#at least i don’t run around in peoples inbox’s under anonymous just to be loud and wrong

[daenerysies]

I really wonder where you got the idea that the greens consider Aegon a worthy king. No one thinks of him as such, including his family lol. Even he himself says that he does not want the throne and is not born to rule. People support the greens because: 1. They just like these characters more. 2. They believe that the greens in general would be better rulers than the blacks in general. 3. They believe that the greens have usurped the throne to protect themselves. In neither case is it a question of Aegon being a good king. Stop attributing thoughts to people that they didn't express.

i’m going to need y’all to read my post front to back at least three times, and then back to front thrice more. no where in the fucking post did i put down that the greens consider aegon to be worthy to the iron throne. the whole worthy statement literally goes “…aegon did nothing to prove he was worthy of being named heir, let alone being king.” the key words are ‘did nothing to prove’, HE did nothing. no where in the post did i mention the team green fandom, minus putting the tag ‘anti team green’. you’re nitpicking because otherwise you wouldn’t have something to whine about. i get that media comprehension can be tough, but really? is this the best you all can come up with? i understand all of the ‘reasons’ why people support the greens over the blacks. that’s why i’m not team green. it’s a comparison. how many times have you and your buddies haha-ed over rhaenyra being a privileged brat who did nothing to secure her claim? i’m guessing quite frequently, considering i still see the same dumbass talking points despite blocking the tags. your precious uwu aegon and his stans can handle having one of your arguments pointed out as sexist, right? you can’t come after rhaenyra for one thing and then give aegon a pass for the exact same reason. it’s hypocritical and contradictory to do so. use your brain. i PROMISE *pinky promise at that* it’s not that difficult to do.

[starlightsearches]

Scoundrel

So my inbox decided to delete every request that I had, but lucky for me I actually copied them all down this time! Here’s three requests that I’ve combined into one story, hope you all love it!

Anonymous asked: Lol you reblogged a head cannon from @historymiss about kylo and his “scoundrel” skills and it is just so funny to think about, I’d love to read a fic by you about it. Maybe reader is some type of smuggler being hunted down by the first order and they get away but not before they impress each other with shady skills?

Anonymous asked: Ooh! How about a prompt? “It’s a hobby of mine to prove you wrong” reader to kylo?

Anonymous asked: kylo x reader “is that blood?” “... no?”

Requests are closed ✨

Kylo Ren x Reader (no pronouns)

Warnings: some angst, language, mentions of sex pollen 😏, mild horniness, not a happy ending 🙁

There's no light at all in your hiding place, just the hard press of metal against your spine and the sound of your own breathing. You close your eyes, not that it changes the much, fill your lungs as quietly as you can manage and then hold your breath, listening closely to the sounds of footsteps as they move past you, the modulated mumbles of storm troopers as they head towards the exit of your ship. It's not easy to track their movements just by sound, but you don't think they found your stash, thank gods. If they all get off your fucking ship, you can be on your way in no time.

"Search completed, sir. No sign of the fugitives." You can just barely hear one of the troopers report to some silent supervisor, and your mind catches on the last word. Fugitives? Who were they looking for? Some people would pay a lot of credits for information like that. Despite its chaotic beginnings, today could still be a lucky one. You press your ear closer to the false wall that you hide behind, furrowing your brow in concentration.

"Complete searches of the rest of the ships, they’re here somewhere," there's a second voice now, and as soon as you hear it, ice floods your veins. You'd recognize that voice anywhere. Shit.

Your previous confidence in your hiding place leaves immediately, but you can't move, your sense of self-preservation still convinced that he might slip up this time. You're startled from that delusion almost immediately by a loud pounding sound, and then the panel covering your little shelter gives way to blinding light.

You land on your hands and knees with a loud smack, the impact driving spikes of pain through your bones. Someone—a trooper you assume—is on you immediately, yanking your hands behind your back. As soon as your eyes adjust, he's in your line of sight, filling your view with an expansive blackness.

"You again," he's crouched down beside you, the words almost quiet enough to be a whisper, and said with a kind of reverence that might only exist in your imagination. It's been a long time since you last saw Kylo Ren, but it feels like no time at all.

"We can't keep meeting like this, Commander," you reply, coating your words in a healthy level of sarcasm to hide any trembling that could break through, "People might think that you're in love with me."

He doesn't respond, because he never does, but he lifts his hand to your face, rubbing his thumb roughly against your cheek, the seam of his glove scraping against your skin. "Is that blood?" he asks in the same even tone, raising his hand to eye level; you can just barely make out the dark red smear against the black leather.

" ... No?" And then after a beat, "well, it's not mine." Nothing changes in the man before you, but you hear a modulated snicker from behind, and the trooper mutters an apology when Ren shoots him what you have to assume would be a glare if you could see the face behind his mask.

"Search them," Kylo Ren stands to his full height, and you follow close behind, yanked to your feet unceremoniously by the trooper. Some might find this situation humiliating, being cuffed and patted down on your own ship, but you're able to ignore it rather easily, choosing instead to keep your eyes trained on Ren. He returns your stare, his arms crossed tight over his broad chest, fingers flexing rhythmically against the swell of his biceps. No, being handled like this doesn't bother you at all, but you think it might bother him.

Your weapons are removed one by one, and it's a few minutes before the trooper is satisfied, attaching the cuffs to your wrists and giving you one final shove to signal the end of his search. "Should I take them back to the command shuttle?"

Ren stays silent, and your mind kicks in to lightspeed as you try to come up with a plan. If they got you off this ship, your chances of escape would diminish greatly. You'd need to stay aboard, but how? Fighting both of them wouldn't be an option, especially not weaponless. You'll have to make this up as you go and hope things play out in your favor.

"Leave the prisoner with me for interrogation," he says to the trooper, and you stifle a sigh of relief, "I'll need to search the ship again." You try to keep your emotions in check as you watch the trooper walk towards the exit, following him around the corner and out the door with your eyes. It's just you and Ren now. You could make this work.

He breaks the silence as soon as you're alone, plucking the thoughts right out of your head, "you're not going to escape."

"That's funny, I think you said that the last time we ran into each other," you keep your reply light, your tone laden with a healthy dose of mockery so he won't look any deeper. It's not easy to play tricks on a man with powers like his, which is why you've got to keep him distracted, uncomfortable. After all, this is your arena—he'll have to play by your rules.

He takes you by the shoulder, pushing you further into the ship with a shove that's probably meant to be harsh, but there's no heat behind it. "You can't get away from me," he says, more emphatically. His fingers press deeper into your shoulder, a heavy grip to emphasize his point, like that’s all it would take to keep you with him. He should really know better by now. 

You shrug out of his grasp with a little twist, turning to face him in the small corridor, chest to chest, your bound arms sandwiched between you, your own reflection staring back at you through the eyes of his helmet. "I wouldn't count on it, Commander. It's become a hobby of mine to prove you wrong." Your voice is barely a whisper, the heat of your breath creating little clouds of fog on his mask—you're closer than most would dare to be. It's dangerous, the way you get in his space, dangerous how you challenge him, but gods, do you like it. 

He chooses to ignore you again, refusing to take the bait, and instead continues his path down the hall, pulling you towards the cargo hold. It's mostly empty right now, with a few scattered transport bins littering the corners—just empty enough to fool any asshole who might try to poke their nose into your business.

"What are you hauling?" Ren asks, unconvinced by your sparse collection, searching the hold with slow, methodical movements.

"I don't know if you could tell, but I'm actually between jobs at the moment," you kick a crate of broken blasters to sell your lie, but it's clear he's not convinced as he walks the length of the hold, searching for any signs of hidden compartments. You take the chance to look around, as well, seeing if there’s anything that might aid your escape, or at least help you get the damn binders off. It’s a waste of time—there’s nothing in here for you, and even if there was, you wouldn’t be able to get to it without Ren noticing. You look back at him, just for a moment, checking to see if he’s distracted enough to ignore your scheming. By then it’s too late—you hear the sound of the panel lifting first, and it's only a second before he's opening the crate hidden beneath, too quick for the cry that rips from your chest but gets caught on the way out.

"Spice, really?" He reaches a gloved hand towards the container of the innocuous-looking yellow powder and your heart threatens to leap out of your throat, your feet moving towards him of their own accord.

"Don't touch that!" The words finally break free as you throw yourself at him—you don't really have a choice. The impact is hard, hard enough to upset his balance as he stumbles backward, catching you in his grasp, his hands gripping at your shoulders to steady you, too. You’re anchored in his arms, but your breathing is coming hard and fast, the adrenaline making home in your veins even if the danger has passed.

"Afraid I might contaminate your supply?" he whispers the question, the words coming low and mocking through the modulator in his helmet. He thinks it's his turn to get under your skin.

"That's not spice," you say, breathing hard, panic still coursing. "It's a highly potent kind of pollen used to, uh, stimulate arousal. Getting even the smallest amount of it on your skin or in your lungs can create an effect that lasts for weeks." He goes still against you, solid as stone, but you can feel his heartbeat running rampant through his body as he realizes the meaning of your words. Neither of you dare to move, afraid of worsening your already precarious situation, even though you’re well out of reach of the container. The tension has sucked all the air from the room and you stutter, trying to bring it back, "there's a king in the Kazyk sector who pays me good money to haul it for him."

"Is it contraband?" His gaze flits from you back to the powder, and then back again. Even though you can't see them, the pressure of his eyes weighs on you, bringing a heat to your cheeks.

"Depends on who you ask. It is expensive, highly coveted, and notoriously hard to transport. It can cause . . . complications when moved, if you're not careful."

"Complications?" You feel yourself flush, your entire body uncomfortably warm—the temperature control on your ship must be malfunctioning. It's only made worse by your proximity to Ren; you can feel his heat passing through the thick fabric he wears, smothering you.

"Do I need to spell it out for you, Commander?" You had wanted to mock him again, using his title like that, but the whisper that leaves your parted lips is absent of any ridicule, your words so soft and wanton that it sends a shiver up your own spine. You can't help but wonder if he's blushing under the mask—if his thoughts are currently consumed, like yours are, by images of bodies intertwined, heady moans passed between parted lips, his hands—ungloved—exploring every inch of you . . .

Your wrists tug against their restraints, unbidden. It's a good thing that you're still cuffed, because if they weren't, you're not sure what would stop you peeling back those layers he wears, taking off that stupid helmet, finally revealing his face. What would he look like, laid bare before you? What would it feel like to be encircled in his arms with nothing between you but desire?

You ball your fists, fingernails pressing crescents into your palms as you try to remove these thoughts from your mind, forcing yourself out of his grasp with a sharp tug, trying to breathe again. Gods, what is wrong with you? Some of the pollen must have gotten into the air and made its way into your system. You turn back, hoping to confirm your theory, but the little pile of yellow powder sits undisturbed, and the air in the cargo hold is heavy and still.

"Just put the lid back on it. I'm not hauling anything else," you command, and to your surprise, Ren obeys, replacing the cover on the container gently so as to not disturb the powder beneath. He grabs you again, by the arm this time so that he can keep his distance, thank gods, not that it helps you cool off—the heat stays trapped beneath your skin for much longer than you’d care to admit.

He takes you through the rest of the ship, stopping occasionally to open one of the many hidden storage compartments scattered throughout, cracking locks, breaking codes seemingly without even trying. He finds all of them—even the ones you made yourself, ones you were sure nobody would be able to locate without your help. It doesn't matter anyway; you were telling the truth before. You're not hauling anything else.

You lean against the wall, watching as he rips away the edge of another panel in the floor, finding it empty, and you roll your eyes. "Not to be a dick, but can't people like you just feel if I'm harboring fugitives on my ship?" He looks up at you, and you hope he can’t see the way you’re still shaking, hope he can’t feel any of the shame you’re trying so desperately to hide. You need him off your ship—no more complications, no more interference.

"People like me?" he asks, with the slightest hint of laughter, just barely detectable behind the modulation. So he does feel it—your embarrassment, the leftover yearning that you can’t seem to elude.

You roll your eyes again, as if the movement itself could create the nonchalance you’re trying so hard to mimic. You want to be annoyed at him. You want to be unaffected, cool despite what just happened. But it’s not working. "You know what I mean. Couldn't you just sense them?" 

"I know you're not hiding the people we're searching for,” he admits, sliding the floor panel back in place, “and I found all of these- "he gestures vaguely down the hall, the evidence of his handiwork littered along the corridor "-on my own." It’s hard to be sure when you can’t see his face, but you think he might be smug about it all. 

You furrow your brow, thoughts humming, trying to piece together this interaction in a way that makes sense. When that fails, you resort to mockery. 

“. . . So you've been ripping my whole ship apart for what? Just to show off?” Your heart jumps when you see him freeze—the physical changes slight, but not beyond your notice—a slow smile spreading across your face. You’ve got him now.

“You are trying to show off, aren’t you? I have to admit it, I’m impressed,” he stays where he is as you move closer, the visor of his mask trained on you, his muscles taut like he’s ready to run. Who would have thought that, in this scenario, you’d be the dominant one?

“That’s not-” he stutters—you can hear it through the vocoder, and you laugh, just a short, breathy thing. You shouldn’t let yourself get distracted from the goal at hand, but this is much more fun.

“No need to be embarrassed, I tend to have that effect on people. Everybody loves a scoundrel.” You flash him a cheeky smile, and he bristles, folding his arms over his chest again and standing to his full height. You can see the tension in him, practically pulling him apart. He wants to run from you. He wants to stay. 

“Not me,” he says like he wants to believe it, but you can’t miss the way his voice shakes.

“You especially, Commander. The Order and its people are far too proper for someone like you. There aren’t enough scoundrels in your life.”

The silence that follows your words fills the space, leaving little room for air. Maybe you’re hallucinating, but he might inch closer, his fingers twitching, maybe to reach for the latches in his helmet, maybe to bury them in your hair.

The sound of pounding footsteps against the durasteel floor shocks the breath back into your lungs, but even as the trooper dashes into view, Ren doesn’t pull away.

“Sir, there’s a problem,” the trooper huffs, and after a pause, Ren rips his eyes away from you. The trooper hesitates, now, realizing that he’s barged in on what probably looks to him like a private moment. “Uh, there’s a small band of Resistance fighters attacking the troops, we believe they’re here for the fugitives.”

Ren’s immediately on the move, his cloak snapping from the speed of his departure, and you and the trooper glance at each other for a moment before they follow after Ren, and you do too, curious to see the commotion. Despite his limited headstart, Ren seems to have vanished from the corridors of your ship, no trace of him at all, the only sounds echoing through the hallway coming from your own footsteps and the soft jingle of the trooper’s movements. 

The jingling. You’re almost to the door before you realize what that sound means, and you want to smack yourself. You can see the keys now, out of the corner of your eye. Escape had never been closer, and you almost missed it. You choose to ignore the voice in the back of your mind that reminds you about what had caused you to become so distracted. You don’t have time to think about it now. You have a plan.

The trooper startles when you yelp, tripping over nothing before you go sprawling, landing on the floor with a clang. You watch him from the ground as he stares back at you, hesitant, glancing towards the exit before his eyes fall to you again.

“A little help?” You sell it, make it look like a struggle as you try and fail to find your feet, but the trooper still doesn’t move just yet, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Then he takes the bait.

“Thanks,” you mumble under your breath, falling into him as he pulls you to your feet, bracing yourself against the duraplast of his uniform before pulling the keys from his belt with a deft tug and tucking them into your palm.

He doesn’t even notice, running as soon as you're stable, and you follow behind, spinning the key in your palms angling it just right until you hear the snap of release. You catch the cuffs, trying to limit the noise they make as they fall from your sore and stiff wrists. You’re free. 

The trooper exits the ship immediately, off to help his comrades, but Ren is still by the door, deflecting the odd blaster fire. Most of the fighting is far past your ship, on the other side of the yard, but one or two stragglers have decided to aim his way. You watch from around the corner, listen as the sounds of fired shots ends with strangled cries. You move in behind him, getting close, holding the cuffs in place as best you can. 

“Looks like the fight has moved on without you,” you announce your presence, and he turns to look at you, but your eyes are on the saber, burning bright and wicked by his side. “Impressive, but not very useful long range. Blasters are more . . . versatile.”

He gives you a hard look—a searching look—before raising his hand, the fingers flexing in his gloves. Your blaster, the one the trooper pulled off of you earlier, nudges past you on its way to his hand and you jump out of the way, hardly noticing the smooth movement with which he fires, the bodies dropping even from this range as he shoots into the crowd with perfect accuracy.

You’ve never seen him in action like this before. Despite the number of times you had come face to mask with Kylo Ren, he’s never used his powers on you. Something about the realization is frightening.

“We need to leave,” he says, interrupting your thoughts, “back to my shuttle.” He’s looking at you again, head inclined, like it’s a question instead of a demand. And the stupidest part of you wants to go. You force that part of yourself to be quiet. 

He deactivates his saber, drops your blaster and reaches for you, his hand stretched out the same way it had only a few moments ago, but there’s none of the same power behind it; you still feel the pull.

“I know,” he says, and the cuffs fall from your hands because there’s no point in hiding anymore, “but . . .you still could-” he swallows hard enough for you to hear through the modulator, “-we still could . . .”

You walk towards him, your footsteps slow and even and he trembles, his fingers shaking again for an entirely different reason, and they don’t stop, not when they meet your waist, not when your hands grip both sides of his helmet, trying to find a hold against the cold metal.

“I’ll tell you what, Commander,” you say with a whisper, pulling him closer, close enough to rest your forehead against his, “I’ll go with you . . . the next time you catch me.”

It’s a smooth movement, unexpected—first you pull him close, pressing a kiss to the front of his mask, imagining the way his lips must be flushing in response, imagining what it would be like without the ridiculous apparatus in the way. He’s unbalanced, a little surprised, and when you push him back he doesn’t anticipate it, falling, flailing, until he lands with a thud in the soft mud outside of your ship.

“Until next time, Commander!” you call down to him as the hatch lifts, running to the cockpit as fast as your legs will carry you. You’re in a panic as you start up the ship, a shake in your hands that makes it hard to hit the right controls but you don’t stop until you hit lightspeed, trying your hardest to breathe.

You plug in the right coordinates and sit back in the pilot’s chair, brushing your hand across your cheek, picking up the stray moisture that lingers there. You don’t remember when the tears started. You’re not sure how to stop. It seems like today isn’t your lucky day after all.

[ohwereusingourmadeupnames]

Pets

If You’re Lonely, Wake Me

Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark (Starker) Rating: Mature (M)  Word Count: ~3.3k Notes: I’ve had a few of these hit the inbox and I’m here for it. I love puppies, so I hope another dog story is okay with you guys! Warnings: none, other than cute dogs being used as plot devices. Summary: 

After having to transfer to NYU from MIT, Peter is a little distraught. Things turn around when he finds a stray dog behind a trash can. Her presence in his life brings Tony the RA around - what’s the worst the could happen? 

do the thing, send in all the prompts 

As a wide-eyed freshman, Peter enjoyed the greatness of being away from home and the total anonymity that gave him. MIT was his dream school and every day he was there was a better day than the one before. The curriculum was exactly what he wanted from a Biomedical Engineering degree program. The labs were well equipped and the opportunities were endless.

Which is why, his sophomore year, when he was forced to transfer to NYU to be closer to home, Peter found himself kind of depressed. His academic track record was enough to get him a full ride scholarship at NYU – he’d gotten a partial to MIT and May was helping him pay for the rest. After losing her job, she couldn’t do that, anymore. It only made sense, transferring somewhere that gave him the chance to focus solely on his education – it just came at the weird price of having to give up something he wanted for a long time. Education was education, however – so he tried not to fret.

The one thing he didn’t compromise on was staying in the dorms – he loved the hell out of May and her antics but wanted to be able to live his own life. Including bringing people back to the single room he managed to acquire. He transferred later in the summer when the roommate pool was very slim. Of course, it took the actual moves to acquire a date to bring back to his room – but he’d get to that eventually.

Peter was, unfortunately, too preoccupied in his wallowing to really pay attention to anyone or anything. For the first month of classes, Peter couldn’t remember much about what happened. When he checked his grades, he was happy to see that he’d at least been keeping up. Sometimes the trek onto campus from his dorm room was too much – for once, the big brain in his head was keeping him afloat.

A little bit of motivation came on the walk back from May’s apartment on Friday afternoon in October. It was just starting to feel like fall, so he decided to save a few bucks and make the journey on foot. Luckily, she moved into the city a little after he went to MIT the year before, so it wasn’t too crazy of a commute. With his headphones in and his head down, Peter enjoyed the time to himself. Only this time, he was interrupted by small eyes staring at him from the edge of an alleyway tucked behind a trash can.

Taking his earphones out of his ears, Peter approached slowly – at that point, he couldn’t decide if it was a dog or cat; and he hoped it wasn’t something worse. He crouched down and moved the box keeping whatever owned the eyes hidden. Peter sucked in a deep breath when he laid eyes on a very skinny, seemingly homeless gray pitbull. Sticking his hand out, Peter waited until the dog approached him before moving any closer.

It took a while to coax her out of the little shelter she created for herself, but once he did, Peter knew he needed to take care of the precious little creature. The more he held her, the more she seemed to warm up to him. Peter knew he couldn’t have a dog in the dorm – he’d read the fact over and over when he accepted the keys. He also knew he’d never be able to be happy again if he didn’t nurse the dog back to health and give her the life she deserved.

Peter turned around and headed back to May’s apartment – she wouldn’t take the dog, but at least she’d let him use the tub to get her clean. When he walked back in, she didn’t even blink an eye. He’d been taking in stray and injured animals his whole life. His lips pressed against her cheek when she agreed to watch the dog for a while so he could go out and get necessary supplies.

During his trip to the pet store, Peter decided to call her Millie – Peter heard the name in one of his classes and remembered liking it. Now that he named her, he couldn’t do nothing but keep her. Smiling to himself, Peter appreciated his own justification; for the first time all semester, he actually felt excited about something.

The excitement faded about 20 minutes later when Millie splashed him from the tub for the 5th time. In all of her time on the streets, her only interactions with water probably came from the rain and whatever people would leave around for her. The concept of the bath was more than likely foreign – so he forced himself to stay patient. Once he got her clean, Peter let out a sigh of relief; she snuggled into his lap as he toweled her off and hit her coat with a flea treatment. In the next few weeks, he’d get her to a vet – tonight, though, the efforts he already made would have to do.

Since he was there around dinner time, Peter stuck around and let Millie get used to him a little bit more before taking her into the dorm. He needed to hide her, and any loud barking would totally give them away. He hadn’t met the RA yet, but the rules seemed pretty simple – pets weren’t allowed. Peter felt elated to finally have a challenge. The move back from MIT blew the wind out of his sails. Maybe caring for Millie would be the thing he needed.

----

For the most part, Millie adjusted to living in the dorm pretty easily. Peter set an easy to keep routine for walks and getting outside to do her business. When he was around, she sat by his feet or laid at the end of his bed looking at him as he worked. The fact that he rescued her was apparent and she was more than willing to make sure he knew how much it meant to her. He quickly gained a gray shadow that walked on 4 legs instead of 2. Peter loved it – having a purpose felt better than he expected.

The only thing that wasn’t going well was his time away from the dorm. To avoid any problems, Peter knocked on the doors around him a couple days after bringing Millie home to let them know he had a dog in the room with him. He figured honesty was the best policy and if they knew about it beforehand, he might not get turned in. Of course, he didn’t take into account that Millie would whine the entire time he was gone for class. With his labs, sometimes that was all day.

It lasted a lot longer than he initially expected, so Peter wasn’t surprised when he heard a knock on his door, followed by – “It’s Tony, the RA.” His dickbag next door neighbor, Flash, bitched at him for the past couple of days about the noise. Unable to really do much about it, Peter tried to ignore him – but that obviously wasn’t going to be enough. Grabbing Millie’s lead, Peter tugged until she was resting under the bed. It didn’t make sense to hide her completely, there was a 99% chance that Tony the RA was here to talk to him about Millie’s very presence.

Opening the door, Peter tried to keep his face neutral – he’d never been very good at lying, so he probably failed miserably. It didn’t help, either, the fact that Tony the RA was a very nice-looking human person. Peter immediately recognized him from the Physics labs and wondered what he was studying. He’d mooned over the dark hair and smooth cheeks that gave way to a well-shaped goatee surrounding pert lips. His style consisted of running his hands through his hair and putting on jeans and a flannel – just Peter’s type.

He forced himself to take a deep breath and actually say something. “Hi, Tony the RA. What can I do for you?”

Tony wrinkled his brow and grinned, he crossed his hands over his chest and nodded towards Peter’s room. “Mind if I come in? I had a couple of complaints from one of your neighbors. Thought I’d come check it out.” Peter thought he was trying to sound serious, but the smile on his lips made it hard for him to take it that way. Stepping back, he let Tony in without a word.

Millie didn’t even try to remain under the bed – she walked right out and looked at Tony curiously. He reached a hand down and let her approach, her nose bumping into his palm without much hesitation. At least the time living on the streets hadn’t jaded her. Peter caught Tony’s eye and grinned, his hands coming up in a helpless shrug.

“Please don’t make me get rid of her,” Peter begged. He squatted down and opened his arms for Millie to walk into them. “She’s the only thing that’s keeping me going right now. I’ll find a way to keep her from whining.” He put on his own puppy face and did his best to mind meld the insanely attractive man looking at him with curious interest.

“I’m not going to take your dog away from you. I’m not that heartless.” Tony laughed a little at himself, the sound pulling Millie’s attention back to him. She gave his hand a long lick, her openness with him making Peter’s heart melt a little. His eyes widened when he heard Tony’s next words. “When do you have class? Maybe I can take care of her while you’re occupied.”

Peter lit up, his mouth prattling off his schedule before he could really think about what it all meant. The only thing that mattered was keeping Millie safe and sound – and with him. They developed a bond and he wasn’t willing to give her up. He would’ve found his own place if he had to. “Could you do it, Tony?”

“I’m in the lab whenever I want to be, so I’ve got lots of wiggle room. I can take – what’s her name?” Tony asked, his hands pushing up the glasses on his face as he did. Peter had to bite into his lip to stop from letting out a long ‘awe’ sound at the gesture.

“Millie. Her name is Millie. And I’m Peter.” He figured that Tony probably knew that already, but he couldn’t stop himself – his mouth was running on nervous energy and the first thing that came to it.

Tony didn’t seem to mind, he laughed again and stuff his hands into his jeans – Millie probably would have licked him to death if he didn’t. “I’ll gladly take Millie for you, Pete. Just bring all the stuff she needs when you drop her off. Give me your phone,” Tony commanded, his fingers wiggling in his direction.

Without a second thought, Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened it, his fingers quickly getting to the phone book. Tony worked quickly, putting his number in it. Glancing down at it, he smiled when he realized Tony put his name in as “Tony the RA”. He’d probably never live referring to him that way down.

“Text me your schedule so I have it. I’ll make sure I’m around for you.”

Before he realized what he was doing, Peter walked forward and wrapped Tony in a quick hug. He was barely there long enough for Tony to reciprocate, but the fingers he felt against his back were unmistakable. With a big grin on his face, Peter stepped back, cheeks on fire.

“Thanks.”

Tony shot him a soft smile over his shoulder as he walked backed towards the door. “Sure thing, Parker.”

----

After his run in with Tony, Peter wasn’t sure about how things with Millie would turn out. He shouldn’t have worried, though – the simple fact that Tony offered to not only cover for him, but also help him out spoke louder than the doubts that tried to creep in. It took a certain kind of selflessness to risk a job for another person – Peter wasn’t ignorant of that.

Peter figured it would be weird, basically sharing his dog with someone he really wasn’t all that familiar with, yet – Tony made it easy. He wasn’t shy about anything and went out of his way to make sure Peter felt comfortable. More often times than not, Tony invited him in to have whatever food he’d been making in the small kitchenette of his room whenever he stopped by to pick Millie up. The dog was so comfortable in his place, she didn’t even stay in the room while they ate. Slowly but surely, Peter found himself really vibing with Tony.

Right around winter break when everyone else was packing up to go home, Peter put in with the housing office to spend the break in his small dorm. He wanted to spend time with May throughout the time off, but he didn’t want to spend all of his time with her. It didn’t hurt, either – the fact that Tony was also staying in his room. In their time together, Peter learned Tony didn’t have any family and often spent the holidays volunteering and doing research to pass the time.

Without either of them having to initiate it, Peter and Tony spent most of the break together. Tony’s room was decked out in all of the latest technology and gaming systems and Peter’s old DVD collection was to die for. Between taking Millie for walks and binging whatever vice they chose for the day, Peter was totally swept up in all the time they spent together. When May commented on his smile when he went home for Christmas dinner, he shrugged his shoulders and gave Millie a scrub behind the ears – he was happy; and there were a lot of reasons for it.

Instead of going out for New Year’s Eve, Tony grabbed them some booze and ordered a bunch of food so they could spend the night watching the extended versions of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. The drunker they got, the funnier the stupid quips and early 2000’s editing and image creation got. Peter hadn’t spent much time under the influence and quickly found himself getting very touchy with the object of his desire.

Tony didn’t reject any of the touches – in fact, Peter found himself being pulled closer by him as the night went on. By the time they started Return of the king, Tony opened up the futon and they were snuggled up against each other. With the booze as an excuse, Peter let himself get lost in the warmth against him. He found himself pressing kisses to Tony’s neck, the sleepiness and lack of inhibitions giving him a little extra courage. The touches continued until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

Blinking awake, Peter wandered what the whimpering sound was. His brain was still a lot fuzzy from the alcohol that was still probably in his system. He didn’t think he’d ever put that much of the stuff in his body ever again – the way his head hurt made him not want to deal with it ever again. Groaning a little, Peter registered the fact that there was something heavy pressed against his chest, a something that smelt pretty familiar.

He forced his eyes to focus, his breath hitched a bit when he realized that Tony was snuggled up in his arms. The dark brown hair he’d been staring at for weeks now fanned out against his bicep, the strands tickling the skin slightly. Peter let himself take in the feel before he realized two things simultaneously – his erection was pressed snuggly against the crease of Tony’s ass and the thing making the whimpering noises was the dog looking at him with the biggest pouty eyes.

Peter pulled his hips away from Tony’s warmth like he touched fire – his erection throbbing from the loss. Getting up as quietly as he could, Peter wobbled around until he found his shoes, jacket, and Millie’s lead – she needed a walk and he needed to not make a fucking fool of himself before he could tell Tony how he really felt.

Millie’s impatient claws on the door had him opening it and walking out – his phone and the rest of his stuff still scattered around Tony’s room. Maybe the fresh air would help to clear his head. For the first time in a while, Peter took Millie on a long walk. The huffs of her breaths and the steady emptiness of the streets around him helped a lot. By the time he got back, Peter felt resolved to at least try and start a conversation with Tony about things between them.

Of course, Tony beat him to the punch. Peter saw him sitting on the bench outside of the dorms before Tony saw him. He was wrapped up in a long coat that covered him from neck to foot – his thick boots stood out only because his legs were crossed in front of him. His arms were spread wide across the back of the bench, his posture insanely relaxed. Peter envied him – the confident way he held himself was something he strived to one day master.

The serene way he got to look over at Tony was ruined by Millie tugging at the leash to get over to the other man a little quicker. The click of her nails must have caught his attention, because Tony was looking in their direction before Peter felt ready. The beaming smile he sent in their direction just about knocked him on his ass. The dark glasses Tony wore covered the crinkle at the corner of his eye, but Peter could imagine it – the greatness of it quickening his steps.

“You should’ve woken me up – I would’ve come out with you two,” Tony said in the way of greeting, his gloved hands already moving to pet across Millie’s head. “It’s cold as shit, but I bet the streets were totally empty.”

Peter reached out to let Tony have Millie’s leash – the hand off bringing their fingertips together in a tantalizing graze; even through the leather of Tony’s gloves, he could feel the man’s warmth. “I needed a bit of fresh air – and you looked so cute sleeping.”

“I looked cute sleeping? You passed out on my shoulder and started to drool before they made it to Mount Doom. It was disgustingly adorable.” Tony put a hand on his arm, the two of them just close enough for him to reach. “I liked falling asleep next to you.”

“Me too,” Peter admitted almost immediately. He used his free hand to pull Tony’s hand off of his arm so he could hold it – the bulkiness of their gloves making the grip the slightest bit awkward. His eyes stayed on Tony as he looked down at their joined hands. When he didn’t try to pull away, Peter let out a huge breath.

“Good – don’t run off so fast, next time. Sleepy sex is some of the best kind.”

He didn’t miss the wink Tony sent him behind the dark glasses. Grinning, Peter used the hand between them to pull Tony against him. Their lips met in a soft kiss – the lightness of it just perfect. “Want to see where mid-morning sex ranks?”

The yank on his hand back towards the dorms was really the only answer he needed.

[angelaiswriting]

Night Ritual | Tommy Shelby x reader

[original picture: pexels]

✏️ Pairing: Tommy Shelby x pregnant!wife!reader

✏️ Summary: After a long day at work, it’s time for Tommy to face his wife and go to bed. (Requested by  @starkgaryan and Anonymous – hope you don’t mind me mixing your requests!)

✏️ A/N: the children at daycare exhausted me so much that I can’t think of something to say, so haha feedback is always super welcome; the same goes for requests. If you want to be added to the tag list, just inbox/message me or tell me in a comment 💛

✏️ Beta-read by @sweetvengeancee

✏️ Warnings: nothing that I can think of

✏️ Word-count: 1,893

Going to bed with his wife after a long and stressful day at work always feels like a ritual Mr Thomas Shelby can’t seem to be able to miss for anything in the world – at least, not on the not-so-frequent nights he manages to return home at a decent hour. Today isn’t any different, not even after the somewhat furious fight he and Y/N have had this morning during breakfast.

Right at this moment, though, as he takes off his shoulder holster, he stares at his wife’s reflection in the mirror of her vanity. She is brushing her hair for the night, something he has watched her do for more years than he can recall, but she doesn’t look at him.

He knows she’s still mad at him because of how stubbornly overprotective of her he has become recently. She is never allowed outside the confines of their lands just as she is never allowed most kinds of activities she enjoys doing, lest anything happens to her or the baby.

“Love.” He clears his throat as he unbuttons his shirt, sleeve garters and gun holster forgotten on the ottoman at the foot of their bed. He is apologetic for the way he’s acted with her before leaving for work, but he doesn’t exactly know how to tell her – how to tell her he’s sorry and that he’s just doing what he does because… well… 

It’s stupid and dumb anyway, so he doesn’t let himself think of how fucking badly he loves her and doesn’t want anything to happen to her, and even less so now that she’s expecting his child.

But Y/N just hums, doesn’t say a word as she puts her ivory hairbrush back into the wooden box decorated with inserts in mother-of-pearl Polly has given to her as a wedding gift three years ago. She stops to look at him in the mirror, though, and there’s an expectant gaze in her eyes as one of her hands absentmindedly moves over her slowly-growing baby bump.

“I…”

He doesn’t know how to continue the sentence, doesn’t know how to approach the topic. That fucking Shelby pride is there, at the back of his throat, inflating like a knot of tears with the only difference that he has no tears to shed.

She sits there, never turns around, and he feels like he’s hanging from a fine silk thread, pending over the black and eerily quiet abyss of uncertainty – and probably of fear, despite Tommy Shelby being against the idea of himself being afraid of his wife, the one and only woman he’s known all his life that he trusts.

The subtle non-said from her is, you fucked up, and the heavy non-said from him is, I fucking well know. But nobody says a word, not for long minutes as he takes off his shirt and hangs it on the back of a chair, and not even as he removes his trousers and socks and neatly folds them. It’s a way to not look her way, to keep his mind busy as he tries to come up with something that won’t make him look like less of a man – which is, if we put it in Y/N’s words, fucked up – but pretty much anything war left inside Tom is, so it’s no surprise.

“About this morning, I…”

He walks up to her and his hands move to rest on her shoulders, his thumbs caressing up and down the sides of her neck. She doesn’t move away and this allows a sigh to leave his lips. It’s faint and quiet, but in the even quieter silence of the room, it’s as loud as a bang.

“I shouldn’t have said those things. I’ve talked with Pol and-”

“Oh, so you’ve talked with Pol, now, Tom.” Her voice is mechanic, but there’s a spark in her eyes that reveals him she’s not that mad anymore, that she just wants him to… Yeah, she just wants him to apologise. “Good. That’s good. At least she seems to be able to make you fucking reason sometimes.”

His left hand comes up to rub his face – he’s tired and his muscles are sore and tense, and all he wants to do is cuddle up in bed with his wife as the rest of the world fades away into nothing for a few hours. He voices nothing of this, though, he knows it would just make things worse, bring him back on a stage where he’s the bad guy.

“What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry.” There, he’s said it, he’s let it out – probably in a quieter tone than she would have liked, but it’s the thought that matters.

“You’re apologizing?”

He nods as he pulls her back to her feet and moves her around so that he can hug her from behind without the hindrance of her vanity stool.

“For what?”

She wants him to say it, he knows she does, and that’s probably the least she deserves after all the shit she’s put up with him since they were children.

“I’m sorry I’ve banished you inside the confinements of our home,” he starts and his lips press a kiss to her right temple. One of his hands moves down her abdomen to rest on the underside of her round belly and just as her hand reaches his, he feels his child slightly kick from inside her. “I’m sorry I’m never letting you into town, never allowing you to do the things you love. But you’re stubborn and I know you’d do them, and I…”

It’s quiet for a while and they both enjoy each other’s embrace, each other’s proximity. He came home late yesterday – and she’s spent the evening worried sick something bad had happened to him – she didn’t hear a word from him, he didn’t call, didn’t send a messenger. This, she hates – not knowing when he’s coming home, if he’s coming home, if things have gone the wrong way and God has turned His gaze into someone else’s direction.

All she wants is for him to be open with her – and he knows this, he really does, and he doesn’t clam up because he doesn’t love her, but because he loves her too much to lay all his burdens on her shoulders. What he doesn’t – or doesn’t want to – understand, though, is that she’s willing to share all those weights because only if they’re together, they’re going to survive. She wants him to see this – this and not the war he never left, the bullets and mines he brought back inside his pockets from France.

“What, Tom? You what?” She leans his head back against his shoulder and he tilts his so that it’s resting against the side of her forehead.

“We’re having a child and I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

“Or her.”

He hums in question, furrows his brows as she turns in his arms and presses a kiss to his jaw.

“Or her because, you know, this could be a girl.”

He smirks at her and his hands slide up her sides until he’s cradling her face. The kiss is light and sweet, and it conveys more than he can bring himself to say with words – that he loves her and that he trusts her to know what’s right and what’s wrong, that he’s deeply regretful of the words he spat in her face like a machine gun this morning, and that he’s going to try and be better – do better – because he has no life without her. She’s brought him back from the French darkness and he doesn’t want to let go of her – of what they share and of what he, as a person, feels – of the feelings and emotions he has started to feel again after the war.

“You know Polly’s never wrong,” he murmurs against her lips as a smile stretches his.

“Yeah, well, fuck her and her witchcraft!” But they both know Y/N is just joking, that she was just hoping to have a baby girl to spoil rotten after a childhood spent around boys.

He’s scared to ask it now, scared he’d just anger her or that he’d fuck up like he usually does around the people he cares about. But he has to – he has to – has to ask her, has to make sure everything’s alright, that he hasn’t ruined the only good thing that has managed to remain in his life. “Am I forgiven?”

She sighs and for endless moments she doesn’t answer. Her hand tugs on his as she leads him to the bed, and she’s silent when she lies down, too, and also when he joins her on the bed. Then, when they’re both settled and he pulls her against him like he always does, she rests her head on his chest. “I know what I can and cannot do, I just want you to trust my judgment.”

“I do trust you,” he insists, “I just…”

“You overthink too much, Thomas Shelby.”

“Only on the things that truly matter.”

There’s a second of buzzing silence as she props herself up on an elbow to stare down at him. Then, she chuckles and her hand comes up to cradle his face, her thumb caressing just under his cheekbone. “You truly know how to squeeze your way out of trouble, don’t you?”

He grins – he truly does, one of those grins he used to flash as a kid. And he looks younger, and lighter, and it’s as though the war never happened, as though he has no enemies nor problems right now. And he does feel like that and he wants to tell her, but his lips are sealed, his tongue has turned to cotton, and all he can do is cover her cheek with his hand to pull her closer to him.

She pecks his lips, and she chuckles as she does so, and they’re both sixteen again, running away from Polly Gray after she surprised them in bed together – naked.

“I will call next time I’m late,” he promises after awhile, when she’s settled back against his chest and her pregnant belly is pressed into his side. “I know when I stopped being who I was and…”

When it’s clear he won’t continue, she smiles and nuzzles the crook of his neck as his fingers play in her hair. “We all change – some more, some less,” she says. “It’s late now, though, and you have a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Just hold me and let’s not spoil the moment.”

“Still as bossy,” he mutters with a smile on his lips as he slides slightly lower on the mattress. He turns on his side and he looks at her. And he’s calm again – no worries, no problems, no appointments scheduled for tomorrow at work.

“Eh, someone’s got to be the boss ‘round here, innit?”

He smirks – it’s one of those loud smirks where he exhales from his nostrils and scrunches up his nose and there are crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “You said it.” He kisses her lightly and watches as she closes her eyes. “Goodnight, love.”

Thoughts?

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