, not the ones above” he answered while stepping to the safe side of the balcony. 

“Well, our poor feathery friend can’t be too happy about that” Patton laughed dismissively, gazing at Janus’ hawk. 

“You’re right. I neglect to show my gratitude, perhaps you could give me somewhere to start?”

“Oh, but how can I hand you my room, my sweet, the stones of the house are too heavy!” 

“So long away and what I least expect is not you saving my life, but finding myself having missed your nonsense”. 

“Is it nonsense when I make you smile like this?” 

Janus laughed in delight. 

“Let me make you smile in turn, then”, he said, whilst extending his hand. 

The touch of Patton’s palm felt like a warm pressure through the barrier of his leather gloves. Perhaps all of his interactions were as imperfect as their naked hands not being able to meet. Janus’ fake gallantry, their hopes, may be short-lived in the face of change. But, for now, he would rather enjoy pretending. 

He pulled Patton to the inside of the alcove. 

“Are you refined now?” Patton laughed. 

“Of course, I have always been. Whatever could lead you to ask such a question? If I were to be a thief, which I am not, I would be the most honourable”. 

There was a certain amount of delight to be found in catching his lover in the midst of changing into his night robes, judging by those being laid out onto the bed’s ostentatious covers. Despite such a degree of luxury surrounding Patton, he still refused to task any servant to dress him. What was there not to love about the man? 

Patton made a motion as if to hold his hands, only to surprise him by pulling his gloves off. Any other person, and it would have been a display of sensuality, coming from him, it was like movement turned into honey, perhaps a mixture of both. Indeed, there was everything to love about him. 

Maybe not all. Janus dreaded to admit how deep in he had allowed himself to be for this man. 

A fool for a good man. 

His hands felt the light night coldness in their grip on the linen shirt. Janus almost wanted to chastise himself as the thought of kissing away the kiss of the midnight breeze came to mind. He hid in the curve of Patton’s neck, sliding his lips along it, feeling like a coward whispering a lie. Countless lies. Telling himself this was enough, that he could bear the thought of this man taken away from him by a woman, that the thrill in this forbidden form of vice was not his worry taking yet another disguise. 

“Oh, you’re a thief alright”. 

“Is there something of yours I happen to have taken?” Janus retorted with a vague tone of amusement. 

Patton cradled his left cheek in a firm request to see his face. Who was Janus to deny him? 

“You know all too well you have”. 

Oh. 

“Well, that would make two of us”. 

Patton’s expression melted into more honey. It always made Janus unsure as to whether he had made a mistake, no matter how unfounded the doubt was. 

“Thank you” the words rebounded in proximity against the other’s lips. Janus didn’t know Patton could also be cruel. 

“A little sincerity never hurt anyone”. 

“You are not anyone” he smiled softly. 

“Then make the pain up to me”.  

Both their lips made contact like a wax seal on a letter. Janus pushed Patton against a low piece of furniture. From how the other fumbled, he could tell a corner was pressing against him. Despite the sting, Patton still committed himself to their affections. If that wasn’t a metaphor for their relationship Janus didn’t know what it was. Janus knew Patton would disagree, of course. 

It seemed that exchanging one piece of furniture for another, the bed, would not be possible. Someone was knocking on the door. 

“Janus…” Patton panicked in a hushed voice.

“Not a problem, my dear, this is my speciality” he smiled at him. 

Janus’ feet almost flew over the carpet, muffled by the Persian fibres and his expertise on avoiding the parts of the floor that creaked. He turned the key of Patton’s wardrobe without the distinctive noise most people couldn’t avoid. Luckily for them, he wasn’t most people. The door mysteriously closed itself from the inside. Janus could swear to hear Patton draw a breath in wonder as to how he had done it. 

“My son, let me in!” a voice came from the corridor. 

“On my way, father”. 

The mule-like bray of the alcove’s door hinges Janus detested preceded the sound of a set of footsteps he knew and loathed just as well, if not more.

“Were you reading yourself for bed? Ah, do not answer, I can already see your night robes over there. How many times need I tell you, call the servants to dress you, it is unbecoming that you do not. Moreso with the status you are to acquire”. 

Janus almost scoffed upon hearing it.

It wasn’t that Janus outright looked down on Signor Morandi. He certainly held an admirable reputation and an even more admirable wealth. He contributed to the church, upheld his honour, was a patron to a few talented artists and did everything expected from someone of his status. By societal definition, he was an outstanding man. But, he could never understand Patton. Yes, Patton’s behaviour in public also stood to scrutiny. He was a young man to be admired, for sure. Yet, it somehow mismatched any other person’s strive for reputability. Patton lacked this performative quality, eagerness, if you will, that he found time and time again in people. 

At first, Janus struggled to comprehend it. Everyone had desires outside of the strictly polite, they either pretended they didn’t or tried to hide it, that’s why they paid the church, after all. Janus didn’t believe people made an effort to actively align with the global canon for morality, just to look like it or deceive themselves. This theory on society made it so when he met Patton he simply dismissed him as a try-hard, later to relabel him as self-deceiving. Maybe he was a victim of his own biased cynicism. 

As they grew closer, he started to get the whole picture. To his surprise, Patton tried to get his desires to align with what he perceived as morally correct, sometimes failing miserably. Janus’ presence in his room didn’t qualify as a success by society’s criteria... Patton’s effort to be ‘good’ did not come from a place of wishing to be perceived as such. Patton didn’t want to look good, he needed to be good. A good man. The realisation was hard to process but true. 

Once he understood that, Janus could not let go. It stands to reason that, if that kind of person were to earn his affection, someone like his father would awaken his spite. Signor Morandi had simply never made an effort to understand his son’s motivations, unlike Janus. If he was a cynic, Patton was a victim to his own good intentions. 

“I do not understand”. 

“Lady Renata Regio is alive”. 

“Oh”. 

“Yes, it is most fortunate, you will no longer have to stay inside and miss the festival”. 

“Well, father, I am not sure if that is appropriate, her ladyship must be feeling poorly after such a horrid experience. Perhaps it is best if I stay in and promptly send a letter to help soothe her”. 

“Patton, it honours you to be willing to put the weak’s suffering before yours, but it is not needed in this case. You do not have to concern yourself with her. I am afraid that she is safe and sound on the account of having planned her own kidnapping. Lady Renata Regio has joined the pirates bringing disgrace upon her family, the wretched woman”. 

Yes! Janus thought. Neither the wardrobe nor the entire room could contain his joy at hearing it. 

“That is most unfortunate, should I reassure her family that I do not hold any resentment towards them?” 

“It would be no good, there is going to be a scandal!” Signor Morandi sounded too happy. 

Janus could not help but to smile a little.

“Are we going to pursue any retaliation?” Janus almost saw Patton shudder in the tone he used. “I do not think it necessary, it is a matter of marriage, although important, there are many other options that--” 

“Yes, there are many other women to pursue, that is the spirit! In said spirits, I must inform you of the most wonderful news I have just received”. 

What? 

“Today a trusted servant from the Regio estate arrived at our home”. 

“Yes, Virginia Fusco”, of course, Patton knew her name. “I personally received her, she refused to tell me exactly why she was sent here, also insisted to wait to talk to you”. 

“Precisely, well, it turns out she is the personal servant of Lady Romina Regio”. 

“The eldest of the twin daughters of the Regio?” 

“Indeed. Let me be frank with you son, the Regio know they cannot keep the true actions of their lesser daughter hidden forever, a rumour is meant to surface eventually. This is very unfortunate for them, I have heard they were planning to match Lady Romina with a higher member of the nobility. Her sister’s actions have ruined her chances, it is unlikely that whoever was to marry her will accept such a union. My son, you know I always have your best interests in mind, Lady Renata Regio was a fine choice to provide you with connections to nobility. In turn, her family would have got access to our wealth, which, after their losses in the war, they need”. 

Oh no. 

“This being the circumstances, they have to choose how to align themselves in the future and what would be more advantageous to the family”. 

“Shit” Janus said under his breath. 

“We are about to reach an agreement for a marriage between Lady Romina Regio and you. I need you to understand that, if you are to accept, you will have to face some troubles, at least initially. The rumours about Lady Renata’s motivations may taint your reputation for a short while and the Regio’s rush to marry off Lady Romina will raise more rumours”. 

“What choice would please you the most?” 

“Oh, Patton, you idiot”. 

“The union could make your child a count, you could potentially obtain a title depending on how we negotiate with the family. It is my wish that you accept this marriage”. 

“Will this bring honour to our family?” 

“Certainly”. 

“Then…” an air of doubt went through Patton’s voice. 

Janus was debating whether or not to burst out of the closet, either to tell him to refuse or to scold him for not accepting immediately what was probably the best opportunity of his life. 

“Of course I will accept”. 

“You make me very happy and proud, my son. I will meet with the servant girl to send her back with a letter requesting to meet with Lord Regio”. 

The words were spoken carelessly. Signor Morandi often did that around his son, not knowing how many times he had been overheard by him. He may be a great man by society’s standards, but he could never be a good man. 

Janus slumped against the back of the wardrobe, surrounded by pieces of clothing he could never afford. There was a world in which Patton had refused. But Patton hadn’t been left a real choice, so he could find some comfort in knowing this thing between the two had to end due to him being backed into a corner. Better than having Patton’s morals come between them. That, he would never reconcile with. 

This was better than before. Being cast away for something as mundane as marriage, no matter the useful connections involved, was one thing, being left for a countess, well, if that’s what it took to refuse him he wouldn’t complain too much. 

He would have preferred a marchioness or a duchess. 

He would have preferred to be the only thing standing in between Patton and kingship and still win. 

He would definitely prefer it if Signor Morandi was to accidentally fall down a flight of stairs on his way to writing his pesky letter. 

There was nothing like a fire to persuade someone, even a countess… 

But Patton would be upset. 

His hawk screeched from the roofs above. Then footsteps rushed to his side, followed by candlelight flooding the inside of the closet. 

Patton had no right to look so humble yet so marvellous. Not even the warmth of the flame could rival with that of his gaze. A gaze that was his’, not of any countess. But, still, a gaze that deserved to become a count. 

“Janus…” 

Honey clogging up his ears, that was the shape of a whisper. 

“I suppose”, he shook off the dust of his cape and held his head up with dignity, “this is when we part. I’d love to say it’s a pity, but we saw it coming. Guess it was nice to enjoy it while it lasted. I’m always a letter away, my dear, that countess of yours wouldn’t ever find out”.

This was the bitter taste of selflessness. He never understood how Patton enjoyed it. 

Janus turned around, ready to make his merry way out of Villa Morandi or fall off the balcony properly this time. Suddenly, Patton’s armed chained the two of them to their spot in the room. Patton’s chest heaved pitifully in a mockery of a hiccup. 

“I’m sorry. What was I supposed to do? There was no other choice. I didn’t wish to upset you. Please--” 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

He promptly let him go. 

“I…”

Janus turned back to face him.

“You think crying will make this easier? Do you seriously think I enjoy this? I would gladly rob you of everything and have you entirely to myself. It is taking so much self-restraint to not get your father into a tragic accident, my dear. If anything, you’re making it worse by crying. I am doing this for you. Don’t you dare ruin the one honourable thing I will do in my life”. 

“How can I pretend to be happy when you’re leaving?” 

There were sparks of light encased in his tears. Something about their ironic beauty left him even more heart-broken. 

“What am I going to do, then? I can be selfish to an extent, but I cannot take the rest of your life too. You’re being offered a title and a wife, all the things someone at your level could wish for. Don’t be more of an imbecile, keep it. It is already inappropriate for you to be seen with the likes of me, and it’s even worse with me being a man”. 

“You’ve never cared about that”. 

“But you do! Let resume, dear”, he tried to say in his most condescending voice. It didn’t sound even remotely like it. “You go to church each Sunday, you have five bibles just in this room and the most sincere good-samaritan complex I have ever seen. I know you can’t bear to live in sin”. 

“I can’t bear to live without you either!”

Oh, Patton, you fool, silly, ridiculous man…

  “What…” he felt as if he was going crazy. 

A chuckle escaped through the spaces in between his teeth. Janus looked downwards and whispered. 

“What are you saying?” 

This self-consciousness, he had never felt anything like it before. Was he blushing? 

“I love you… I know it’s wrong, so why doesn’t it feel like it?” 

More honey. What a way for his plan to backfire.

“This is ridiculous, you should be concerning yourself with more important--” 

Patton placed the back of his hand under his jaw to raise his head with such gentleness... stupid. 

“Is it ridiculous when it’s making you cry like this?”

A compassionate man’s tears were not worth his. He had never been as sure as now that this was a mistake. Yet he longed for him more than ever. 

“Of course not” he wiped away his tears feigning some kind of dignity. 

As quickly as ever, he also pretended to regain his composure. 

“Do you have any sort of plan for what you’re going to do next? Under pressure, you’re a terrible improviser, my love”.  

“Well...I can’t let you go. I know as much. I should, for my family, father, my honour. But I will not. You’ve shown me that acting selfishly doesn’t make someone evil. I will find a way to fulfil my duty without giving you up, you have my word”.

[mishapeesha]

hello friends! i have decided to start writing a fanfiction (although I am......not that experienced with writing, but I will trY)

anyways! the pairing is obviously deancas, and since I’ve just written the first chapter, the tags will be limited until I further develop the story. The rating will change if needed, trigger warnings will be added if necessary, and so on!

the summary: 

A package is mailed to Castiel Novak, a 27 year old with unknowingly very limited knowledge on a certain aspect of his life. It’s filled with what seems like hundreds of letters all to him, a single person. Memories and confessions of love are penned within those letters. As time goes on, he feels drawn to the person on the other end and sets out to find them – and the letter’s inevitable true destination that ties the final loose end in Castiel's life.

ao3 link!: 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28625316/chapters/70161738

i would really appreciate any feedback, or just boosting this would be pretty cool too! 

for anyone that doesn’t wanna read on ao3, chapter 1 starts below!

September 18th, 1992

           Castiel’s chest bounced as he jogged down the stairs aligned in a wide spiral, his eyebrow quirked up in confusion as his doorbell buzzed repeatedly with barely a second in between every ring. He winced at the harsh sound of it, noticing how military-like it was in the way that the alarm went off. It was always a task of his to get it changed, but he never got the chance to. Either because he didn’t feel like it, or because his memory disallowed him to remember something as unimportant as a doorbell.  

           “Coming!” He called out to whoever bothered to show up at his house so early in the morning. Castiel paused beside the bookcase placed beside his door, glancing at the mirror in order to adjust the loose strands of hair that spiked in different directions with the frantic brush of his fingers. He let out a sigh as his gaze shifted towards the reflection of the wall clock behind him, seeing that it was barely 7:05 am. Just as he turned to face the door, that annoying noise rang in his ears once more. Maybe one day he’d go through with that mental task of changing the buzz to something more audibly pleasant.

           His fingers wrapped around the metal doorknob, and a click emerged as he swung the door open, being immediately met with a man who he had never seen in his life. His eyes quickly scanned over the man, noticing that he was in uniform, so he classified him as harmless. What damage could a mailman do? Hand him a letter and give him a papercut? Though there was a look on the mailman’s face that Castiel couldn’t quite place. He was torn between thinking it was some sort of discomfort towards Cas personally, or just general exhaustion because it could just be that he was tired. There wasn’t really anything enjoyable about driving to several homes, handing gifts to so many people while barely surviving off of minimum wage and receiving nothing in return.

           “Castiel Novak?” The man asked, shifting in his spot momentarily as he held a medium sized box underneath one arm, and a clipboard in the other hand. Castiel took note that his name was Thomas after noticing the nametag attached to the pocket on the fabric of his blouse.

           “Yes, that’s me.” Castiel replied, opening the door slightly more after feeling more comfortable to do so. He furrowed his eyebrows as he looked past Thomas, wondering if anyone was following him, or if they were being watched. They seemed to be alone, so Cas stopped tapping his fingers against the wooden door, although he hadn’t realized that he began to do that in the first place. “Is there anything that you need of me?”

           “Well,” Thomas began with a nod. He cleared his throat and placed the clipboard in between his legs to use both of his hands, and then offered Cas the box he held. “We’ve had this in the office for a while now, but it was specified to be delivered on this day to this address, and to you.” He explained, biting his lower lip in what Cas took as some sort of minimal panic, or uneasiness. “The sender wishes to remain anonymous, however.” He added, as if it were nothing unusual.

           “Anonymous?” Castiel questioned and drew a frown onto his face. He shook his head and reverted back to closing the door, but he kept a smaller gap so that the two of them could still communicate. “I will not be accepting a box from someone who doesn’t wish that their identity is revealed. It could be anything, and I am not willing to risk my safety.” He deadpanned before he glanced down at the box, not trusting whatever was in it. Why would anyone refuse to mention their name unless they were someone dangerous and not to be messed with?

           Thomas stared at Cas for a few moments as he was now met with the confusion of what to do with the box now that the apparent receiver was blatantly rejecting it. He swallowed hard as an uncomfortable smile curled the corners of his mouth.

“Mr. Novak, I can assure you nothing that will hurt you is in this box. Not only is it very light, but it would also be a shame if this was thrown out. As I mentioned, this has been collecting dust in our office. It has been for the last four years.”

           Castiel froze at Thomas’ words, struck with surprise. He had absolutely no idea who sent the box, what was in the box, or why it was sent in the first place. Cas was Cas. The person he spoke to the most was his brother, and even then, he barely saw Gabriel to begin with. They spoke less and less as the years passed, and so Castiel was alone for the majority of the time. So, he couldn’t quite process how he had a package delivered to him, when he knew his brother barely had the energy to stop by his house for a quick hello. He was a generally distant individual. An outsider to himself, his family, and others.

This did not add up.

           “Four years you say?” He asked, tilting his head to the side as he looked between Thomas and the box, earning a nod in reply. He sighed in defeat and once again, opened the door. “You really can’t tell me who sent it? Surely you must know.” Cas said, raising his eyebrow as he finally decided to take the box from Thomas’ hold. “It isn’t heavy.” He pointed out in confirmation to what Thomas previously stated, now more so curious to know what he was sent rather than worried.

           “I’m not at liberty to say. I’m sorry.” Thomas responded and rubbed the back of his neck before he remembered to pull the clipboard from between his legs. “Could you sign this, please?”

           Castiel took the pen and scribbled a random signature on the piece of paper, nodding at Thomas who offered a small smile at Cas. “Thank you.” He murmured quietly, clutching the box to his chest.

“Of course. Have a good day.”

           “And you as well.”

           A creak erupted from the door as Castiel let it close on itself, and eventually the atmosphere fell back into silence. But suddenly, he became almost hyper-aware of his surroundings. He couldn’t tell whether it was his actual heartbeat that he could hear, or if he was overhearing some rhythmic beat from his neighbor’s home nearby. And he definitely grew irritated at the loud ticking sound of the clock on the wall that seemed to follow him as he dragged himself through the hallway to the living room.

           The walls seemed to follow his every movement, making Cas feel judged and uneasy. And just for a moment, a sense of guilt rose in him. There was no source for it, yet there was some inexplainable physical tug to what Cas held in his hands, allowing negative emotions to faintly flood into him. He was convinced that his thoughts echoed off those same walls, as any word spoken in his mind just sounded too intense and loud in his ears.

           Cas sat down on the couch, sinking into the mattress as he leaned forward to place the box on the coffee table in front of him. His bottom lip became a victim of his anxious habits where his teeth would peel at the loose, dry skin, drawing blood that lightly pooled into his mouth and presented a metallic taste.

           “What could you be?” He spoke out loud to himself, picking at the loose thread poking out of the couch. He exhaled and used his nails to tear off the tape sealing the box shut. It looked like an average box, which made any assumptions as to what could be inside completely impossible to Cas. It’s not like he expected a bomb to be inside, but he also didn’t expect a proper gift. So, then what? What made a box so big, yet so light at the same time? What was so important that it absolutely had to be sent to Cas four years later?

           Once he managed to tear the seals off, he took in a deep breath. He didn’t know what he would be getting himself into, and yet he knew there was absolutely no way he’d be able to keep himself from looking inside. So, before he knew it or could hesitate, the box was opened, revealing the last thing Cas would have expected.

Letters.

Lots of them.

           “What the hell..?” He breathed out, flipping the box over so that the letters scattered out across the table. His eyes widened in both confusion and shock, and he immediately reached to pick one up. He examined the envelope: Clean, neat, and numbered with a bold 30 on it that was also in the colour of purple. There was no stamp. There was no name. Just a singular number, and nothing more than that.

Or it would be nothing more if he decided to keep the envelopes tightly secured.

Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it? Though at the same time, he really did have nothing to lose. A dance with death was the least of his current concerns.

By the look of things, it appeared as though there was a certain number of letters in the box, labeled from one to an unknown limit. For all that could be known, there could be fifty letters, a hundred, or a thousand. He doubted he’d read all of them, because what could possibly be so interesting that the writer thought it was imperative that Cas knew?

The bigger question was, who wrote them?

Castiel shuffled through the envelopes until he found the first numbered 1 in red. His mouth went dry, and his brain raced with questions that he had no answer to at all. He hated being blind to the truth, to be instead engulfed in a mystery, like his life was some sort of game. He wanted to know what was going on, and he wanted to know now. But given all that Cas was presented with, he knew it would be a long time before he knew what was actually going on. It could be days, weeks, months. All depending on how much Cas read, and how fast.

He fiddled with the letter in his hand, debating whether or not to open it. He had to. He could just read this one and throw the others out. And maybe he’d get the answers he needed in the first envelope, making it possible to ignore the others.

The paper ripped beneath his fingers, and soon enough, he held a paper in his hands. The first out of many.

Quickly, his eyes scanned over the words written, immediately blocking them out because he refused to jump too far in what was visibly so carefully put together. He wanted to take his time and appreciate the effort put into all of this. But he did take notice of the handwriting. It was a combination of neat and messy. Definitely readable, and a little too familiar. It was nice, simply put. But Cas could sense the desperation in the way the words were written. They were rushed, and well thought out of as well. Like whoever wrote knew what to say, just not how to say it.

Dear Castiel,

Knowing you, you’re probably freaked the hell out right now. And... Well, you should be.

Cas frowned and scoffed, rolling his eyes at the paper. Already, the letter was referring to him, and he had no idea about who was writing. Clearly, off to a great start.

Or not. Actually, don’t freak out. You don’t need that. Anyways…grab yourself that weird coffee that I know you like and get comfy.

What I’ve done here for you is write a hundred letters. Or I’m planning to, at least. Hopefully I commit to this. I guess if you’re reading this, I’ll have succeeded, so yay me, I guess. But I want you to really read them. To understand it all because there is so much that you don’t know. About me, about you, and more importantly, about us. I know you might be scared-

Castiel looked away and shook his head, setting the letter down on the table causing it to fold in on itself with how long it had been creased for. He rubbed his forehead and sighed, mumbling something incoherent underneath his breath. Not even halfway through the first letter, and Cas was already overwhelmed. Everything in him begged him to stop reading, but he couldn’t stop himself from reaching back towards the piece of paper and picking it up once more. He was certain that would be a decision he would regret in the future.

-and that’s okay. Fear’s good. Sometimes, at least.

Please, hear me out, alright? I need you to keep an open mind. You gotta, man. Or else this won’t work. I don’t mean to put on a show and get all dramatic, but I need you to level with me. To feel with me, and to get angry and hurt whenever you feel like it. I need you to bust open your damn walnut, and pull me out of that chest that you’ve got stuffed in there somewhere.  

Cas, you may not know me now, but I know you.

I’m writing this on September 18th, 1988. We met five years go..I don't really know when you'll get this. Could be ten years from now. Guess we'll see.

I need you to remember.

Work that big ol’ brain of yours and try to not be the dumbass that you tend to be. It's my fault you're in your current situation, but you need to try. If not for me, then for you.

We haven't spoken in so long, Cas. And saying I miss you won't change a damn thing because you don't even know who I am, but I do miss you. And you can take that however you want for now, but you'll understand it all eventually. If you decide to actually go through with this and read all that I've written for you.

“Situation?” Castiel asked out loud, as if he’d get a response. Of course, he was met with silence. But he still had no idea what was happening. He didn’t know what any of this meant, but he did know this had the potential to ruin his entire life. In fact, it felt like everything started slowly tumbling down already.

And yes, he had nothing. But was it worth the loss?

I’ll tell you everything. No plot-holes, not shit-holes, or whatever. All I ask is that you read. It’s that simple.

That’s all for now. Sorry for the short first letter. I’ll see you soon.

-Dean W.

“Dean?” He whispered, and at that, his chest knotted tightly as he took in a shaky breath. He widened his eyes and wheezed, an uneasy feeling creeping its way up his chest. So, the writer had a name. One that Cas mentally did not recognize, but he physically did apparently.

What the hell did the "W" stand for? He didn't know. Or rather he couldn't remember, according to what the letters were saying.

He set the letter down and stared at the others, scratching at his arm as he eyed the unorganized mess that had now grounded him in his place. Out of all of the things he could have received that day, he just had to get what was probably the most confusing thing he had ever been confronted with.

The possibility of fault grew, and all Cas could do for now was allow himself to become engulfed in the non-existent voice of a series of letters that he was yet to understand, and so rightfully dreaded.

[emmerrr]

Possible prompt if you’re interested could be Declan finally seeing one of the portraits Jordan does of him! Alternatively, jordeclan moving in together and creating a space where neither of them has to hide themself in an attic

i can’t resist a moving in fic and i’m sorry this took so long

-

It’s late afternoon when the final box is removed from the moving van, and just for a moment, the excitement is overshadowed by the overwhelming task of unpacking that lies ahead.

Boxes, boxes, everywhere. Declan closes the front door and follows a trail of them to the bedroom where he finds Jordan, curled up on top of the bed they’ve not long finished making. Her eyes are shut, her breathing even, but Declan isn’t fooled.

He crosses his arms and leans nonchalantly against the doorframe. “Faker.”

Jordan affects a snore which makes Declan laugh, and she opens an eye, that wicked grin that stole his heart spreading across her face. She pats the empty space beside her. “You know you want to.”

He really, really does. He kicks off his shoes and crawls up beside her, his feet instantly grateful for the reprieve. He groans happily, sinking his face into the softest pillow in the world. He feels Jordan press her face into his arm and turns his head, and for a moment they just watch each other.

“We have so much unpacking to do,” Declan finally says.

Jordan nods. “We do. Don’t worry, it’s not going anywhere.” She lifts Declan’s arm and tucks herself underneath, then kisses his collarbone.

He sighs, happily resigned to his fate. The house is still a mess of boxes, they need some more furniture, and the whole thing is still too new and alien for it to quite feel like home. But with Jordan in his arms, nodding off to sleep in the bed they now share in the place that’s just theirs, it’s the closest to home Declan’s ever felt.

-

“What do you think?”

“It’s hideous.”

“Isn’t it?” Jordan says dreamily. “Sit on it.”

Declan eyes the armchair dubiously. It’s some kind of paisley print in the most garish of colour schemes; bright pink and orange, smatterings of yellow and turquoise. “It won’t go with the rest of the living room furniture,” he tries.

“Your doubts are duly noted,” Jordan says sagely. “Sit.”

“...This feels like a trap.”

“Sit.”

Declan sits.

It’s the most comfortable chair he’s ever had the pleasure of sitting on, and he does everything he can not to let his face give that fact away. He shrugs. “It’s alright.”

Jordan grins the grin of the triumphant, and Declan knows they’re getting it.

He tries to imagine it in their space, and suddenly finds that he can. He can picture where it will go; at an angle, equidistant from the fireplace and the TV. He can picture them in the winter, him and Jordan cuddled up together, blanket tossed over them, snow falling outside, the light of the fire covering the whole room in a cozy glow.

He thinks he might be going soft, and he thinks that might be okay.

“I told you we’d find something in a thrift store,” Jordan says, her fingers twined through his as she leads him to the checkout counter.

He pulls her hand to his mouth, kisses it gently. “So you did.”

-

The furniture is pulled back from the walls and newspaper covers the floor as Jordan and Declan stand, paint rollers in hand, transforming their bedroom walls from a bland and safe off-white to a lovely deep forest-green.

Jordan’s phone is playing music through wireless speakers, a playlist that seems to jump from Rihanna to Metallica to Taylor Swift to Arcade Fire to some K-pop band Declan doesn’t know the name of, and so on, in no discernable pattern that he can follow.

“What playlist is this?”

Jordan smiles wryly. “It’s all songs that Hennessy hates.”

Declan thinks about that, and about all the canvases in the spare room that Jordan has set up as her art studio, original pieces that she started and then aborted.

“Is there still a part of you,” he says carefully, “that thinks everything you like, or create, or choose, is really just some facet of Hennessy’s personality and not truly your own?”

Jordan’s expression hardens, and he knows he’s hit a nerve. “That depends,” she says evenly. “Is there still a part of you that thinks this is doomed? You and me?”

It’s Declan’s turn for a wry smile. “Touché.”

Their love story is a unique one, and Declan can’t deny he’s had his moments of thinking that it’s all going to end in flames. But through it all he also knows that he’d still be here, even if they were heading towards their inevitable end. He wants this, for as long as he can have it.

It’s hard to stop constantly thinking about worst case scenarios, because it’s so ingrained in Declan to do just that. But Jordan quiets that part of his brain with a touch, or even a look. Just being in her presence is a balm to his heart and his mind.

They’re happy. And maybe they’ll be okay. Who’s to say?

“For the record,” he says at last, “I don’t think this is doomed.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “No. And also, you are your own person, independent of Hennessy.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

Jordan puts down her roller, and cups Declan’s face, bringing it down to hers as she kisses him. She’s probably getting paint on his face, but he doesn’t care; not now, not ever.

“For what it’s worth, you are the best choice I ever made,” she says fiercely, her forehead pressed to his.

He kisses her again, soft. “It’s worth everything.”

-

“When are you going to put your paintings up?”

It’s a fair question. They’ve been here almost four months now, and everything from Declan’s attic in the D.C. house is still leaning up against the wall in Jordan’s art studio, covered over.

“There’s no attic here.”

“Ha, ha,” Jordan says sarcastically.

The truth is, he doesn’t know quite why he hasn’t gotten around to it. At first it was for practical reasons; they had painting and other repair work to do in several rooms, so it made sense to wait until that was all finished.

But it is finished now, and it has been for weeks, and other art pieces and photographs have gone up; some of it Jordan’s own work, some that she bought (or stole) once upon a time, some that they bought together. But nothing from his own collection, nothing that he had kept locked up for his eyes only until Jordan had shown up and gently prised the key from his hand.

His silence drags for so long that Jordan drops the sarcasm. She puts her hand on his chest. “This is our place. Yours and mine. You don’t have to hide here.”

Because he has been hiding away, for years, so much so that it’s habit more than anything that seemingly forbade him from doing anything that wasn’t cookie-cutter.

But Jordan sees him, she knows him; the real him behind the slick, designer veneer, and that’s the part she loves.

The part that wears fancy shoes.

“Come on, then,” he says, taking her hand. “You can help me decide where they should go.”

“I’m so glad you said that because actually I already have some ideas,” she says, and that's how they spend the afternoon.

They take Declan out of the attic, one piece at a time.

-

It’s quiet when Declan gets home. He takes his shoes off by the door and hangs his coat up, then makes his way through the house, peeking in each of the rooms in search of Jordan.

She’s not in the living room, where Declan’s favourite hideous armchair now lives. Matthew fell asleep in it on New Year’s Eve, and Ronan drew a monocle and handlebar moustache on his face. It had been a quiet one; they’d played games most of the evening, almost all of which were won by Adam, and at midnight Ronan and Hennessy had been in charge of the dream fireworks they set off outside.

The kitchen is also empty when Declan scans it, his eyes lingering on the slight chip in one of the floorboards from where Jordan had dropped the admittedly ridiculously heavy cast-iron skillet when they were unpacking. He remembers accidentally flipping a pancake right out of the pan and onto the burner. He remembers burnt toast and spilt coffee and broken crockery, and various other messes, but most of all he remembers the laughter that went along with all of it. The dancing in the kitchen at 2am, the doing the dishes in companionable silence, the domesticity in helping each other prepare a meal.

These are the things Declan now thinks about when he thinks about the concept of home. Maybe it’s a place where the good memories you make outweigh the ones that hurt. Maybe home is what you make of it, the stamp you put on it to make it your own. Maybe home is a person. 

Maybe it’s a combination of all of those things.

Declan finds Jordan, inevitably, in her studio. She has headphones on which explains the quiet, and she’s working on a painting, the canvas almost as tall as she is. There’s no reference that Declan can see, and it’s not a copy. She’s painting just for the sake of it, a complete original.

He moves carefully around until he’s in Jordan’s eyeline, and the laser focus in her eyes shifts to a smile of delight when she spots him. There’s paint splattered on her overalls, specks of it on her face and in her hair, but she never looks more radiant than when she looks at Declan like this.

“You’re home!” she exclaims, pulling her headphones down.

“I am,” he agrees, warmth settling in his chest.

“I’d kiss you but I’m all painty.”

“I don’t care,” Declan says, and he closes the gap between them, sweeping her up into his arms as he kisses her, swallowing up her delighted little “oh!”

“You’re in a good mood,” she says with a laugh when he puts her down.

“Just happy to be home.” It’s so strange to finally be able to say that, and to really mean it. He’s home with Jordan, where he belongs. “You about ready to take a break? I was going to make coffee.”

“I’ll be out in a minute. Make me a latte?”

Declan smiles. “For you? Anything.”

[morganaspendragonss]

fic request because i am d e s p e r a t e : tarlos carlos whump with supportive gabriel reyes ??? if you’re down to write him that is. i love ur work n ur whump n i think u would write a p good gabe. 🥰

holly’s august extravaganza day 1: against all odds (we're still here)

i'm always down to write gabriel! thanks for the prompt trick, i hope you like it!

ao3 | 2k | car accidents, whump, major character injury, angst with a happy ending

“I told you we should have brought the car.”

Carlos scowls over at TK, shifting one of the many bags he’s carrying higher on his arm. It cuts painfully into his skin, his good mood from earlier long since soured. The knowledge that TK is, of course, right isn’t exactly helping matters.

“In my defence,” he starts, for probably the fifth or sixth time, “when we texted your dad to see if he wanted us to pick up anything from the store, I wasn’t expecting a full list.”

“We could have told him no.”

“TK, he’s your dad and we are literally crashing his home right now. I’m not gonna tell him no.”

TK opens his mouth, presumably to retort with a comment about how his dad loves Carlos and loves having them around. Both of which are things Carlos knows perfectly well, thanks, but he’s still not interested in testing it by refusing to get Owen’s kale chips or that specific brand of shampoo which took half an hour—and two stores—to track down.

Whatever TK was about to say is abandoned when one of his own bags slips out of his grasp and falls to the ground with a depressing thud. It bursts open—because why wouldn’t it—and spills their purchases across the sidewalk. The only solace is that nothing breaks, but that’s where the good news begins and ends; Carlos’s eyes track a can as it rolls down the street and into the gutter, landing in a puddle of dirty water. TK looks forlornly between the dropped bag and those still balanced on his arms, then heaves a long-suffering sigh and crouches awkwardly, easing the other bags down as carefully as he can manage.

“Call an Uber,” he grumbles. “We are not walking home like this.”

On that point, they’re in agreement. Carlos spares himself a moment of idle amusement at TK’s predicament before beginning the arduous task of extracting his phone from his pocket without dropping any of his own shopping.

He’ll hate himself for it later, but he’s so focused that the screech of tires coming around the corner barely registers as a blip on his radar. He doesn’t notice anything until TK suddenly barrels into him, throwing Carlos to the side just before something else, something heavy, crashes into them with a blinding flash of pain, and then—

Nothing.

*

Oh my god!

Someone call 911!

Are they even alive?

Just hold on, son, you’re going to be just fine.

*

Beeping.

Carlos frowns, slowly blinking his heavy eyelids open. It takes a minute to register his surroundings for what they are—a hospital room—and a further minute to notice the presence at his side. It’s his father, looking exhausted, turning his cowboy hat in his hands as he stares at the floor.

“Dad?” he croaks, wincing at the soreness in his throat. “What happened?”

His father’s head jerks up, his eyes going wide as he sees Carlos awake. “Mijo. It’s good to see you awake.”

“Dad, why am I here? What happened?”

He sighs, reaching out to pat Carlos’s arm. “There was an accident,” he explains. “A drunk driver lost control of his car and mounted the curb right where you boys were standing. He was speeding, so he hit you pretty hard. Your foot was crushed under a wheel, you have a fractured wrist, and you bumped your head when you fell so you probably have a concussion. The doctors say you should heal just fine, though, gracias a Dios.”

Carlos lifts his head to look down at his body, only just registering the casts on his arm and foot. There’s a dull ache radiating through his entire body and his head is pounding in time with his heartbeat, but he’s alive and he’ll heal. He should be happy about that, but the only thing occupying his mind is his dad’s silence on TK.

“What about TK?” he asks, part of him dreading the answer. “I remember him pushing me; is he okay?”

“He’s…” His dad hesitates, sending a cold slither of fear down Carlos’s spine. “Alive.”

Carlos stares, the beginnings of panic stealing his breath. “What does that mean?”

His father blows out a long breath. “It means you were right,” he says, meeting Carlos’s eyes. “He did push you, so he took the brunt of the hit. He suffered a serious open pelvic fracture and broken ribs, which punctured his lung. Last I heard, they managed to fix him up and they’re not expecting any further complications, but we won’t know for sure until he wakes up.”

“He hasn’t woken up?”

“Not yet. He will, you’ll see.”

“I want to see him.”

And Carlos knows what the answer will be to that—a resounding no. He also knows that he won’t be able to argue; his father is incredibly stubborn, and when he digs his heels in, there’s no moving him. But he needs to at least try—he’s not going to stop worrying about TK until he sees him, and probably not for a long time after that.

His dad sighs and fixes him with a firm look. “Carlitos, you and I both know that’s out of the question,” he says. “You’ve only just woken up, you need to give yourself time to heal before exerting your body even more. Besides, he’s in good hands and Owen is with him, so we’ll know as soon as there’s any change.”

“Joder, Papá, I know all that,” Carlos cries, frustrated, barely able to refrain from throwing his head back on the pillow. “I just hate that he’s here, hurt, and I can’t even see him.”

“Lo sé,” His dad smiles gently, something that’s probably supposed to be comforting, but really only gets on Carlos’s nerves. “Escúchame, hijo. Descansa. Cúrate. Then you can focus on TK.”

It’s easier said than done and his father knows it, but Carlos has no choice. The conversation is effectively put to an end by his dad reaching over and pressing the call button next to the bed. A nurse comes in and quickly sets about checking his vitals and asking enough questions to make Carlos’s head spin. His probable concussion becomes definite, but otherwise he’s in good shape, all things considered.

He can’t help but wish he weren’t.

*

Two days later, Carlos is deemed fit to be discharged, providing he has someone to help him and providing he agrees to rest and not do anything even close to strenuous. TK is also awake now but, according to Owen, he’ll be kept in the hospital for at least another week. The break to his pelvis was bad, so he’ll need a wheelchair for a while even after discharge, and his refusal to take strong painkillers means his recovery is going to be long and painful.

Carlos is itching to see him. It’s been torture cooped up in his room without knowing how TK was doing—there’s only so much relief messages passed through their fathers can bring. It had only been his father’s stern and steady presence that had kept him in that bed when he felt like he was losing his mind with worry.

But now, finally, he’s being wheeled into TK’s room and helped onto the chair next to the bed. Owen stands off to the side, watching the two of them with a mixture of affection and sadness in his gaze, and his dad hovers behind him, but Carlos only has eyes for TK.

He looks incredibly tired, but he attempts a smile when he rolls his head to look at Carlos, extending his hand out across the distance between them.

“Hey, Ty,” Carlos says softly, taking TK’s hand in his good one. “How are you feeling?”

“Been better. Not sure if I’ve been worse. I think this might just beat getting shot to that title.”

“That’s not funny.”

TK just hums, his eyes drifting closed for a second. “Maybe not.”

“Why did you push me?”

TK’s eyes fly open at the question, confusion overtaking his expression as he stares at Carlos. He moves as if to sit upright before groaning in pain, his face screwing up. Carlos reaches out for him, but he’s beaten to it by his father, who places a reassuring hand on TK’s shoulder.

“Take it easy, son,” he says gently. “Don’t move too much.”

“I hate this,” TK mutters, his body relaxing bit by bit. His gaze is still clouded when he looks back over at Carlos, but he manages a soft smile all the same. “I pushed you because I didn’t want you to get hurt. The car would have hit me either way; I’m just sorry I wasn’t able to get you out of the way in time.”

Carlos blinks at him, dumbfounded. “You’re sorry?” he asks, disbelief colouring his tone. “Ty, you’re in the hospital, seriously injured, because you chose to save me instead of yourself. Why would you do that?”

“You know why.”

Carlos does; of course he does, but it’s not enough to assuage the guilt still bubbling in his stomach at the sight of TK in the bed.

TK sighs, squeezing his hand. “You would have done the same for me,” he points out. “We both know you would have, so don’t you dare ask me to apologise for my choices.”

“I know. I won’t.” Carlos closes his eyes, deflating a little. “I just hate seeing you hurt.”

“And I hate seeing you hurt, so maybe you can do us both a favour and go home. I’ll be fine.”

Carlos must need his hearing tested, because there’s no way TK just said that. There’s no way his boyfriend told him to leave right after calling him out for hypocrisy. Except apparently he did, because he’s trying to disentangle their hands, and Carlos is not having that.

He grips onto TK even tighter and glares at him. “TK, if you think I’m leaving you here—”

“Carlos,” TK interrupts quietly. “I get it. But, babe, you need to rest and heal, and you can’t do either of those things sitting here.”

“Watch me.”

“No.” TK shifts his gaze over Carlos’s shoulder, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “Mr Reyes, can you make sure he rests?”

His dad laughs, leaning over to pat TK’s shoulder. “Of course. I’m sure once his mother sees him, she won’t let him out of her sight for a week anyway.”

TK grins. “Good to know.” He yawns and resettles himself slightly in the bed, his eyes fluttering shut. “Carlos, if you’re still here when I next open my eyes, I’m not kissing you for a month.”

“You shouldn’t make threats you know you can’t follow through with.”

“Don’t make me make it two.”

Despite himself, Carlos laughs. He leans over and presses a lingering kiss to TK’s temple, then stands as well as he’s able, leaning on his dad for support. “Alright, I’m going. I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

TK already sounds half-asleep when he mumbles, “Love you too,” back, and Carlos can’t even be embarrassed by how ridiculously smitten he must look, even though he’s in front of both their fathers.

He allows his dad to move him back to the wheelchair and says a quick goodbye to Owen, keeping his eyes on TK for as long as he can. Just as they reach the door, he catches TK’s eyes opening to slivers, obviously checking to see if Carlos is actually leaving. Carlos shakes his head at him, causing TK to flush at the knowledge he’s been caught. His eyes slam shut again, his tongue poking out childishly, and Carlos laughs, a lightness settling in his heart even as TK’s room disappears from view.

It’s going to be a long few months for the both of them, but they have family behind them to help them get through it.

And they have each other. Which, given everything, Carlos thinks is nothing short of a goddamn miracle.

[justimajin]

It’s a Reverse Basket ◍ Part 16

⇝ Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

⇝ Genre: Fluff, Comedy, Angst

↳ Basketball AU, Crossdressing AU

⇝ Words: 4.7k

⇝ Summary: Basketball is your everything; your passion for it running deep and wanting nothing more then to play the sport. Problem is, the sport isn’t offered competitively to girls and with that, all your hopes immediately fizzle away… …but who ever said that was going to stop you?

⇝ Warnings: pg13; *cranks up the fluff volume*

gif credit.

⇝ Previous Parts: Moodboard Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15

⇝ Next Update: Tuesday, June 30 

You’re surprised by how well things have been going these past couple of weeks.

From having a sudden run in with Min Yoonji during a game to celebrating Valentine’s Day in a frenzy, nothing short of huge doses of schoolwork and constant practice has followed you there after. That being said, you’re still pleasantly surprised by how much closer to Yoongi you’ve managed to grow through the span of these weeks. 

It all started off when he asked you to go to another basketball game with him. Your eyes instantly lighted up at the opportunity, head nodding in agreement and before you know it, you and Yoongi are sitting on the highest bleachers, watching the impending game with such intensity compared to the normal individuals just watching the game out of pure enjoyment. It leads into you asking him more and more questions during practice, to the point where Yoongi stays back a couple of minutes just to show you some move a player did that you were curious about. You have a hard time paying attention though, especially when he nonchalantly walks wearing your woven creation.  

Soon after, Yoongi starts to wander over to your dorm after hours. At first you were a little taken aback with the idea of roaming around at the cost of sleep, but you come to the realization that because of rigorous practice and different classes, you and Yoongi don’t get a chance to spend time together as frequently. However when you agreed to go watch a movie with him, you hadn’t picked up on the way his gaze looked heavy and his slumping form earlier enough, only to discover a heavy weight slumping onto your shoulder and soft snores echoing from his side mid-way.

You repress a smile when he clings onto you, watching the rest of the movie with a sigh until you eventually have to nudge him a little and he mumbles something incoherent. You end up dragging him back to his dorm all on your own, a task you still wonder how you managed to accomplish. The next time Yoongi finds you in the library, studying for an upcoming test and you stare up at him in confusion. His bag ends up on the ground beside your table as he plants down onto a seat, going through his own notes but occasionally giving you snacks that he rummages out of his bag. You begin to protest when Yoongi starts to feed you too many of them, but then he glares at you and says something along the lines of ‘a student and athlete should never be malnourished’ and the whole thought of saying no leaves from your mind entirely with a groan. You work the rest of the night in peace and quiet, though you admit it’s hard to ignore how comfortable Yoongi’s presence is around you, even if he’s sitting with you in silence and doing his own work.

From there, you find ways of spending time with one another, whether it was during the twilight hours of the day or times you would abruptly run into each other. You pick up little things about Yoongi, from his preference about doing the most mundane tasks in the form of spending time together, not keen on huge displays of affection as people would normally want them. You find that he doesn’t like to hold conversations for long, his mind growing exhausted too quickly and needing to just be somehow near you instead. You understand that he isn’t the best when it comes down to speaking about his troubles, so you try to cheer him up by doing small things for him that will uplift his spirits instead. Though when you’re troubled about something, you discover the red-haired man seems to drop everything that’s going on immediately and goes out of his way to make you tell him, giving you the most brutal but much needed advice.

These last couple of weeks have given you the opportunity to understand him better, but you can’t say it was able to prepare you when an unseen predicament looms over your heads. 

“Y-You want to w-what?” Your eyes are completely wide, breath being caught in your throat.

Yoongi instantly notices; the light dust of pink over his skin giving him away already as he mumbles, “Is it too much?”

“No!” You quickly take back, hand raised in front of him. You hurriedly chuck away the basketball in your other hand, moving to completely face him. “I-I was just surprised….but sure, I’d love to.”

Your answer doesn’t seem to convince him enough, his eyes narrowing, “What about Jungkook and Taehyung?”

Oh right. You didn’t even consider them.

“Uh….” Scrambling for anything they’ve told you, a light bulb suddenly lights up above your head, “They sometimes go over to Jimin and Hoseok’s place for movie nights!”

Yoongi ponders, “That could work….”

“It should, I’ll just tell them Hyerin’s coming over or something and we can figure things out from there.” You hastily reassure him, but Yoongi isn't budging.

“Are you sure? I could ask Namjoon if I can go to his apartment instead, I think it’s about 20 minutes away…” He pulls out his phone to double check, but you place your hands over it and shake your head.

“Don’t worry, It’ll work out.”

He stares back at your hopeful eyes, shoulders slumping as he sighs. “Alright.” You smile as he grabs his bag, giving you a small wave before heading out the gym doors. Once he’s out of sight, you instantly let out the breath that’s been stuck in the bottom of your throat.

Moving to get your own bag, you ponder over what he’s told you.

“Someone broke a waterpipe or something and the construction workers will be over for 3-4 hours on Thursday evening to fix it. We’ve been told to make any arrangements because it could take until morning if the building is being affected, so…” Yoongi explains, avoiding your curious gaze, “So I was wondering if I could stay over for a couple of hours? We can watch a movie together if you’d like.”

He stares at you once he finishes. You know it’s nothing out of the norm, from your already late library sessions to going out during the night, but the fact that Yoongi’s going to be in your dorm and wants to spend time with you in there, is causing you to freak out a bit.

“Y-You want to w-what?”

You sigh, mulling over how harmless the idea seemed now. Yoongi just needed somewhere to crash for a few hours and he thought that using the opportunity to spend time with you would be nice, so how could you say no to that?

After padding over to your dorm, you take your keys out and twist the knob, walking in to see Taehyung lounging on the couch and Jungkook rummaging through the fridge in the kitchen.

“Y/N!” Taehyung waves you over, “Back from practice?”

“Uh yeah,” You place your backpack on the ground, “I was just talking to the captain about–“

“Captain?” Taehyung muses, a mischievous grin on his features, “You don’t call him Yoongi?”

You frown, “Not during practice hours….”

“Ohh okay, I see, I see.” Taehyung continues to smirk and you inwardly sigh.

Ever since you told Taehyung and Jungkook about your feelings towards Yoongi, the two have gone out of their way to slyly tease you about it somehow. Although you just normally brush it off, sometimes they send you these types of looks implying something more and you know you can’t tell them that you’ve actually been with Yoongi for quite a while….just not in the form they see you in.

With a soft smile, you settle down on the couch and Jungkook strolls over with a container of food, sharing a similar smile with Taehyung and having clearly heard your conversation. You decide to take them away from the topic of Yoongi, straying to more impending matters.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you guys!” Taehyung suddenly blurts out, “Jimin and Hoseok were asking if we wanted to do another movie night.”

Jungkook hums, munching down on some greens. You freeze at the topic, eyes wide. 

“Why don’t you guys do it at their dorm this time?” You suggest, meekly giving out a quick excuse to be excluded, “I-I have a quiz I need to study for…”

Well that wasn’t entirely untrue, except this time a certain maroon-haired person will be joining you instead.

Taehyung pursues his lips in understanding, darting his eyes at Jungkook, “What do you say? Movie night but with four of us?”

Jungkook nods, “I’m in.”

Taehyung hums, failing to catch out the sigh of relief that passes by your lips. 

***

A soft knock resonates against the door to your dorm. You speedily rush over, hands twisting around the handle with a huge smile. 

Your smile drops and eyes widen once it’s open. 

Yoongi stands at the doorframe in a pair of brightly coloured blue flannel pajamas, highlighting the colour of his tousled hair. A pillow and blanket are tightly wrapped around one of his hands while the other carries a large bag, appearing like it was going to explode from being stuffed to the brim. A pair of reading glasses sit on the edge of his nose, his tired eyes enlarged and astounded through them.

Because it seems like you’re not the only one surprised by his attire.

Hyerin had decided to leave some of your old belongings with you, including the long wig she had especially bought in case you wanted to dress like yourself. You took it upon yourself to wear the old pink nightdress you used to sleep in, your long locks cascading down and a pair of fluffy slippers nestled in on your feet. You figured that since Taehyung and Jungkook weren’t going to be at the dorm, you can take the opportunity to take some comfort in your former clothes. 

However, his expression tells you he wasn’t expecting it, the stifled exhaustion in his form instantly disappearing.

Breaking out of his daze, he awkwardly coughs, eyes gesturing to your door.

“Can I come in?”

You snap out of it too, opening the door fully, “Y-Yeah, of course!”

Yoongi steps in and you hurriedly shut the door, swiveling around to see him surveying the area. At first you thought it was a bit strange from how he was so keenly observing everything, but then it occurs to you that this is the first time he’s even been in your dorm and that’s enough for you to be flustered.

Scrambling for some words, you choose to point instead. Yoongi begins walking in the direction of your room and pauses for a moment before entering, gaze moving over to you. It strikes you that he’s waiting for you to come over and open the door, finding it wrong in himself to simply barge in.

He enters and you linger at the door frame, eyes glancing around for any speck of dust you had forgotten to clean. Luckily Yoongi doesn’t even notice, more interested in taking pieces of your room in. He eyes the table at the edge of your bed, the appearance of a familiar frame arising a small smile from him as he plops his stuff onto the ground. 

“Are you hungry?”

You don’t realize he’s staring at you until he says something, the words catching you off guard. “O-Oh I haven’t had dinner yet, I can go to the kitchen and cook something for us…“

Yoongi shakes his head, leaving the premises of your room and padding over to the kitchen. You watch in bewilderment when he starts taking supplies out, as if being in there was second nature to him.

“Can you put a pot of water on the stove?” He requests, already in the midst of searching your fridge for ingredients. Nodding in surprise, you take out the biggest pot you have and turn up the heat on the stove, pouring water into it as the heat shimmers.

Yoongi suddenly whirls around, dumping a mix of vegetables into it. You simply watch as he starts chopping up a handful of onions, heavily blinking away the water that rushes to his eyes. Hastily grabbing onto a nearby towel, you dab at the sides and he softly smiles, adding the reminder to the boiling water. When you hand him a paddle to stir the mixture with, he gestures over to the couch. 

“Pick something, I can finish off the rest.”

With a nod, you leave him be and plop down, shuffling through the channels. Your mind ponders as you do, eyes unconsciously peering into your kitchen where you see Yoongi leaning over the stove and taste testing with a spoon.  The whole display spurs something in you, the act of him being in your dorm and cooking seeming so domestic and intimate, a whirlwind of emotions hitting you all at once. 

When a game appears on the screen, you’re immediately sucked in and decide to stop surfing, instead focusing on the way one of the players is shooting a hoop. A shiver runs down your back, suddenly realizing that you probably should have brought a sweater before you sat down.

However as soon as you get up, you’re planted right back onto the couch with something fluffy and heavy weighing down on your shoulders. You only catch a faint glimpse of Yoongi’s silhouette when you turn around, softly smiling as he’s managed to find Taehyung’s frilly apron somehow and laced it around his torso.

Watching Yoongi from the corner of your eye, you wonder if maybe he’s doing all this as a means of thanking you for letting him stay here with you. As if he already knew it was hard for you to immediately open your doors for him in such an abrupt way and he wanted to pay back the troubles with some gratitude of his own.

It’s confirmed once he saunters over to the couch, a filled hot pot brimming with steam placed right in front of you. He slumps down and tangles himself in the same blanket you’re currently secured in, wrapping his arm around you and tugging you closer to him.

Out of all the things that have so far happened in the evening, you would have to say this is the most familiar to you. Leaning your head against his shoulder, Yoongi reaches out to balance a bowl in front of you. You gratefully accept it from him, taking a spoonful and having a burst of flavours launch themselves into your taste buds. You widen your eyes and Yoongi seems to notice, a small yet smug smile resting on his lips.

You watch the game in silence as you take bites of the food, occasionally making remarks about the game. Yoongi hums alongside you, adding in his own comments and attempting to grab a spoon of the hot pot without bothering you somehow.

Although the peaceful atmosphere stays content for a while, eventually Yoongi stops answering you at one point and you have to dart a confused look over at him, only to realize he had unintentionally dozed off. You frown, recalling hearing from Namjoon that his building was having numerous issues and most of them were being fixed during late evenings, the result being a considerable amount of student complaints from the increased noise and their sleep constantly being disturbed.

Placing down the bowl resting on your lap, you tug on his shirt. 

“Yoongi.” You whisper, watching him stir as you tug again, “Yoongi, wake up.”

“Hm?” He weakly blinks, eyes fluttering until a flicker of light fills them and he realizes the ceiling above him doesn’t look like his own. However he relaxes when his eyes come into contact with your own, a smile weaving on your lips.

“Do you want to go to sleep?” You ask, gaze flickering over to your room, “I don’t mind, you look like you could use the rest.”

Yoongi opens his mouth as if to protest, but pouts when you sincerely look at him. Although you would have loved spending this time with Yoongi, you acknowledge that he’s been deprived of getting decent sleep and giving him an opportunity to be well rested isn’t something you’re going to take away.

 With a sigh, he untangles himself from you, arms stretching before glancing in your direction.

“Wake me up in an hour. I don’t want to oversleep.” You nod, watching him waddle over before disappearing into your room. Turning back to the game, you resume to contently eating in silence. 

The door slams open.

You jolt from the sound, a hand placed over your thudding heartbeat as an annoyed Taehyung suddenly emerges. Your eyes widen when Jungkook appears behind him, followed by Jimin and Hoseok.

Instantly you wrap the blanket around yourself in an attempt to cover your attire. Jimin catches the action, eyes sparking up.

“Y/N?” He smiles, but it drops into a frown when you’re sitting on the couch and watching a game, “I thought you had a quiz to study for?”

“I-I do, I was getting some dinner.” You point to your bowl, “Uh what about you guys, you’re back early…”

“Oh, our connection stopped working and we needed an extra cable.” Jimin starts searching around with Taehyung as Jungkook runs over to his room to check. Hoseok eyes what you’re eating, confusion masking over him.

He points down to it. “Woah Y/N, you made this?” 

You don’t know what to say so you just nod instead, but Hoseok frowns as he states the obvious.

“Hm, Yoongi likes to make hot pot often.”

“O-Oh really?” You nervously laugh. 

“Did you guys find it?” Jungkook shouts, earning a ‘that’s a negative’ from Taehyung. He emerges out of his room, a small wire in his hands.

“I have this….” He mumbles as Jimin walks over to look at it, “I don’t think it’s right one though.”

Taehyung sighs, gaze focused until it lands straight on you.

“Wait, Y/N!” He exclaims, “I think I saw one in your room the other day!”

Before Taehyung can twist the doorknob, you panic and shuffle over, still covered in a giant blanket.

“I can get it!” You nearly shout, everyone staring at you in confusion. Nervously smiling, you whip around and quickly enter your room, locking the door behind you within seconds. A drawn-out sigh leaves your lips as you back presses against the door, eyes widening even more at the display before you.

You’re a bit speechless when you see your window wide open, one of Yoongi’s legs and half of his torso already out the window. He glances up at you in surprise, like he hadn’t been expecting someone to open the door mid-way during his escape.

Hastily retrieving the cable your friends needed, you take one glance at Yoongi who has decided that hiding behind your bed was a better call, opening the door to face Taehyung.

“Here.” You let out a relieved sigh as Taehyung hands the cable to Jungkook and he hums, turning around to head back to the dorm across from you. However you’ve failed to consider that Jimin has disappeared in the meantime, suddenly rushing into the room with heaving breaths.

“Guys the signal’s completely gone out, it’s not even turning on anymore.”

“What, really?” A tick leaves Hoseok, shoulders slumping at the realization that their movie night was ruined.

“How about we just use the monitor we have here?” Jungkook turns to you, “We’ll keep the volume down.”

Before you can interject, Taehyung speaks up, “That’s a great idea!”

“But I–“

“Please Y/N!” Hoseok holds onto your protesting hands, “We never got to finish the end and I really want to know what happens.”

When the remaining set of eyes stare pleading at you, the words about to escape your mouth seem to vanish completely. You merely nod, all of them erupting in cheers as you can only helplessly glance at your room’s door.  

***

Yoongi sits on your bed confused when you slip into the room again, hurriedly spinning to lock the door handle. He raises an eyebrow at that, but it disappears once he catches a glimpse of your worried expression.

“They’ve decided to have their movie night here.” You say in dismay, Yoongi’s eyes widening for a split second before he’s humming. He clearly appears to be half conscious, probably frazzled from the abrupt intrusion just like you.

“We can just stay in here.” He mumbles, eyes darting over to you, “Did you get a chance to finish dinner at least?”

He exhales in relief when you nod, planting the heavy blanket that was covering you onto the ground and then sinking down. Grabbing your backpack, you decide it’ll be best if you got down to doing some schoolwork and Yoongi slides over to join you, snatching the bag he had brought with him.

The room dips into silence, the single faint echoes of your roommates coming through the walls as you attempt to concentrate on your notes. Yoongi seems to be studying for an assessment of his own, occasionally letting out a yawn as he does.

Yet he soon grows tired of the constant staring contest he’s been having with the notes, eyes sleepily blinking as he leans back on the side of your bed.

“You know,” He begins, your attention diverting over to him, “Yoonji wants to see you again.”

Your eyes widen and he smiles, “She’s been begging me to bring you over one day.”

“Bring me over where?” You ponder.

“To my house, where my parents live.” At that, you morph into a deer in headlights, stumbling on your words.

“I-I couldn’t just possibly show up out of the blue……”

“I know.” Yoongi whispers, “Which is why I want you to come with me instead.” 

You glance at him surprised but are even more taken aback at the tender gaze he gives you, flushing immediately. 

“A-Alright...” You mumble, catching the giant gummy grin on Yoongi’s features that just has your own heart doing flips.

A low sound buzzes in the midst of the feeling, Yoongi scrambling around to locate his phone.

“What is it?” You quickly ask, already noticing the crease forming in between his brows.

“My dorm manager just texted all of us.” Yoongi says, pursing his lips, “They said the repairs are done and we can return to the building.”

“Oh, that’s great.” You smile, but the look on Yoongi’s face tells you otherwise. It’s then you realize there’s no way for him to leave your dorm, the departure surely causing a multitude of questions to spark up from your roommates.

Yoongi seems to be lost in thought, eyes flickering as he ponders over the potential options he has. He could have quite easily left if Jimin and Hoseok’s connection wasn’t having issues, and he looked so tired because of their disruptions, time soaring by within hours.

It takes a shear load of courage from your part, but you don’t want him to go through any more hardship for the rest of the night.

“Y-You could always j-just stay here for the night….” You quietly offee, yet Yoongi’s ears pick up on it regardless.

Darting a quick glance up, he looks completely stunned. You’re alarmed when he suddenly covers his face, delicate pink rapidly dusting over his timid features at the suggestion.

***

The silence reigning in the room is nothing short of troubling, the blanket on your side slightly tugging away when Yoongi rustles next to you. You had been too persistent in not letting him sleep on the floor, even after he had informed you that it wasn't uncomfortable and he had been sleeping perfectly fine when he initially had gone to take a nap. The aftermath had led into you leaving half of your bed open for him, as he nonchalantly shuffled over and tucks himself into your blanket.

You stare at the ceiling for what seems like an eternity, too hyperaware of the person shoulders away from you to sleep.

“Y/N?” Yoongi mumbles, his voice thick with fatigue, “I think the window is still open.”

Your eyes perk up at that, poking your head out from your shared blanket to find that indeed, the source of the chilling breeze entering the room was the window in your room.

Deciding to close it, you push the blanket off of you and attempt to get off the bed, accidentally stumbling back as you do. Unaware that Yoongi had also gotten up to do the same thing, you end up knocking into him.

You hear a small ‘ow’ and panic. “Yoongi? Yoongi, are you okay?”

You can’t see anything in the dark, hands reaching out to pat down on his face as a way to gauge if he was alright or not. You receive an answer in the form of a small chuckle.

“I’m sorry!” You hurriedly whisper, still confused if you had unintentionally hurt him somehow, “Yoongi?”

He continues to laugh, an arm raising up high to pull you closer to him. When you stumble, he catches you in his arms and sinks back down on the pillow, a soft smile on his lips.

“Forget the window, I’m tired now.” He mumbles, inches away from your ear which only results in your face colouring into a shade of bright red. You have to admit that being in his embrace is incredibly cozy, the cool breeze entering the room getting long forgotten.

As the drowsiness hits you and you slowly begin lulling into the tiredness, Yoongi calls for you.

“Y/N.”

“Hmm.” Your lids open only a little, enough to see the small grin Yoongi holds.

“I think I forgot something else.”

His soft lips brush over yours for the slightest of moments, before he rests his head back on the pillow slyly. However, he doesn’t expect you to suddenly get up and reciprocate the action by abruptly pecking his lips again, quickly retracting and pulling the blanket over your head so he doesn’t catch the blush festering on your features.

Yoongi chuckles even as you desperately continue to hide your face from him, his teasing knowing no bounds until the two of you begin to settle down for the night. 

***

Taehyung stretches out his arms, a low yawn resonating through the dorm. His fluffy black hair is tousled and distorted, barely conscious eyes glancing around to see Jungkook sleeping on the couch. Jimin is near him, sitting on the foot of the sofa with his lips parted and soft snores echoing out. Hoseok is on the ground, spread out like a starfish with Jimin’s sweater tossed over him in the form of a blanket.

Getting up from the disarray of things, Taehyung pads over to the bathroom to splash water onto his face to draw out the exhaustion. He stifles back another yawn when he reaches it, a frown overtaking him at the appearance of a closed door.

A knock rattles against it, “Y/N, hurry up.” He tiredly mumbles, slumping his head against a nearby wall. When the door opens he perks up, rushing in immediately once it’s left unoccupied.

“Thanks.” He says, earning a silent nod of your head before you’re gone. He takes a bar of soap and begins to lather it between his hands, spreading it out evenly onto his face. Water pours out of the faucet and he splashes the water droplets against the soap, life slowly entering into his eyes again.

He pauses for a moment, drops of water still running down his face. He steals a glance at the door, narrowing his eyes for a split second. 

Times passes and he eventually shrugs it off, resuming back to washing his face. 

Perhaps if he were fully conscious, he would have noticed the way your hair was a completely different shade that morning.

[littlesliceofmarvel]

manipulating a god | chpt.six

Synopsis: Trying to break the information out of Loki during the attack of 2012 wasn’t exactly the easiest task, but it was a challenge you were willing to take head on. So, what happened when a master manipulator tried to get information from the God of Mischief?

Series warnings: Swearing, mentions of violence, blood, and gore

Pairings: Stark!Reader x Loki

A/N: I AM FINALLY UNSHADOWBANNED!!!!!! OH MY GOODNESSS. I have been shadowbanned since MARCH.MARRRCCHHH. it’s a good day. (also yes i reuploaded this now that i am no longer invisible.) MY INBOX IS OPEN ONCE MORE AS WELL. (gif not mine)

series masterlist

-

Loki’s piercing gaze never left yours as you tried to think of the proper questions to ask him that wouldn’t obviously show how much you knew about him. Loki wasn’t dumb, he knows damn well why you’re doing this, but if you played my cards right you could throw him off enough to glimpse through and get some information. After all, that’s all you really wanted from him. The topic of the Infinity Stones has to be brought up by him.

You could ask about his childhood, or about his favourite food, or even about which character from Harry Potter he liked best. (We all know it’s Draco because Loki’s a Slytherin.)

“Alright,” you crossed your arms and met his stare, trying to match his intensity, “Favourite colour?”

Loki scoffed, “Awfully basic question to start off with. Green.”

“Hard to tell,” you mumbled, eyeing every bit of green clothing on his body, “Your turn.”

He thought deeply, eyes wandering around the room as if the perfect question was hidden around here somewhere. You had become slightly nervous, Loki seemed like the kind of person to intentionally rip you apart from the inside out, so his questions were bound to hold weight. And after you put him in his place and stormed off last time, no doubt he held a bit of hostility towards you.

“I’ve got it,” he spoke up after a few long moments of silence, “What’s your biggest psychological fear?”

You felt your face drop, thinking about all the irrational fears in your mind. You knew the answer to this immediately — it was something you worried about dealing with on a daily basis. There was no harm in answering the truth, so you answered him honestly.

“Having to watch someone I care about die and not being able to do anything about it.”

Loki smirked, nodding in approval of your answer despite the change of tone in your voice, “Fair.”

You thought back to the countless occasions where you’d been forced to watch Tony suffer and bleed out without being able to help. It crushed your heart into tiny pieces, but in the long run, it was what made you so determined to be a part of the Avengers. With this job, you were able to help as many people as possible. It was going to change your life, you were nearly certain of this.

“My turn,” you spoke up, “What’s the best childhood memory you have?”

Loki’s smirk faltered and his playful expression shifted, “Good childhood memory? I’m afraid that doesn’t exist.”

Bingo.

You eaned forward in you chair with furrowed eyebrows, “I call your bluff. Everyone’s gotta have a good memory from their childhood, no matter how messed up it was. Didn’t you ever go to like, Asgard Disneyland or something?” You knew you were striking a nerve with the way his upper lip twitched, his gaze suddenly growing distant.

“My childhood is really none of your concern. And it wasn’t enjoyable in the slightest, so drop it.” If it wasn’t for the deadly look he was shooting your way, you would have pressed the subject more.

You nodded your head slowly and raised your hands in surrender, deciding to take the high road and be gentle, “Alright, my bad. I’ll ask a different question. What’s something that’s on your bucket list that you haven’t done yet?”

"That... wasn’t a question I was expecting. I’m over a thousand years old, I’ve done a lot,” he looked down to his hands, “But... world domination, obviously.”

You rolled your eyes, “That doesn’t count. Something meaningful, Loki.”

He seemed deep in thought, looking back and forth between his left and right hand as if the answers were scribbled deep into his skin. He squinted slightly before looking back at you, a sudden amused glint in his eyes.

“I’d like to see the universe, I guess,” he shrugged, eyes leaving yours and peering around the room, “I at least have the chance to see more than you do.”

“Of course,” you rolled your eyes, “We’re not all godly galactic beings, y’know.”

As he opened his mouth to speak, a loud crash came from outside the door to the room. You stood up, already on high alert, completely forgetting that you were in a room with the bad guy. You raised your finger to your lips, shushing Loki. Why you did it, you have no idea. But you figured if you were going to crack him, might as well show him you’re trying to protect him too.

With ragged breathing, you stood behind the wall, hand on the gun you had hidden in your waistband. Touching the gun still felt foreign to you, but you brushed the uneasiness aside and tried to contact someone.

“Fury, what was that?” you pressed the communications button on the screen in front of you, “Everything alright?”

As if on cue, the door whisked open and Tony stood tall, hands behind his back and a scowl on his face. He looked from Loki to you, his intense gaze softening a tad.

“What the hell was that?” you breathed a sigh of relief, glad that there was no enemy barging in. The last thing you wanted to deal with was a fight. You had had enough of those for a lifetime.

“I dropped my coffee,” Tony turned around and pointed at the ground, where indeed, a broken mug was scattered, the dark coffee beginning to spread across the floor.

“You — what? The crash was so loud!” you put your gun back in your waistband, baffled, “Why are you being so ominous? What’s wrong?” Something about the spilled coffee and the way he was standing seemed odd, even you couldn’t figure out what he was getting at.

“I need to talk to you,” he placed his hand on your shoulder and began leading you out of the room, “Privately.”

“It was a lovely chat, Y/N,” Loki’s voice called to you as you exited the room, “Until next time.”

You turned back to look at him, catching his eyes as the door slammed shut. Tony placed his hand on your shoulder and pushed you up against the wall, leaning in close so no one could hear.

“Fury’s gonna use the sceptre to make weapons,” he said quietly, pulling away to gauge your reaction. You stared blankly at him, thinking over what he could mean.

“Like, our Fury? Using the Tesseract?” you asked, “No way. He’s not that advanced.”

Tony hushed you once a group of Shield agents rounded the corner, but as they moved out of sight, he moved you futher along the corridor, “I hacked into their files.”

“You what?”

Slightly outraged, you raised your voice, only to be silenced by the clamping of Tony’s hand over your mouth, “Shut up. It’s not that big of a deal. I hack into loads of stuff.”

You gaped at him, eyes blinking rapidly as you took in his words, “That doesn’t make it okay. But, why would Fury use the Tesseract? Doesn’t it practically have a mind of its own?”

Tony nodded apprehensively, “We think so. Which is why I think we need to confront him.”

You waved your hands rapidly, “Oh, hell no. I am not getting involved in this.”

Fury was someone you had admired — and feared, of course — but he was always someone you knew not to mess with. He had his secrets, he had his lies, and he knew how to mess with someone’s mind more than anyone you had ever met up until this mission. You were sure that if he had decided to use the Tesseract, he probably would have told you guys. And if he didn’t, there was a reasonable reason.

“Too late, you got involved when you guilt tripped me into joining the mission,” Tony shrugged, giving you a sarcastic grin, “So, come along now.”

Before you could turn away, he gripped your shoulder and brought you along with him. He manuevered you through the endless corridors, trying to act as inconspicuous as possible. You had never been to his and Banner’s lab, but you figured that was probably where he was taking you.

And you stood corrected.

Standing awkwardly in the center of the lab, surrounded by heavy machinery and flickering computers, Bruce Banner sent you a small wave.

“Y/N,” he greeted, “I guess Tony explained everything to you, huh?”

You nodded, massaging your shoulder gently now that Tony’s aggressive grip was gone, “Yeah, and I gotta say, still sounds like a far fetched theory, guys.”

Bruce sighed, “I thought so too. But look here.”

He pointed to a computer screen on his right, so you slowly approached, eyes widening as you took in what was on the screen. It was a blueprint for a weapon, a massive gun that had the power to take down whatever was in its path. And right at the centre, glowing bright blue, was unmistakably the Tesseract.

“No fucking way,” you couldn’t take your eyes off the screen. So it was true. Fury was going to use the intergalactic power of an other-worldly object to power his own Shield weapons.

“Told ya,” Tony smirked, leaning against the counter behind him and taking a pack of dried fruits out of his back pocket, “Now do you agree we need to talk to him?”

“Fine,” you gave in, lifting your hand to rub between your brow. All of the information was beginning to give you a headache.

You snatched the dried fruit bag from Tony and grabbed a handful, your stomach suddenly feeling quite empty. You hadn’t expected Fury to keep such a dangerous secret from you all — after all, it seemed like you were all on the same page. Get rid of the Tesseract and Loki.

“Look, I’ll go find out where the Tesseract is, and we’ll confront Fury, okay?” you looked between the two, “Promise me you won’t go piss him off before we have the proper information.”

The two begrudgingly agreed, so you decided it was a good enough answer for you. Grabbing another handful of food, you turned to face them, giving them the ‘I’m watching you’ stare and leaving the room.

You continued your way back down the familiar hallways, turning left and then right, stopping once again in front of the door that was hiding Loki. He was probably the only person that knew where the Tesseract was, which only made this so much more important.

Taking a deep breath, you pressed your finger print on the scanner and entered the room again. Although, you weren’t met with the same playful Loki that you had been playing twenty questions with before. He looked enraged, pacing around the cell with his arms crossed.

His eyes snapped up to you once you entered the room, door shutting loudly behind you, “I’m back.”

“I’ve noticed,” he approached the glass, the anger still etched into his pale face, “What do you want now?”

“Oh, snappy,” you raised an eyebrow, wondering why the change in his tone, “I’ve been gone not ten minutes. Why the change in tone?”

“I thought maybe I could see you as a friend,” he spoke slowly, continuing to pace in circles around the cell, “But what is it you want?”

“Who says I want anything?” you crossed your arms, seating yourself on the same chair you were using before, “I’m only a part of this to save my brother, make a name for myself. Help people the way I know best.”

“You think you can do anything? You petty, puny human? What gift do you have?” he motioned his hands at you, “You sit here thinking you can get to me, but you can’t. You think I don’t recognize mind games when they’re aimed at me?”

Still unsure why he was being so snappy, you raised your eyebrow and tilted your head, “If I don’t have a gift, why do you assume I’m playing mind games?”

“You’re pathetic,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard you, “Coming here and speaking to me like we’re equals. Like you’re better than me. You’re not. You’re a sad excuse for a life, you’ve got what’s coming to you. Thinking you can... what? Save your brother? You can’t save him. You can’t even save yourself. You won’t be spared because you know my favorite colour.”

The atmosphere in the room had changed drastically, and if it weren’t for the violent thumping of your heart, you’d think this wasn’t real. But it was. He was real. He was speaking to you, belittling you in every way you had ever been insecure.

You stared blankly, registering his words and the bitter taste they left in your mouth. Had they been his plan? To hurt you? If it was, you didn’t want to let him win, to give in, but it was hard to act like you weren’t affected.

“You’re a monster,” you blinked, trying to brush off the sting in your eyes and the itchy feeling in your throat. If you were to be emotional in front of him, he’d win fair and square.

“No, no,” he smirked, “You guys brought the monster.”

At first, you figured he was talking about himself. How you guys had brought him here, caged him, and riled him up to the point where he would unleash his fury on all of you. But as you stared into his smirk and the mischievous glint in his eyes, you knew you were wrong.

He was talking about another monster. And what monster could he use to his advantage while being away from his alien crew?

Banner.

“So,” you stood up quickly, emotions gone as the realization flooded over you, “Banner. That’s your play.”

He cocked his head to the side, a confused expression taking over his face, “What?”

You approached the glass, fed up and beyond angry, “Well, thanks for opening up. It was greatly appreciated. This was a very informative little session. I’ll see you next time!”

You rushed to the door, ignoring the way he called out your name, and left the room hastily. Your head was swimming, body feeling suddenly very numb. There was no way this was going to end well. If Loki managed to get into Banner’s head, the Hulk would cause incredible damage. Not only on the ship, but to the people aboard.

You had to go find Bruce.

Taglist

(message me or comment if you want to be added/removed. If you are in bold it is because I am unable to tag you.)

@dapperappleton​ @what-a-fantasy​ @the-girl-of-many-fandoms1414​ @brighteyedmichelle​ @leasly​ @cassiopeia-barrow​ @jay-the-mothafuckin-gay​ @themusingsofmany​ @bambamwolf87​ @thefandomzoneisdangerous​ @cyberskeletonhandsbat @ultracarpediemfan​ @vgirl-10123​ @bangvateez​ @leximills666​ @littleredstarfish​ @blue-spider-official​ @benji-booxx​ @gorgeousgodzilla​  @what-a-fantasy​​ @hello-lemons​​ @yandereforyou​​​ @godhateskyleigh​​ @cutie1365​ @mochminnie​ @sleighmylife​ @boom-bunny​ @crazymclazy @xvixie13x​

[ohwereusingourmadeupnames]

It’s the Colours You Have

Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Rating: Mature (M)  Notes: This is my ballet au fill for @starkerfestivals summer bingo. I had a lot of fun doing some research and watching some ballet to get a feel for this one - here’s hoping you enjoy! (Title is from Colours by Grouplove) Warnings: Peter suffers a pretty not good injury and there’s some NSWF stuff.  Summary: 

Peter Parker grew up in the dance studio and thought his entire life would revolve around it. All of a sudden, an injury takes that dream out from under him. He finds a way to stay in the world of dance through photography, his knowledge giving his work a different edge. What happens when he meets Tony Stark, a new dancer for NYCB? (Love stuff happens, that's what.)

Read on AO3 here.

Peter always thought professional dance would be his life.

At a young age, he convinced Uncle Ben to let him try one of the local studio’s classes. It took a bit of convincing – Peter was 6 years old at the time and didn’t quite understand the man’s hesitance. In the months leading up to Peter’s plea, he danced around the sofa in their living room and obsessively watched Step Up – where most boys his age were rolling around in the dirt, Peter studied the lines of dancers’ bodies and pictured himself making those same exact moves.

After what felt like a lifetime for Peter, Ben finally gave in and signed him up for all of the classes available. In his excitement, Peter took everything seriously and excelled through the beginner’s classes before the year was over. Madame Romanoff pulled Ben and May aside when sign-ups and company auditions for the next year were about to take place – in the simplest of terms, she let them know how talented of a dancer Peter was; he needed to be taking more advanced classes.

So, he did – Ben and May didn’t hesitate to put him where he needed to be; they already knew his potential, he was steadily moving through grades at school, too. Their nephew had an innate sense of talent for just about everything. Peter put his entire being into the things he liked – it made putting the squeeze in worth it. For a while, he didn’t see what that meant for the two of them – he simply enjoyed the fact that he could dance and get better at it with every single day that passed.

Landing a place on Romanoff’s dance company gave him access to top notch ballet instructors. He was very small but made up for it in the strength that he possessed. With the intention of making him one of the male pas de deux dancers, Peter cut out the rest of his classes and focused solely on ballet and pointe. It made him feel powerful and in a lot of ways beautiful, too. Even if it was weird for boys his age to love dance and feel their best while doing it. He’d gladly take the teasing – Peter loved to dance and no one was going to stop him.

The dance world took him under and guided all of his decision making. Peter worked hard all of middle school to get into Midtown Fine Arts and Dance, a high school that catered to those that were seeking entry into art’s colleges like Juilliard and TISCH. Getting in was a validation he’d been searching for and everything about his life moved to revolve around his time there.

Between Romanoff’s and Midtown, Peter was working so hard that he didn’t even realize he’d put himself in a position where his body couldn’t handle the stress. He wanted to get into Juilliard so bad and knew the only way he’d be able to go was through a scholarship. In every class since his freshman year, Peter heard about senior showcases and how every second in the walls of Midtown were preparation for that.

Every dancing piece in productions, Peter took part in. Whenever they needed a volunteer teacher to run through the parts with the younger kids, Peter volunteered. The desire to succeed overwhelmed him and by the time he got around to preparing for his senior showcase, he was at a loss and so physically exhausted, there were times when he didn’t know how he was actually still standing.

That should’ve been a clue – the fact that every part of his day felt like a chore, and that when he sat down to rest, he was comatose within seconds. Other things were trying to warn him of the ultimate shut down coming his way. His toes never recovered from the extensive pointe exercises and his muscles were always aching. If he knew that pushing himself would have been the thing that brought the world he created down – well, he still probably would have done it.

Two weeks before senior showcases, Peter was warming up when he felt a sharp shift in his lower back during a turn. The wince it pulled from him almost doubled him over. He stopped suddenly and took a couple of limping steps towards the long bar across the back wall. Hiking his leg onto the bar, Peter let out a loud ‘fuck’ when he felt the shift again. The want to keep going couldn’t override the numbness he felt in his toes.

As elegantly as he could, Peter hit ground and laid down as flat as he could, his entire lower back on fire.

It took 3 people to get him up off the ground; any sort of shift in weight made the source of his pain explode with unmanageable stimulus. Peter didn’t remember much of the movement from the floor to a gurney and into the back of an ambulance – his brain turned off to counteract the significant shift in his life happening.

The next few hours were spent getting scans and assessments done – Peter floated along from one place to another in the haze of the drugs they gave him to relieve the world ending pain. He didn’t need to hear the doctor’s words after he saw the look in his eyes – any chance of getting to Juilliard on his feet was out the window. 2 fractured lumbar vertebrae that would need to be fused and 3 ruptured disks were the thing to finally take him out. He wondered briefly, if Flash would feel undercut by his injury – he’d been gunning after Peter for years.

Thankfully, Midtown was sympathetic to his situation and let him stay around to finish the end of the year and graduate. It took a lot out of him to gimp around and be within viewing distance of the classes he’d been leading only days prior.

Being stuck with a walker for the first couple of weeks after his back surgery pushed him to work hard and get his feet back under him. Though he’d never get to dance again, at least he could walk – walking was one of the things Peter wanted to be able to do for the rest of his life. The necessity to put his all into walking and just getting around took the brunt of the blow off losing dance – it served as a good distraction, at least.

By the time the second part of his senior year came around, Peter was able to walk and get around. He was looking forward to finishing up his school year and finding out what the rest his life would be like without dance. Yet, he also longed to be close to the one thing he loved so dearly. And thankfully, Madame Romanoff offered him a good solution right before the big company recital at the end of the year.

When he walked into the studio, his heart thumped painfully against his chest. It felt like such a long time since he walked through the doors and caught his reflection in the mirror upon first glance up. A part of him wanted to walk over to the bar at the back of the room and start his stretching process, that piece of him craved the elegance of his long lines and powerful turns. Yet, the rational part of him understood that walking was more important and pushed him to move further into the studio towards Natasha’s office.

“Ah, Mr. Parker – glad you could join me. Please, have a seat,” Natasha said the second he walked in the door, the dark red lipstick coating her lips making her smile look big and bright. She kept her hair in the traditional ballerina bun and walked around in high heels – but she was kind and knew talent when she saw it. Grimacing at the little bit of a twinge he still felt, Peter took a seat in the chair in front of her desk, his fingers knitting together in front of him.

“I’ll cut right to the point. Life has dealt you a shitty card and it’s ridiculously unfair. You should be involved in dance, Peter. It’s a part of you. So, I thought – why not see if you can capture it, instead.” She turned in the big chair she was sitting in and grabbed something off the filing cabinet behind her. The fancy camera with the biggest lens he’d ever seen coming into view was not what he expected.

Her smile grew when she saw the look on his face. The whiteness of her teeth was slightly intimidating, even now, after knowing her for more than 10 years. Peter tossed a smile back her way and looked tentatively at the camera now sitting on her desk.

“What’s that, Madame Romanoff?” Peter asked, unable to keep the curiosity from getting the best of him. He was always on the other side of pictures and hadn’t picked up a camera ever in his life. The big screen and fancy dial on the back looked intimidating from where he sat, and he hadn’t even picked it up yet.

“Go ahead, Peter – it’s my solution. Figure out how to use it and then apply what you know about the art of dance to the art of photography. You know what’s beautiful. Long lines, sharp movement patterns – the beauty of a picture is how you capture it. The technical shit can be learned, the inherent knowledge you have about dance can’t.” She grinned wider when he didn’t hesitate to take the heavy camera from her.

“I want you to come to classes. You have a home in this studio, Peter. Don’t think because you’re not using your feet doesn’t mean you can’t be a part of what we do here.”

With that, she shot him another smile, then shooed him out of her office with a swift flick of her wrist.

----

Taking to the task like he tried to do with everything else, Peter dug his nose into the Canon Mark IV 5D user manual that he found online and figured out how to change the settings on the camera. It blew his mind, how many things the camera could do and how in depth the pictures could be. That was the first step.

After another couple of weeks of figuring the camera out and taking it with him on the daily walks he started embarking upon during his recovery – Peter finally felt comfortable enough to return to Romanoff’s in an attempt to do exactly what she said; capture dance.

It took a while – a lot of trial and error and frustration that Peter hadn’t ever experienced before. Things usually came easy for him. Yet, the more he did it, the better he started to feel about it. Thoughts of graduation and the future were out the window for a while – Peter dedicated himself to figuring out how to keep a foot in the world that seemed so unfairly gone from him.

He shot the end of the year recital and felt proud of the results that he ended up with. Of course, it wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as actually being on the stage, but – it brought him a sense of happiness, nonetheless. When he handed over the files to Natasha, she pulled him in for a hug. The clench of her arms kept him close, the words she whispered to him abundantly clear – “There you are.”

For some reason, those words hit him hard. His injury at the beginning of the year took a lot from him. With his rehab and the changes that came with the debilitating loss of the use of his body to create an art he devoted his life to, Peter bounced around, slightly lost. The realization that he could still connect with dance drove him forward – finally, Peter felt like he had a direction again.

Trying to get into TISCH’s photography program was a nerve-wracking experience and forced him to have to really evaluate why he wanted to make still frame his focus. The life of movement stayed alive in the photographs and he grasped onto that through the application and interview processes. His portfolio and approach must’ve been enough – Peter got acceptance and scholarship money to start the next semester.

Natasha, upon learning that he’d be in town and pursuing photography, brought him on as the in-house photographer. It didn’t pay much, but he got to have unlimited access to subjects and people that were always looking to show off the skills they worked so diligently to achieve. Peter appreciated the opportunity that Natasha provided and worked hard to provide her with his increasing talents.

Little by little, Peter honed in on his skill and absorbed as much knowledge as he could in his classes and on the job. College passed by in a blur of attending company ballet and TISCH dance productions to shoot as much as he could. He put his work in every showcase available to him and learned from the critique that people threw his way. In the dance world, critique was fodder and fed into the challenge that photography constantly imposed upon him.

Upon graduating, Peter took a job with Juilliard in the arts department as a media director and took care of the photography and visuals for all of the productions the entirety of the department put on. And because Juilliard had a direct link with New York City Ballet, Peter did the media for them as well.

When he took a step back and looked at it, his life was still wrapped around dance – and now, he didn’t have to sweat it out and perform on the stage to be directly within it. He lived in a great apartment in Manhattan and got to see his Aunt May every Sunday for whatever concoction she decided to come up with for them. All and all – his set up wasn’t terrible. Now that he had his professional life worked out, Peter felt desperate to see where the other parts of his life could take him.

As luck would have it – Peter got a nudge in right direction a couple of weeks later when he found himself in the Lincoln Center waiting for the dress rehearsal for the Nutcracker. It was one of his favorite ballets and he enjoyed being able to shoot the multitude of versions he’d get to see throughout the holiday season. And if rumor was to be believed, there was a new prince dancing with the prima ballerina.

The music started up a little while later and Peter got lost in the movements. He didn’t need to take any snaps tonight, but wanted to make sure he knew what the lighting looked like and where every group would be coming in from. Since he was working both video and film, he needed to be able to shoot from all angles. For a while, he let his camera dangle from his side and just let the dance run away with him.

By the time it got to the Prince and Sugarplum Fairy’s dance, Peter had his camera poised over his eye, the entirety of the pass one of the most important things he needed to get during the show. Their initial andante maestoso brought the two of them on the stage and in a swift dance across it – the prince in fact a totally different one than the year before. His tight calves and well sculpted thighs and hips were packed into white tights that highlighted every one of his movements.

Peter’s finger stuttered a few times through the tarantella, his focus on the dancer’s beauty and strength as he leapt and landed across the stage. When he pulled the camera down to make sure he got at least a couple of shots to play around with, Peter sucked in a sharp breath – the man was even more gorgeous than he expected, the details of his well-kept facial hair and dark brown eyes standing out the most.

Satisfied that he knew enough about the show, Peter packed up his equipment and headed out before the final act with all of the dancers came on – he knew from experience that it would be a free for all and didn’t need to plan for that. He wanted to play around with some of the images and got lost in the thoughts of the prince as he was walking out – not noticing that he was walking right into someone until well after they collided.

“Holy shit,” Peter gasped out, his long-lost dancing skill coming into play when he managed to turn and barely hit the person, instead of barreling through them and bringing them both to the ground. “I’m so sorry!” Peter put a hand on the wall and let his heart rate calm down before looking over at the person he almost took out.

His stomach dropped when he noticed the dancer he’d been eyeing up from his spot at the edge of the stage – his eyes were even darker up close and his mouth pulled into the most charming of smiles. Sucking in a breath, Peter just barely stopped himself from slapping his hands over his face. A dark red blush moved across his cheeks instead, the heat of it warming up his skin alarmingly.

“You’re pretty quick on your feet,” the man said instead of the 20 other things that could have easily come out of his mouth. Peter quirked a brow and let the slightest trace of a smile slip across his lips.

“I used to dance,” Peter replied quickly, the openness he was feeling in that moment as fleeting as some of the grumpier moods he sometimes found himself in. “Glad I still have it.” That made him smile wider, Peter a little surprised when the man across from him also smiled. It led to the slightest wrinkles in his cheeks and made Peter’s heart race.

Before the man could say anything else, a wide stagehand came walking down the hall, his eyes intent on them. “Tony, it’s the final number – you’re up.”

They shared another looked before the man, Tony, turned and started walking back in the direction he came from. Peter felt himself smiling and was surprised to see Tony holding the dressing room door open, his arm and head peeking out from behind it. “What’s your name?” He looked at Peter hopefully, his eyes wide.

Peter tightened his grip on the case he’d been pulling behind himself and let a couple of heartbeats pass before he answered – it was important that he thought before he spoke. “I’m Peter Parker,” he finally remarked, his eyebrows knitting slightly.

With a wave, Tony shot him a wink and started to disappear behind the door. “See you later, Peter Parker.”

----

The next 5 days were busy and filled with too much looking down the scope of the camera and 3 showings of The Nutcracker daily. Despite that, Peter found some time to look up the beautiful dancer – the name Tony was enough to get him a full career rundown and multiple links to pictures and videos of his past performances. Though a little older, Tony Stark seemed to be hitting the peak of his career now, instead of at a young age like most dancers. The write up he looked through said something about engineering, but he didn’t delve any further. It felt a little weird to have looked as deeply as he did to begin with.

Every night, Peter found himself watching Tony a little closer – he was all long limbs and taut muscle, his form technical but not exactly perfect. His lifts were where he excelled, though – the bundles of muscles waiting to spring into action were stretched to the limit, making the intensity of his strength standout even more.

Unable to find the courage to actually approach him, Peter spent too much time editing the images of him, ever click of his mouse meticulous and precise to create the perfect balance of camera work and Photoshop manipulation. After too many nights of it, Peter forced himself to acknowledge that talking to Tony seemed pretty necessary. Making sure to put some of his favorite on his phone, Peter felt resolved to at least show some of his work off in guise of starting up a conversation.

The final show came around with excited energy – Peter always enjoyed the last curtain call the best; there was always a certain sense of satisfaction that only that round of applause could bring. He switched up his shooting position and did some clicking from the flanks to catch a little backstage action – the decision proving to be a good one when he heard a throat clear during the first act.

“Fancy seeing you here, Peter Parker,” Tony said, his eyes shining in the bright light streaming in from the stage. He looked at Peter without blinking, a slight tilt to his head.

Peter forced himself to take a couple of breaths, his head suddenly spinning from the flush of epinephrine that his sympathetic nervous system decided shoot through his veins. The excitement of bumping into Tony probably more than obvious. “Right – fancy seeing the photographer taking photos,” Peter replied as he moved the camera to his eye and took a couple of quick shots of Tony who’d started to stretch in the open space around them.

Tony’s beaming smile made Peter’s breath catch, his eyes going to the back of the camera out of habit – the image he found there already one of his favorites of the bunch. Looking up, he gestured down at the camera in his hand. “Want to see?” Peter asked, his hands already turning it, making it more inviting for the man.

It took everything in him not to watch Tony walk towards him in the sheer shirt that, in the light, made his tanned skin stand out through the white fabric. At this closeness, the tights on his legs were translucent, Peter privy to the thick vein that ran from Tony’s calf all the way across the front of his highly muscled thigh. All those details in just the span of 5 steps – Peter wondered what he would find with an unlimited amount of time to explore him.

Shaking his head, Peter forced himself to focus when he felt the inevitable warmth of another human body getting close to him. He used his thumb to scroll back through the last 4 images he shot, a grin slipping across his face. “You have a nice smile,” Peter mumbled softly, the muscle in his forearm twitching with every click from one picture to the next. He got to the end of the roll before daring to turn his head.

“I think you’re just a good photographer,” Tony retorted, a chuckle rushing from his chest. They were close enough that Peter could feel his arm lift and clench with the sound. It made him stiffen, his skin breaking out into prickly gooseflesh. If he didn’t move, maybe he wouldn’t have to lose the rise and fall of Tony’s rhythmic breathing against him.

“Must be both then.” Peter shifted, his brain all of the sudden realizing that he was missing key pieces of the show in favor of flirting with the very attractive and incredibly distracting male dancer. “Come find me after the show – I’ll show you some from the week.” He gave Tony an encouraging smile, then turned back to look out through the curtain.

Peter heard him laugh again then the softest “okay” before the closeness of his presence could no longer be felt. Forcing himself to not turn and look, Peter did his best to pay attention to the rest of the first act – his racing mind all of the sudden not completely dedicated to the art before him on the stage.

As usual, the second act went a lot faster than the first – there was a bit more action and the dancing was not as convoluted with plot. From this perspective, Peter could see a lot more of the sideline action and felt glad he decided to trust his gut and move around a little more. When Tony stepped onto the stage, Peter gripped his camera harder – his eyes peeled for the smallest of details.

The cheeky bastard managed to look his way a couple of times throughout his solo, Peter more than certain that he got some snaps where Tony was staring directly down the pipe of the lens. It took more focus than ever for Peter to actually finish without dropping the camera and watching the ending number – since it was the last one, they changed it up and gave more solo time to each of the leads; then finished with a long bow with a few teary words from NYCB’s director. While she spoke, Peter got his equipment together and disappeared to start downloading some of the shots.

A little while later, Peter was pulled from the culling process by a tap on his shoulder – he squinted behind his glasses to make sure he was at a stopping point and turned, his fingers pulling the frames from his face when he noticed it was Tony.

“Don’t take those off on my account,” Tony said with a smirk, his hair freshly wet and brushed back from his face – the natural look of his skin even better than the brightness the spotlight and well-placed makeup gave him. His lips settled into a light smile and he leaned against the table Peter found to spread out on. He must’ve been nose deep in his work for longer than he thought.

“I just need them for the light,” Peter mumbled, jamming them into the pocket of his shirt. Glancing down, he shifted the computer so Tony could see. “Your tarantella was great tonight.”

Tony leaned in a little to look at the picture more closely, the move bringing the sharpness of his cologne into Peter’s space. As if he was trying to measure his own arms on the screen, Tony reached out to trace the line of his hand down to the middle of his chest. “You said you danced, right? You can tell – the fact that you framed up that specific move says a lot. That’s so crisp, Pete,” Tony admitted, the man pulling back, his hands shoving the long sleeves that were trying to settle on his wrists up his lean forearms.

Taken aback, Peter adjusted himself in his chair. It’d been a long time since he talked to anyone about that part of his journey through dance. Sometimes May would look at him wistfully and relive some of the memories with him, but even that made his heart ache. Licking his bottom lip, Peter nodded his head. “I did about ten years at Romanoff’s, she got me started with the photography thing after my injury.”

They locked eyes for a second, Tony’s eyebrows up, almost completely buried in the hair that was now creeping down, trying to cover his forehead. “Natasha Romanoff? She’s still on 5th, then?”

Grinning, Peter nodded again. “5th and then a newer studio on 64th. She’s flourishing,” Peter said, his hands coming up to make air quotes with his fingers. “Do you know her?”

“She was a couple years ahead of me at Juilliard. I didn’t get into the dancing world until a little later in life, so we were the same age, despite not being the same year. We partnered for pas de deux once,” Tony remarked, his eyes glowing with the memory. “You must’ve been good.”

Peter put his hand on the touch pad of his computer and went about saving the photo on the screen to distract himself – his heart started to beat a little harder at the thought of how much talented he cultivated in his youth. “I wasn’t terrible. I did not treat my body very well, however – back gave out before I could really see how good I could have been.” Clenching his lips shut, Peter wondered where all the words came from – he hadn’t been this chatty… ever.

Tony crossed his arms and leaned more heavily against the table, his forearms now on display, the lines of muscles firm and wrapped in tanned skin, the veins there pulsing from the work the man did that night. “Ah – that’s the worst. I’ve been fighting off a bum toe for a couple of years – the pointe gets harder and harder as the time goes by,” Tony muttered wistfully, his foot shifting subconsciously. “How long have you been taking photos?”

Without much thought, Peter started the process of packing his computer and hard drive into their cases, his eyes never leaving Tony. “About 7 years now. I went to TISCH for a 5-year program and have been working for Juilliard and NYCB ever since.” Finally done with the menial tasks that kept him preoccupied, Peter stood up. “What about you? You here to stay or just doing a stint with the company this season?”

Despite not saying anything, Tony followed Peter when he started walking – the natural way they just sort of accommodated each other weird for having only met once before. Tony waited until they were in the foyer of the Lincoln Center before speaking again. “I’m here to stay. NYCB gave me a company spot and choreographer position. After being on the road so much the past couple of years, coming home felt right.”

Though they were right by the door, neither man made any move to go exit through any of them, the two men obviously more than willing to mill around and talk. Peter pulled his camera case close to him, the metal of it cool against the thin material of his khaki pants.

“There’s something about the city, right?” Peter asked, his head turning to look at the still busy street right outside the door. “I’ve been here my whole life.”

Smiling wide, Tony nodded – the gesture answer enough. Peter watched him shift and smile a little bigger. “Any chance you’re free for headshot type stuff? I could use an update.”

The question caught him off guard for a second, his hopes of maybe getting to know the guy slowly starting to become more of a reality as the moments passed. That thrust him into gear – Peter fumbled into his pocket and scrolled through a couple of his photo files before he found his infographic.

“Everyone is on break for the holidays, so I’ve got lots of time. Turn your AirDrop on, I’ll share my info with you,” Peter replied without hesitation, his cheeks warm from the events of the night and the distracting way Tony was making him feel. “The Juilliard studio has great lighting.”

After grabbing his info, Tony reached across the space between them and gripped his shoulder, the touch firm and friendly. “I’ll get ahold of you. Thanks for making me look good.” Throwing him a final smile, Tony hitched his bag up his shoulder and walked quickly out the door and into the cold December night.

----

A couple of days passed before Peter heard from Tony – they decided on a time and agreed to meet at the Juilliard studio that Friday. For 4 days, Peter immersed himself in the editing process to make the time go a little faster. It didn’t, but that was always how it worked when he was looking forward to something.

In his need to fill up all the spaces of time, Peter did a bit of online shopping and ordered a couple of different backgrounds to play around with. When the day came, Peter used his key to head in a little early – his lighting set up would take a while to get put together and if his hands were busy, he didn’t have any time to fret about the nerves coursing through him or the hopes he hadn’t been able to put to bed since meeting Tony. Getting ahead of himself seemed like a recipe for failure – but he wasn’t one to not step out on the limb just because of a little fear.

Two solid hours of preparation went by much faster than he figured it would – Tony walked in through the door while he was still fiddling with the long backdrop, the sturdiness of it important if Tony was going to jump and move on and around it. He didn’t notice until he looked up to see how straight it was and caught Tony’s reflection in the mirror behind him.

“Hey, Tony,” Peter started, his face breaking out into a familiar smile. “I’m just about ready. I got the door to the bathroom unlocked, so you’re free to change as much as you’d like.” He tugged at the backdrop one more time before finally feeling satisfied – he knew what he was doing, the nerves needed to go the hell away.

Tony looked at him for a moment, his whiskey-brown eyes roving over his face without any shame. It felt good – being looked at like that. Whatever it meant; Peter wasn’t going to be mad about the attractive man in front of him not being able to tear his eyes away. The only thing that ever made his heart race like it was in that moment was dance – that had to mean something.

“I’m ready to go. I just need to put my bag down and change into my flats,” Tony finally said, his eyebrows quirking as a soft grin lifted his cheeks.

“You should probably stretch, too,” Peter remarked offhandedly, his eyes returning Tony’s stare, inch of skin by lovely inch. He was happy to see that there were a couple different cuts of shirt in his hand – they’d have a lot to work with. With that in mind, Peter went about making sure his camera was connected to his computer while Tony got ready.

As expected, once they got started, things went seamlessly. Tony was used to be instructed and took Peter’s suggestions in stride. They did a bunch of different poses in each outfit, Peter making sure that Tony switched to pointe at least once during the process. By the end, Peter was laughing at the faces Tony made at him when he switched positions.

Almost satisfied, Peter put the camera down and stepped onto the backdrop. He swung his arms from side to side to get his blood flowing, then swopped up into a one footed stance without much trouble (the twinge would come later.) “I want you to leap and land like this – I’d demonstrate, but this is as far as that goes,” Peter joked, his body saturated with endorphins from the rush doing any sort of movement with his body always brought.

Tony didn’t move to get in position, so Peter straightened up and started to think about how else he could describe it. A hand on his arm stopped him, Tony’s fingers squeezing lightly. “You still have such good technique,” Tony mumbled, his hand moving to pull at Peter’s until he was a little further onto the backdrop. “No turns, right?”

Nodding, Peter relaxed his body and let himself be led into a resting position, Tony’s hands now on his hips. “Let’s see how well you remember your backwards steps,” Tony whispered, his lips just a few inches away from Peter’s ear. His fingers tapped on the right side of Peter’s hip and they were off in that direction – his arms widening when they got to the edge of the pass.

It felt weird for a second, being in the hold position; but he quickly got over it, the relief of any stress on him quickly taken by Tony’s hands and their tight grasp on his hips, Peter’s feet barely touching the ground. They went through a couple of moves before Peter was stopping their movement with a subtle touch to Tony’s hand.

“That’s enough for me.” Peter was grateful for the brief experience and threw an even more sincere look over his shoulder at Tony. “Thank you, though – I haven’t moved like that in years.” He lifted his hands over his head and stretched himself as long as he could go before walking back over to his camera set up, his fingers wrapping around the base with ease.

When they were all done and Tony was walking out of the bathroom in street clothes, Peter looked up and motioned to him. He let his eyes linger on the way Tony’s jeans sat on his hip, the cut of his shirt enhancing the slimness there. Tony moved with ease, the man more than familiar with his body and the things he could do with it. Shaking his head, Peter moved away from that thought – it could very easily get him in trouble.

With Tony by his side, Peter smiled at him, then started to go through the frames he took throughout the two hours they’d been working. Tony spent a lot of time critiquing himself and grinned when Peter went out of his way to say the exact opposite of whatever came out of his mouth. The stills were beautiful and after a little work, would be more than enough to circulate around in resumes and show leaflets.

“Those are great, Pete – I like how well you capture the action; I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it,” Tony commented, his eyes still wide from the cruise through the photo gallery. At some point, he let his hand drift to Peter’s shoulder and kept it there, his fingers now gripping on and off. “I’d love to see more – want to grab a coffee, or something?”

As it happened, coffee ended up being a quick walk to Peter’s apartment where he got as far as pulling his computer out before Tony was flung across his hips, muscular thighs clenching with every move he made. Peter was surprised for about two seconds before he grabbed a handful of Tony’s ass, and dragged him closer, their mouths meeting in a heated kiss without either of them hesitating.

Peter didn’t usually do stuff like this – kiss people he didn’t know much about, but at the same time, he didn’t like to miss out on good things, either. He watched Tony reached down and take his own shirt off, the muscles of his stomach and arms rippling as the cells fired and clenched. When he relaxed, Peter was pleased to see that Tony was very cut up and would ripple gloriously as he thrust into him in the near future.

The fact that Tony managed to get his shirt off of him and the button of his pants undone without him noticing blew Peter’s mind, the man had a way with his mouth and let his tongue do terribly dirty things. In 25 years, Peter had never been kissed like that before – Tony’s carnality was exactly like his dancing, thorough and highly skilled.

It seemed like Tony came prepared because Peter was suddenly naked and on his back with Tony between his thighs, a packet of lube and a condom dangling from his fingers. They made eye contact for a moment, the desire in Tony softening as an affectionate look rolled over his face. “This okay? You’ll tell me if you’re not comfortable?” Tony’s questions rolled off his tongue without him stopping the scandalous press of his hips.

“It’s a lot more than okay. As long as you don’t roll me up into too much of a ball, I’ll be just fine. Just don’t stop whatever it is you’re going to do,” Peter babbled, his lips totally loose now that most of his thoughts were clouded with lust and completely focused on the delicious press and pull of Tony’s fingers on his skin and cock against his own.

He was pleasantly surprised when Tony shifted and pushed at his hip until Peter took the hint and rolled over. Leaning on his forearms, Peter spread his legs as much as he could on the couch and thrust back a little, his ass entirely on display. Groaning when Tony used his hands to spread his cheeks, Peter looked over his shoulder to see dark eyes staring at him longingly.

Tony emptied the packet of lube on the flat of Peter’s back and swiped his fingers through it. His free hand ran along Peter’s flank and lulled him into a sense of comfort – the breach of Tony’s fingers around and then against his rim secondary to the sensation of first a knuckle and then an entire finger slipping into him. While he moved his hand, Tony peppered all the skin he could reach with kisses and licks – he was obviously in the business of taking Peter apart one piece at a time.

Progressively, Peter got lost in the rush of his lust for Tony and the scorching touch that made his skin prickle and the well of heat in his stomach start to trickle over the edge. Tony’s weight held his hips down just enough that with every thrust back against talented fingers that were now aggressively stretching him open, Peter got the slightest amount of friction against his cock. It was both too much and not enough in one agonizingly delicious movement.

Draped completely over him, Tony pressed his lips to Peter’s ear when he pushed in. The stroke to slide inside was firm and didn’t stop until Tony’s hips were pressed against the muscle of his round ass cheeks. Peter shifted until he could accommodate his weight on one hand – he reached back and gripped Tony’s hair hard with the other, the moan slipping from his lips forcing a flush down the length of his chest. “Oh, Tony – “

From that point on, Peter lost track of time and space – he was so completely wrapped up in the tactile sensations and the sensitivity of nerve fibers that were constantly being stroked and prodded. With Tony’s arm wrapped around his middle, Peter gave himself over to the sensations, the long, slow glide of a firm cock in and out of him driving him absolutely mad. Little by little, he melted into the rhythmic bump of Tony’s cock against that spot deep inside of him and got closer to a finish that felt like a long time coming.

A shout left his hips when Tony used the grip around his chest to pull him up until his back was firmly pressed against the skin of well-muscled pecs and abs that were clenching with every thrust Tony delivered. Peter felt him slow down and move the grip of his hand from his chest to his hips, long fingers digging in. “The way you move against me, Pete – it’s driving me insane. It’s like you know me. Like you’ve studied my body and know exactly what it needs.”

His cock throbbed at the trueness of Tony’s words. Though he didn’t have a chance to physically explore it, Peter knew a lot about the way Tony moved from the images he’d been editing non-stop – it seemed like he learned a lot more about Tony than he originally imagined. Bringing his hands until they were resting over Tony’s on his hips, Peter laced their fingers together and let out a long moan; the carnal noises the only thing he could conjure up in that moment.

Another few thrusts of Tony’s cock dead against Peter’s prostate had him coming without a single touch to his throbbing erection. It was a novel thing for him, so he watched with wide eyes as he shivered and clenched and finished with the most release he’d ever seen come out of himself hitting the bedspread underneath him. Tony rolled his hips and thrusted through it until he was moaning against Peter’s neck and collapsing them both on the bed – the man courteous enough to turn them on their sides and away from his own puddle of cum.

Peter couldn’t stop the helpless moan that slipped from his mouth when Tony pulled out and rolled away to get rid of the condom. He turned and watched him move around until Tony finally joined him on the bed again. It shouldn’t have surprised him, the fact that Tony wrapped a hand around his arm and pull him back until they were resting as close together as possible. A nose ran through the sweaty hair at the back of Peter’s head – Tony pulling in a long breath before settling in.

“You can still dance. That was the most flawless piece I’ve ever been a part of,” Tony said softly, his hand flattening against Peter’s stomach to pull him even further back, despite the fact that there wasn’t any space left between them. “Rest up for a bit – I’ll take you out for another spin in a little while.”

Laughing, Peter let his hand rest against Tony’s, their fingers lacing with ease. He snuggled in, Tony’s warmth lulling him into a sleep haze.

----

The fact that Tony didn’t leave the next morning spoke volumes – Peter didn’t do a lot of dating, but he understood wanting to spend time with someone. They made pancakes that were barely edible and talked about Tony’s travels through Paris the previous two years. He’d been traveling with an international company that did a long stint in France. When it came time for Tony to leave and get some practice in for the day, Peter went with him.

It took on a different sort of intimacy, shooting Tony after that. Because he knew so much about the freckles on Tony’s skin and the way the dancer moved in the throes of passion, Peter could appreciate the thrust of his hips and the powerful strides for a completely different reason. It brought a whole new meaning to a long, slow seduction. They didn’t make it out of the locker room before Peter was on his knees, worshipping the cock and hips attached that moved with such poise and grace.

Spending the rest of the day together felt like the right thing to do after that – Tony came down his throat and watched with wide eyes as Peter stayed on his knees and stroked himself with a tight fist in long, quick strokes. The soft pet of his hair lulled him into a daze for a while, his cheek laying against the bottom of Tony’s stomach until he felt the tingle leave his toes and lower limbs.

Tony pulled him into a deep kiss when he stood up, strong arms wrapped around him and his swift tongue chased the taste of his own spend in Peter’s mouth. Peter didn’t know who was moaning but it was almost enough to bring him back to full hardness, though, he knew he couldn’t handle any more time on the hard floor or any of the surfaces available to them there. Suggesting a late lunch made Tony smile and when he grabbed Peter’s hand on the way out of the building, Peter let the hope of things actually going somewhere wash over him.

So, maybe Peter couldn’t dance on his own 2 feet anymore – with Tony by his side, he quickly learned that dancing was just as much a feeling as it was a collection of movements and lifts. Lying in bed with Tony between his legs later that night, Peter figured out that the roll of his hips and the caress of his hands felt just as good as the carefully crafted choreography that he’d be so accustomed to. The same way his body used to take the crowd apart, Peter slowly tugged at Tony’s seams until the dancer was thrusting into him with abandon. His name on Tony’s lips at the end of their coupling the ultimate standing ovation.

And as the days past and Peter got to spend more time not only wrapped up in the fun of watching someone else succeed, but also in the beauty and grace that was Tony Stark. The spring brought Bourne’s version of Swan Lake, which consisted of an all-male cast. Peter, having decided that NYCB was where the most opportunities were available, applied and got the job as the full-time photographer. Which meant he got to spend all of his day shooting ballet and only ballet. An absolute dream come true.

Watching Tony dance the part of the prince was absolutely magical – between trying to catch all of the best shots and catching every single one of his pristine moves, Peter spent all 7 days of multiple shows trying to capture him in the best possible way. They hadn’t been dating all that long, but Peter was moved to make sure Tony understood how he truly saw him.

It took a few weeks to find the perfect picture and get it blown up and printed to perfection. After getting it in the mail, Peter measured and built a custom frame for the photo – the dark brown wood a beautiful contrast to the white costume Tony was wearing in the print. Finally finishing it a couple of weeks into May, Peter stepped back and looked at the physical manifestation of his heart with a critical eye. It was Tony – Peter had a hard time finding any sort of flaw.

His ears prickled when he heard Tony putting his key in the lock – a couple of months prior, Peter pulled out one of his old TISCH key chains and made a copy of his apartment key. He left it in Tony’s pointe shoes and got a screaming call when he didn’t notice – the tip of the key stabbed him; but, the sincerity of the gesture made the large cut he had to nurse for a couple of weeks totally worth it.

He waited until he heard the keys clatter against the bowl that Peter kept right by the door to pick up the frame and carry it out into the living room where Tony was standing, his feet and arms bare, his dance tights still framing his legs in the sinful way they always did. Peter stopped dead in his tracks when Tony noticed him, the man’s dark brown eyes caught between looking at Peter’s face and the big frame he had in his hands.

“What’s that?” Tony asked, his cheeks coloring at the bluntness of the question. The man might’ve been a few years older than Peter, but he never failed to project youth and reckless wonder. The words made Peter laugh, his face spreading wide with the smile overtaking him. Instead of answering right away, Peter closed the gap and jammed the frame into Tony’s arms.

Peter gave him a few minutes to get his bearings and process what was in front of him. In the many days’ worth of searching, Peter finally decided on a picture of Tony in the middle of a leap. His eyes and chin were up, his hips completely square – but the thing that really caught Peter’s eye was the look of pure happiness of Tony’s face. There were many dancers that could get their legs completely straight through a leaping straddle, but there weren’t many that looked to be in absolute rapture when they did it. Every time he passed by it, the look made his heart pound, so he figured that was sign enough.

Tony looked up at him, his eyes wide. “This is what I look like, huh?” Tony asked, his fingers doing the customary reaching out to touch thing they always did. Peter watched him trace the length of his body across the glass – the idea of fingerprints not even registering. The appreciation of his work never meant so much.

“Beautiful, right? I thought, for a really long time, that I’d never really have the same connection with dance that I did when I actually got to do it myself. Then, I met you and got to see talent and passion in a totally different light. I don’t need to be moving to feel what it’s like to be on the stage when I watch you. Maybe it’s because I love you so much and I’m biased, but I’m a fan – your biggest one, probably.” Peter let all of the words flow from him before stopping for a breath. He felt his lips slip into a beaming smile – it felt so damn good to let that off his chest.

Even the very first ‘I love you’ between them felt good coming from him – he didn’t need Tony to say it out loud to know that he loved him. It was apparent in the way he touched, his fingers were constantly seeking – whether it was knowledge or pleasure, Tony was always interested in finding out. It was glaringly obvious in the way bourbon hued eyes followed him around the room when they weren’t standing together and looked so deeply within his own when they were. His gentle words and the innate ability to know just what Peter needed said things that a singular phrase never could.

Yet, when it came from Tony’s lips, Peter couldn’t have imagined a better moment. “You’re a big softy, Petey,” Tony mumbled, his lips pressing together for a second before continuing. “I love you, too. By the way. I know you know, but I also know how good the words sound. I love you. I’ll say it however many times you want to hear it.” As elegant as always, Tony moved to lean the frame against the edge of the couch to free his hands up, then tugged Peter into them, their lips finding each other in a soft kiss.

“I don’t think there’s a limit, Tony,” Peter muttered, his voice scratchy from the rush of arousal and happiness and a billion other things.

Tony gripped his cheeks and pulled him in for another kiss, his next words said against his lips like a prayer – “sounds okay to me.”

----

Later that year, Peter and Tony stumbled through their apartment after opening night of The Nutcracker. As a veteran this year, Tony wowed the audience in a way that only someone seasoned and comfortable could. The performance was flawless, Peter a little disappointed that he couldn’t show his enjoyment as much as he would have wanted to. The second they got behind the door of his car, however, his hands were all over Tony. They almost didn’t make it into the house before Peter was straddling him and really letting his appreciation show.

They fumbled through the door and passed through the living room that was littered in Peter’s work – when they first hung the few framed photos of Tony, he complained about it being a little weird. Yet, the more Peter added to it, the more Tony seemed to be behind the idea. It just took a little prodding for him to play into the narcissism that all dancers were inherently in possession of. He really started to relax when Peter added a few of the two of them, the idea of looking up to see physical representation of their connection a nice one, one that they both wanted to get behind.

Peter let his eyes glance over them briefly before crowding against Tony’s back and herding him towards the bedroom. All of the walls on the walk there were covered in Peter’s work – his own narcissism showing in the diligent way he went about making sure all of the frames throughout the house matched and looked absolutely perfect.

When they moved in together, Tony wanted to go all in, so they got all new stuff and created something that was joint and completely Tony Stark and Peter Parker mixing all the aspects of their lives. From the bedding to the bowls they ate out of, everything was picked out together.

When he was finally able to settle between Tony’s legs with just his boxer briefs on, Peter sucked in a deep breath and gave himself a second to enjoy the man stretched out beneath him. The strain from the night’s performance had Tony’s muscles taut and his veins bulging from lack of water and electrolytes – he’d be ravenous for the next few days.

His eyes were wide and completely glazed over, the pupils taking over the bourbon Peter so eagerly drank in every time he looked in Tony’s eyes. The hands that were normally so sure of themselves were reaching to touch Peter searchingly, their next step still undetermined.

Allowing himself to share a heated look with Tony, Peter shook his head and forced himself to focus – there was plenty of time to get distracted in the beautiful view of his boyfriend later. He sat up a little and reached into his bedside table, the lube and condom hitting the comforter below them, the movement enough of a decoy for Peter to get the square box he’d been hiding there open and on the muscled expanse of Tony’s chest.

They weren’t traditional, so he bypassed the one knee thing – instead, he pressed his body weight into Tony, one of his hands holding the box so he could see it while the other ran through shower wet brown hair. It wasn’t the most romantic thing, but it felt right. Everything about Tony felt right. A forever of that was the only thing he’d ever want.

“If you’ll have me, I’d like to be your number one fan forever. Please, marry me,” Peter whispered, his nose caressing Tony’s as his lips pressed the words into any piece of stubbly skin he could reach. “Please,” he prompted again, the plea unneeded, but falling from his lips, anyway.

“How could I possibly say no to that?” Tony asked, his response coming with a quick lift of his head and warm lips pressed against Peter’s. His hands moved into the long hair at the base of Peter’s neck, fingers tugging lightly.

“Put that ring on me so I can find out how it looks against your skin while I’m holding you down.” Shooting him a wink, Tony dragged him in for a deep kiss, the box on his chest momentarily forgotten.

[artificialqueens]

Spirit (Part 1/2) - (Gigi x Crystal / Gigi x Nicky) - opalescentcheetah

A/N: My exponentially growing love for Crystal Methyd and for fantasy has resulted in this: a 5.6k thing of magical shenanigans. Enjoy! And feel free to drop by my blog, @opalescent-cheetah , to say hi - I don’t bite!

Thank you so much to Rusty for beta-ing!

Summary: “It’s some sort of… devil, she thinks, but she can’t be sure. It has a pair of small, golden horns sprouting from its forehead, and its body is covered in a layer of short red fur that seems to sparkle in the artificial lights, curls of glittering hair framing its round face. The most normal thing about it is the 16th-century ruff around its neck."

Gigi finally meets the spirit that has been terrorising the abandoned warehouse for ten years. Nothing goes the way she expects it to.

~

The doors fall shut with a loud CLANG, sending a gust of metallic wind in Gigi’s direction and plunging the room into darkness. She jumps, suddenly disoriented, and stumbles back the way she came, trembling fingers pushing and prying at the cold metal of the door handle.

It won’t budge. She shakes it, rattles it, but it’s unyielding, cold and dead in her sweaty palms.

Are you some sort of coward?

A scream tears loose from her throat. She kicks the door.

Go in the haunted warehouse, Gigi. Go on.

The door shudders violently, but remains firmly shut. How old is this thing? She kicks it again.

Are you scared? Hah! Look at her, she’s terrified!

“Let me out!” she howls, voice echoing pathetically in the abandoned warehouse. Tears are gathering in her eyes when she hears movement behind her - there’s a shuffling sound and the crash of something heavy falling. Gigi sucks in a shaky breath.

“Finally!”

The voice is unfamiliar.

“It’s been way too long. Wow,” the stranger continues, and Gigi presses her back against the door, her heart in her throat, her very bones hollowed out with fear. She wants to shout a reply into the darkness, but the words won’t come. She can’t move, can’t see - every limb is stiff with terror.

“Wait, wait, I think I’ve got it…”

She hears a snap, and suddenly there’s fire, flickering lazily against the eerie black. She glances past it, meeting red eyes and a shining, toothy grin.

For a moment Gigi can only stand, paralysed with fear, lungs heaving with shuddering breaths.

And then she screams.

It’s a wordless wail of absolute horror. She’s sure she’s about to die.

“Geez Louise, the years really must’ve done a number on me, huh?” A clap, and the fire goes out. “Do people still say that? Whatever, you get my point. There better be a damn mirror in here somewhere.”

“Let me out!” Gigi shrieks again, broken voice echoing hollowly in the cold warehouse air. She lunges blindly at the creature, fists flying, eyes hot with tears.

“Woah, woah, calm down!”

The voice whirls past Gigi’s ear and she stumbles, flailing her arms into nothingness. Once she’s regained her balance, she looks around in vain, unable to see anything but the tiny stripe of gold light beneath the door.

“Let me go,” Gigi growls into the darkness, struggling to keep her voice from trembling. “Open that goddamn door right now!”

“That’s not within the range of my capabilities, I’m afraid,” the creature says calmly. At least it has the decency to sound a little bashful. “I can turn the lights on for you, though, if you’d like to have your sight back.”

Gigi swallows. A beat of silence passes between them - she doesn’t even hear the creature move.

“That… would be nice.”

A moment later, white factory lights flicker on overhead, crackling with years of inoperation. Gigi glances sidewards to see the creature standing near the lightboard, squinting at the ceiling.

It’s some sort of… devil, she thinks, but she can’t be sure. It has a pair of small, golden horns sprouting from its forehead, and its body is covered in a layer of short red fur that seems to sparkle in the artificial lights, curls of glittering hair framing its round face. The most normal thing about it is the 16th-century ruff around its neck.

“You know,” it says suddenly, “a thank-you might be nice as well.”

Gigi tenses when the creature turns to look at her, but its eyes are alight with curiosity - there is less malevolence in its small, shy smile than in the faces of some of her friends.

“…Thanks,” she mumbles, and the creature grins.

“It’s been a while since I’ve heard one of those,” it tells her, carefully stepping closer. “In fact, it’s been a while since I’ve heard anyone say anything at all.” It stops a metre away from her, its tail flicking pleasantly behind it as it sticks out a hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Crystal.”

The name makes sense, Gigi thinks to herself; the creature - Crystal - is glittering all over like a thousand blood-red fireflies.

“Gigi,” she replies, staring at Crystal’s outstretched paw. She doesn’t take it.

After a moment, Crystal sheepishly withdraws her arm. “I guess people don’t do that anymore.”

“Why can’t you open the door?” Gigi asks, blatantly ignoring her question.

“I’m not the one who shut it.” Crystal shrugs, an air of nonchalance about her. Gigi’s heart stops, right then and there, and her blood turns to ice.

“It wasn’t you? You swear on it?”

“It wasn’t me, I promise. I can’t shut doors from that far away.”

Gigi has to take a seat. She slumps to the ground, reality slapping her twice round the face, leaving her cheeks hot and eyes stinging. She doesn’t want to believe Crystal, she really doesn’t - she wants to scream and cry and call her a liar, but there is too much sincerity in those inhuman eyes. It takes her a moment to realise she’s crying.

“Wow. Uh. Sorry, I guess?” Crystal’s voice edges its way through the cracks in Gigi’s fragmented thoughts, pulling her back to reality.

“Don’t be.” Gigi wipes her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “I just - I just can’t believe–” Her breath hitches in her throat, tears dribbling down her chin.

Crystal crouches on goat-like legs beside her, still keeping a reasonable distance. She’s quiet, and Gigi can see her biting her lips, eyes darting awkwardly around the warehouse at anything that isn’t Gigi’s tearstained face.

“I–”

“God, this is so stupid.” Gigi pauses. “Sorry.”

“No, no, keep talking. I’m listening.”

“My friends dared me to come in here,” Gigi admits. “They were calling me a coward, and I… I wanted to prove myself.” Her voice breaks, and she buries her face in her hands, mumbling through her fingers. “I’m so fucking dumb.”

“So they locked the door?” Crystal asks quietly, and Gigi nods. “Wow, that’s… they sound like. Uh. Lovely friends.”

“I can’t believe I fell for it. Nicky said I was stupid to keep trying to hang out with them, but… god, I don’t know. I just wanted to be cool.”

“Well… I think you’re pretty cool,” Crystal offers.

“You don’t even know me.”

Crystal surprises her by giggling, hiding her smile behind her hand.

“You’re the only person I’ve seen in ages, so therefore, you’re cool, since I have no-one else to compare you to.”

Gigi exhales in a breathy laugh. “Wow. Thanks, I guess. I’ll take what I can get.”

“No problem!”

In the silence that follows, Gigi looks around the warehouse, taking in her surroundings. Apart from the creature sitting next to her, everything seems to be fairly normal.

Well, except for the fact that almost every box is overturned, shelves spilling over with loose objects - there is no possible way to describe the mess that lies before her.

“How long have you been alone here?” she asks Crystal, unable to hide the incredulity from her voice. Crystal, having started shuffling through one of many boxes brimming with randomness, turns around to look at her again.

“That’s a very good question,” she replies, thoughtfully tapping her tail on the hard concrete. “I don’t know. Months? Years? Maybe decades. I… don’t get out often.”

Gigi thinks back to when the rumours started, back when she was only five or six, and people told tales of the horrors they’d seen in the warehouse. It’s been abandoned for years, but sitting here now, Gigi finds herself wondering what they were all so scared of.

“Wait, wait. Can’t you just leave? The door’s been open for, like, ever.”

Crystal shrugs. “Curses are weird.”

“You’re cursed? Is that why you’re…” she bites her lip, not wanting to sound offensive, “…red?”

Crystal blinks down at herself, as though only just remembering how she looks.

“No, no, that’s got nothing to do with it,” she smirks, and suddenly there’s a tall, humanoid figure standing in her place, with a billowing shawl and a dozen beaded necklaces, grey-tipped hair haloed around her face. A moment later, the sparkling crimson creature returns, lips curled in a shit-eating grin. “I can look however I want - red is just my natural colour. But I’m here serving some, like, spirit jail-sentence or something. I don’t really know. They said I can go back when I finish some sort of moral task, I guess, but I’ve been trapped in this place for ages and nothing ever happens.”

“So you’re just… stuck here? You can’t leave the warehouse?”

“Yep. I’ve tried a million times, but it’s like there’s some sort of invisible barrier around it.” Crystal shrugs, turning away from Gigi to return to rummaging through her box.

It isn’t hard to tell that Crystal’s nonchalant facade is faked. She’s got her back to Gigi now, her tail flicking restlessly from side to side.

“You must get so lonely,” Gigi murmurs. All of a sudden, every year she’s spent at school struggling to make friends seems like a breeze. At least she can make friends - Crystal’s been abandoned here for years, alone, with nothing but hundreds of overturned boxes to keep her company.

Her shoulders droop in a sad, humourless laugh. “I guess so. But it’s fine! I mean, how could it not be, when I have all this stuff to myself?” She pulls out a jacket covered in bright patterns and beads and shrugs it on in one swift movement. “Like, look at this. It doesn’t get any better than this.”

Pity spears itself through Gigi’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Pfft, don’t be. It’s kind of my fault that nobody comes by anymore.” Crystal digs around in the box again, triumphantly pulling out a small, cracked mirror. “Ahah! Found it. …Wow, I don’t look as bad as I was expecting. You sorely overreacted, you know.”

“Are you really as scary as they say?” Gigi asks, her fascination getting the better of her.

“I used to be, I guess, but people stopped coming and it got boring. Why, what have you heard?” Crystal absent-mindedly pulls at one of her fiery curls, watching in the mirror as it springs back in place.

“I’ve heard… lots of things.” Gigi thinks back to the tales that haunted much of her youth. “Like, an enormous creature of fire. And sentient ice cream–”

Crystal finally looks up again, cutting her off with a burst of laughter. “Oh, that was one of my favourites! I don’t know if the people who came in that day were morbidly terrified or just thought they were going completely nuts.”

“I’d say the latter, to be honest,” Gigi admits with a giggle.

“Yeah.” Crystal grins. “Hey, do you wanna see the ice cream monster?”

“I’m good, thanks.” Gigi is content to leave that much up to her imagination.

“Aw, shame.” Crystal waggles her fingers in Gigi’s direction, and for a moment her hand turns into ice cream, glittering like it’s covered in frozen jewels. “Let me know if you change your mind!”

Gigi laughs, still in utter disbelief that this is really happening to her. She’s sitting across from a spirit in the form of a goat-legged demon, with one outstretched paw made entirely of ice cream. It feels like a fever dream.

“Anyways,” Crystal goes on, returning her hand to normal, “while you’re stuck in here, want to go through some boxes with me?” She rummages around nearby, pulling out a long, cone-shaped, gold-and-green hat and placing it gently behind her horns. “There’s a ton of stuff here that I totally forgot about.”

“Are you sure there’s no other way out?” Gigi bites her lip, avoiding the offer. The door behind her is still firmly locked.

Crystal blinks, her bright smile wilting at the edges.

“There’s a door at the back, but it’s usually locked too… hey, how about I take you on a tour of the warehouse?” Her tone is quietly hopeful, and Gigi’s heart aches despite itself.

“Sure. I’d love that.” She pauses when Crystal offers her a hand - it’s warm, as though her palms still spark with flame, and there is strength in Crystal’s grip when she pulls her up. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Crystal smiles easily at her, twining her tail around Gigi’s wrist to pull her along as she dashes between the rows and rows of storage shelves. There isn’t much to show except boxes, crates and piles and piles of mismatched objects, but Crystal manages to sound excited about it all anyways.

And then they reach the back of the warehouse, where an imposing set of double doors gleam in the artificial light. Gigi pulls her wrist free, scrambling towards them with her heart in her throat. She wiggles the handle, desperate, and–

Nothing happens.

She chokes back tears. How long is she going to be stuck here for? Internally, she curses the people she called her friends and her own stupidity for allowing herself to be dragged into this.

A gentle hand on her shoulder grounds her, and she looks over to see Crystal, red eyes swimming with sympathy.

“I’m sorry. I did try to warn you,” she says, and she’s close enough for Gigi to see her fangs.

“Are you - are you sure you can’t open it?” Gigi asks, a childlike whine on the edge of her tongue. She hates how pathetic she sounds.

“I’m sure,” Crystal promises. “My powers are limited to shapeshifting and fire.” She snaps her fingers, and a small burst of flame flickers briefly at the tips of her claws. “And trust me, I’ve tried burning this place down before. It worked as well as you’d expect.”

“Fuck.” Gigi rests her head against the cold metal. “What am I going to do?”

There’s a moment’s silence, and all Gigi can hear is her own heavy breathing.

“You could… stay here with me, I guess?” Crystal offers.

“Yes, but–” as much as Gigi pities her, Crystal is supposedly the story of nightmares, and Gigi doesn’t want to stay for long enough to find out why. “I - I need food, and clean clothes, and - well - human things.” She fishes around in her pocket, finally resorting to calling someone for help.

Gigi can feel Crystal’s curious eyes on her, her gaze tracking every tiny movement as she unlocks her phone. Her pointed ears prick with shocked delight when Gigi raises the device to her ear, and for a moment Gigi wonders how good her hearing is. She turns her back to Crystal as a tinny voice crackles through.

“Gigi! Hey, what’s up?”

“Nicky! I’m stuck in the–”

“Oh my god, girl, you did not.”

“Shut up! I know it was dumb, but I–”

“Gigi! I told you they were only going to hurt you. Why do you keep trying to be friends with them?” Nicky’s voice is edged with pain, and it pricks at Gigi’s skin like needles.

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

“So what have they done to you now? Locked you up in the haunted warehouse?”

“Yes, that’s… exactly what happened.”

“You’re so fucking stupid.”

“I know, I know, can you just– fuck!”

Gigi is abruptly bowled over by the force of Crystal’s excitement, leaving her sprawled on her back, winded and annoyed. Crystal sits pleasantly on her stomach and pries the phone from her fingers.

“Hello!” she yells eagerly at the phone before raising it to her ear. “Oh my gosh! This really is a talking box! I can’t believe it. Hi! I’m Crystal!”

Gigi watches as Crystal’s cheerful expression morphs into an affronted frown, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout. After a moment, she tosses the phone roughly onto Gigi’s chest.

“Your talking box is mean. Tell it to learn some manners.”

Gigi manages a laugh, Crystal’s weight on her stomach still making it hard to breathe.

“Gigi! GIGI!”

“I’m here, I’m here.”

“Gigi, who the fuck was that?”

“The spirit that’s been haunting this place for the last decade.”

“Ohh, so it’s been a decade,” Crystal gasps above her, quietly astonished.

“Wait, it’s actually haunted?” Nicky asks, startled. “Gigi, please tell me you’re alright. Are you hurt? Did it do anything to you?”

“No, no, I’m fine, I’m just - I’m just kind of locked in here right now.” Her voice shakes, and she blames it on the fact she can’t quite breathe properly.

“I’m coming to get you. Hang in there, okay? I won’t be long, I promise.”

“Thanks, Nicky,” Gigi whispers, gratitude a hard lump in her throat.

“Nicky’s much too nice a name for such a nasty box,” Crystal tells her once she puts the phone back down.

“Please let me up,” Gigi gasps, wheezing with laughter. Crystal huffs before she complies, pulling Gigi to her feet again. She dusts off her clothes before asking incredulously, “you’ve never seen a phone before? They existed ten years ago.”

“Woah, wait! So that’s what a phone looks like?”

“Yeah–”

Before she knows it, Crystal has twined her prehensile tail around the device and plucked it straight out of Gigi’s hands. Gigi watches as she holds it up in front of her face, inspecting it, before tapping lightly on the screen and gasping delightedly when it flares to life.

“Hey! Look! That’s you…” Crystal points at Gigi’s smiling face, staring back at her from Gigi’s lockscreen. “And who’s this? She’s pretty.”

“That’s Nicky.” Gigi’s chest warms at the sight of her.

“Wait, the one you were just talking to?” Crystal scrunches up her nose in distaste. “But she’s so mean! Why do you like her so much?”

Gigi laughs - Crystal’s first impression of Nicky hardly surprises her.

“Yeah, she can be pretty intense, but she’s really fun once you get to know her.” Gigi sighs quietly, skin suddenly crawling with guilt - this whirlwind of a morning has really put things into perspective for her. Nicky was right, and she sees it now; it was stupid to go chasing after people who didn’t care about her simply for a vote of popularity. Gigi looks at Nicky’s gentle, charming smile and aches.

And then the phone begins to ring, vibrating softly in Crystal’s tail. She jerks backwards, so surprised she nearly drops it.

“Jackie,” she reads aloud, slow and careful, testing the shape of every syllable on her tongue. She glances sidewards at Gigi, a devilish grin spreading across her face.

“Crystal, whatever you’re planning–”

“Accept call!” she yells delightedly, pressing the button with gusto.

“No– stop– Crystal!”

She twirls away from Gigi, tapping the phone again.

“Speaker!”

“Hello? Gigi?” a concerned voice rattles through the phone.

“Hello!” Crystal says cheerfully before her skull transforms into something dark and shapeless, her voice little more than an ominous rumbling. “Welcome to the apocalypse,” she intones, and Gigi can see her biting back a grin, stark white fangs on display.

“Gigi! Gigi, are you there? Is everything okay?”

“Jackie! Hi! Yes, everything’s fine!” Gigi exclaims, before Crystal can get another word in.

“The world is ending,” Crystal growls. “Death is imminent!”

“Gigi, what in the world is going on? Nicky said you’re stuck in the old warehouse, and that it really is haunted, but I didn’t want to believe her.”

“No, it is,” Gigi tells her, sharing a secret smile with Crystal. “I’m afraid you got the bad side of my new friend, though.”

Crystal’s eyes soften as her head shifts back to normal. “We’re friends?” she squeaks, and her face is alight with such childlike joy that Gigi’s heart melts.

“Your friend?” Jackie questions, not quite sharing in Crystal’s delight.

“Yeah. She’s keeping me company while I’m stuck in here.”

“Hellooo!” Crystal purrs into the phone. “Don’t worry, I’m very nice. I’m just a little devil that likes to raise hell in the Bible Belt.”

“How long did it take you to think of that one?” Gigi grins.

“Well, to be fair, I had ten years and several crates of old books at my disposal.”

“Gigi, you’re sure you’re okay?” Jackie’s voice crackles through the phone again, thick with worry.

“One hundred percent,” Gigi replies, warm with Jackie’s kind concern. “Crystal was just messing with you. Everything’s fine.”

Jackie breathes out in a whoosh of air. “Call me if anything happens, okay? Nicky’s already on her way.”

“Will do. Thanks, Jackie.”

“Stay safe.”

The call cuts off, and Crystal tosses the phone back, looking far too proud of herself. Watching her, Gigi can’t help but think that for a moment back there, she’d been eye-to-eye with the monster from the stories.

“Crystal…”

“Yes?”

There’s a playful gleam in her candy-apple eyes. Maybe it was always that way - there is no malice in the cool air.

“Why did you stop scaring people?” Gigi asks. What made you spare me?

Crystal toys with the edges of her kaleidoscopic jacket, her gaze darting away.

“I got kinda lonely.” There’s the briefest of pauses before her bright smile returns and she flicks Gigi’s forehead with her tail. “But now you’re here, so everything’s okay!”

“…It was always just for fun, wasn’t it?”

Crystal lets out a short, dry laugh, looking slightly unnerved. “What’s with all the personal questions all of a sudden?”

“No, I’m just–” sheepishly, Gigi scratches the back of her neck. “Sorry. I’m just curious. Everyone always used to say there was a monster here, that we couldn’t come play here anymore because it’d kill us.”

Crystal’s face drops. The wounded look in her eyes doesn’t suit her.

“They really thought that?” Crystal’s voice is suddenly small. “I never meant to hurt anyone. It’s… it’s just like you said. It was all for fun. Gosh, no wonder everyone avoided me for so long.”

Gigi can see it clearly now, should’ve been able to see it from the moment Crystal lit that small burst of flame in the darkness.

“God, I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, I’m glad you did,” Crystal assures her. “I guess I need to work on being nicer.”

“If it helps, I think you’re doing a good job.”

Crystal ignores the compliment in favour of removing her tall, cone-shaped hat and placing it gently atop Gigi’s head.

“There, perfect,” she giggles, and Gigi is pleased to see joy returning in a golden flush to her cheeks. “I feel much better.”

Gigi strikes a pose, pretending she’s on the front cover of a fashion magazine. “How do I look?”

“Awful. Terrible. It suits you.”

Shrieking with indignant laughter, Gigi swats Crystal’s shoulder. “Okay, nope, you still have lots of character building to do, you nasty little devil.”

Crystal’s body suddenly begins to grow, her features changing until she’s an enormous, black-horned beast, her face fixed in a permanent snarl. “Did someone call?”

“I said little,” Gigi laughs.

Crystal flicks her lightly with the spade-shaped tip of her tail. “Shut up. I’m much cooler this way.”

“I think I prefer the regular you. She’s much easier to talk to,” Gigi tells her - she’s craning her neck to see Crystal’s face and mostly getting an eyeful of the inside of her nose.

Crystal bares enormous fangs in what might be a smile before shrinking back into her usual spritely form. She reaches out, her face close enough for Gigi to see the freckles of glitter along her cheeks, and adjusts the clown hat until it sits askew on Gigi’s head.

“I have the best idea,” she says, and Gigi likes the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles. Without waiting for a response, she takes Gigi’s hand in her own and pulls her deep into the clutter, cloven hooves clicking on the hard concrete.

Gigi feels tiny in the forest of steel, a rainbow of fabrics and toys and books spilling from the shelves like unkempt vegetation. The warehouse is like a world all its own - a whispered secret, a breathless discovery, that belongs to her and Crystal and nobody else. Crystal’s soft palm is warm in hers, and for the first time since she’s been here, Gigi allows herself to feel at ease.

“Here we are!” Crystal says, and Gigi can’t help but be disappointed when she tugs her hand free, swiftly scaling the shelf. She pushes box after box onto the ground, watching as they succumb to gravity and spill feathers and frills, buttons and bows, all over the floor. When she’s done, she peers over the edge at Gigi, and the sparkle in her eyes is still bright even from this far away. “Welcome to the costume aisle!”

“What are we going to do, play dress-up?”

“Well, yeah! I thought it would be something fun to do while we wait,” Crystal beams, leaping easily back down to the ground. “Don’t you think?”

All of the people Gigi tried to call her ‘friends’ would have sneered at her if she proposed this idea to them. But standing here now, looking at Crystal’s earnest grin and her mismatched ruff and jacket, Gigi throws all her doubts to the wind, letting her face stretch into a bright smile. The six-year-old girl in her who always wanted to be a princess has woken up again, and Gigi can feel her childlike excitement radiating through her skin.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Crystal chuckles, picking up a sparkling green jacket and draping it over Gigi’s shoulders. “Beautiful. It matches your hat.”

In return, Gigi finds a flower crown among the mess and places it gently on Crystal’s head. The warm yellows and pinks of the petals bring out the jewel tones in her face, and for a moment, Gigi can only stop and stare. Crystal’s cheeks blossom with gold under her gaze, dark lips quirking in a shy smile.

“You look gorgeous,” Gigi tells her, flicking her lightly in the forehead.

Crystal giggles. “And you look ridiculous.”

“Hey! You said I looked beautiful just a second ago!”

“Yeah, nah.” Turning away, Crystal rummages through the overturned boxes. “I can do better than that. Didn’t spend a decade here for nothing.”

Gigi laughs, watching as Crystal tosses aside various garments and accessories, clearly dissatisfied with everything she’s finding. Finally, she sits back on her hooves with a sound of delight - she’s clutching something in rippling shades of blue like the ocean, and Gigi’s curiosity piques.

“Look at these!” Turning around, Crystal proudly holds out a denim top and jeans. “They’ll look so good on you, I’m sure of it… the blue matches your eyes.”

She presses the garments into Gigi’s hands. The denim is soft and worn, the seams fraying at the edges, but the pieces have clearly been put together with care. Gigi holds up the bottoms to admire the craftsmanship: from the knees down, strips of denim in different shades have been sewn together to create the illusion of something like a circus top. She’s never seen anything like this before, but she’s immediately captivated.

“I think I chose well,” Crystal comments beside her, pride seeping in through the edges of her voice.

“You did! I’m curious, though… how did all this” - Gigi gestures outwards at the mess - “even end up here?” Even the jacket on her shoulders seems like it could have been expensive, if moths hadn’t already eaten at the inner lining.

Crystal shrugs, as though the question has never occurred to her before. “I guess it’s just all old stuff nobody wants anymore. No-one’s ever come to pick it up - most of it looked like it had been used before I got here, anyways.”

“This place is like a treasure trove,” Gigi breathes, finally realising the value of what she’s stumbled into.

“Really?” Crystal asks, dubious.

“Yeah! It’s like a time capsule. Imagine what else is in here! There’s so much stuff to draw inspiration from.”

“Ohh, like fashion inspiration?” Understanding dawns in Crystal’s eyes. “Are you, like, a designer?”

“I want to be,” Gigi admits. “It’s… kind of a dream of mine.”

“Well then, I’m very happy to be of assistance. Now go try on those things before Nicky gets here!” Crystal exclaims, shooing Gigi away.

Ducking into the next aisle, Gigi changes into the denim outfit, fluffing out the waves in her auburn hair until it neatly frames her face. The denim top is off-the-shoulder, long sleeves hugging her arms, and Gigi feels beautiful.

“I’m coming back,” she calls out. There’s a squeak of excitement in response and when she turns the corner, Crystal is waiting expectantly, an obscene amount of colourful beaded necklaces piled on top of her ruff.

“Oh my gosh!” she squeals, bounding up to Gigi, every step punctuated by the loud clicking of plastic beads. “You look gorgeous! I was right, this really suits you. Blue is definitely your colour.”

“Thank you,” Gigi replies, warm with Crystal’s effervescent compliments. Gesturing to Crystal’s neck, she asks, “what’s all this?”

Her tone must be overflowing with amusement, because Crystal grins, as cheerfully radiant as the pearl-white lights above them. “Aren’t they awesome? I love accessories. Hey, I should find some for you!”

Without waiting for a reply, Crystal picks out a string of beads from around her own neck and puts them on Gigi, soft hands brushing her bare shoulders. The necklace is a gorgeous cyan with a large beaded flower, crystalline blues and silvers emblazoned across Gigi’s chest. There’s a tenderness in Crystal’s eyes when she stands back to look at Gigi, who strikes a pose, feeling like Crystal’s gaze has stripped her right down to her core.

They both stiffen at a sudden banging from the front of the warehouse. There’s a metallic creaking and an accented voice permeates the air, calling Gigi’s name.

She drops her pose immediately, rushing from Crystal’s side towards the pool of golden sun collecting in the doorway. There’s a person standing there, outlined by the light, and Gigi has never been happier to see anyone in her life. Lunging at Nicky, she winds her arms tightly around her shoulders, breathing in the sweet French vanilla scent of her.

“Nicky. Oh my god, I’m so happy to see you.”

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Nicky whispers against her hair. “I was so worried. I was scared if I didn’t get here fast enough–”

“Shh.” Leaning back, Gigi can see the stark worry pooling in Nicky’s gorgeous eyes. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Thank you for coming to get me.” Her throat is tight with gratitude and joy at seeing Nicky’s face again. Gigi has missed her, has never felt so lucky to know someone in her life. Guilt rips at the edges of her heart as she thinks about all those times Nicky was her second choice, when she left her hanging to go running off after people who should have mattered less. And yet, Nicky is still here, still looking at Gigi with that genuine care and adoration. Gigi hugs her again, holds her close, never wants to let her go.

Eventually, a gentle tap on her shoulder gets Gigi to move again. Drawing back from Nicky, she turns and meets earnest red eyes - it’s Crystal, shyly holding out her clothes.

“Don’t leave these behind,” she says, pressing the balled-up fabric into Gigi’s hands. “And keep the denim… you look beautiful.” She hesitates, takes a quiet breath. “It was really nice spending time with you. Thank you.” There’s unsaid words in the warmth of her gaze, touching Gigi with strokes of sunshine gold.

“Thank you too,” she whispers, wrapping Crystal in a hug. She squeaks in surprise before reciprocating, enveloping Gigi in her velvet touch.

“Are you Crystal?” Nicky cuts in after a moment, and Crystal reluctantly steps back, nodding silently.

Nicky’s gentle face has gone tense, her lips pursed, and Gigi sees steel in her wintry eyes. She jumps between them, opening her mouth to say something, anything, to dispel the tension.

And then Nicky smiles.

“Thank you for looking after her,” she says cordially to Crystal, before throwing an arm across Gigi’s shoulders and tapping her on the nose. “God knows this dumb bitch can’t do anything for herself.”

There’s sincere humour behind the words, and Gigi laughs, pushing her away. “You’re so mean. I hate you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Crystal giggles. “It’s lovely to finally meet you, Nicky. Gigi told me a lot about you.”

“Did she really?” Nicky quirks a curious, playful eyebrow at Gigi. “What did she say?”

“Only good things,” Crystal assures her.

“Ah, très bien. I’d be surprised if she found anything bad to say about me - I’m far too fabulous.”

Crystal laughs. “Gigi was right - you are fun.”

“Well, what can I say? I can’t tell a lie to save my life,” Gigi chuckles.

Nicky snorts, and Crystal hides an amused smile behind her fist. After a moment, they lapse into a comfortable silence, before Gigi steps forward and takes both of Crystal’s hands in hers.

“I guess I should go soon,” she sighs, rubbing her thumbs over Crystal’s knuckles.

“You’ll come back though, won’t you?”

There’s a tender hopefulness in her tone, in her eyes, that tugs at Gigi’s fragile heartstrings.

“Of course.” She pulls Crystal into another hug, holding her close, holding her tight. “I’ll see you again. I promise.”

Crystal relaxes into her touch, and Gigi can feel her smiling against her cheek. “I’ll be here.”

They stand like that for several heartbeats, before Nicky gently rests her hand on Gigi’s shoulder and pulls her back. “We should go,” she whispers. “People are waiting. They’re worried about you.”

Crystal nods in silent understanding, stepping back, and the air around Gigi goes cold again.

“I’m really glad I met you,” she says, quietly sincere, waving gently as Gigi leaves with her hand in Nicky’s.

The door falls shut behind them, heavy with finality. Crystal stands alone beneath the harsh white lights, a blossom of hope flaring orange and bright in her chest.

[lumifuer]

Cold

Pairings: Kylo Ren x Reader Words: 1541 Warnings: Major character death, angst (lots of it), TROS spoilers A/N’s: I’m so sorry in advance. 

Summary: Ben decides to save his love’s life at the cost of his own, but the reader doesn’t allow it. 

You opened your eyes.

A horrifyingly bright light struck your sense of sight, but you felt as if closing your eyes again would be a blasphemy. You didn't know what had happened yet, but you sensed it was something extremely significant. You were slowly regaining visual acuity. Shapes and colours slowly began to resemble views that were both fresh in your head and thousands of light-years away in time and buried somewhere in your subconsciousness. You realized that you were holding your breath. You gasped and choked as if the act of breathing grew out of your habit already.

Feeling slow came back to the rest of your body, you could feel the sharp needles of frost on the delicate and exposed skin, you knew that you were lying on rough ground. But your body was also supported by something much more pleasant, soft and radiating with warmth. You blinked, eagerly wanting the dark shape of the figure leaning over you to become someone familiar. First, you heard his beating heart, then a warm breath tickling your cheek. A salty teardrop ran down the man's face and slowly rolled down your temple to finally disappear into your tangled hair. You felt its weight, which caused an unbearable headache. You knew how much emotion, suffering and fear were contained in this one little tear.

Like a withered flower, which was saved at the last moment by a downpour, you blossomed again, sitting straight and staring into dark eyes framed by thick eyelashes.

"Ben."

You froze at the sound of your own voice. Did you really call him that? Was that really him?

You narrowed your eyes and your forehead wrinkled in consternation. What actually happened?

At first, Ben looked at you in disbelief, which after a moment turned into a sincere and undisturbed joy. He laughed softly, although you could see signs of fatigue on his face. His wet and clumpy hair fell on his face, sticking to the trickles left by his tears.

"Ben," you repeated, smiling slightly. You were dead. You knew that for sure. You were on the verge of life and death, already putting your foot on the other side, but someone took you away from there. He took you in his arms and brought you to life. Ben, he was the one responsible for it.

Seeing his smile, his eyes, how tired he was, you couldn't think logically. Your instincts combined with feelings took away your ability to decide and before you could think it through, your lips met his, gently absorbing the remains of salty tears and concern. Ben returned the kiss, embracing you and pulling you closer, but the strength with which he did so wasn't comparable with what you felt in his touch. Your shoulders have risen and you closed the space between your bodies, but it still wasn't close enough. Nothing would be satisfying in this situation, you wanted to be right next to him, lose yourself in a kiss, forget what happened to you for a moment. The longer you kissed him for, the more of the world around you began to disappear. You felt the warmth that burned you from within, that great need to belong with him, just as he should belong with you.

Finally, you ended the kiss and looked at him, wanting to see his reaction. His smile did not fade, on the contrary, it gained a heavenly glow. His lips brushed yours again, encouraging further caresses, but he pulled away. You saw a sparkle in his eye, a reminder of hope and a deep desire to change. But it was extinguishing at unbelievable speed.

Ben was also burning away.

His breathing became heavy, slow and shallow. His smile receded, leaving only wrinkles around his eyes. Peace. That's the only way you could describe it. He was the embodiment of silence, a man fully surrendering to his fate, who did something important before his last breath. Something that in his eyes could have been the beginning of redemption. But he wouldn't get the chance to finish this work. His path would end at the very beginning.

But you couldn't allow it.

You could feel it inside, he entwined your heart and was a part of your soul. You knew that by giving you the strength to overcome mortality, he condemned himself to death. Tears threaten to roll down your cheek, but you didn't have time to grieve. You touched his hair, his cheek and gently ran your thumb along his jawline. He was real, so there was still a chance.

Then he suddenly went out.

Ben slipped out of your touch as if someone had smothered the flame of his life. He was falling limply on the cold surface of the rocks, and you didn't have the strength to prevent it. A hand clamped on his shoulder made you follow his fall in a grotesque parody of the position you had found yourself into minutes ago.

"No, no, no," you begged. Your heart was beating painfully in your chest and the world around became blurred from tears. You couldn't allow it. You wouldn't give up without a fight.

You put a hand on his heart and closed your eyes, trying to focus your own energy. It wasn't an easy task - his heart was ceasing to beat rhythmically under your fingers. He was slipping away. You tried to remember the moment when you cured him for the first time. It was a pure instinct, something in your heart was telling you it was the right thing. You touched him, and the Force began to flow through your body, to your fingertips and then spreading to him. Right now, you had troubles feeling the energy within yourself. Maybe it was because of the fact that you had only just received it. You wanted to scream, curse and cry out of powerlessness. But it wasn't the time.

Once again, you searched your mind for the quiet place you'd often find in stressful situations. You locked everything else away and allowed your heartbeat to slow down.

"Come back to me, Ben," you whispered.

Suddenly, you felt the world through the Force - it was surrounding you, buzzing within you and still remaining in Ben - barely. You guided it straight into his body visualising its journey. You saved yourself just enough of it to remain conscious, but the deed had drained you completely. You stared at Ben's lifeless body and cowered in fear. You were weak, heartbroken and alone.

Seconds were passing by but you didn't dare to move an inch. You wouldn't take your eyes off of him in fear of missing any signs of life. You were expecting him to vanish and become one with the Force at any moment. You didn't even have the energy to cry. You dropped your head on your chest and everything went black.

"(Y/N)?" you heard and for a second thought, it was just your imagination.

But then you looked up and your eyes locked with Ben's. He was trying to get up but failing in doing so.

"Don't, you're too weak," you whispered, kneeling next to his side and gently rubbing his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

If you weren't so frail yourself, you would have laughed at his concern.

"I am now," you confessed and poured a lot of effort into smiling for him.

"You saved me."

"We saved each other, Ben."

"You shouldn't have risked your life for me. Especially in this condition."

"I could say the same about you."

Of course, he wouldn't think of his life as one worth saving. He killed his father, failed to protect his mother and was responsible for the destruction of numerous planets and thousands of deaths. Giving up his life in exchange for yours was meant to be his final act of kindness. He felt it was impossible to atone for his deeds, but if he could use his energy to bring you back, he'd do that again with no hesitation.

Ben's eyes searched yours for an answer. Assuming you simply cared for him wasn't something he could easily wrap his head around. But he could still sense the touch of your lips, remembering how your fingertips caressed his cheeks and saw fresh marks of tears on your face. He didn't deserve it, but couldn't stop himself any longer. He jumped forward and wrapped his arm around you, hiding his face in your hair. Your heart skipped a beat but you locked him in a safe embrace. He didn't want to question it any further. Maybe there was a spark of hope for him. Maybe his father was right - he still had time to change. And you were willing to help him do that by seeing the goodness inside him. You were offering him something which was missing for the most part of his life - unconditional love. And he felt the same towards you.

"(Y/N)..." he began weakly.

"I know," you smiled and it was a beginning of something new and beautiful.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are always greatly appreciated! ♥

If you like my writing - support me with a hot chocolate? ☕

[moon-antics]

can you do poe dameron + 14 from the prompt list :D thank u

betrayal

authors note : i’m sorry if this doesn’t follow the exact storyline of the last jedi but i only vaguely remember it and haven’t seen it in a while (which shall change soon) but i still hope you enjoy it!

character / ship : poe dameron x force sensitive!reader

prompt(s) : 14 - “i thought i could trust you” “then your trust was misplaced”

summary : not everyone is who they seem to be

word count : 1467

warnings : angsty af

 Everything was a mess.

The Resistance thought they were safe, having jumped through hyperspace to escape from the First Order fleet that was after them.

Yet they somehow followed, leaving everyone on the cruiser terrified. People were rushing around, some getting into their X-Wings to try and shoot as many enemies down as they could before it’s too late. Poe planned on joining them soon.

“You go prepare the ship BB-8, I’ll be right with you.”, Poe shouted over the blaring alarms. The droid beeped in agreement, quickly rolling towards the ship in the hangar.

Poe wanted to go out there and fight, but he had to see you first.

He ran through the hallways, people bumping into him, rushing to get to their own tasks or see their loved ones for maybe the last time. The blasts not penetrating the shield still made the ship shake, bringing Poe into a stumble. His thoughts were only on you, were you okay? He hadn’t seen you since the debrief a few hours ago.

You usually worked at the communication center, so that’s where he headed first.

He never understood why you worked there when you could go out and do much more, you did know how wield the force after all, and a lightsaber. But you stood by your point that you’d be better here and only use your powers when necessary.

He admired you for that. You chose to stay in the shadows rather than take all the credit, which he knew you would get. Not many people in the Resistance knew about you being force sensitive, only Poe, Leia and a few of your friends.

The halls became emptier the closer he got, and quieter too. Only the alarm echoed around the metal hallway. Was no one here anymore? That couldn’t be, they wouldn’t abandon ship, you wouldn’t do that.

“We have received the coordinates and are now engaging, good job.”, a voice echoed through the silence, it sounded like it was from a transmission. He recognized the voice, Hux. This made him stop by the entrance, listening if there’s anything else said.

‘Someone send them our coordinates? A traitor was under our noses all along and we didn’t notice?’ Poe’s thoughts were running wild, he had no idea who would do this.

Carefully, he leaned against the wall, only allowing his head to peak in and catch a glimpse of who has betrayed them.

The sight made his heart stop.

Three men lay on the ground, dead. They wore the Resistance uniforms. And the woman in the middle, just closing the transmission was you. He noticed that you looked different when you turned your head to the side, a slight smirk on your lips.

“You’re not as sneaky as you think you are..”, you stood up straight and turned into his direction.

His eyes widened, now able to fully take in your appearance. Your skin looked more grey, paler than usual. Your eyes that would always sparkle with joy were now dull and shown in a yellow tint.

Your clothes were in all black, only the silver lightsaber at your side standing out.

What had happened to you?

“(Y/N)..”, Poe wore a worried frown as he stepped around the corner, facing you entirely. “What did you do?”

A dry chuckle left you lips. He didn’t recognize it, this wasn’t you anymore. This wasn’t the woman he fell so deeply in love with.

“I did my job.”, you gestured towards the dead men on the ground, “You didn’t notice? Every time they came and found us.. you never wondered how they suddenly knew?”, you slowly walked towards him. He took a few steps back, shaking his head in disbelief. “No, you couldn’t have done this.. why would you..?”

All the time spent together, the promises and memories that were made flashed before his inner eye. You seemed so happy with him, so content. So truthful.

–

“I love you so much, Poe Dameron..”, your hand found its way to his cheek, cupping it gently. He leaned into your touch as your thumb caressed his jaw. He broke out into a big grin, he felt like he could explode from the happiness he felt after hearing those words.

“I love you too, (Y/N) (Y/L/N)..” He leaned closer, his lips gently touching yours. You moved your hands behind his head, pulling him closer as you kissed him back. You broke out into a fit of giggles as he started kissing your neck, gently pushing you onto your back..

–

It was all a lie.

“Why would you betray us like that?! We gave you everything, I gave you everything! And yet you work for them, the people who have killed our people, your friends!”, anger was boiling in his veins, letting it all out by yelling at you. This felt too surreal to him.

“You said we could have a future together when this was all over, but you only used me!”, his breath got heavy from the yelling and the lump that formed in his throat. Your cold stare didn’t falter, not once. It was like you didn’t care that you broke his heart. Poe took a deep breath before he spoke again, he couldn’t stop his tears before speaking.

“I thought I could trust you..”

Little did he know how hard you were fighting with yourself. You were fighting for the right thing; the First Order was right. And the control over the force that Ren taught you, it felt right. You thought you did this for the both of you, love was forbidden for the Jedi. But you felt so strongly when it came to him. You were so afraid of losing him. This was the only option you had if you would live with these feelings. Everything about this felt right to you.

Just not seeing him like this. You felt his sadness, his anger and his disappointment.

You were drowned in darkness, only your heart still held the tiniest bit of light. Your love for him.

“Then your trust was misplaced.”

Your fists clenched as you strut over to him, trying to get past and leave this god damn ship. His hand caught your arm, making you stop in your tracks.

“You don’t have to do this (Y/N)..” You pull your arm away harshly, your eyes piercing his. “You don’t get to decide this. Get out of my way..”, your hand went to your lightsaber. “Don’t make me kill you..”

Poe took a step back. You weren’t serious, you couldn’t be. “(Y/N) this isn’t you! Snap out of it!”

Your head was pounding. Deep down you knew he was right. You wanted to stop all of this and hug him, kiss him. But you couldn’t.

The sound of your lightsaber igniting startled you. Before your mind could process the situation, your body already lunged at him.

The sizzling blade stopped right at his neck. He didn’t flinch, he only looked you in the eyes. You leaned in closer, your hands gripping the handle tightly. One wrong move and he’s dead.

You could barely look into his eyes, the guilt slowly spreading through your mind. For a second you turned your head away, blinking away the tears that started to form. You loved him, so why are you holding the blade to his neck?

Was this all even right? Yes, yes it was. You are fighting for the right thi-

“I love you.”

Your head snapped back into his direction; eyes wide. Poe could see the colour of your lightsaber reflect in them, one tear escaping their prison and rolling down your cheek.

Your heart was pounding wildly. Why did he say that, even after all that you did? He meant it.

The shock of his words made you abandon your surroundings, only noticing the blaster Poe held to your side when it touched you. You know he would never want to hurt you, but this wasn’t you anymore.

Anger took over your mind, the little sparkle of hope that Poe thought he saw immediately dying down. You outstretched your hand, pushing him back through the room.

A grunt escaped his lips as his head hit the wall, everything went black afterwards.

With slow steps you went over to his unconscious body, kneeling beside him. You couldn’t kill him, even if that were your orders. Kill everyone who sees you, they said.

However not him. Your hand ran through his messy locks, admiring the feeling one last time before you got back up.

The banging and crashing sounds indicating that the First Order finally broke through the shield. You should be happy about that, you’re winning. But at what cost?

Quiet footsteps left the room without looking back.

“I love you too, Poe Dameron..”

[kosmosian-quills]

Long Live the Queen

I was inspired by the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt “Childs Play”. I know I’m probably too late to enter this one but it’s where the inspiration comes from XD

I’ve got @cirianne to thank for her advice on this scene. Honestly starting this scene was the worst but ilysm for your patience and feedback <3

“Princess.”

The stern voice brings my focus back to them, and my immediate task of pulling faces at my little sister is interrupted by our very unamused professor, his gaze irritated and intimidating.

“As entertaining as it may be to ignore my lecture, I do not appreciate you acting like children and insulting my intelligence by distracting your sister and yourself with juvenile tendencies.” He says, leaning over me with his arms folded, book still in one hand, and his cane in the other. “Even if you are not the heiress to the throne, you should at least be able to make conversations about the other nobilities in Europe.”

“But it’s all about old, dead people. Why do grown-ups want to talk about all these dead people anyway? They can’t come back to life and do anything now.”

“Knowing these things prevents you from embarrassing not just yourself, but your father. How do you think it looks if his daughters cannot talk about these things? You can’t expect any guests we have to educate you on things you should already know, Princess.”

I look down at the book in front of me, the same one he was reading out of and expecting us to follow along with. I nod at the professor, my cheeks burning red.

“Sorry, professor,” I reply, managing to snag a glance at Maria, and she looked as embarrassed as I did.

He unfolded his arms, and continued to read from the book in that same, boring, monotonous tone as before. It’s no wonder I started messing around with my sister earlier, because it’s all just so dull. Maria’s almost reckless attempts at entertaining us both are what gets us through these lectures.

He didn’t seem to notice how Maria was back to drawing little circles on her parchment in front of her, and that she was not paying any attention to him because of it. No doubt if the old man would look up and see what she was doing, this *insolence* would be reported to our father – his Majesty the King – in absolutely no time at all.

Well, as soon as father returns from his trip that is.

I make eye contact with Maria and she looks up at me, clearly not caring about learning today. I don’t want her to get in trouble, so I nod in the direction of the professor, silently imploring her to at least stop wasting parchment. Even if he didn’t realise she was not listening, having evidence of her distraction is just more grounds for getting her in more trouble later.

She does stop, though, and sits up in her creaky wooden seat.

It’s enough, she knows I don’t want her in trouble, but she knows she isn’t helping herself here.

Looking back at my book, reading the words on the old paper, I’m suddenly reminded of the monotony of these lectures. I can’t wait until we’re done here, so that me and Maria can go and play around in the rock pools at the edge of the castle. The hot summer makes it nice to play in. It’s not like we’ll be alone, there are plenty of guards around and of course our mistress comes too, if only to keep Maria from causing too much mischief. It’s a nice way to pass the time until father and Elżbieta return to join us for dinner.

But that daydream was shattered by the sounds of frantic footsteps outside, followed by sharp knocks on the heavy wooden door.

The door opened, and in stepped Sir Dusza, head of the Royal Guard himself, followed by a small group of his men, fully suited and not at all what we were expecting. Even Maria stopped fiddling around and sat up straight.

He didn’t look happy. He didn’t look at all pleased.

But then again, what was he doing? Why was he here? I don’t know of any event that requires him to escort us anywhere. Besides, I thought he was supposed to be with my father today, escorting him north…

“What is the meaning of this?” the professor asks, looking at the knights as they file in.

“Your highness,” he addresses me, bowing his head slightly, and instantly I know that something is wrong. He turns to the professor, briefly. “Forgive the intrusion, professor, but I have some news I need to impart upon the Princesses.”

I manage to catch a glimpse of the look on his face before the professor excuses himself from the room. Devoid of colour, pursed lips, and wide eyes.

“Sir, what is…?” I start to rise from my seat, and those words are all I can manage as I see the painful look in his eyes. He knows something’s not right, he knows that I know that much.

He clears his throat, kneels down to our level, and begins to speak.

“As you are aware, his Majesty the King - your father - and your sister were on their way north to meet with the lords there,” he speaks slowly, not actually making eye contact with me. Maria is still seated next to me, turned completely around, and he keeps looking at her too. “I am so very sorry, your highnesses, but the carriage was run off the road when the horses got scared...”

I don’t quite hear what he says after that, because all I can hear now is a dull ringing and my head feels so dizzy. The room around me feels like it’s spinning out of control, but Sir Dusza is still knelt before me, his head hung low, still speaking to us, but I’m not quite… not quite sure what he’s saying.

“No, no!” Maria is the only thing I can hear next. “Elka, no, no!”

It feels… it doesn’t feel real. It feels like he’s lying, like he’s joking. There’s no way this is true. Father – he isn’t, he can’t be –

“My sincerest condolences, your majesty.”

Those words, that little thing he ended on is what snaps me back to reality.

Your majesty.

It doesn’t feel real at all, it feels like a lie. It feels undeserved on all accounts. I was never meant to be addressed this way. It was always supposed to be Elżbieta, of the three of us. I’ve known my entire life that I would be your highness.

But this, it feels like I’ve stolen something precious from someone I love. It feels like I’ve taken something that never was mine, and never was *meant* to be mine.

Elżbieta – the one who spent those countless hours with father, learning his craft and doing everything to make her road to regency much smoother – is gone forever.

Leaving me to pick up the reigns from several miles behind her.

“There is much for you to do now, your majesty, to take the crown. I need you to come with me.”

I nod once, blinking and barely aware of the tears that streamed down my face. The knight before me stands tall, and stands aside, letting me make my way to the door of the classroom. I reach to my left and take a hold of Maria's hand, snivelling and crying the way she is.

I'm all she has left now, as she is all I have.

“Long live Queen Katarzyna.”

This statement from the head of the Royal Guard is immediately followed by all the guards echoing his words in unison.

Long live Queen Katarzyna!

A statement that, even now, still feels foreign and undeserved. For the longest time, it should have been Queen Elżbieta.

But that’s not what’s happening here, now.

Instead, my father’s country is in my hands. The hands that would have been playing childish games with my sister if I hadn’t heard this news.

Long live the Queen indeed. I’ll need all the time I can get, if only so I don’t bring my country to its knees whilst still in its infancy.

More than one Princess died today with the King, because now, only one remains beside its new Queen.

[hillbillied]

i found your post about andy and eddie's kinks from a couple of years ago and i was just wondering do you have any updated thoughts?

firstly, thank you anon!! I love writing these two!!

secondly fuck, I left this ask in the ‘box for a while because, double fuck, I couldn’t think of any kinks I hadn’t included in the OG post!! I am very sorry for the delay!

(I had to read through them to check, still crispy if I do say so... let’s see what else we can get in there. god I could go on a whole bunch more about the ones from the OG post lmao my fave losers in love having great sex!)

The Secret Kinks of Andrew Haldane and his Lieutenant, Edward Jones (pt.II)

(highly nsfw, 18+ only)

I’m gonna rag on Andy’s exhibitionism kink a little louder than before because it’s so embarrassing. going to the cinema is a chore because Andy doesn’t have the patience for long movies and he really can’t get behind anything that’s not a really fucking hilarious comedy or a truly gripping drama. anything even a little lacklustre (most of what’s on in the 50s) has his gaze wondering elsewhere

the amount of times Eddie has been enjoying his movie experience (he loves movies, btw, he didn’t get to go to many as a kid – think Gunny-level attention in the scene where the marines are watching For Whom the Bell Tolls) and suddenly a hand is brushing his knee. he can’t help but roll his eyes because Andy, good lord, can’t you enjoy the plot for five-fucking-minutes?

luckily for Andy, he’s got a semi-indulgent boyfriend or at least a condoning one; either Eddie will lift his longs legs and put them over Andy’s lap, teasing him with the weight whilst simultaneously giving him some cover to enjoy himself (in no relation to the movie) – or, if he’s feeling generous and equally turned on, he’ll give his stupid fucking would-be husband a hand so he can go back to his popcorn. Eddie’s got skilled fingers and only makes eye contact with his flustered, heavy-breathing boyfriend in scathing glances to show his “disapproval”

car sex is as normal to the two of them as breathing. it started fairly uncreative and vanilla, just screwing in the one long seat of Hillbilly’s pickup. it’s a little on the tight side but Eddie’s more flexible than many would believe. Andy loves having two hands just under his knees, pushing his thighs up against his chest so he can fuck him nice and deep. it has Eddie’s toes curling and his teeth gritted and colourful curses dripping out the cracked window (no AC means a real sweaty cab)

that, or Hillbilly will be riding Andy passenger side. he likes smoking in his car and he likes riding Ack Ack’s cock, so this is a win-win scenario. the leverage from the seat means he can light up while rolling his hips, humming around the cigarette. it’s an erotic sight for sure; Andy has to cover his eyes with his hand while laughing out a breathless “shit, Eddie…”

romantic evenings include soft kisses and mutual handjobs in the truck bed, after giving up on star gazing. less romantic evenings include parking somewhere discreet (or… not, because Andy’s exhibitionism is a nightmare and the 60s were pretty wild) to get them both out on the road. there’s sweaty handprints on the hood where Andy has Eddie bent over it, pinned between his chest and hot metal. it’s some of the hardest, roughest sex they have, and Andy usually uses Eddie’s t-shirt for leverage, something to twist into an psudo-harness to pull him back against his dick. Hillbilly likes to growl out threats – “you stain m’ car, Andy, I’ll fuckin’ kill you” – but it’s all a ruse to cover how there’s sweat dripping from his curls and how his pants for air are turning into moans and how he’s the one staining the tire where he’s cum, hard enough to have him flat out over the hood and gasping

this is all while the car is parked, of course. Andy loves giving Eddie head while he’s driving. it’s lucky Hillbilly’s had to drive bigger, scarier machines than a Ford, honestly. his disapproval (fake, every time) is portrayed where he grabs Andy’s hair and forces his cock down his throat. “Cop car” he’ll say, “gotta stay down”. he’s a lying sack of shit but it’s worth the sin to glance down at Andy when he lets him pull back, spittle running from his tongue and his coughing turning to a gasp then a moan in quick succession. it’s really difficult for Eddie not to grin super wide and push Andy’s head back down for more

(side note: Andy’s a service top so he gives great head, none of this fake dom shit. they each say the other gives it better because they are both weak for one another and stupidly in love)

gags become a thing after a while. Andy is an expert at introducing/asking about bedroom ideas without being condescending and he knows he has to decipher Eddie’s interest without it sounding like he wants him to shut the fuck up. (he does not, he loves everything that comes out of Hillbilly’s mouth, from stone-cold threat to lazy joke to breathless groan)

but a thing they do become. (it starts with Andy shoving a couple of fingers in Eddie’s mouth to “keep quiet”, an old familiar trick from the war, and it snowballs from there) so the next time Andy’s bent over Eddie, facing him and maybe got his hands pinned above his head, and Eddie decides to let off a quip, Ack Ack stops. slows his motions and pretends to think, then reaches for his master plan. the first time, it’s just fabric, shoved into Hillbilly’s mouth. his pink cheeks (from semi-annoyance or embarrassment, not sure) and deep frown and almost-offended stare are fucking priceless

(Andy buys a proper gag, one Eddie can bite down on. one he can grab the back of and pull Hillbilly’s head back with so he can kiss his neck, tell him how fucking hot his moans are when they’re all he can make)

collars slip in there somewhere. they’re not sure where that came from but there’s a suspicion it may have come from the wholesome conversation about adopting a dog (which they both want to do they’re just terrified of going to pick one and falling in love with more and then what are they gonna do?? have fifty dogs?? but I digress)

Andy’s not one to be embarrassed of his sex purchases but he was definitely scratching his neck when he bought it. luckily, his boyfriend can read him like a goddamn book. the man likes being in control, sure, dominating the room in his own masterful way, definitely – that doesn’t change the look of complete adoration that takes Andy’s features when Eddie buckles the collar around his neck

it fits well with Andy’s orgasm denial kink. he doesn’t do it to Eddie much (he’s got enough kinky shit he can do to him) but Hillbilly definitely does it to him. it’s a treat to test Andy’s self-restraint and not with any bondage. Eddie’s a very patient man, used to unfulfilling sex prior to Ack Ack, so he’s got all the time in the world. he loves making Andy wait, teasing him with a grip around the base of his cock. he gets a cock ring for him later, when his tight grip isn’t cutting it anymore

there’s nothing better than watching Andy’s thighs tremble, sat on his own hands on a chair, desperately keeping his cool while Hillbilly carefully lowers himself onto his cock (Eddie uses that collar to get him to look him in the eye)

they usually can’t be bothered with food play (“Food is f’ eatin’, Andrew, not wastin’.”) but there’s occasional things. Andy has a tendency to take Eddie’s fingers in his mouth and lick them clean, whether from an accidental or purposely spillage. he doesn’t really care what’s on them so long as it’s edible and he can watch Hillbilly’s lip curl watching him

Eddie’s definitely done a “spillage” of his own once or twice. except his are obvious, just how he likes them; he’ll straight up pour a splash of beer on his dick and invite Andy to come lap it up. his house, his rules and all. Andy always obliges

Eddie gives a great spit ‘n shine to boots, Andy’s found. he loves demanding Eddie get on his knees and do the daily duties he learned as a marine, making sure his captain’s uniform is in order. (slightly funny if Ack Ack’s not wearing anything but his boots while saying it, but he can live with that) having Hillbilly look up at him – “Like this, Skipper?” - as he runs his tongue across the leather is more than worth it

Eddie likes tearing open clothes, though he feels really, really bad about it. it’s obvious it turns him on because Andy loses a lot of shirt buttons over the years. (they sew them back on together, which is nice, gotta know how to mend and make do. Eddie actually knows a lot about cross stitch and Andy adores learning from him)

one time Andy’s waving his ass Eddie’s way, has been for a whole morning whilst they were gardening, potting flowers, weeding the lawn, working, Andy, we’re busy – so it’s just been a build up of hard-ons and no time to deal with them. and they’re wearing old clothes for the task, threadbare jeans. (that used to be Eddies, even the ones on Andy’s ass) so when Hillbilly finally presses up against Andy, bites his ear, and grabs his pants with both hands - he just pulls. they tear open and Andy feels Eddie shudder against him (shortly before he feels Hillbilly’s cock pushing inside him but that’s just a massive bonus)

Andy’s an indulgent boyfriend so he buys underwear and pants on the cheap and waves them Eddie’s way. the “rippables” as he calls them. made to be ripped, end of. no hard feelings, good riddance to them

I said they were too lazy for bondage because they can just pin each other and I stand by it; it remains a special thing. one of the ‘hardcore’ things, like the belt and gun play. mainly because, while they can actually pin each other down quite effectively with limited wiggle room, there’s still the ability to y’know, headbutt each other. because they’re also both trained in how to flip a guy that grabs you. fatally, if need be

so tying Eddie up (Andy’s always been down to be tied up, blindfolded, etc. by Eddie because he trusts literally one man in the whole world and it’s Edward Jones) is a big thing. because Eddie has had to fuck people up who tried to fight him and his brute strength is what’s gotten him through (finding something capable of realistically holding him is also a struggle in sexual hilarity because fuck, it’s gotta be thick rope or actual police handcuffs)

when Andy asks him about it (and presents the short length of rope he went for because he couldn’t find handcuffs yet) Eddie immediately says yes. because he trusts Andy completely. but he also says not tonight and not every night and not any time he can see it coming. if he works himself up about it, he’ll embarrass himself

when it does happen (Andy’s can read him right back, he knows when), Eddie ends up with his hands tied behind his back. he jokes about Ack Ack’s poor navy knotwork and gets a laugh back. then Andy slow bends him over the bed. that’s all Eddie thought he’d do, which isn’t a bother, long legs are still able to roll away. until Andy kneels down below him, caressing his thigh lovingly, and nudges his legs open. Eddie ends up standing bent over on the mattress with each ankle tied to a leg of their heavy bed frame

it’s a lot but Andy takes his time, kisses his way up from Eddie’s calf all the way to the back of his neck, keeping a hand pressed to his inner thigh. the tremble there is aroused and overwhelmed all in one. the first time, Ack Ack just enjoys giving his boyfriend a nice, slow handjob, supporting himself over Hillbilly so he can feel his weight. it’s amazing to have Eddie coming apart under him, whispering for more until he gets a shaking orgasm, biting the sheets to try and cover how loud he whimpers (it’s too much for Andy, too, and he cums just from rubbing between Eddie’s thighs)

Andy’s trademark aftercare is as excellent as ever and they sit together with some tea on the bed, listen to the radio, Eddie leaning against his chest with two loving arms around him. he asks if next time Ack Ack will fuck him and naturally, Andy just says “if you want me to” while kissing his temple. Hillbilly wipes his face and asks “please”