#it feels decadent and he has never indulged in this sort of small pleasure before

[drswannbond]

Headcanon: late night baths

On quiet evenings past Mathilde's bedtime, the Bonds have taken to sharing languid baths, limbs intertwined until long after the water has grown tepid. Glass of wine within reach, she will usually come to rest her head in the crook of his neck and offer her sensitive skin to his calloused fingers, or he will pillow his cheek on her breast while she strokes his chest from the tip of a nail. They talk about their daughter and what new ways she has found today to include her father in her adventures; about childhood memories needing healing that only the other can provide; about plans for the future (she wants to try for a second child; even though he’s concerned he might be getting too old, he craves the idea of another and finds himself imagining a little blond and curly head answering to Félix). And sometimes they don’t speak at all, and that's when they are the most crystal clear to each other.

[needleandhammer]

From Simmer to Score

Pairing: Soft!Curtis Everett x Reader

Summary: Curtis is good with his hands. And other stuff.

Warnings: 18+ only, explicit, smut, oral sex, penetration, fingering, dub con breeding, unprotected sex, breeding kink sort of, size kink, petite!reader, Curtis' fingers

Word count: 4k

A/N: This doesn't really fit the prompt i chose from @stargazingfangirl18 's 5k Soft Dark Challenge: "You hire a local handyman to help you with a few home projects." But the prompt still inspired this. I wanted to take the prompt somewhere more explicitly dark but once again my contribution to this challenge turned marshmallow soft. This is an au, non-apocalypse au, normal life au, idk. Just self-indulgent. Also, it was a struggle finding a gif of clean Curtis. Because he's clean in this and not living on a train, i swear.

“Try again. Very good. Let’s have you run through the exercises and then we’ll take a look at the new homework."

At your smile, the little girl nods and quickly turns to concentrate on coordinating her footwork on the pedals of your old Altenberg while reading the notes in front of her.

You back away, heading to the kitchen for some iced tea. You nearly forget your other guest who sits at the table.

This is the third time he’s accompanied Wendy for her lessons. For a man of his size, Curtis makes no sound except the faint swish of pages turning in his book. Like before, he arrived with Wendy, nodded a greeting at you, waited for your invitation to the kitchen, and then spent the entire hour silently reading.

You pull the fridge door open and pour tea into three glasses. You quietly slide one towards him. Curtis’ eyes flicker up to you, brilliantly blue, and he gives you a low murmur.

“Thanks.”

You’re about to return to Wendy when you hear your name in Curtis’ smooth baritone.

He nods to the notepad left on the table. “I, uh, noticed your reminder to call for maintenance. Something wrong?”

“Oh.” You tidy up the table, sheepish at being caught procrastinating house chores. “Just needed a second look at the water heater. The repair company came by and we tested things out when they were done, but the next day I had no hot water.”

You grimace, thinking of taking another cold shower.

“If you’re okay with it, I can grab my tool bag from my car and take a look,” he says.

You’re not prepared for the offer. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

He shakes his head, no hesitance. “I don’t mind at all. As long as you don’t.”

“I mean. I-I would really appreciate the help.”

Your time with Wendy ends after you review practice goals with her until her next lesson.

Curtis joins you two. “Hot water is running again.”

Your jaw drops and you skip to the kitchen. Hot water pours out of your faucet. You return, unable to resist grinning widely at him.

“Thank you, Curtis. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Curtis taught my dad everything about fixing houses!” Wendy chirped. He offers her a crooked smile.

“Do you have everything?” you ask your young pupil.

While Wendy thanks you and you help her pack, Curtis watches on with a faint curve to his lips.

“Edgar’s changing over to late shifts for the next couple of months. I’ll probably be driving Wendy to lessons again.”

You nod. “Sounds good. See you both then.”

After they leave, you enjoy a glorious steamy shower and then you settle onto your couch with a plate of leftover grilled veggies and fish.

Reviewing your schedule, you consider taking on one or two more students. It was years ago that you gave private lessons to help pay for college. Nearly a decade of moving between a few jobs, you are now in a quiet suburb working with a team of digital designers. The job allows you to work from home half the week, a flexibility you take great appreciation in. The professional stability encouraged you to return to music and to helping others develop their musical interests.

Wendy is your only student at the moment as you want to ease into taking on this additional responsibility. You smile, recalling your initial meeting with Wendy and her father, Edgar. Her father’s bubbly energy is such a stark contrast to Curtis. Edgar opened up quickly, sharing that he and Wendy’s mother were no longer together, that he would support whatever Wendy wanted to do. There was a perpetually youthful vigor to the room when Edgar was present.

Wendy calls Curtis, Uncle, and his adoration for her is clear. He barely said two words when he was here the first time. It doesn’t bother you. You get the impression Curtis purposely tries to not draw attention to himself, and you can empathize with that preference for tranquility.

_ _ _ _

It’s a windy day, heavy with rain clouds, the next time Wendy and Curtis are over.

“I saw your screen door was down. Planning on replacing it?” Curtis asks when you wrap up with Wendy.

“Nah. I was just going to look up what I would need and try fixing it myself.”

“It’s kind of heavy.”

His tone doesn’t imply any skepticism aimed at you and you’re not offended. You’re used to people calling you ‘small,’ though you’re not small so much as you’re short. You like to think you take up ample space. You also admit strength is not something you have in abundance. Your whole life you relied on family and friends for a lot of literal heavy lifting. But Curtis already helped you out once.

“I could fix it up.”

“I won’t ask you to do that.”

“It’s no bother, really. I’m happy to help out.”

He promises to be quick about it. While he works, Wendy happily practices on your piano.

“I have Oreos,” you announce.

She pauses to grab a cookie. “Thank you so much for letting me practice longer.”

“Of course, dear.”

She chats a bit about her upcoming birthday plans, as children are wont to do.

Curtis pops his head in. “All set. Do you want to take a look?”

You follow him out back. Swinging the screen door on its hinges, you nodded appraisingly.

“I suppose it passes inspection.” You look up with a cheeky smile, pleased to see Curtis’ lips twitching. “Thank you. Really, Curtis. I do wish you’d let me pay you.”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Besides, you’re great with Wendy. I’m grateful for that.”

You can tell he loves Wendy just as much as if he was her father. “In that case, I shall give Wendy her next lesson for free.”

He blinks at you, trailing behind as you make your way inside and calling out to Wendy.

Curtis has resigned himself to a quiet, bare life. He doesn't think he wants anything much. He has Edgar’s loyalty, a result of the brotherhood he formed in his impoverished teen years. They survived together, looked out for each other. Once Wendy came along like a little star burning in a smoggy midnight, Curtis counted himself lucky to witness the little girl growing up. A chance to help nourish one seed.

The first time he arrived with Wendy at your home, Curtis couldn’t help listening in on the entire lesson, making no progress in his book. Your clear voice, your generous encouragement. You, light on your feet moving so swiftly. You, barely reaching his shoulders yet mighty in spirit, curvy and sensuous. Curtis had an urge to lift you in his palms to be stored safely in his pocket.

_ _ _ _

And so things follow. Wendy diligently learning and Curtis primarily accompanying her, taking his place at your kitchen table. You come to enjoy his steady, grounding presence just a couple steps away from you and Wendy.

Now and then, he’ll notice some upkeep you’re doing – a leaky faucet, a box of new light bulbs on your counter – and volunteer his assistance. You are reluctant to put him to work, sure that he spends enough of his days working and doing chores in his own home and besides these are tasks you can handle even if you find them tedious. Curtis is always gentle in his offers, always obtains your permission first. As time goes by and you grow less shy about accepting his help and he grows more comfortable in your space, you realize working with his hands is second nature to Curtis.

It doesn't take long for Curtis to admit to himself he wants to be near you.

Curtis doesn’t meddle. He doesn’t mingle. He doesn’t have any interest in widening his social circle. He is aware you thrived on your own for a long time, just like him; and like he has Edgar and Wendy, you have a small close-knit group of friends. Lending a hand to you doesn’t count because you are like him.

Maybe this is why he lets his guard down under your roof. There is something kindred in your calm nature that his soul responds to. Under your roof, no silences need to be filled; no pretenses forced upon him. Your invitation to rest is unspoken – he hears it and almost weeps. The more time he spends with you, like two wavelengths in tune, the stronger his urge to insert himself. To fix, or in some way leave his mark on your home. Curtis doesn’t have any interest in widening his social circle. Lending a hand to you didn't count. Until he cannot help it. He doesn’t reach out for you, doesn’t try to prove you’ll curve perfectly within his arms; but he’ll ensure your softness can curl up in a sturdy home and delight in simple pleasures.

One evening, when Edgar works later than usual, you ask if Wendy and Curtis would join you for dinner.

“Nothing fancy. I have some noodle soup and salad. Curtis, can you call Edgar to meet us here?”

Wendy sets the table. Curtis assists with the food.

He’s quick to cup your hand in his when it's nicked with a knife. You can’t help leaning into him as he runs your finger under water, wraps it in clean paper towel. He finishes with the salad, making you sit at the table.

Edgar joins you all, tired but quickly gaining energy with food and a few sips of wine. You are full and warmed by their company. While Edgar cheers on Wendy while she practices from her book, you feel Curtis’ fingers curl over your hand. His thumb brushes over your cut. You share a smile with him.

_ _ _ _

You settle into your little Toyota only to find it won’t start. It stumps you because you never had issues with this car before. You have no experience with car maintenance and don’t know the first thing to check for an engine that won’t wake.

Calling Curtis to see if you can reschedule, he insists that he can swing by to pick you up.

He had called you, his voice almost shy. He wanted to surprise Wendy for her birthday with a piano and asked for your help.

You direct Curtis to the string instruments shop in the city’s downtown area. The two of you are greeted by a sales staff upon entry. When asked, Curtis looks to you, wordless, so you do your best to describe to the salesperson what you're looking for.

There are several options of acoustic and digital instruments. You give little demonstrations on a few pianos that you consider reasonably priced.

“Curtis, check this one out.” Your hold on his sleeve is loose and propels him towards one of the upright Baldwin pianos.

“I think any of these would suit Wendy. The sounds are clear, and they don’t take up too much space. The salesperson said this one is second-hand and it’s in really good shape.” You press a few chords, then look up at Curtis with a smile.

He looks at you, gaze gentle. “I’m not worried about price. I’ll take whatever you recommend.”

That was his general response when you asked his opinion during your time in the shop: he was up for anything you recommended. Other than that, he trailed behind you so that the salesperson assumed you were the primary purchaser. Much like in your house, Curtis seemed to try hard to not draw attention. Oddly, you didn’t think anyone in the same room with him could help noticing him. Even with the dark apparel he favored, Curtis’ reserved nature can't hide all the intensity and strength just thrumming beneath the surface of his tall imposing build.

You convince him to sit beside you on the bench. He’s never played before, but humors you and tries random combinations of thirds with you. You watch his hands – clean, wide, with thick fingers – hover and slide along the keys.

He nudges you.

“Sorry. I was just impressed your sausage fingers are quite nimble.”

A half-hearted glare. “Thank you. For coming with me.”

“If I say you’re welcome, will you take a look at my car when we get back?”

He stays for dinner.

It starts raining and you have to rush out to gather hanging linens. He helps and you both run back inside. You're giddy at his eagerness to assist, resulting in damp clothing on you both.

“Oh, let’s dump it here. I’ll fold it tomorrow.” You are happy to leave the laundry in a pile on an armchair, in too good of a mood to care.

You catch him with his attention on you, a look so soft you have to look away, walk blindly a few steps. His touch is on your arm, turning you around just as you reach the piano.

He dips his head low to press chapped lips to yours, capturing your lips more, closing in to envelope you in his heat.

Curtis’ hands grip your hips with a quick jostle against the piano, prompting a slur of bright notes ringing from the keyboard that you are pressed against. And then he’s hitching you further up and firmly in his arms. His tongue licks against yours. You slant your open mouth, inviting him to taste, to devour you from the inside out. Your legs wrap around his waist like you belong there, tethered to this point in time. There’s no past or future, only Curtis, only feeling safe and real in his arms now now now.

You barely register Curtis moving, tipping you onto the couch cushions to hover over you so close. You can’t remember burning for someone like this. You can’t remember much of anything, focused on Curtis, solid and unyielding between your thighs, muscles buzzing with raw strength.

You want so badly to know more of him. Your hands wander shamelessly under his shirt, sliding up his wide back, grazing under to squeeze appreciatively at his pecs only to be called south by a narrowing of hair that leads you on until you bump his belt buckle.

You’re distracted by the tease of hot kisses he drops along your neck. There’s something sweet, vulnerable in how you allow him access to the delicate skin there. It makes Curtis bury his nose against the crook of your jaw, a long moment for him to whisper something like a prayer, before his tongue swirls and he nibbles your ear lobe. Your high pitched gasp hastens his desire. Your shirt is gone. Your bra untangled from your arms. Your breasts, oh, Curtis takes a mouthful of one fleshy breast, sucking greedily when you moan, breathless and aching now.

You claw at his shirt until it too disappears. You wriggle to help Curtis pull your pants and underwear off. Your legs want to yank him back to you, but he braces himself to allow just a bit more space between you both than before.

“Let me.” It’s almost a growl, and you want to say yes, but you want to kiss him more. You’re clinging by his neck, drinking from his soft lips, until you both part to draw breath.

His hand caresses your cheek, sliding over to slip two fingers into your slack mouth. Your tongue swipes at them, lips close to suck them in, eager to touch and taste any part of him. Jaw tight, Curtis pulls his fingers away and down. Down. His hand spans large over your curves and you hold your breath, grit your teeth. One finger saturated with saliva, sinks into your cunt. You swear you can feel more arousal dripping from you to soak his hand and he adds another finger, drawing short whimpers from you as his fingers withdraw and plunge in. God, you won’t ever tease him about his fingers again because they’re perfect. Agonizing in their quest to undo you.

His voice is husky groans, wanting so bad to feel your oh so tight cunt around his cock. Soon.

He tortures you, adds a third finger. You’re riding them, whimpering as he pumps them in you and parts the digits to stretch you. His weight slides away and you can only grasp at his hair, you’re barely glimpsing his head between your legs before you arch high when his thick wet tongue swirls and licks your folds, dialing up the white hot blooming inside you. His fingers curl just enough inside to press that patch against your pelvis that strings you tight as a bow. Pressing insistently, scratching with finger pads, until you burst and all you can do is chase more of that pulsing pleasure, humping against his face. Your hips quiver while Curtis laps at your slit.

His sucks grow gentle, thumb teasing your bud, helping you come down from the intense high.

You sigh his name.

“I’m here.”

“I want you.”

His arms wind around you, holding you tight while he kisses you. You can’t remember feeling anything better than being cradled like this as Curtis languidly kisses you.

He’s not rushed to move from you, so you cling to him and he loves you for it. Yes, he’s hard, but he wants to savor this. Already high on the sensation of your soft flesh underneath him, your thick thighs tight at his waist, your quiet hums of pleasure the evidence of his thorough work.

He ran from his past, from early years strife with despair, washing away those memories like dust and grime. He thought his life of isolation was one that moved him forward; but he has been stuck all this time.

Seeing you care for Wendy, Curtis realized he wanted that. He wanted what his friend had. He wanted you, and the precious something conceived between two souls that sing for one another. Soon. He’ll make your sweet little body his to protect, to warm through the nights.

_ _ _ _

“Thanks so much for having us for dinner,” Edgar says. He was been watching Wendy run around your humble backyard, chasing butterflies and searching for little frogs. He turns to you with a toothy grin. “And for your help with the gift. Wendy’s going to flip. I’m lucky to have you and Curtis both around.”

Your smile is just as affectionate. “Happy to have you here. Although,” your smile turns sly, “I’m a little disappointed that your special lady friend didn’t join us.”

“Curtis,” Edgar mutters under his breath. Curtis is washing dishes at the sink and pays no mind to any half-hearted curses directed at him.

Your brow arches, urging Edgar to talk as he can't help an embarassed grin.

“Well, she was traveling for work, unfortunately. But I know Wendy doesn’t mind her.”

The girl has whispered to you that Edgar’s girlfriend is beautiful and she wished she would become her new mom; this you keep to yourself, not wishing to embarrass or pressure your friend further.

“I’m happy to hear that.”

Edgar’s eyes slide sideways, quiet for a moment before he jumps out of his seat and heads to the door leading to the backyard. “I’ll just…uh…” He exits, trailing off without finishing his sentence.

You sigh and take another bite of your cake, indulging in the moist chocolate flavor. Glancing up, you find Curtis watching you. His attention is singular, a warm simmer in those bright blue eyes, causing you to freeze except for your tongue that finishes sweeping over your upper lip. His gaze narrows, grew weighty, tracking your tongue as it retreats into your mouth. He pushes away from the counter, steps close until he is able to drop to his knee beside your chair. One strong yank has your seat turning so you face him.

The door creaks open again.

“Well, the sun’s getting low so I think we’ll head home and wind down.” Edgar announces with his daughter close at his side. He has a boyish grin on his face, pulling Wendy towards the front of your house. "Wendy, say good bye.”

“Isn’t Curtis leaving too?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll leave when he’s ready.”

“Have a good night, you two,” you say, walking with them to the front. Though Edgar is still cheerfully thanking you for the meal and insisting you stay inside and not see them off.

“You go on and just have a good time, both of you.” He sends a wink your way. You shake your head at him. “Curtis! You be a gentleman now.”

Quick as he can, he has Wendy secured in the car and they are on their way.

“Huh.” You lock the front door before turning to find Curtis. You can tell he wants to roll his eyes at Edgar’s antics. Instead, he closes in on you.

“Are you worried about me not being a gentleman?” he murmurs. His fingers hook under yours loosely.

You smirk. “I’m worried about you being too much of a gentleman.”

That smolder returns to his gaze. For a second, your body shivers, overwhelmed and you side step him, if only for a moment’s relief from the heat of his eyes.

You reach out. He takes your hand.

Once you’re down a layer, he grows even hotter seeing the mesh and lace number you have on. A tantalizing tease with the hard peaks of your nipples veiled in barely-there maroon. Just daring him to unwrap you. So he does.

His mouth leaves a wet trail seeking sensitive spots on your neck, you breasts, your thighs. Even as he moves, he still covers nearly all of your body, his heat and weight drowning you in want.

Your shudder has him grazing his beard up the inside of your thigh so that you arch and plea for his touch. God, all your uninhibited responses spur the blazing hunger in him. Curtis peels the mesh underwear down, impatient for a taste of you. His mouth waters, catching wafts of arousal and then he’s sucking and lapping your wet pussy. His rumbling groan is like a physical nudge that bows your back, and you remain rigid in the air at the sensation of his thick tongue pushing into you. Wide shoulders part your legs, shifting until your thighs rest on vast muscles.

You rock against him, keen at the hard sucks. Two fingers dip into, fucking you and rubbing with a dizzying rhythm that brings you over the edge.

With little effort, he holds up your hips and you feel a pillow slide under you to angle you higher. Then his muscled arms hook under your knees and he finally lines up and rocks forward. The tip of his cock parts your folds. Your breath hitches. His cock slides in, forcing your walls to stretch, to mold tightly to his girth.

“Curtis” – your hand was going point to the little bedside table with condoms.

Instead, you’re gripping a blanket. Gasping as he withdraws and your pussy tries to hold him in.

You mumble against his lips, incoherent. “The…inside..”

And then he feeds you his length again. And again, that delicious, addicting friction.

"Yes, inside," he agrees softly. "Like this."

With every pump, the spark catches and blazes higher. Curtis rises onto his knees, thrusts harder, watching your eyes flutter open and shut. He’s panting with the pretty picture of a needy you. He grips your thighs. As if his life depends on how tight he clutches you. Concentrating hard, his eyes drop low. Fuck. He can see your pussy clench, your puffy outer lips suckling his cock. Curtis swears your little body is refusing to give him up, and you’re wet but your cunt squeezes him so tight he has to drive harder into you to avoid slipping out.

You’re not even aware of your breathy moans, so turned on by his groans, the rough thrusts he gives you. There’s no grinding. Curtis can tell he’s rubbed against your g-spot and he keeps his snapping hips angled just right, one callused thumb circling your clit too lightly. And then your breaths stutter, your legs seize, your back arches. Curtis grits his teeth, keeping the exact same pace, draws out the storm of your pleasure. It’s so consuming, you lose your voice.

Just as you are able to breathe again, able to sense the physical realm around you, Curtis speeds up, bucking hard with low grunts, powering into you.

A high gasp – you feel him flood you. He drops to press his chest to you, still pumping his release into your clenching walls; and it’s too much, his cock merciless within your sensitive channel. He can’t help it, even as your legs start writhing with his unrelenting stimulation, even as he hears your hitched whimpers.

He finally stills. His lips find yours, tongue stroking deep.

Long moments later, his name is gentle, falling from your lips. “We didn’t use protection.”

Curtis nuzzles you, rubs his nose along the planes of your cheeks. Returns to suck your bottom lip. “It’s okay,” he whispers.

There’s a soft frown upon your brow that he kisses, and then scatters more kisses on your face.

“But, what if?”

“I want you. I want everything with you.”

You’re barely able to react as he nips hard at your collarbone and then rolls his hips. He’s half-hard inside you. You’re quickly losing yourself in Curtis, overwhelmed by the combination of his hungry mouth on your skin, unyielding clasp on your thigh. His thrusts persist, pins you in place, lights you up and scorches you. You’re right where he wants you, whining for more more more.

Now with each beat of his heart, Curtis has his mind’s eye on the prize. He’ll have you over and over. And you’ll grow a piece of him inside you. You are the way forward. You are his.

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

A/N: Hurrah, this one felt like it took forever. I blame Curtis. He didn't give himself up to me easily. Let me love you, ya broody boi! Thank you for reading!

[glowingbadger]

Hi it’s me, crawling through the window. Would it be possible to get a crumb of arranged marriage w/ Hubert? His line w/ Dorothea about being willing to get married for politics sake has fueled my brain rot for him.

Good God I need to secure my windows-

I mean HELLO FRIEND ANON YES IT WOULD BE MY PLEASURE

Lol actually though, I have been thinking about this for Hubie since we all started chatting about that arranged marriage stuff! I think it's a perfect concept for him~

This like... got weird while I was writing it though?? Idk man hahaha it ended up on the less-spicy side of what I usually write, and with some very weird dialogue in places... Idk, I hope y'all like it. Maybe if there's interest, I'll follow this up eventually with a more smut-focused piece?

I've been traveling and working so much lately that I just don't even know what writing is anymore or how it works hahaha

TW: A brief mention of non-con

Hubert (FE3H) x Reader ("wife," neutral pronouns)

Arranged Marriage - semi spicy i guess?

"Frankly, he's a pain," Linhardt must be able to see your surprise and confusion written across your face. He goes on, "He's reliable and capable, of course, but also the most persistent nag you'll ever meet. Actually, no-" he glances upward as though to cross reference his own thoughts, "No, her Majesty is worse. But Hubert is a close second to be sure. Always on and on about sleep schedules and proper nutrition and etiquette..." He sighs and closes the massive tome on his lap, as though to close the conversation with it, "frankly, he's an insufferable mother hen. Does that help?"

"Well, it's... Not what I expected," you admit with a shrug, "but thank you all the same."

~

It's been several weeks since the papers binding you in marriage to Hubert Von Vestra had been signed- and this alone had sufficed. No ceremony, no grand ball, just paperwork and a handshake with your father. A handshake that ensured that, even under the Empire's unification, he would maintain nominal control over his considerable portion of land, and in return, would swear absolute loyalty to her Majesty. It was a beneficial arrangement for all parties, and you were not ignorant to the part you played. You were hardly even a bargaining chip- moreso, a hostage.

Your new husband had made no secret of what manner of harm may befall you if your family were to renege on their deal. Fortunately, you know your father to be a reliable coward, so you have no reason to believe he would be bold enough to step out of line.

Hubert Von Vestra is a terrifying man. A zealously loyal man of storied cruelty and a frigid disposition. His frame looms over you whenever he's near, and though he's hardly placed a finger on you since you'd been given over to him, his mere presence is... arresting. There's a sort of charisma to him that's equal parts frightening and fascinating. Perhaps it's madness brought on by your circumstances, but you can't help wanting to glimpse just the slightest bit into that brilliant, ever churning mind.

Unsurprisingly, he has been resistant to your attempts to understand him. He hardly indulges you in small talk, and if you were the paranoid sort, you'd think he intentionally makes himself busy when you're around. Eventually, perhaps out of sheer stubbornness, you'd settled on a routine of bringing coffee to his study adjoined to your bedroom in the evenings. He'd been visibly surprised the first time. It wasn't until the fourth night that he'd given a curt "thank you." About two weeks in, he'd actually sat back in his chair and laid down his quill pen to receive the cup from your hands. After a month, he'd leveled his narrow gaze at you and said,

"I cannot begin to fathom what satisfaction you glean from playing 'maid' to me."

"Well, I, uhm," you hadn't expected him to address you so directly, but you managed to say, "You... work so hard, I wanted to do something for you, I suppose."

His expression is inscrutable as he replies,

"You are aware that my work was much the same before you arrived."

"I am," you say softly, "But- all the same..." you trail off, and Hubert seems content to let the matter rest. And so you leave him be amidst his reports and correspondence, coffee at his side on the desk. Yet for as unproductive as your exchange might have seemed, it does leave you with an idea. The thought to learn about the man from those who knew him long before your arrival at the capitol.

~

Your investigation into the true character of your husband does not stop with Linhardt. In fact, his testimony only leaves you with further questions. But perhaps the others would say otherwise; perhaps the United Empire's most up and coming crest scholar simply inspires maternal behavior. This has to be the case- you simply can't imagine that the notoriously ruthless heir of the even more notorious Vestra lineage would be so... Doting.

And yet the more you learn of him, the more contradictory he seems.

Caspar's take is much like Linhardt's- a picture of a man far closer to a school marm than any assassin or master of torture. Ferdinand seems both smitten and incensed by him, oscillating wildly between the two. Then eventually, to your shock, Bernadetta takes the initiative to speak to you about Hubert of her own accord.

"I'm, uh, really so-sorry to bother you!" she approaches with arms drawn close to her chest and eyes resolutely avoiding yours, "I- I just heard that you were... asking about Hubert, so, I, uh..."

It takes some time to prompt her further. You assure her again and again- no, this isn't intrusive at all- yes, you'd very much like to hear her perspective- no, you're not mad at her. In truth, you're endlessly intrigued about what a gentle soul like Bernadetta would have to say about a man feared across the continent. Finally, she manages,

"He's... actually really kind!" she blurts out, as though the words would abandon her if she gave them the window of opportunity. Your eyebrows raise slightly.

"You think so..?"

"Yes, completely-!" she stammers, "I know he's super, super scary, and powerful and spooky and cold and, uh, all of that. But still," her voice falters as she continues, "He only scolds people when they do something dangerous. And he only hurts people to protect others. I... I know he's done some te-terrible things. But... he's always been nice to Bernie," finally, she meets your eyes with an imploring look in hers, "So, uh, I'm really grateful to him. And I think it would be really nice for someone to reach out to him. If... if that's not too weird or anything. For you."

You smile warmly and nod,

"Thank you, Bernadetta. I know it can't be easy for you to come to me with all of this, but... I'd like to try, if I can."

The opportunity doesn't come in the way you expect.

At first, it seems the night will proceed like many others before. You bring a cup of coffee to your husband's desk, setting it down quietly so as to not disturb him. He's silent, but this is common enough, so you head back to the bedroom to undress for the evening. All nights prior, he would lay beside you long after you'd settled in, then rise to resume work in the morning before you woke up- all the while never allowing your bodies to interact in any way.

Tonight, just as you're about to close the door to Hubert's study behind you, long fingers catch around your wrist, visibly startling you.

It's the most physical contact you've had to-date, but he only says,

"One moment."

You whip around to face him, a touch of anxiety evident in your eyes. It's clear in his own that he notices, but if anything, he only seems amused. He steps forward, his taller frame menacing you as he speaks,

"I understand that you have been busying yourself with some manner of investigation as of late."

It takes a moment for his meaning to reach you. When it does, your face burns and you can't bring yourself to meet his scrutinizing gaze,

"Oh, uhm..."

"I assure you, my dearest wife," he says with barely concealed venom, "anything that I do not wish for you to know will be kept from you. Aside from which, your efforts thus far have proven amateurish at best."

Something seems off about his tone. You could understand if he felt uncomfortable or hesitant about your efforts to learn about him, but this seems far more grave, more... business-like. He steps towards you once more, and you step back in turn. Yet before long, you feel your legs bump the edge of the bed. A gloved hand trails a fingertip down your jawline to your chin, then urges you to look up at him.

"Whatever you are planning, my dear, I promise it will be fruitless. You had best rethink how you spend your days before your actions bring you to harm."

"No, I-" your brow creases deeply, your face burns, your body burns hotter and you don't want to consider why, "I've just been trying to learn about you as a person, nothing else. We're- we're married, after all, so..."

He gives an abrupt, dry laugh.

"Ah, so I am to believe that you've been interrogating my allies out of some misguided affection, is that it?"

"Hubert, just listen to me!" for a moment, you feel bolstered, defiant, and you straighten your posture, "You won't tell me the first thing about you- the only way to learn so much as your favorite color is to ask someone who's known you for a decade!"

Briefly, he does seem to consider your words. But his eventual reply is as aloof as any prior,

"If you're no spy or politician, then you're worse- a fool." he says, and before you can respond, he's seized both of your wrists and pushed you back onto the bed. For a moment, the room spins and your voice leaves you. A shrewd eye watches you with cruel condescension as he pins you against the sheets.

"I should think that you'd be well aware what I'm capable of," he nearly whispers, "I personally ensured that the rumors spread through your father's territory and further still. Do you think that anyone would even dare lift a finger to help you if I chose to seek retribution for this recent behavior?" He draws nearer, his grip tighter at your wrists, "Perhaps as punishment, I'll simply take my pleasure from you by force."

Your lips tighten, you take a breath. Then, meeting his gaze directly, you reply,

"You won't."

His visible eye narrows.

"And what evidence do you have to prompt such unfounded confidence? Perhaps you have crafted a flattering falsehood of me in your mind," a mocking smirk curls his lips, "Am I a misunderstood sentimental sort to you, then? A sad, lonely man for you to save?"

You scowl, though you suspect it looks more like a pout to him.

"I don't know what I think of you yet- not completely. But I don't pity you like that, and I don't think you're sad or lonely. I know you're not."

For the first time, it seems that you've caught him off guard. That frigid mask falters for just a moment, and you go on before he can replace it,

"You're surrounded by people who care about you. I've seen it for myself. Whatever you've had to do in the service of your ideals- it hasn't kept the people around you from wanting to know and understand you, even if it's despite you."

Hubert is silent for a moment. His gaze bores into you like he thinks he'll discover some hidden layer if he can just keep digging. Then, he sighs,

"How did I ever become bound to such a troublesome spouse..."

When you wrest your arms from his grasp, his hands fall away with little resistance, and you think that perhaps he had never truly intended to keep you in place by force to begin with. He moves to leave the bed, but your fists find the front of his clothing and tug him back down to you.

You press your lips to his without hesitation, and you can feel him inhale sharply, his entire body rigid above you. His lips are surprisingly soft, his scent like coffee and old parchment, and though your heart threatens to burst from your chest, you hold firmly to him by his clothes. Near imperceptibly, he leans down against you, and your fear, along with any remaining doubts, begin to dissolve. Knowing he won't pull away, you let your hands relax against him, running up his chest where you can feel his own pulse pounding. It's so human, so entirely reasonable and normal. Now, at last, Hubert Von Vestra is merely a man of flesh and bone.

Your tongue meets his naturally, your lips parting in time with his as your kiss deepens to a fevered pace. One hand reaches that sharp, handsome jawline, reveling in the erotic sensation of his mouth moving against yours. And yet, all the while, his hands remain staunchly on the bed beside you. He doesn't touch you- doesn't even let his body meet yours.

It's impossible to tell whether passion or madness drives you to bring your teeth to his lower lip, a single insistent bite communicating desire mounting faster than you can contain. And for a moment, you sense something new; a sound catches in Hubert's throat, a reaction he fights to stifle. Then, he pulls away. His pale skin is tinted a rare shade of pink, and his hair is ruffled out of place enough to reveal both narrowed eyes. His cloak has spilled around his frame to surround you both, and somewhere in your frazzled mind, you imagine that you're caught in some beautiful, velvet-lined trap.

"I- must... return to my work." Hubert says stiffly. He pushes up from you and turns away, leaving you still flustered on the bed behind him. You sit upright, holding your arms tight around your body as you watch him straighten his hair and clothes.

"You, uhm..." your face reddens still as you search for the right words, "you could... join me in bed, if you liked."

Hubert turns to the door of his study, speaking without daring to even glance your way,

"Anything that you offer to me now will be born from the impulse to survive. I have been bargained with before." His shoulders slack just slightly, his voice low and sober, "The proudest nobleman will even sell off his own child to a monster if he feels it will spare him its teeth."

You open your mouth to protest, then shut it without a word. You feel that you know your mind and heart, even in this moment, but you lack the words to convince a man like this. In a feeble attempt, you murmur,

"You don't frighten me, Hubert. Not anymore."

He half turns toward you, though his hand remains on the handle of his study door.

"You yourself said that you do not know what you think of me," he says, "As such, I will not lay a hand on you until the day that you do."

You stare down at your hands in your lap, barely registering the sound of the door clicking shut as he leaves you in the bedroom. No matter how you try to sort out your tangled thoughts, the memory of his lips on yours won't leave them. If anything, it eclipses any sense of reason, standing resolutely in the way of your path to clarity. Letting out a groaning sigh, you fall onto your back on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as if it could offer you any advice.

What do I think about my own husband? You wonder, the thought nearly enough to make you laugh. Well for one, he's a pain.

[writer-ish]

in the lambent light

pairing: mason x detective (grace bennett) word count: 2.4K words | rating: T (language)

summary: On the rooftop of the Warehouse, Grace and Mason have an honest conversation about sexuality, small towns, and love (sort of), with the revelry and light of Unit Bravo’s first Wayhaven Pride in the background.

For Week 1, Day 1 of @wayhavensummer: First Pride + #wsfchallenge “belonging”.

*

She finds him on the roof of the warehouse, of course, kicking his feet idly as they dangle over the edge, a thin wisp of smoke coming up steadily from his cigarette.

When he sees her, he puts it out and links his fingers together, eyes following her as she comes to sit beside him.

They're high up – too high; if she looks down she feels a bit dizzy – and he grunts, his eyes narrowing as she dangles her legs, too. She looks at her colourful socks - one purple, one pink - as she tries not to think about how steep the drop would be if she lost her balance or even just shuffled forward a bit.

She wonders if maybe he'll put his hand out to hold her steady, or force her to sit back.

(He does neither.)

"You don't have to do that, you know." She gestures belatedly to the ash of his crumpled cigarette still smoking lightly on the concrete. "I know I gave you a hard time before, but really, I don't want you to stop on account of me."

He shrugs. "It's fine. I don't even know why I still do it when I don’t even really need it anymore. Habit, I guess."

She opens her mouth to insist, say how she doesn't want him, doesn't need him to change for her – but her mouth clicks shut instead. It's easier to let it slide. To not delve too deeply into why he doesn't need it anymore.

They sit in silence for a bit, the evening breeze settling on them.

The sounds of revelry in the town square continue. Grace can hear the celebrations, the music, can feel the general aura of happiness radiating from below.

When she’d left to seek out Mason, Tina had been painting a rainbow on Adam’s sharp cheekbone as he sat very still, giving the situation a gravitas that it perhaps didn’t deserve, but was still heartwarming to see nonetheless.

Eric and Verda had been watching indulgently as their girls got spoiled with treats provided by Nate, who had been doing his very best to succeed at the task of “enjoying his first Pride”.

(When he’d asked if he was “doing it right”, Grace couldn’t help but give him an impromptu hug.

“You’re doing perfectly,” she’d said warmly and he had smiled down at her, eyes sparkling.)

Felix, for his part, had been bouncing around, examining the stalls set up to highlight the queer-owned business in Wayhaven, coming back to hand Nate a new trinket or snack or pin he’d purchased, and then bounding off again, the excitement practically vibrating off of him.

She smiles wistfully at the memory of how the town embraced Unit Bravo as their own, as she regards it all from a distance now, a bloom of warmth in her chest – a collection of the happiness and pride that she feels towards her little town for coming together in this way year after year. To celebrate its people; the people who make Wayhaven what it is.

To celebrate love.

She turns to Mason, spontaneously dropping a hand to his knee. He looks down swiftly and then back up at her, silver-grey eyes meeting her own.

"Was it all too much for you?" She nods in the direction of light, laughter, colour, and music. "Down there?"

He shrugs. "I respect the idea behind the celebration and I'm glad the others are happy and having fun. But yeah. It's not really my thing."

She nods slowly, going quiet again. He idly begins to play with her fingers, splayed out on his thigh. Tracing them with his own, up and down.

"You know it's not—"

"You know that we—"

They both go to speak at the same time, their voices stuttering to a stop as they realize.

"You go," Mason says eventually, the side of his lips quirked up in a small smirk. "You do most of the talking for us anyway."

"Hey!" Grace squeaks out indignantly. "I do not. Most people say I don't talk enough."

Mason snorts. "People who don't know you, maybe."

Her cheeks grow warm with pleasure at the unspoken confirmation. It feels like what he really said was: "People who don't know you the way I do."

And he's right.

"I was just going to say, Wayhaven has been doing this for years now. Decades even. We used to come when I was a kid.” She laughs in reminiscence. “There’s this picture of me – maybe eighteen months old or something – on Rook’s shoulders, watching the parade as my mom smiles up at us both.”

She feels her own smile go soft, like the edges of that faded cherished photograph. She shakes her head to clear the cobwebs of nostalgia before turning to him again. He’s regarding her in a way that can only be construed as fondness and her heart twists, ever so slightly.

“I’m glad you guys got to be here for your first Pride,” she continues, steering the conversation back to the present. To safer territory. “You hear all these things about the intolerance of small towns, and lord knows it’s true in some cases, but I dunno." She shrugs, a small smile gracing her lips once more. "It feels nice to be part of one of the good ones."

He's quiet and she turns to look at him after a moment of prolonged silence. He's still staring at her, this time a more inscrutable expression on his face. She can't tell what's going through his mind, whether it's concern or agreement or even anger. His fingers have stilled overtop hers and his large palm rests on her hand, warm and steady.

It takes another beat before he clears his throat and breaks eye contact, moving his hand off of hers. The cool air rushes to the spot where his hand used to be and she finds herself missing its warmth and comfort.

"It's true," he says finally. "It is one of the good ones." He looks at her carefully. "And you’re right. They aren't all like that."

There’s a wealth of meaning in his simple statement and it’s her turn to stare at him now, processing his words and trying to formulate an appropriate response.

"Have you…" She hesitates, trying to parse her words carefully. "Have you experienced… bad ones?"

He lets out a sigh. The very human sound, probably borne from a habit he could never quite kick, sends a tender pang straight to her heart.

"Listen, sweetheart." He leans back and looks up at the quickly dimming sky, the summer heat dwindling to a more tolerable mildness, the breeze picking up slightly and bringing with it the sweet scent of the magnolias below them. "It's no secret that I am not what people would call…"

He smirks and shoots her a side-long glance, his mischievous look belied by the glint of a single fang. "Discerning."

She stays quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve never seen value in—” He pauses, appearing to search for the right word. “—In curbing my desires to fit into a certain mold. I like what I like, I like who I like, and no real external factors – like gender or appearance or the shape of your tits or your bits – have ever really come into play.” He shrugs and pulls a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, fiddling with it without lighting it. “Some people have a problem with that and some places like to make it known more than others.”

Something about his final sentence causes her pulse to quicken, her thoughts jangling in her head. She tries to gather them up before she speaks.

“Do you think…” She hesitates. “Do you somehow think that I… have a problem with that? That I don’t understand?”

“Do you understand?” He looks straight at her then, his eyes sharp and intense. Not intimidating or cruel, but as though he’s looking for something – perhaps the honest answer to a question he’s not sure he’s even asked properly.

“I mean—” She feels indignant slightly, even though she tries to tamp it down. “If you think I somehow have an opinion on who people love and the circumstances around that, then I feel like maybe you don’t know me that well.”

“Whoa, whoa.” He holds his hands up, unlit cigarette still between two fingers, lip curling slightly. “Who said anything about love? I’m talking about who I decide to fuck.”

That one stings. She purses her lips and looks away, trying not to let him see just how much, inhaling deeply as she tries to get her feelings under control.

“Yes, yes,” she says finally, looking away with a wave of her hand. “Fuck, love, whatever.” She turns to him again, eyes narrowed. “I might not understand in the way that you do, through lived experience, but I care enough to try. And I certainly don’t judge.”

“I never said you judged, Gracie.” His voice is soft and the way he says her nickname – so rare from his lips – makes her breath catch in her throat. He flicks the cigarette between his fingers now, back and forth. “I just want everything to be out there between you and me. So that there’s never any—” He hesitates. “—Surprises.”

“Oh, you mean like finding out you’re a centuries-old vampire?” she quips, raising an eyebrow at him, arms crossed.

He barks out a laugh. “Watch who you’re calling centuries old, sweetheart.”

She chuckles along with him, before getting serious once more.

“The least surprising thing about you, Mason, is the fact that you have no qualms about who you choose to be with. I’ve never met a more accepting and open person.” He looks like he’s about to argue with her, so she holds up a hand to stop him. “And just because we aren’t—exactly the same, in that regard—” She looks down, feeling her cheeks warm slightly. “—Doesn’t mean I don’t get it. Or respect it.” She shrugs, laughing self-deprecatingly. “I find it hard to believe you’re interested in my boring ass, to be honest.”

“Your ass is the least boring thing about you, Detective.” For that comment, he’s rewarded with a light whack on the leg. He laughs and wraps his arm around her. “C’mere.”

Putting the cigarette behind his ear, he tugs her closer. He holds her tightly against him, thighs touching and feet brushing against each other.

“I’m going to say something cheesy as fuck and you’re going to listen. And then you’re never going to repeat it again. Got it?”

She nods quickly, eyes widening in anticipation.

“I see people—not for what they look like or any of that shit, but for what’s in here.” He taps gently, right above her left breast. “Yeah, I don’t get mixed up in all that love stuff, and attraction does play a big role in who I seek out and why, but it’s not an attraction to physical things. I just get this—sense of who a person is, I guess. And if I like what I sense, I follow through. If I don’t, I move on.” He gives her a squeeze. “You understand?”

She bites her lip, breath growing shallow as the impact of his words infiltrates her blood stream and causes her heart to flutter painfully.

He smiles slowly, a cheshire grin, and she curses his ability to hear the increase in her pulse.

“And guess what, sweetheart?” His voice has dropped an octave now, mouth close to her ear.

“What?” It comes out as a hoarse whisper.

“I like what you’ve got in here.” Another tap, same spot. “And I’m not ready to move on.”

As far as grand romantic statements go, Grace knows this one won’t make anyone’s top ten list. But for Mason, it’s a lot. And for her, for right now—it’s everything.

She leans forward and kisses him softly, sweetly, on the lips. His hand comes up to cup her cheek, but neither makes a move to deepen the kiss in any way, keeping it gentle and close-mouthed; an affirmation rather than the initiation of anything more. Pulling away, she looks at him, feeling the softness she sees in his face reflected in her own.

Giving him one more brief kiss, she scooches back and stands up carefully, dusting off the bottom of her blue shorts.

She catches him watching the action intently and he catches her catching him. They share a smirk that turns into a laugh and it feels comfortable and fun. It feels like an inside joke.

Like belonging.

“Let’s go, hot shot.” She holds out her hand to him and he takes it, swinging his legs around and standing up, his full height enough that she needs to tilt her head to look up at him.

“Think you can manage to rejoin the party?” she asks, her hand still in his as she tugs him to the door that will lead them back through the warehouse. “We’ll stick to the quieter corners. I’ll hold your hand the whole time,” she adds, smiling up at him, her tone cajoling, teasing.

There’s something about summer in Wayhaven, something about Pride in Wayhaven – the air feels lighter, sweeter. Grace feels lighter. Bolstered by love and friendship, warmth and comfort. All the good things about her little town seem to be highlighted during this time.

All the good things about her little life, she thinks, glancing at their joined hands.

Mason snorts and looks down at her, amused, before giving her hand a squeeze.

She squeezes back, feeling happier than she can remember ever feeling before.

“I’ll even buy you a snow cone without the syrup,” she offers as they leave, bumping his shoulder with hers.

He grunts and then stops short. “Isn’t that just ice?”

She bites back a smile, feeling laughter in her throat, and nods.

There’s a pause. He blinks once. Twice. Then—he bursts into loud laughter. The sound is so free, so surprising yet pleasant, that she can’t help the grin that spreads across her face. And when he pulls her even closer and presses a kiss to the top of her head—well. She’s not sure that smile will ever go away now.

“Lead the way, sweetheart,” he murmurs, keeping her close to him.

And she does.

[byougen]

Lover, Please Stay

(Todoroki Enji x G/N Reader)

The banner was made by Etsi @etegomanere.

Genre: Angst/Fluff

TW: Mentions of toxic relationships, family drama, food talk, past relationships

Author's Note: This is my (very rushed) collab fic for the Attack on Academia Discord server! The theme was Fall Festival so I tried to implement that into this fic as much as I could. The title was based off one of my best friend's favorite songs, "Lover Please Stay" by Nothing But Thieves. Please enjoy!

He withdrew his head from the shell of your ear, looking at your joyous bearing, the vestiges of exhaustion in your voice from laughing too hard. The crisp fronds embellished your hair in fiery hues like a coronet, your smile more seraphic than that of a celestial being. After your laughter had died down, you gazed into his eyes, your delicate fingers coming to stroke the hot surface of his cheek.

-

"Come on, Todoroki-san, it's so much fun!" he was being tugged by the sleeve of his bomber, mind burgeoning into surprise as you pulled him by the wrist, a gleaming smile stretched from ear to ear as you laughed to him in such a sonorous manner. As you both crashed into the accumulation of warm hues sprinkled onto the surface of the forest, he could hear your dulcet giggles flowing right into the shell of his ear. He then realized what position he was in. He was laying directly on top of your measly figure as you chuckled beneath him. He could feel his cheeks fizzle in embarrassment.

"Enji… would you still look at me, even after you become number one?"

Enji was uprooted from the chrysalis of slumber, the sweat dripping down his face. Weighted breaths sprung from his lungs, his face warm with the embrace of affection now burned out into a dry, icy sensation that swathed his body. Shame.

How shameful he was to be thinking of another woman after getting married. Shame on him for reminiscing in the summery feeling of a lover—no, a past lover.

"Dad, are you awake?" the chirp of a meek voice came from behind the door, the shadow of his daughter's silhouette visible.

"Yes, I'm awake, Fuyumi." he cleared his throat, sitting up.

"Shouto has his autumn festival today, are you going?"

He gulped. Autumn. The way you laughed while the cool wind brushed your face. The way that the crisp leaves decorated your hair. The way your lips dried by the cool air graced his—

"Dad? Why aren't you responding?"

He lowered his head and cleared his throat.

"Yeah. I'm going."

Enji started his day on a rough note, getting ready to attend his youngest son's fall festival.

-

Enji crouched behind Shouto, his height too much for the tiny stall. He watched Shouto as he took orders from the prolonged crowd of people. He could smell the spices wafting around the stall as he realized how hungry he was. He'd refused to eat breakfast in hopes that he'd get to the festival to help Shouto out with the soba stall—however, he had not paid mind to how ravenous he was, his stomach demanding any source of flavor.

He'd only wished that he'd have the time to eat well. The only times when he was able to eat well were when he was off duty.

"Father, you seem off." Shouto muttered as his pen twirled across the small notepad in his hand.

"Don't worry about it, Shouto. I'm fine."

"I'm not worrying. You refused to eat breakfast today from what Fuyumi told me."

Enji's stomach agreed with Shouto's words, a loud rumbling noise sounding from it. He turned away and cleared his throat, slight heat slithering through his face.

"Here, take this protein bar. I brought one along but it seems like you need it more." Shouto muttered, tossing something to him. Enji caught the measly bar in his hands, frowning at the size of it. Well, for what it's worth, he'd eat it.

-

"Enji, Enji!" he heard that piquing cry once again. He grumbled as you ran up to him, your boots creating raging waves within the puddles that covered the streets. Besides your exasperated panting from running in the rain, you grinned. In both hands you help two cartons–no, foam cups–and he was sure he could smell the balmy, saccharine savors of cocoa wafting from them.

"It's raining, but it looks like I brought us some hot chocolate!" you beamed, reaching to give them one of the cups.

"You take it. I don't want it." he turned his face away, scowling. Why were you offering him such things? He was the soon to be number one hero. He couldn't indulge in such kiddish pleasures.

"Why're you always such a buzzkill? Come on, it's hot chocolate!" you retorted, shoving the beverage into his chest. He gritted his teeth and then took the drink into his hand.

"Fine." he murmured.

He detached the cap from the lid, revealing the humid steam that billowed its way out of the cup and into the rain. He huffed at the cupped through hollow cheeks before finally raising the mahogany liquid up to his lips, letting its flavor envelope his tongue. The pleasant relish of cocoa slithered onto his tongue and down his throat. It was a rediscovery. How many years had it been since he'd last indulged in sweet goods such as this one? He found himself glugging it until he'd reached only a single drop.

"How is it?"

"It's good." he mumbled, licking his lips to search for even more of the sugary taste.

"Oh, uh, Enji, you've got a 'lil something on your mouth." you stated, pointing towards some unknown area on his mouth. He annoyedly ran his tongue along the corners of his lips once more, but by the looks of your giggling disposure, it looks like he had no luck.

"H-Here… let me get it for you."

You reached your palm out and his face stiffened as he watched you catch the stain of brown, now displayed on your finger.

Wait, what just happened?

The vines of heat sprouted in his cheeks, coiling towards the tips of his ears.

"Do you want me to get more?" you questioned, pulling your hood up again as you prepared to head into the rain again.

"Mhm… S-Sure. Thanks." he quickly muttered as you took the cue to dash towards the stall.

He gazed into one of many puddles of water muddling the sidewalk that revealed his reflection. His complexion was licked in a cranberry tint.

-

Enji found himself leaning against a brick wall, his eyes scanning the crowd for anything exciting except Shouto serving hot bowls of exquisite soba to customers. His eyes settled on a young woman, her face glowing as her wide smile glistened, her hand intertwined with what looked to be her toddler son's tiny fingers. Their laughs echoed like as if it were a heavenly ballad, the woman kneeling down to scoop her child up and spin him around lovingly.

A spark was lit inside him.

How he wished that was him with his children. He had no idea how to do it. When he was in his twenties he had just had his first son and let his blood run like a stream until he combusted into a field of uncontrollable flames, never allowing him to be a casual child like he desired. Todoroki Enji was no father. He was a miserly man with very little knowledge of family ethics. For the past thirty years, he had only known fame and power. He had ended up being a supreme hero, but he could never be satisfied with his accomplishments.

He had a family to feed. Wasn't that enough? Just to care for their health and provide them with an education was enough, right? In time, reality smacked him upside the face and invaded his mind. Was it too late to save himself from those putrid ideologies? He had plenty of time to figure it out in the decades of his life that he endured, so why was it that he realized only now? Was it just him? Was he the only one holding himself back from that sort of realization?

-

Enji had finally achieved what he'd desired for so long. With each step he took through the busy street, he was prideful. He was wearing an unusual smile across his face. He didn't need help anymore.

"Endeavor-san! How does it feel like to be the new number one?"

"What did you do to become so strong, Endeavor-san?"

He held triumph in his heart. He had won over Japan's trust and become the most powerful man in the country. He didn't need anybody now.

And then he saw you.

Your eyes were doused in a nulled haze as he marched through the street, the cheers and jeers of people surrounding him blocking any other sound that was to be in his hearing. It shouldn't bother him, he thought. If it shouldn't bother him, why did it feel like his feet were grazing jagged, shattered glass? Why did it feel like the fire in your eyes burned out, leaving him with no more warmth? Why did it feel like his body was embellished in everbleeding cuts, stretching painfully with each step he took? It shouldn't bother him, but the way your passionate orbs were now sunken and dull made him fearful. What did you do? What did he do to blow that fire out?

He silently prayed for you to say something, move, anything. But you just stood there, as still as concrete.

Through the flashing lights, he could see your lips move. His heart shuddered at what he made out from the way your lips danced in such a sudden manner.

"I guess I was just another paper to the flames."

He then watched you turn your back to him and fade into the crowd, trudging away.

"Endeavor-san, who helped you get where you are now?"

Those words struck an arrow through his frail heart. His pride had fully dissolved. He felt his whole figure tremble as he let out a roar of unadulterated anguish and fury.

"Shut up!"

-

Todoroki Enji was no stickler for apologies, neither was he ever forgiven for his mistakes either. He was angry. Dissatisfied. Ungrateful. He wouldn't apologize for those either. He was an asshole. Everybody knew he was an asshole, but the fate of Japan depended on him. He didn't deserve respect and his children wouldn't give him any.

The basic foundation was to be raised in a happy family, grow up to be successful, and to find love. Of course, not everybody's ideology was composed of those beliefs. But to Enji, his morals were distorted. He had a wife who he only used to have children, and he had children who he used to bring him even more power.

He was reminiscing the wasted moments which were supposed to be composed of pure affection, the ones he was supposed to share with his wife. The poor woman whom he tied the knot with, with her gaze once burning with empathy and affection now encased in a sullen blur. She was only there to birth children who would once change the world. She cooked and cleaned and tenderly cared for the young ones, distraught by their father's tyrannous teachings. She was the one who brought them into the world. The lady who had gifted them with unconditional love and sacrifice. She was the one that crumpled like scriptures to the flames before any of the children. She was nameless to him, only to support his needs–no, his miserly desires–his desires for power in the world.

Oh, if only. If only he hadn't yearned for the strength. If only he had lived a moral life. Thirty gruelling years later, he was thinking of the warm look in your eyes, now but a wisp. He had built you up just to let you crumble before him as he succumbed to his desires. You were ash, dust carried by the wind to who knows where. If only it were you in that wedding attire, gazing up at him so lovingly, instead of Rei with her fearful bearing. Had it been you to elope with him, this whole mess would only be a dream. The scar on Shouto's face would have been but a dream. The fright in Rei's eyes but a dream. The hatred of his children but a dream. The somber look in your eyes but a dream.

To be able to savor the moment with your lips intertwined was a distant idea. He could see it burning into his mind, fading in when it had faded out of his mind thirty years ago. He longed for love and affection, but he knew he couldn't receive it now. Not with the way he had tossed people around his world. Not with the way he had treated you.

-

"Enji, would you still look at me, even after you became the world's greatest hero?"

His cheeks boiled at your words. He had his eyes set on you, and that was that, so why did it take him so long to build the words? He gulped. He reached his large hands to cup your face, leaning his forehead into yours.

"(L/N) (F/N), you're the only one I have eyes for. You matter to me, more than anybody else."

He leaned down so that your lips could pirouette into each other's. The traces of cocoa on your lips made the kiss even warmer. His thumb grazed the soft skin of your cheek as he shut his eyes, indulging in the bliss of the moment.

When he pulled back, he looked back into your eyes.

"I love you, Enji."

He almost choked at your words. He knew he loved you, so why couldn't he say the same? He had adored you all this long, so why aren't the words coming out? The sweetness you left on his lips had turned into something sickly sweet—almost bitter. Was it the words that he had said previously? Is that why this felt so wrong?

Little did he know, it was something embedded in his subconscious. Todoroki Enji was never a decisive man.

-

"Shouto, it's getting late. We should head back home." Enji groused. In reality, he was sickened by the thoughts of the past that had been ambushing him throughout the day.

"Hold on, just one more order and then we can go home. Yaoyorozu-san will take care of the rest." Shouto said.

"Hi, could I get two bowls of zaru soba, please?"

The sound of the voice was noticeably familiar, like warm melted fudge. It reminded him of sugary hot cocoa. His gut tugged his eyes towards the source of the voice to see those warm eyes of yours, no longer dull and empty.

"(L/N)." he croaked, a light smile tugging at his lips. His stomach fluttered ever so slightly, heat blossoming in the pits of his cheeks. It was really you.

"Enji." his name sprouted from your lips like a benediction, and Enji couldn't be more overjoyed to hear it. Your rekindled eyes were focused on him now.

"Enji–no, no, sorry." you raised your palm to your forehead, a self-disapproving scowl upon your face. "Endeavor-san, how have you been?"

His heart tensed at your words, the joyous feeling within him now crumpling to ash. Now framing his body was the same feeling that greeted him when he'd woken up from that terrifying dream.

"I'm…" his mind spiralled into nauseating circles, his ankles starting to buckle. You should be saying his real name, he thought to himself. You can't just call him by his alias. He then drew in a precarious breath.

"I'm fine."

"So, how have you been? It's been thirty years since we've last seen each other!" You chirped. Your smile was wide and glistening like starlight. There was no more hate or sadness in your eyes. He was happy about that.

"I–I've been doing fine, really. I…"

"You became number one again, I see! Congrats!"

His heart did little twirls at the sound of your voice.

"Yeah. Thanks…" Enji reached his hand to scratch the back of his neck, turning away so that he didn't need to meet your gaze because the heat was already flowing to his cheeks.

"(F/N)! Are you getting food?" a voice shattered the balmy silence. Enji's stomach curled at the voice. What was it that made it so threatening?

He then saw a man scamper over to you, then wrapping his arms around your waist lovingly. He nuzzled the tip of his nose into your temple, pressing a kiss to the apple of your cheek. He felt his heart shrivel up and quaver in his chest. Who was this guy?

"Oh, Endeavor-san! This is my husband!" you warbled, reaching a hand up to stroke the man's face affectionately. No, it couldn't be.

"That's crazy, (F/N)! You've known the Endeavor since high school?" his voice was nauseating. It wasn't because he was jealous, but because of how he treated you. He was almost too nice.

"Yeah! He's super cool!" something was off about the way he looked at your this time. Your voice was almost monotonous, your eyes laced with the slightest bit of hurt. Oh no. You hadn't forgotten.

"Well, let's get going. It was a pleasure seeing you, Endeavor-san!" your husband had waved before grabbing the bag placed on the counter of the stall and twirling yourselves around to walk away from the near-empty festival.

Before you could fully drift away, he could see you glancing at him. Your eyes held curiosity but also anger in those once warm eyes like a bonfire. He couldn't blame you, though. He had to accept that truth.

He fell onto his knees and let his tears dapple onto the floor of the stall. He knew he couldn't turn back.

[rex101111]

For a glass of Cactus Wine

Summary: Migelo does both his duties at the fete, one to the Empire, and the other to his kids. 

Rating: T

Fandom: Final Fantasy XII

Well! Been a while since I wrote something substantial, but @sevi007 has been doing a live blog of this game, thus reminding me how much I love it, and so here’s a fic depicting the one missing scene in this game I really wanted to see, also to give Lizard dad the content he deserves. Enjoy!

Seeing Arcadian troops stomp in the halls of the Royal Palace made Migelo want to crawl right out of his hide. It’s been two years since those bastards in their tin plates stomped into his home and his city and still he could only barely keep his anger in check at how disrespectful the whole lot of them were.

Leaning on pillars built centuries past, wiping their feet on rugs that took months to weave, pointing and laughing like children at art that they would never understand the importance of. If he heard another one of these piss-drunk bureaucrats call one more thing in this palace “quaint” he’s going to use that same thing to break it over their heads.

Still, years of experience in burying his feelings and opinions about his costumers helped him plaster a smile on his snout. This was simply business, he was providing sundries and food for an event, like he’s done dozens and dozens of times over his long career.

“Watch that crate!” He yelled out to one of the servants, “it’s got wine in it, worth more than ten of your lifetimes! Handle it with a bit of care why don’t you?” The servant sheepishly apologized and asked for help from another servant as Migelo turned his gaze elsewhere, “dear girl, you’ll break your back like that!” He went to a maid and corrected her posture and how she held her tray of food, “there we go now, better?”

“Thanks Migelo.” The maid smiled gratefully, before her face turned sour, “these imperials get nasty when they’re drunk, they keep asking me to run back and forth for all sorts of nonsense.” She sighed harshly, “probably just want a peek up my skirt.”

“You let ol’ Migelo handle them, Meina.” He soothes, turning her to a different direction, “empty that tray and take a break for ten minutes, I’ll have someone else make sure they don’t notice you gone, yes?”

She went off with a smile and Migelo continued like that, his time cleaved cleanly between ordering servants this way and that soothing fraying nerves. This fete needed to go flawlessly, with the consul himself attending every hand on deck needed to give it their all and then some. If the pompous royal left this evening with a good opinion of his food, he might transfer said opinion to the rest of the city. If he did that, maybe his boys and girls could have more room to breathe.

He looked ruefully over the staff, some of the younger ones he’s known since they were children, helped them train for applying for work in the palace. Rabanastre was a small city, everyone knew everyone, and that only became stronger as the plague and the war ravaged the place. Seeing these kids, his kids, running around like cockatrices with their heads cut off for the sake of their invaders made a lick of fire burn in his gut, no matter how hard he tried to douse it.

Worse of all was that he knew he was delaying the inevitable, he had an invitation to answer soon, and the longer he ignored the worse things would get not only for himself, but everyone else living in Rabanastre.

He took a few long breathes, practiced his best servile smile in a nearby plate, pictured the smiling face of every single child under his care in his mind, and went off to sit at the right of the eldest living son of Emperor Gramis, Vayne Carudas Solidor.      

The consul was deep in debate with the others sitting at his table, something about tax rates and territory dispute that went right over Migelo’s head, but as soon as the old bangaa drew close enough, as if he could hear his footsteps over the rancor of the room, Vayne stopped talking and turned his head to meet his gaze.

“Ah, Sir Migelo, so nice of you to finally join me.” He motioned for one of the nearby soldiers to pull back the chair at his right side, “please, sit.”

With practice ease, and complaining stomach, Migelo bowed in apology, “I hope you would forgive me, Lord Consul, I had so many things to fix and move, my responsibilities nearly made me forget your most gracious offer.”

“Think nothing of it good Sir,” Vayne waved off easily, “We should all wish to have your work ethic Migelo, so we could accomplish our own work half as well.” Vayne complimented him smoothly as Migelo finally sat, the others at the table nodding sycophantically, before beginning to pour the store owner a glass of red wine. “But, let me remind you that I asked of you to refer to me by my first name.”

Taking the glass with all the grace he could manage, Migelo bowed his head again with an outwardly warm smile, “ah, forgive this old lizard sir consul, I still feel ill at ease referring to one of your station so informally.” The other reason was the only people he called by name were his friends and his kids, and Vayne is not, would never be, either. “Perhaps I’ll manage that better,” he made a show of laughing from his belly, “with a bit of fine Arcadian wine in my system, eh?”

“Of course.” Vayne’s sharp eyes and sharper smile made Migelo feel as if he were strapped to a table, “please, indulge as you please, we have all night after all.”

Nodding, Migelo started to drain his glass, and had to fight his gag reflex with every gulp. Arcadian wine made you feel like someone was trying to prove something to you, too rich, too fruity, too damn much. Seeing the people around him gulp this stuff down was aggravating as it was confusing, you could stuff as many flowers into a bottle of Slaven piss as you wanted, it was still a drink of cold piss.

Decades of honing his poker face in the interest of more returning costumers made sure none of that disgust was visible on his face of course, to any casual observer Migelo savored every drop of the expensive Slaven piss, finishing his glass with a pleasured sigh. “Ahh, what an excellent, uh, flavor profile! So full of life and character!” He turned to the consul with a toothy grin, “How’s about you give me another to loosen my tongue?”

“You are a man of great taste, Sir Migelo.” Vayne complimented, smiling thinly as he filled the offered cup before filling his own. “I’ve heard Dalmascans do not have a high opinion of my home’s signature brew.”

“Bah.” Migelo scoffed easily, “children with no experience on their tongues Lord Consul, nothing to be offended by.” He internally grits his teeth, he heard some of the younger men voice some of their very loud opinions about Arcadian wine in a place where a couple of soldiers could hear them. It ended well for absolutely no one, and he was only glad to make sure his kids didn’t see or hear it. “We Dalmascans are very proud of our own drinks, I think you would see it would make sense to be a bit defensive.” He took another gulp, “pardon m’candor, of course.”

“Indeed.” Vayne nodded, finishing his own glass, “and you have a great many things to be proud of, I’ve heard a fair share of good things about Dalmascan cactus wine.” He looked at Migelo with a gaze that made his scales itch, “have you tried it before?”

He was almost insulted the man had to ask, “o’course I did lord consul!” He tried to be casual about it, but a bit of hometown pride seemed to seep in every other word, “Cactus Wine is easy to brew in large amounts, made from Cactoid fruit and the sands are absolutely littered with the little buggers, it’s what you order when you have something to celebrate or as a victory drink.” Migelo could go for an entire barrel of it right now. “It’s a…simple drink. Simple but hearty.”

Vayne nodded politely as the bangaa went on, before he took the bottle of his expensive wine and looked at it quietly, “…I suppose there hasn’t been much call for it, lately.”

Migelo nearly swallowed his tongue, for all his talk of taking in all of Dalmasca’s hatred onto himself, the consul seemed adept at choosing words to inspire said hatred. “Y-No, Lord Consul, not a lot to celebrate.” He quickly recovered, smiling again as he waved his glass about, “b-but fret not! Us Dalmascans find reason to celebrate no matter the weather! You’ll have your taste of cactus wine before long don’t you worry!”

“Why wait my friend?” Vayne said smoothly, Migelo barely exerting the restraint he needed to stop himself from cursing the consul out on considering himself something he is not, “I have found myself a few bottles for this grand occasion.”

Migelo was stopped short, he had double checked every scrap of food and drink meant for this fete, triple checking the alcohol in particular, and he was sure there wasn’t a drop of cactus wine in the whole palace, he figured the imperials wouldn’t want to touch the stuff. “Y-you did? F-from where lord consul?”

“From the palace cellars of course.” He replied, motioning with his hand to another maid, Kayta if Migelo remembers right, who held a very familiar clay jug in her hands. “If one kind of wine isn’t enough to call me friend, perhaps two would suffice.”

Migelo held Kayta’s conflicted gaze for a moment, before he turned to Vayne with a doubtful expression, “the cellars my lord? Those haven’t been disturbed since the war ended! Who knows what kind of vermin have found their way to the stores?”

“I had my men carefully inspect each bottle.” Vayne assured, which only made Migelo more ill thinking about what Imperial soldiers considered inspecting. “Please, do not be reticent, I find myself curious what a man of your expertise has to say about the difference between one wine and the other.”

Kayta poured Migelo a glass with a sorrowful expression, Migelo soothing the girl as best he could with a smile only she could see, and the bangaa took a long whiff of the drink, before slowly draining his glass.

Cactus wine was sweet, almost sweet enough you could give it to a child without them puffing their little face. Its taste was subtle, airy, doing nothing more than what a wine ought to do and made your face and belly warm. It was cheap drink, cheap enough that working folk could indulge in it without endangering their pay over-much.

It was Dalmasca to the last drop, warm and honest.

“So, sir Migelo?” Vayne inquired when the bangaa finished and had not said a word, “how is your home’s brew compared to mine?”

He was quiet for a few more moments before he turned to the consul, “I must admit to having a bias sir.” He put the glass back down on the table gently, reaching over to grab a grape nearby to soak some of the alcohol in his system, “I’ve been drinking cactus wine since I was a whelp, y’see, it’s a drink for the heart as much for the stomach nowadays.”

Vayne chuckled good naturedly, “well, now you have me curious.” He picked up his own glass and motioned for Kayta to fill it, the girl nearly tripping over herself to bow as she poured without spilling it on him. He took a careful sip…and stopped, an emotion Migelo could not name fliting across his face. “…it tastes…” The consul was quiet for a moment, the rest of the table perfectly silent to await his judgment, “…honest.”

Migelo released a breath he didn’t know he was holding, allowing himself the tiniest amount of pride as he looked at Vayne, “Dalmasca knows no other way, Lord Consul.”

“Pritas.” Vayne looked at one of the people sitting at the table, some peacock in a stuffy red shirt with a pencil moustache, “you should try it, I am certain people in Archades would flock to try this, exotic yet gentle on the tongue.”

Pritas hurriedly motioned for Kayta to pour him a glass, and no sooner than he had a drop of it he was nodding enthusiastically, “y-yes Lord Vayne! You are absolutely correct; everyone will want a bottle of this for any price!”

Migelo, despite his mood and the alcohol in his system, found himself smiling at the sound of it, feeling someone patting his shoulder. “Migelo, after the fete be sure to grant Pritas here the information for whoever you get your cactus wine from, they’ll find more business than ever.”

Migelo could picture the family of brewers in his head, nearly jumping for joy at the chance that fell into their laps, a contract to sell cactus wine halfway across Ivalice. He then imagined their faces when he told them to which half of Ivalice the wine would go. He imagines the shock, the outrage, the sorrow.

He imagines the table with one more chair then they needed, the extra gathering dust for two years now.

“Yes, Lord Consul.” He said as calmly as he could manage, looking into the face of a man whose night has gone exactly as he had planned, down to the last detail, painting a smiling on his snout. “Thank you for this opportunity, I’m sure they’ll see this as a chance to build their life back up to how it was…” He could feel his lips curling over his teeth. “…before the war, that is.”

Vayne’s face drew downwards slightly, an almost robotic motion, “yes, the war has devastated both sides long enough,” He squeezed the shoulder he was holding, in a move meant to be reassuring, “it is past time we helped each other back onto our feet.”

Vaan crying into his shoulder, cursing and yelling and screaming every curse he knew. Penelo holding him tightly as she sobbed. Fire in the sky, visible from his window.

His home, under siege and under iron boots.

Migelo bit his tongue, brought to mind every orphan he and Old Dalan have struggled to keep fed and working and warm, and managed an impossible smile, “yes…way past time…Lord Consul.”

Vayne shook his head with a fond smile, and poured Migelo another cup of Arcadian wine. Migelo drained it without tasting a drop.

(Not long after, barely an hour after, he sees his boy in chains and his girl crying for his freedom, and all the wine in his veins is cold and freezing.  

As they dragged his boy away, as his girl fell into the arms of Kayta as she sobbed, Vayne Carudas Solidor came to him, smiled, and clapped his shoulder.)  

[grunklesinner]

First, just want to say love your fanfictions! And I was wondering if you could write a request? Where Ford and the reader stargazing on top of the mystery shack, and Ford realizes how beautiful the reader is? If you can or want to. Thank you! 😊

a/n; I don’t know how long this has been sitting in my inbox I’m sorry. 😭 But I did want to write something for this regardless to get myself out of a loooong writer’s block. It’s 2 AM and this is unedited lol. Also thanks love! 💜

title; meteor shower

word count; roughly around 950 words

ford pines x reader (ofc and a biiiit self indulgent lol)

——————————

“Ford!”

You call out excitedly and he’s already a step ahead of you, grabbing the two mugs from your hands so you can climb up onto the roof. Eager to join Ford you quickly ease yourself up past the sign and onto the ridge of the shack.

“Be careful climbing over here, there may or may not be some ice patches under the snow.” Ford cautioned while placing the hot drinks down on the flat ledge of the shack’s dormer roof. “Actually hold on, I’ll help you — “

He glances up and yells your name in panic, seeing you attempting to ease yourself down towards him on the other side of the shack. You yelp in surprise when you loose your footing and slip down the roof through the snow; heart rate spiking as you watch the ground get closer and closer. Before you unintentionally get yourself launched off the side of the shack Ford grabs you and pulls you into his chest.

“T-Thanks,” you finally breathe out shakily.

He tightened his hold around you, as if you’d slip right through his grasp. “Are you alright?”

You peek up at him, face now completely flushed of embarrassment. “Y-Yeah, I’m okay.”

Ford released a sigh of relief and eased his hold on you. You brush off all the snow that stuck to your coat and body before taking a seat, thanking Ford as he sat beside you and gave you your mug of hot chocolate. Neither of you then speak, basking in the beauty of the scenery around the shack.

Despite how damn cold it is out in the middle of winter, it’s worth the breath-taking views of the untouched glistening snow below and the luminous sky above. You gaze longingly up at the stars, jealous yet fascinated by the beauty of the starry skies. Tonight you were hoping to catch a glimpse of a meteor shower, and wanted to share the moment with a specific six-fingered nerd who you’ve been pining after pretty much since you met him. You weren’t sure if he felt the same way about you, but you enjoyed being in his company nonetheless. You treasured every moment you two had together.

You adjust to the cold and start to shiver as the adrenaline — from nearly sliding off the roof — wears off, and you take a sip from your mug in hopes it’ll help keep your body warm. Ford immediately notices your discomfort and carefully drapes a blanket around your shoulders.

“Better?” He asks you softly with a small smile.

You pull the large piece of quilted fabric closer to your body with a nod, feeling your cheeks burn pink.

“I hope we don’t have to wait much longer before we see some shooting stars — I’d hate for us to turn into giant icicles out here.” You snicker with a grin.

Ford laughs. “That would be unfortunate, now wouldn’t it?”

You hum softly. “Well, even if we don’t see anything — I’m content being able to see the night sky so clear tonight.” You bring your knees to your chest and glance back up to the stars. You start mumbling about the various constellations you recognize, unbeknownst to the fact that Ford was focusing his attention on you.

Your face lights up when you suddenly see something bright fly across the night sky. You point up to the sky enthusiastically, hoping it grabs your companion’s attention. “Ford, look! There’s one!”

His breath gets caught in his throat when he sees you smile — he takes in the light flushing of your cheeks from the cold, the sparkle in your eyes from excitement and feels his heart melt — he’s completely enamored by you. He has no idea why someone like you would be willing to hang out with someone like him. Someone who’s spent so many decades away from this dimension, done things he wasn’t proud of, and how aloof and awkward he was (at least in the beginning of your interactions). But somehow he quickly warmed up to you — he was drawn to your magnetic and caring personality. You were patient, smart in your ways, and kind. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever understand why you’ve chosen to stick around him, but he wasn’t complaining. Not in the slightest.

Without thinking Ford runs a hand through your hair, brushing a strand behind your ear. You glance back at him, eyes wide.

“A-Ah!” He quickly flinches back, as if burned. “I just noticed — y-you had some snow in your hair a-and — “

He abruptly stops talking when he scans your face again, noticing a...hopeful expression?

You begin to reach toward him but briefly hesitate. What is he thinking? You want to hope that he has any sort of feelings towards you, but a part of you holds back out of fear of being rejected. You’ve never been good at reading other people when it came to romantic feelings. You mentally curse yourself for second guessing and questioning things, as you always tend to overthink everything when it comes to romance. With a deep breath you push the fear down and wrap his hand in your trembling ones.

Your face flushes for the ‘hundredth’ time that night. “F-Ford, I — “

You’re swiftly cut off by the feeling of his lips against yours. A shiver of pleasure runs down your spine as you feel his other hand cup your cheek, and you rub circles graciously into his wrapped one.

You bring your hands to his cheeks when you finally part, eyes filled with emotion and wonder. He smiles at you fondly, his own eyes filled with warmth and affection.

You’re glad you took the chance.

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

spn 15.14

now this is the late-season spn content i’m craving: an absurdly cheerful and superficial veneer over dark and abyssal horror. and it’s not horror in the universe-is-ending sort of way (tho that’s happening too, but eh, whatever, the characters aren’t too cut-up over it) but in the insidious way the show both indulges in and explicitly acknowledges the toxicity of its main relationships. it’s just a very fitting tone for the show to take, given reality’s kinda been similar for the last several years: increasingly aware that it’s irredeemably fucked up, but (mostly) carrying on all the same. 

spoilers ahead.

1. i can’t believe this is one of the first episodes i see after the eldritch-bunker fic i wrote. spn has never been about that kind of horror, but it was cool to see a little more of the bunker’s secrets revealed (tho wasn’t there a lockdown-type situation in s12? i think? the reset button could’ve come in real handy then.)

1.25. it’s still remarkable to me, though, that despite living out of the bunker for nearly seven years, samndean are... strangely incurious about how it works. i would’ve thought at least sam would want to explore and figure things out, though maybe gaining knowledge for knowledge’s sake has dropped very low on his list of priorities in the last several years, and he’s busy trying to conserve what little physical/mental energy he has. ‘research’ has always meant either trying to deal with the aftermath of an apocalyptic disaster or trying frantically to prevent another one, and i don’t suppose ‘looking at more supernatural shit’ is something sam would associate with pleasure or positivity now.

1.5. which is why it’s kind of a stroke of genius to have mrs butters represent the spirit of the bunker: samndean’s complacency as long as she took care of their needs without seeming to want anything of her own is very reminiscent of how they treat their alleged home. 

2. cuthbert sinclair cameo! man, i miss s8....

3. it’s kind of darkly hilarious how many times mary’s death was brought up in an episode where mrs butters fulfilled a fantasy-mother’s role. she is the idealised mother-figure: always kind, nurturing, giving and giving and never taking--in sharp contrast to their actual mother, who turned out to be a far more complicated person than the ones her sons had idealised. (if anything mary’s second death has sort of resurrected her as a martyr figure in dean’s eyes: something on which to hang his righteous fury.) it was bizarre, yet entirely fitting, that both samndean went along with it after 2.5 seconds of vague misgivings. hell, dean was prepared to let mrs butters capturing and threatening to kill jack go if it meant that she could keep taking care of them!

3.5. of course mrs butters then turned out to be dangerous and twisted--but not because of any inherent nature but because she had been tortured and brainwashed into fulfilling a role ‘in the family’ by men whom she still pined after at the end of the episode. like. OH MY GOD.

if things couldn’t get more explicit, the episode had sam be the only one to acknowledge and empathise with mrs butters, yet accept her tragic and twisted devotion to the MOL as benign and even adorable at the end of episode anyway. why wouldn’t he? his own edges have been at first chiseled away, then inelegantly lopped off, to fit the Winchester Ideal--something that he’s learned not to get angry about, then to be grateful for. this episode even juxtaposes mrs butters talking about pain ‘being a wonderful teacher’ while torturing sam with dean going ‘pain is just weakness leaving your body’ to jack: these are lessons about needing to be in pain in the service of a higher, correct goal.

this is why late-season spn is both exciting and drives me up the fucking wall.

3.8. dean’s disappointment when he said ‘of course you had to pull a ratched’ gave me chills. there is not one iota of effort from him to acknowledge the atrocity that has been committed on mrs butters, one that he was more than happy to exploit. sam is a bit better, but only just. 

4. i haven’t even been watching the last few seasons regularly and i feel like this debate over jack being a ‘monster’ has been rehashed way too many times already. what would be more interesting to acknowledge is the way samndean treat him like a weapon rather than the kid they keep professing he is. even in that confrontation with mrs butters, while sam at least talked about jack being a kid who’s gone through too much already, dean could only come up with ‘he’s going to save the world’. mrs butters even leaves with a ‘you save the world’ to jack rather than anything more intimate/personal. what a terrible burden to leave on this kid! what a terrible way to re-enact the tragedies that shaped samndean into the twisted, fucked-up men that they are on this being that’s only ever existed to win their approval!

i really feel like sam had an opportunity to at least try and make things right at the end of the episode, when jack confesses his self-doubt to him. but he blew it: all he could say was, ‘you’re the only one who can do it’. sam, bless him, continues to fail to stand up for jack, which means, for all his good intentions and love, he continues to fail jack.

5. i’ve noticed that lately when i write these reviews, i write ‘samndean’ a lot--it’s because they often act as one entity, existing with seemingly no conflict between them. on one level, it’s boring and--no no. on the same level, it’s downright fucking chilling. dean makes the decisions, and sam makes a weak, token protest, but goes along with a shake of his head and a soft smile. he doesn’t get angry anymore. he hasn’t stood up for himself in a good long while. 

can they fight again, maybe? brotherly conflict doesn’t have to lead to a straight line to fratricide, but it would be nice to be reminded, before the end, that sam and dean have distinct personalities.

6. it’s just really hard to square the winchesters’ discomfort and then visceral opposition to the way the british men of letters operated with their casual acceptance of the exploitative, unethical and elitist legacy that the american men of letters left them. it’s hard to take any of their numerous. numerous conversations about how monsters are people too over the last decade and a half seriously when they’re happily taking advantage of a ‘monster radar’ to go and lop the heads of monsters who haven’t even done anything to deserve being hunted (that poor vampire kid was pouring a blood bag into his giant soda cup! he didn’t deserve to die like that!). the romanticisation of supernatural being about roadtripping across small-town america while hunting supernatural monsters is laughable when its heroes spend all their time holed up in a gigantic luxury bunker built centuries ago by a bunch of rich, secretive assholes. it’s baffling to be told that sam and dean can barely take care of themselves when they’ve spent all their lives taking care of themselves (with a bit of ‘oh boys will be boys’ casual sexism thrown in).

why would you undermine your legacy like this, show? is this how sam and dean are going to end? 

[reynesofcastamere]

Splintered Perspective [β]

(A/N: For reference, any fics I write that aren’t related to my main series will be marked with [ β ] in the title. I may just have to make a masterpost to organize these at some point. Anyway,the prompt for this was: ‘How Rex or some other person from Ahsoka’s past would react to her being enemies with benefits or in a relationship with Maul.’ I decided to go with multiple POVs for the fun of it. And so I didn’t break myself with The Sad. Poor Rex T_T. Perspectives are not in chronological order. Mentions of past Ahsoka/Barriss. Warnings for dehumanization, mentions of torture, death, violence, some ableism and possible misogyny.(Maybe? Your mileage may vary.) Unbeta’d.  ) Being one with the Force is...not exactly what she had been taught to expect. Barriss Offee is part of everything, all at once. Those in the Light, living and dead, she is all of them, and yet still herself, in a manner of speaking . Time is no longer such a rigid concept, nor is there any particular sense of urgency. What has happened was meant to be, and the future...Is forever shifting, ripples overlapping in a still pool. Which is why it comes as such a surprise when she can feel Master Plo’s disapproval like a storm on the edge of breaking. At first, she cannot determine what has woken his ire, but slowly the images come into focus. Ahsoka.

Barriss no longer possesses a heart, and yet she cannot deny the lance of bittersweet pain through her chest. There is relief that her friend is still alive, but also regret and something bordering on envy. A feeling that only sharpens when she notices the tattooed Zabrak that Ahsoka currently has pinned down. Wait. She knows him. Not personally, but...He is a Sith, a murderer, a monster. Why is Ahsoka-brash, kind, clever person that she is- smiling at him?  It is possible that she is misinterpreting this. Both of them appear rather bruised and a touch bloody, and the lack of lightsabres doesn’t mean-She misses the words exchanged between the pair of them, but...The kiss is unmistakeably passionate, bordering on obscene as the Force crackles around them. Somehow, this is not the worst of it. When they part for air, there is a...look, shared between their eyes, and Barriss experiences true dread. Long ago, she and Ahsoka had-been close. Intimately so. As much as anyone could be, following the Order’s mandate that attachment was forbidden. She’d harboured dreams then, of maybe and one day...But no. Too much had happened, and her rosy illusions had been cruelly shattered. Somehow, watching this unfold hurts worse. Because there is something genuine beneath the crude physical attraction on display. Master Plo does not say a word, but his righteous indignation is so strong that it is a miracle he does not physically manifest in front of them.

Her dearest companion does not belong in the Dark, with this...creature trapping her in his coils, dripping venom into her thoughts. Barriss can only hope Ahsoka will extricate herself before it is too late.

=====

The failed apprentice. A wretched vermin who simply refuses to die. Not for much longer. Darth Vader’s gaze narrows as he reviews the incident reports. A decade of nothing but the occasional annoyance and whispers from the dregs of the galaxy, and only now does Maul scurry out from beneath whatever rock he has been sheltering under. Why? There is no grand plan, no great advantage in breaking into an Imperial prison. Especially one that contains such...unimportant occupants. Then again...The swathe of carnage and destruction left behind had been almost a direct path between the Dathomirian’s entry point and the interrogation chambers. Not a calculated assault, but an act of rage and desperation. Vader had felt it at the time, how the Dark Side had howled and torn at itself like a half-crazed beast. And then there was the fate of the interrogator: Hands cut off, abdominal perforation, shattered jaw,and eyes torn from their sockets. He had suffered a great deal, however briefly. As for the prisoner with him- Records list a female Togruta, mid-to-late twenties, with blue eyes and orange skin. Possibly Force sensitive, but difficult to determine due to her physical state upon capture. The prisoner hadn’t been in possession of anything resembling lightsabres, but had been carrying a wealth of assorted small armaments. It couldn’t be. She died back when...We found her sabres among the graves. Anakin Skywalker is long dead, but sometimes his ghost is loud enough to be heard over the multitudes that inhabit Vader’s hulking, monstrous shell.

Graves required someone to dig them first. Which meant that either some unknown individuals had come along and taken pity on a multitude of strangers...Or that the survivours had done the work themselves. Yet, if Ahsoka Tano lives, and was temporarily imprisoned, it still does not explain the identity or methods of her unlikely rescuer. She was sent to capture him on Mandalore, why would Snips-? Why did she leave us? We needed her when Padme- The room around him warps and buckles in a single, furious moment of clarity. She chose that...animal. That thing, Oh, but she’d been richly rewarded, hadn’t she? One only had to look at the risks her...protector had taken just to secure her freedom. Approval and utter disgust war within him as he rises. So be it. Sentiment has already destroyed them, and it will be his pleasure to finish a task that should have been resolved long ago. Traitors to the Empire must all be purged.

===== Rex should probably be angry. Ahsoka is certainly looking at him like a shiny expecting a stern lecture for breaking regs. Instead he just feels...tired. He can’t be mad at her, not really. Maybe if he’d stuck around longer or managed to make contact more often, this wouldn’t have happened. Or maybe it would have. Maker knows his trio of Jedi could never stay out of trouble for long, and that war makes for strange alliances and even stranger...pairings.  Still, he has to ask, because he knows her, knows the depths of love and compassion that make her who she is, beneath the layers of soldier and spy.

“Is it serious?” Ahsoka fidgets with her lekku a bit. “I don’t know.” A long pause as she inhales. “It keeps happening, and...I want to murder him half the time, Rex. The problem is that he likes it.” The expression on her face perfectly sums up her opinion on that little tidbit of info. He might have laughed, under different circumstances. Instead, he takes her hands in his. “We’ve known each other for a long time. I might not understand why you’re doing this, or how it works-” He absolutely does not need to know the mechanics, as there are not enough drugs or alcohol in the galaxy to purge the associated mental images. “-but I trust your judgement. And your ability to slice his horns off and hang him from his ears over a pit of rathtars if he pushes you too far.” Rex grins, silently offering to be her backup should that ever happen. Kind of a surprise it hasn’t already, since Maul never karking shuts up and Ahsoka’s patience has a set limit for windbags. Her eyes are wet when she hugs him tightly. “You’ll be the first person I call, Captain. And I’m sorry.” He knows she’s not just apologizing for this, not with their history. “I’m sorry too, Commander.” Rex murmurs, hugging her back. They can stay like this for a while longer. Her superiors are just going to have to wait. He might not be such a ‘good’ soldier anymore, but he knows damned well how to be a good friend. And that’s what they both need, more than anything. People that will survive the disaster long enough to see it end, and come out smiling.

=====

“When I warned that you might be tempted by the Dark Side, I did not expect it to be quite so literal.”

“Master.” “Then again, I suppose there is a certain appeal. Ventress was certainly a...passionate opponent. Lovely sense of humour, too. I suppose you don’t get much of that with your-No, I suppose you are the better half in this equation.” “Master Kenobi.” “Come now, we haven’t spoken in ages, surely you can indulge your grand-master’s curiousity.” “You did not break comm silence after years of letting everyone think you were dead just to call me about my sex life.” “Well, no, but it is an unexpected bonus. How does that work, exactly?” “It sounds like you’re angling for a demonstration.” “Oh Maker, no. I’m not that eager to find out.” “Good, because I don’t particularly feel like dealing with him if he decides to drop everything just to hunt you down.” “Ah. He’s...still upset about that, is he?” “You have no idea.” “Well then. To business. And Ahsoka?” “Yes, Master?” “It is good to hear your voice again. Do take care of yourselves.” “You too, Master Kenobi. And don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

“One last question: When should I expect great-grand-padawans?”

“OBI-WAN!!!!” (A/N: Yes, I had to end with levity. Especially considering the characters involved. To clarify, Anakin isn’t upset because he has any sort of romantic inclination towards Ahsoka. It’s general Darksider possessiveness/jealousy mixed in with a lot of anger and some guilt. Looking after Ahsoka’s wellbeing was ‘his’ job, so far as he’s concerned. And now it’s apparently been usurped by That One Asshole. Also, if anyone’s going to recognize that level of...obsessive regard, it’s gonna be the OG Skywalker Drama King. Many thanks to the anonymous person who requested this, both for the prompt and your compliments. Cheers!) 

[spoon-writes]

Ends of the Earth | Chapter 13

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Mando x OC

Read on FFN or AO3

Summary: When Sinead's husband is ripped from her, she escapes the Hutt Empire and goes on a quest to find him. Since being a runaway slave in the Outer Rim isn't exactly easy, she makes the Mandalorian an offer he can't refuse and soon they travel across the galaxy, looking for her missing husband.

Chapter index

Chapter 13 - Bloodsport

Loovria was a small but heavily populated planet located in the mid rim and was the last stop on the D’aelgoth Trade Route before hitting the outer rim. The first settlers had tried terraforming the planet into something akin to habitable, but the process never really stuck and Loovria remained a barren wasteland. Once they found oil in the ground, refineries and small cities materialized in the blink of an eye.

Strako, the capital city, stood out amongst the others with the Arena, a place where gladiator slaves fought in the pit for blood and honor. Once the Empire fell and the New Republic outlawed slavery, only free sentient beings who could prove they fought out of their own volition could prove themselves.

Sinead desperately reminded herself of that as she looked at a gold statue erected in front of the enormous arena in the center of the city. The statue glinted in the sunlight, the most recent champion who fought through the ranks. Children played around the base of the statue and she wondered if they even knew who it was.

The second the Razor Crest had docked in the sprawling spaceport, she had shot from the ship like a dupie without looking back. Long space journeys were always hard but long space journeys on board a ship not meant for habitation, with a kid and a man who refused to take off his helmet in anyone’s presence was downright brutal.

She took a deep breath, smelling cooking oil from a nearby street vendor, pollution from the many smokestacks that sprang up from every rooftop, and a metallic tang underneath it all. The arena stood looming in the perpetual smog and it was by far the biggest building in the city.

Her eyes stung when she closed her eyes against the light. She’d tried sleeping but every time she closed her eyes she saw visions of Kyen trapped in the arena, forced to fight for his life. Exhaustion made her thoughts slow and sounds muffled, but no matter what, sleep wouldn’t come.

She started strolling along the busy street, stopping now and again to look at the stalls that lined the road, filled to the brim with tacky figures and plaques with names of prominent fighters.

The streets were closely packed and Basic mingled with Huttese, Twi'leki, Shyriiwook to create a nigh incomprehensible babble. There was no standard on Loovria, no species lifted above the others; all that this place required was a menacing vibe that put Sinead on edge.

She was about to leave when something caught her eyes and she elbowed her way to a stall nearly hidden under a half-collapsed awning, where she found a small Mandalorian doll made of plasteel and threadbare fabric, barely bigger than the palm of her hand. A grin spread across her face and she didn’t mind paying the glowering seller more credits than it was worth.

With the doll safely tucked in her pocket, she turned back towards the ship when a sudden altercation slowed the traffic to a halt; A Weequay bumped into a Toydarian who dropped a tray filled with haroun bread which scattered on the dirty ground, and she watched their screaming match while waiting for the crowd to thin.

Suddenly, there was a prickling at the back of her neck, an uneasy feeling spreading through her body and when she looked up she spotted a Neimoidian watching her from a small table outside a café. Behind him, a massive Wookiee watched her with cold eyes. The Neimoidian lifted a long bony finger and beckoned her over. Her eyes flickered briefly to the Wookiee. Was he a bounty hunter? Had someone recognized her?

Another beckoning, this one more insistent. The orange eyes were the only color on the Neimoidian with most of his grey body hidden by a black robe.

Making a decision, Sinead squared her shoulders and crossed the road to the café. The Wookiee was big and strong, but if it came to a chase maybe she could evade him long enough to get back to the ship.

The Neimoidian smiled as she approached and spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. "I am glad you would join me. Please take a seat." He gestured to a chair on the other side of the small table.

She eyed him warily before sitting down. Whenever he moved, a smell of pungent perfume filled the air.

"I thank you for indulging an old man." The Neimoidian folded his hands across his stomach. "My name is Duiy Rundu.”

Sinead placed her hand palm down on the table. “I’m Zan Forr. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Can I offer you anything to drink? The membrosia here is a particular favorite of mine."

She weighed her options in her head, wondering if offending him by declining was worth it. “Thank you.”

Rundu snapped his fingers and a waitress materialized with a tray and a glass of a clear amber liquid which she carefully placed in front of Sinead before retreating.

Sinead made a big show out of taking a sip of the drink, making sure her mouth was closed tightly. “I assume you didn’t call me over just to buy me a drink.”

"Ah, right to business then. Very well. My people informed me that a ship had recently docked carrying a Mandalorian and his human companion. That is you, correct?"

She kept her face carefully neutral. "Yes."

"Wonderful. You see, I am in the business of sponsoring fighters in the ring, and when I heard a Mandalorian had landed on Loovria, I knew I had to meet this fabled warrior."

"As you can see, I'm not the Mandalorian."

"But you are his companion, no?"

"True." The word was out of Sinead's mouth before she had time to think it through.

"You are also here for the arena, I'm sure. Fighters flock here every day to test their mettle in the pit and few ever make it very far. I want to propose a deal to you; with my sponsorship, he will go much further than he ever could as an independent. With my backing, he could become the next champion."

"You haven't even seen him fight."

"The Mandalorians' bloodlust is infamous across the galaxy. If he has even half of that savagery, he will go far. We haven't had a Mandalorian champion in decades. They are exceedingly rare, are they not?"

Sinead nodded slowly, struggling to keep the scowl off her face. In the time she'd known Mando he’d been short-tempered, quiet, and grumpy but not exactly bloodthirsty, but of course, she didn't know him that well. When it came to his past, he was even more tight-lipped than her.

"May I ask where you found such a specimen? I must admit, I have searched for a Mandalorian for quite some time without luck."

The lie formed in her brain without much prompting. "Found him wandering Tatooine. Convinced him to join me.”

"A shame there are so few of them left. They are worth their weight in credits."

"Right." Her hands clenched into fists under the table. "I have to talk to the Mandalorian before-"

Rundu broke into hoarse laughter. "Why? I thought you were his handler?"

Sinead bared her teeth in a smile. "When dealing with a Mandalorian, I've found it easier to make them think they're the ones making the decisions."

"I guess that is one way of doing it." Rundu cleared his throat. "Tell you what, come to the fight tonight, and see how we do it here. I will send Feyvik to find you afterward.” He gestured to the silent Wookiee.

"That sounds fair." Sinead got up, leaving her undrunk glass of membrosia on the table. “I’ll see you after the fight.” As she walked away, she felt Rundu’s orange gaze follow her.

Once she was away from the arena, the crowd thinned out considerably and it didn't take long before she was back at the enormous docking bay that teemed with activity; a big freighter had just landed and hovercrafts zipped across the floor pulling long trains of cargo behind.

In a smaller and less noisy hangar, she found the Crest. Mando and the kid weren’t there, and she had no way of opening the ship, so she had no choice but to make herself comfortable leaning against the landing gear. Here it was quieter but no less busy and she spent the time watching mechanics and pilots mill about the place. As time went on, her eyes became more and more unfocused until they drifted shut.

A hand closed around her shoulder and gave her a shake. Her eyes flew open and she stared wild-eyed at Mando, who snatched his hand back as if burned. He crouched in front of her with the kid in one arm.

"What time is it?" Sinead croaked and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

"Almost sundown," said Mando, helping her to her feet.

She leaned back against the ship and shook her head to rid her mind of cobwebs. There was something she had to talk to him about, she was sure of it.

"I asked around, but the locals didn’t know anything, just said I should find the Arena.”

"Right, I have to talk to you about that." Sinead stretched her sore legs. "Preferably inside." She cast a glance around the hangar at the people working or just standing around, wondering if any of them worked for Rundu.

Once they were inside the ship, Sinead told him about the Neimoidian and his proposal. While she spoke, the kid waddled back and forth between Sinead and Mando, making small discontented noises whenever they didn't give him enough attention.

"And he wants to meet after the fight?"

"Yeah. He thinks I'm your handler." She wrinkled her nose. "Look, I know how this sounds, but this is the fastest way-"

"That's what you said on Celvalara." Mando crossed his arms over his chest.

"And I was right. Sort of. We never would've gotten the lead if we hadn't gone to Luria."

"You sure there's no other way in?"

"I circled it three times and didn't find any, every door is guarded. Look, I'm not asking you to fight in the pit, just ... pretend for a little while, long enough 'till I can get into wherever they keep the records." She looked at him earnestly. "Please."

Mando sighed heavily, his voice modulator rustling. "Okay. But I have a bad feeling about this.”

A smile broke out on Sinead's face. "Thank you."

He made a noncommittal grunt and turned to take stock of their rations.

Sinead felt small hands tug on her pants and she looked down to see the kid stare up at her. He cooed happily when she picked him up.

“I’m sorry we have to leave you again,” she murmured and shifted him to her hip. “It won’t take long. And you’ll be safe in here.”

The kid yawned, showing a row of tiny sharp teeth.

She pulled the little doll out of her pocket and held it up to the kid, whose eyes grew wide and he let out a chirrup.

Mando turned at the sound. “Where did you get that?”

“From the market. I think he likes it.”

The kid examined the tiny helmet before hugging the doll close.

“Mhm.”

It was dark when they finally left the docking bay and the atmosphere on the street had changed; excitement thrummed through the crowd, everyone moving like in a trance towards the arena. Every house glowed with light and sound spilled into the street. Sinead kept close to Mando whose intimidating figure parted the crowd like a firaxan shark hunting a school of fish. The air was filled with shouts and laughter.

Spotlights around the arena made the building look like it glowed from within, and great big banners flapped in the wind. Loovria's crest had been carved into the stone above the main entrance, and Sinead shuddered when she passed under it. Excitement had given way to feverish bloodlust so thick she could taste it on the tip of her tongue.

They followed the crowd up a long flight of stairs, thousands of feet thundering on the worn wood. It felt like the entire population of Strako had come out to see the fight. Mando squeezed himself through a gap in the throng of people, dragging Sinead with him and they ended up on a landing close to the top.

The Arena was impossibly big, much larger than from the outside and the air was filled with the sound of thousands of people finding their spots on the packed stands. The roof was open to the night and strong spotlights lit up the sand-covered floor. A band of mirrors ran all the way around the top of the arena.

The crowd surged forward and they with it until Sinead was pressed against the railing, Mando's armor digging into her side.

"Sorry," he mumbled and tried to shift away from her, but the press of the crowd made it impossible.

"That's alright." She kept her eyes on the arena floor below them. His presence beside her was a reminder that she wasn't completely alone.

On the lowest ring, Sinead spotted Rundu sitting in a small box being tended to by a servant. His bodyguard loomed behind him like a shadow. Further along, nearly opposite Sinead and Mando, there was a bigger box with heavy red curtains that were pulled aside to reveal a raised throne wrought with gold and rubies. Here a gaunt Pau'an overlooked the arena. Behind him were a row of guards. Beside the throne was-

Sinead grabbed Mando's wrist. "That’s a Hutt!"

"I see him. I don't recognize him."

"Neither do I."

The Hutt sat on a bed of pillows where he could watch the coming fight with ease, his fat body glistened in the light.

"Still think this is a good idea?" said Mando into her ear.

"As long as we stay away from the Hutt, we should be fine."

Mando sighed, but whatever he was about to say was drowned out as a Nautolan stepped up on a raised podium above the golden box where a microphone rose from the ground.

"CITIZENS OF LOOVRIA-" His voice boomed through the arena- "VISITORS, DIGNITARIES, SPONSORS, OUR EMINENT LEADER." The Pau'an raised his hand to thunderous applause. "WELCOME TO THE ARENA. TWO WARRIORS WILL ENTER THE BATTLEGROUND, BUT WHO WILL STAND VICTORIOUS?”

The crowd surged forward again and pinned Sinead against the railing.

"OUR FIRST FIGHTER TONIGHT HAS COME ALL THE WAY FROM NAL-HUTTA, THE VERY PEARL OF THE HUTT EMPIRE." A small section of the arena floor descended and a Trandoshan came tearing up the sandy ramp, roaring loud enough to drown out the announcer. He wore a thick leather harness and carried a wicked vibro-sword and a small plasma-shield that glinted in the harsh light. "THE REAVER OF ULMATRA!

"ON THE OTHER SIDE, WE HAVE BORVAR 'THE YRRYK' GELL FIGHTING FOR THE GLORY OF LOOVRIA." The announcer was hardly done talking when the spectators exploded in cheers. Another section of the arena disappeared and a Besalisk walked slowly up the ramp, looking bored as he watched the Reaver approach. He reached behind and grabbed four electrostaves strapped to his back. They met in the middle of the arena.

"THEY’LL PROVE THEIR WORTH ON THE BLOODIED SAND, BUT ONLY ONE WILL LEAVE WITH A SHOT OF BECOMING THE TRUE CHAMPION.”

The fighters stood a few feet from each other, trying to stare the other down. Gell turned his electrostaves on and twirled them in the air until they were nothing but a purple blur, and the Reaver let out a howl that sent a current of fear running down Sinead's spine.

"LET THE FIGHTING BEGIN!"

The echo still bounced between the walls when the Reaver threw himself at Gell with lightning speed, ducking under one electrostaff and raising his blade.

Gell struck down with another electrostaff and the Reaver had to lift his shield and sparks showered the two fighters when they met. The Reaver danced out of range of the twirling staffs and darted around the Besalisk, who turned to watch him with unblinking eyes.

A wild dance began where neither of the fighters could get close enough to the other to strike the killing blow; Gell's swirling electrostaves made sure that the Reaver couldn't attack and in turn, the Reaver flitted back and forth too quickly for the much slower Besalisk.

Sinead tasted bile at the back of her throat but couldn't tear her eyes away. The spectators pressed in from all sides and made it hard to breathe.

Gell caught the shield with a direct hit and it flew out of the Reaver’s hand, skittering across the sand until it hit the wall of the arena with a loud crack. The Reaver ducked under one staff, and thrust up with his blade, cutting off one of the Besalisk's hands. The appendage fell to the sand still holding the electrostaff. Blood dripped from the stump.

It seemed like the entire arena held its breath.

"FIRST BLOOD HAS BEEN SPILLED," screamed the Nautolan and the spectators responded with a wall of sound that Sinead felt deep in her bones.

No one screamed louder than Gell, who struck out with all three remaining staffs and hit the Reaver in the chest; he flew through the air straight towards the stands. Just before he hit, he slammed into an invisible wall and tumbled down onto the sand. There was a strange shimmer of blue at the point of impact which gradually disappeared. A shield. Smart.

The crowd screamed as one beast, but the howl was strangely dulled for Sinead.

The Reaver got to his feet and darted to the side just in time to avoid an electrostaff to the chest again. He sprinted to where his fallen blade lay in the sand and picked it up, jumping aside to narrowly avoid another attack. Gell howled in fury and pain as he forced the Reaver back against the arena wall. Chants of 'kill him' could be heard among the screams.

Sparks flew through the air as one electrostaff hit the wall. The Reaver feigned to one side and as Gell lifted the three remaining staffs to block him, Reaver shot forward and his blade caught the light before it plunged into Gell's shoulder. Gell screamed as the Reaver tore the blade out in a spray of blood and sliced the Besalisk across the chest.

Sinead was stiff with horror as she watched the Reaver drag Gell into the center of the arena. She tried to breathe but her chest constricted painfully as the smell of blood reached the higher stands.

If Kyen had been there, then ...

The Reaver lifted his head and howled, the sound reverberating between the walls, and he was answered by the frenzied audience.

The Pau'an stood slowly from his throne, leaning heavily on a cane as he stepped up to the railing.

A hush went through the crowd as everyone leaned forward to get a better look.

He waited until there was absolute silence, then, with an air of gravitas shook his head once.

The crowd exploded in a deafening scream.

The Reaver turned to Gell and brought his blade down on the Besalisk's neck, chopping his head clean off. It rolled in the sand leaving behind a trail of blood.

Sinead felt hollow. The announcer talked but she didn't register the words. She watched numbly as attendants appeared from trap doors and dragged the lifeless body off the arena floor. After the Reaver was escorted away as well, another fight began, this time between a human and a nexu. She watched the Pau'an sit passively on his throne.

"Sinead?"

A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped.

"It's done," Mando said, gesturing to the arena that was now painted red with blood.

She nodded slowly and tried to clear her head.

The crowd swarmed to the exits like ants clamoring to get out and this somehow felt worse than before, being trapped between so many bodies, the smell of sweat and blood mingling in the air.

A hand shot through the crowd and grabbed her wrist, pulling her out of the mess of people and into the still packed staircase. Mando looked down at her. “Let’s get out of here.”

She cleared her throat. “Rundu wanted to meet us, or you more specifically. Said he’d find us after the fight.”

“In this crowd?”

“He knew when we landed in Strako, I’m sure he has a way of finding us.”

“I don’t like this.”

Neither did Sinead, but the desire to find Kyen easily overrode any consternation she was feeling. “Just let me do the talking, alright?”

They had made it to the bottom landing when Rundu’s Wookiee appeared in the throng of people, standing at least a foot taller than everyone else. When he spotted them, he growled and motioned for them to follow him down a wide corridor less crowded and hung with gold mosaics that depicted raging battles with twinkling rubies as blood.

The Wookiee reached a red curtain and pulled it aside to reveal a long room that curved around the arena, where sponsors sat in soft chairs, being waited on by demure servants. The lighting in here was different, softer, and more intimate. When the Wookiee dropped the curtain behind them, the sound of the arena became a soft murmur.

As they walked between the wealthy patrons who pointedly ignored them, Sinead tried to rid herself of the remaining fear that clung to her heart and made it hard to breathe. She focused on Mando's presence beside her, letting his agitation anchor her to the moment.

On the opposite end of the room, there was a row of alcoves set into the wall, and she spotted Rundu sitting alone in one, sipping out of a golden goblet. He stood up when he saw them approach.

"Ah, Madame Farr, I am glad to see you again. I see you brought your Mandalorian."

Don't say anything, don't say anything, don't say anything. She hoped if she thought it loud enough, Mando would somehow hear it.

"Nice to see you again," Sinead said, forcing her voice to stay even, and sat down in one of the plush chairs. After a tense moment, Mando sat down beside her, his body stiff.

"I hope you enjoyed the best of what Loovria can offer. It was quite the show, was it not?"

Sinead forced a smile. "It sure was."

Rundu grabbed his goblet and twirled the stem between his fingers. "Have you done any more considerations as to whether or not this is the place for you? As you saw before, the Strako Arena offers far more glory and challenge than any other arena in the galaxy. Making it to the top not only requires brute force but skill in battle and cunning." He looked at Mando with praising eyes. "I believe a Mandalorian is up for the task."

"Before we say yes to anything," Sinead said, before Mando had a chance to react, "I was wondering if we could get a tour of the arena? I've already seen the splendor from the stands, so I'd rather like to see what you have hidden away.”

Rundu chuckled, a sound that made Sinead's skin crawl. "My dear, I'm afraid that is not possible. I don't own the arena, I simply represent the fighters."

"Who's the owner then?"

"That would be the Master, the great Vylum Kemet, but he doesn't like the public poking around. If you were to become a fighter though, you will get many perks.”

Sinead nodded and chanced a glance at Mando, who stared straight ahead, still as a statue. "Before we make a decision, there's something I've been wondering ..."

"Go on."

"I heard a rumor about this place, that your fighters weren't ... exactly free to decline the fight if you know what I mean." Sinead's stomach flipped as she said it.

The effect was immediate; Rundu gasped, and the Wookiee who had stepped back to stand beside him growled so deep that she could feel the vibrations in the air. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mando tense up, his hand inching towards his blaster.

"Loovria outlawed such practices years ago, I assure you, and I will not tolerate such slander." Rundu gestured angrily at her and nearly knocked over his goblet. "This is not the Outer Rim where disorder and anarchy rules. Here we follow the New Republic’s laws, you are welcome to ask anyone."

He made it sound like it was ancient history when the New Republic only came to power five years ago.

She held up her hands. "Just curious."

"Curiosity is a dangerous thing to indulge," Rundu said. "Take care it doesn't lead you somewhere you aren’t supposed to go.”

The air was thick with tension. Sinead cleared her throat. “If that is all, I believe my companion and I’ll return to our ship. We have a lot to discuss.” And she honestly wasn’t sure if Mando was going to last much longer.

Rundu made a face, he had clearly expected an answer that moment. “That is understandable, I suppose. Please, don’t hesitate to call on me if you have any questions. I promise you’ll find much fame in Strako.”

<- Previous chapter - Next chapter ->

[new-endings]

The Nice and Accurate Guide to Courting

Chapter Summary: In which Crowley tries his hand in poetry and Aziraphale is swept off his feet (literally) 

Ch1, Ch2, Ch3; ao3

It wasn’t that Aziraphale disliked his former mentor. It wasn’t that at all. He respected Gabriel as a trainer, a warrior, and to an extent, a leader. The Archangel had taken his less-than-adequate swordsmanship as a young trainee and with…questionable methods, primed him to become a Principality with his own platoon.

“Aziraphale!” a voiced boomed out from the lobby, causing the rest of the patrons to scurry to the auditorium.

That being said, he still found the Archangel all sorts of terrifying.

Aziraphale stilled and felt an oncoming dread creep into the very marrow of his bones. “Oh bugger,” he almost whimpered, preparing to cake on a delighted façade. He turned, facing the handsome, immaculately dressed Archangel with a tentative grin. “Gabriel! How nice to see you again—” only to be drawn into a rough handshake and given a rougher clap on the back.

It wasn’t that Aziraphale disliked his former mentor.

It was just that Gabriel had always been too much.

“It certainly has been a while, hasn’t it? Good thing too—Sandalphon couldn’t make it and though I definitely have no qualms about seeing the musical myself, I’m glad to have run into you!” He beamed cordially, a stark contrast to the iron grip he currently had on Aziraphale’s aching shoulder. Violet eyes widened as he took in his former subordinate. “By the Queen herself—look at you!” A frown marred his face and Gabriel shook his head in displeasure. “Our time apart has not been kind to you, sunshine.”

Aziraphale let out a nervous laugh, hands drawing together behind him in a practiced, self-soothing manner. “I-is that so? Things have been all right on my end,” he offered hesitantly before his peripheral view caught sight of a redhead with a deep-set scowl. “Oh, err—where are my manners…” He stepped aside, hoping, wishing, praying that Crowley would at least make a single effort to mingle this time. “Prince Crowley has been—ah, looking forward to this…” He stumbled for the words, “…fine production.”

“Our theater’s best!” Gabriel boasted with pride, extending an arm. “And my personal favorite.” He gave a tight handshake as the prince reluctantly reached back, making Crowley wince with more annoyance than pain. “Good to formally meet you, Prince Crow, I’m sure our Kingdom’s been treating you well.”

“That’s Crowley,” the prince corrected with narrowed eyes, lips tugged downwards. “And sure. No complaints so far.” Somehow, his scowl deepened. “Gabe.”

Aziraphale felt his dread multiply malignantly.

Oh dear…this would not do. This would not do at all.

Thankfully, Gabriel was unruffled by the retort. “Excellent!” He turned, placing his hand back on Aziraphale and startling the Principality out of his anxieties, “Say, Azi—why don’t you and your friend join me this evening! Catch up on good times!” while making room for new ones.

(Meanwhile Crowley absolutely bristled at the unbidden contact between the two. Also, “Azi—?!”)

“We’d be happy to join you Gabriel,” Aziraphale replied brightly, with a nervous energy and wide, pleading eyes that begged the prince, Please. Play nice. “Isn’t that right, Prince Crowley?”

Begrudgingly, Crowley would.

“Good! You rarely disappoint, sunshine.”

If this damned chicken would let go of his mate.

As if sensing Crowley’s mounting irritation, those violet eyes landed on the prince with faux civility. “Oh, where are my manners—Azi and I used to go way back!” And yes, Crowley did know, and Crowley also knew that he didn’t like the slimy look in the Archangel’s eyes. “He used to be my Principality, you know.”

“Oh, I’ve heard,” Crowley replied evenly, though he was seconds away from grinding his teeth.  

But then that look was gone, making Crowley wonder if that eerie gleam was actually there to begin with. “My little passion-project,” Gabriel declared with an infuriating tone of arrogance. “Turned this powderpuff into a lean, mean fighting machine!”

The Angel beside him nodded hesitantly. “Erm, uh, yes. Good times.” Crowley frowned at the evident unease Aziraphale was exhibiting.

But then Gabriel started opening his blasted mouth again and Crowley swore he’d rip the Archangel’s arm off if he kept pulling at his mate like that. “And you know, Azi, it breaks my heart to see you getting all—soft,” he said, pouting as he gestured to the Angel’s entirety. “All our training, all that blood, sweat, and tears— gone to waste!”

There was a wounded look on Aziraphale’s face. “Well, I…” And Crowley immediately wanted to take that look away, whatever it took.  

Including disposing of the damned chicken continuing to cluck about. “I know it’s a time of peace and prosperity for our Kingdom now, a time of indulgence in life’s simpler pleasures…” He gave pause, sending a pointed look to Aziraphale’s rounded middle. “But that’s no excuse to overdo it, right?”

“There’s hardly anything wrong with enjoying oneself,” Crowley defended, stepping in between the two. Like hell he was letting that smarmy prick trail his disgusting eyes over his Angel’s perfectly plump form.  

And had Crowley not been distracted with fuming rage, he might have noticed the flash of malevolent delight glinting in the Archangel’s smile. “Quite right, Prince,” he amended, yet made no further attempts at apology. “I suppose I just have a hard time letting go. Decades of fighting in the frontlines will do that to you, isn’t that right, Azi?” But before the Principality could reply, the Archangel gave a hapless shrug and a casual glance at Crowley. “But of course, when one’s born with a silver spoon in his mouth—”  

Crowley could practically feel the desperation behind his placating voice as the Principality spoke, stepping out from behind him. “But we’re here now, out on this—lovely night to enjoy ourselves! So, why don’t we carry on and do just that?” He gave a pleading look to the both of them and Crowley could barely keep himself from calling the night off altogether, Aziraphale’s hard work and planning be damned.

Because even if Crowley didn’t find himself stupidly head-over-ass for his Angel, there was no way in all the Kingdoms of Heaven and Hell he’d be tying the knot with this disgrace of a chicken.

Especially not with how said chicken drew his mate into a discomfiting half-embrace. “Hah! That’s what I like about you, Azi. Forever an optimist.” Crowley was nearly hissing at the way Aziraphale flinched under the Archangel’s attention. It was still unclear whether the Archangel took any notice or if he simply chose to ignore it all. “And I do see your point. Never thought I’d be here, enjoying one of my favorite productions with one of Hell’s royalty.” And then that jovial demeanor was gone, snuffed out like a light. “And one of my own, currently…servicing him.”

This time, Crowley didn’t miss the implication. “Assigned to me by the Queen herself, by my stroke of fortune.” He held his gaze steadily to the Archangel’s, daring him to comment any further. “No doubt She gave me her very best.”

Gabriel’s smile widened but it held no warmth. “Is that so?” He gave a cold chuckle, slipping on the mask of pleasantries once more. “Excellent to hear!” Another rough clap to Aziraphale’s back and the tension dissipated for at a moment as the Archangel drew away and walked towards the auditorium. “Keep up the good work, Azi—you’re doing your Kingdom proud. Now let’s get to our seats, shall we?”

Crowley had half a mind (okay, perhaps almost 9/10ths of a mind) to take the by the Angel arm and leave dear old Gabe there alone with his showtunes, but from one, imploring look on Aziraphale’s face for him to Please, please at least give it a chance, the prince relented in his escape.

Crowley, decidedly, did not torch the whole place down, Archangel and all, while leaving off into the night with his Angel in tow.

Damn.

.

It went…

No bad. But not good.

Crowley never particularly understood why box seats were among the favorites of the rich and elite when it offered such a poor view, but if he had to garner a guess, it probably had more to do with the social aspect rather than the practical one. It was just his luck he had little interest in the show, otherwise he would have ended up with a crick in his neck by the end of it. No, instead Crowley was preoccupied with his thoughts—something he’d spent many an hour ruminating upon as of late.

Thoughts of how to wriggle out of this inconvenient marriage business, thoughts on how to get his bloody Angel to recognize damn, fine courting when he sees one, and after tonight, thoughts on how to seek petty vengeance on a loudmouthed chicken.

And sure, he might have spent the majority (all) of the time present (like hell he was leaving Aziraphale alone with the likes of him), but he’d be damned if he made any efforts to be attentive to anything Gabriel had to say. Thankfully, Gabriel was too focused on the production, the earworm-inducing music, and—though he’d deny it and rain Holy Water and Sacred Fire on those who would vouch on it—singing along to the scores.

Aziraphale was, unfortunately and quite literally, trapped between the two. A glance to his right found his former mentor in rapt attention to the stage below, unearthing…rather unsavory memories of many nights similar he spent under the Archangel’s tutelage. A look to his left found Crowley, quiet and emphatically not enjoying himself.

The Principality gave a sigh at the tense and brooding look on Crowley’s face and a twang of sympathy reverberated in his heart. Poor dear. He must be losing hope… First Uriel, and now Gabriel? Slim pickings indeed… Still, they can’t give up hope now! ...Even if it does all seem so hopeless.

At the very least, he can offer Crowley some comfort.

Tentatively, he reached over to where the prince’s hand gripped the armrest and covered it with his own. He gave a reassuring squeeze and a small smile as Crowley turned to his side questioningly.

And unbeknownst to him, making Cowley damn-near combust on the spot.

There was perhaps one, awkward moment where it completely slipped Aziraphale’s mind that he could have and very well should have removed his hand at any second now, and one, tense moment where Crowley almost felt brave enough to turn over his palm so he could entwine his fingers with his Angel’s—

But then Gabriel started bawling in pure joy at the scene below and the moment slipped from Crowley’s grasp as Aziraphale withdrew and turned away, his eyes suddenly trained to the dancing and swell of the orchestra below.

And Crowley remained, silently cursing and fuming in silence.

Maybe the place will go down in flames after all.

.

“Now wasn’t that just the finest piece of art you’ve ever feasted your eyes on!”

Aziraphale gave another practiced smile, absentminded and pacifying. “I suppose it was quite enjoyable, yes. Just like every other time I’ve seen it.”

And for once in Gabriel’s long history with Aziraphale, he finally commented on the doubt in his ex-subordinate’s tone. “Yes, well…you’ve always had different taste, eh?” That gave Aziraphale pause as Gabriel chattered on. “Still sticking your nose in those tomes? Getting lost in fairytales and the like?” He gave another booming laugh. “You and your quirky little hobbies! I’ve always told you they’d go straight to your head—and now they’ve gone straight to your stomach!”

He gave a self-satisfied chuckle at his wordplay while Aziraphale had to physically restrain Crowley from getting himself eviscerated by an Archangel.

Then, as though sudden inspiration struck down from the higher heavens themselves, “Say, instead of just lazing about, why don’t you two join me for a little training session some time? That ought to get your blood pumping!”

“Oh, there will be blood—” Crowley growled out while Aziraphale sank his manicured nails into the prince’s arm in warning.

Crowley did not yelp. Such a reaction was absolutely beneath him. Even if his Angel left marks.

Aziraphale gave a wide, harried smile. “Ah! You know, that’s a good idea—always good to try something new, a break from the old routine! But I, err, certainly don’t want intrude upon your time with Prince Crowley—”

The Angel thoroughly ignored the noise of immediate protest from said prince. Sorry, Crowley. You’re on your own with this one.

Hopefully he’d forgive Aziraphale of his imminent betrayal.

Gabriel was undeterred, a charming, intimidating grin breaking across his face. “It’s not a problem on my end, sunshine! In fact, I’d love it if you’d join in. Besides,” he leaned in, smile somehow more hostile than before. “You really ought to lose the gut,” And then the smile was gone, wiped clean off along with the bright, jovial veneer. There was nothing but with sheer displeasure in those cold, violet eyes. “It’s unbecoming of a warrior trained by my hand.”

Aziraphale gave a hard swallow, an echo of a different time burning in his memory. This was not guilt. Guilt was the acrid bite one tasted at the back of their tongues when they did something wrong. This hit like the nausea of shame. He was what was wrong.1

Gabriel, content to disregard the split-second slip in his spirited, genial mask, continued with blithe encouragement. “Aw, come on! It’ll be just like old times! What d’ya say, sunshine?” And with that, he gave a painful playful punch to Aziraphale’s shoulder, drawing a pained whine from him—

And at that, Crowley snapped.

He was quick to pull Aziraphale away, putting distance and himself between his Angel and Gabriel. His blood boiled in his veins, judgment quickly clouding with fury. A part of him knew that he wouldn’t fare well in an actual clash against an Archangel, but he’ll be damned if he allowed anyone to treat Aziraphale like that. If he had been a lesser Demon, he would have gone for the Archangel’s throat for touching his mate alone.

But the snarl he let out was already enough to get the Archangel to back down.

Infuriatingly unruffled as always, Gabriel just grinned, an eerie glow of self-satisfaction in his eyes as he made a gesture of surrender. “Alrighty then. Maybe I’ll catch you two some other time.”

.

Aziraphale was—rightly—furious. “What was that?!”

“That was me being pissed right off, that’s what.” But for all Aziraphale’s ire, he still made no efforts of removing the Demon attached to his arm.

The Angel took a deep, calming breathing; it wouldn’t do him any good to raise his voice. Not when the coachmen were already sending them strange looks as they exited the theater, the prince looking ready to murder and clutching onto Aziraphale tightly. “Crowley, you had no right to—”

“He had no right to speak to you that way—” Crowley stifled a growl, tightening his hold. “Angel, was that what you had to put up with all this time?!”

Aziraphale hesitated and that was enough of an answer for Crowley. “Gabriel can be—abrasive and a bit boorish—”

“He’s a bleeding wanker is what he is—”

“And my former superior! An Archangel—Crowley, we can’t forget what we’re here for!” He felt the prince beside him stiffen, but that did little to appease Aziraphale’s panic and frustration. “You have to get along with at least one of them and we’re running out of options!”

Crowley stared him down in outrage. “I WOULDN’T CHOOSE THAT OBNOXIOUS CHICKEN IF THEY HAD ROASTED HIM IN HELLFIRE AND SERVED HIM WITH A SIDE OF CHIPS!”

“Bah!” Aziraphale had half a mind to shake the Demon off and cross his arms. Instead, he heaved a deep, bone-weary sigh. “You’re being impossible.” The other half was simply too exhausted to do anything but bicker.

Fortunately, Crowley didn’t seem to be in the mood to argue any longer on that matter. “He shouldn’t have touched you,” he murmured, head resting on the curve of Aziraphale’s shoulder, wisps of red locks tickling the Angel’s chin. “You didn’t like it and he knew.”

“He’s…” Always like that didn’t sound like a very good excuse. “Really not that bad,” Aziraphale ended mildly.  

Crowley snorted. “Really not that good, either.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale started, but looking at the debilitated Demon beside him, felt a reluctant warmth starting to bloom. Right. Crowley nearly attacked an Archangel on his behalf. And here Aziraphale was, berating him. “I do thank you for trying to get me out of that…situation,” he said, softly, gently. “It was very…kind of you.”

“Ngk.” Well. Aziraphale held back a snort of laughter. That was an interesting noise. “Keep it to yourself. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

A rueful grin made its way to Aziraphale’s lips. “Right. Of being a nuisance?”

“The very best out there,” the prince crowed, grip loosening on Aziraphale’s arm. Oh good; he can almost feel the circulation returning. “Can’t have the rest of the Birds letting their guard down around me.”

“Oh, I can assure you. After tonight, that won’t be a problem,” Aziraphale muttered, rolling his eyes at the gleeful little chuckle that got out of Crowley. Word would likely spread of his actions tonight and while humor wasn’t Aziraphale’s preferred coping mechanism for the onslaught of disaster, if it made Crowley feel better, then he’d go along with it.

Aziraphale nodded patiently, needing to remind himself of Crowley’s position. While Crowley didn’t have the luxury of marrying out of love, it didn’t necessarily mean that he couldn’t fall in love with one of his set suitors. The process might be far more arduous given…certain personality differences, but there was still a fighting chance! And if the thought of tying his life to Gabriel was out of the question—

It was up to Michael, then.

Or Uriel if she was feeling particularly forgiving. Which was highly unlikely. So, Michael it was.

My, what a headache.

“You know, it’s been a rather long few weeks, hasn’t it?” Crowley gave a sleepy noise of assent, relaxing himself comfortably against the Angel. “The night might not have gone as…planned.” That earned him a snort from the prince beside him. “But I think things will be much better in the morning.”

Crowley made another soft noise of skepticism and Aziraphale decided to ignore it.

Instead, the Angel gave a hum of contentment, already picturing his cozy little reading nook and picking up where he left off from that small collection of novellas Crowley had gifted him earlier. “It’s good to get away from it all every once in a while, right? You know, a little rest and relaxation does the body an immense amount of good. Gabriel never saw the benefits of course, but—”

And unbeknownst to Aziraphale, that’s where Crowley stopped listening.

Crowley was usually more than content to let his Angel prattle on, his sweet voice lulling the prince’s frazzled senses and melting the day’s stresses away. While his Angel had his books and flickering firelight to settle down for during the night, Crowley preferred down-stuffed pillows, silk sheets, and pleasant dreams about cherubic cheeks and sea-storm eyes.

But, oh. That’s quite the idea.

A vacation?

That he can do.

.

It had become a regular occurrence to find something amiss in his room after Crowley was shortly introduced to his quarters. Even more so after Aziraphale regrettably acquiesced the prince to Come whenever you’d like.

Usually they were small, delightful surprises: fresh fruits and pastries, first editions of his most cherished poems and prose, and bouquets of his favorite flowers. Being a Guide to royalty certainly had their perks and Aziraphale could hardly let such lovely gifts of gratitude go unused and underappreciated.

Sometimes, they were more of Crowley’s clutter that the forgetful Demon had left behind after a nightcap, to which Aziraphale dutifully stowed away for safekeeping. That, or more of his feathers that Aziraphale outfitted to quills.

But this was the first time he’d found a letter, sitting innocuously by his desk.

“Oh? What’s this…” Aziraphale inspected the bruise-red of the wax seal, immediately recognizing the outlines of the royal serpent and its winged adversary locked into battle.

Crowley. Hardly surprising.

“How in Heaven does he manage to sneak in here every night…” he murmured, perhaps a bit more unconcerned than he ought to be at the thought of his nightly intruder. He turned the note over, finding Angel penned at the back. Obviously for him, then. Aziraphale broke the seal cleanly down the middle and unfurled the message inside.

It was written in Crowley’s elegant script and, to Aziraphale’s delight, appeared to contain a poem.

To the Angel I hold so dear

Where our two horizons begin,

My heart lays in wait for you here

 A kiss in rose, pleasure in white

A crown, a ring, a mark within

To the Angel I hold so dear

 Stars scatter athwart my night—

A heart’s fall, a lover’s flight,

My heart lays in wait for you here

 I lay in worship at your light

That psalms and hymns can only sing

To the Angel I hold so dear

 My soul rests at our haven’s height

Where lines of skies and earth shall thin,

My heart lays in wait for you here

 Detest not my grievous plight

That I should love with tender sin

To the Angel I hold so dear

My heart lays in wait for you here

 Aziraphale brought a hand to his lips, finding a smitten smile forming there against himself. “Ohhh…” It was…lovely. Aziraphale couldn’t help the quiver in his heart at the villanelle, the longing and ardor painted so beseechingly in its words. The pure exaltation for his dearest Angel Crowley was able to put into words was enough to make any Angel swoon—

Was this all part of Crowley’s practice in courting? Perhaps he wanted Aziraphale’s opinion on the matter? Sure, the stresses were off, a few syllables were miscounted and don’t quite line up, but it was honestly a rather sweet attempt.

Perhaps Crowley wanted to send this to assuage Aziraphale’s fears and anxieties—to let the Angel know that he was still taking his duties seriously. Still…why a villanelle? Sonnets were preferred by most Angels, though Aziraphale could hardly fault Crowley for his choice. The incentives to write in villanelle were to draw attention to a certain theme through its refrains. The repetition to enforce and enhance an idea, to highlight and emphasize an important…

Hm? Stormy eyes read through the stanzas again. “My heart lays in wait for you here…He’s waiting for his lover…he’s—waiting somewhere?” Aziraphale pulled out his chair and studied the note. “Oh, of course! Why else would he choose that refrain!” Aziraphale let out a pleased laugh. He’s disguising a designated meeting time and place in a love letter! How clever!

The Prince was an imaginative one, indeed!

A grin stole across Aziraphale’s face. He did love a good puzzle. “Let’s see…the first has the imagery of horizons… perhaps the sky? Is this referring to time? Where two horizons begin—oh! Sunset! And here again, the reference night and stars!”

Aziraphale was feeling quite giddy now. Brilliant! He had a time…now all he needed was a location.

“Let’s see…Where lines of skies and earth shall thin…” Aziraphale hummed. He couldn’t think of any place he took Crowley that contained anything like that. But… “Could he mean the cliffsides?” It certainly fit the description of where the sky and earth meet. The Angel scratched his head. “But where? A fall, a flight…it certainly would make sense. Perhaps the peak of the bluffs?”

A memory suddenly sparked in his mind.

A heart’s fall, a lover’s flight—the falls! Over at one of the cliff’s faces! Of course!

Aziraphale felt his insides flutter with anticipation. “This is rather exciting!” A code written in poem; a covert scheme designed for lovers—

It was all very romantic.

But one thought niggled at the back of his mind. What could Crowley need a ­fifth secret rendezvous point for? A recent memory of Crowley’s footmen bubbled in his mind and Aziraphale could only hope their other locations haven’t been compromised. He also hoped this lovely poem wasn’t just another step-down for Crowley and his paranoia. He’d been really worrying Aziraphale as of late…

Aziraphale still hadn’t worked out the entirety of the poem either. Especially the second, fourth, and final stanza, the one made out to Crowley’s Angel. Those seem entirely devoted to…well displaying devotion. In such a lovely way too…

The second stanza seemed to depict methods of ownership; the fourth, a statement of adoration; the final, an…apology. But for what? What aggrieved Crowley that he’d think his affections wouldn’t be accepted by the future Archangel he has his heart set on?

His chest tightened and a sliver of sadness snaked its way down his gut.

Maybe he can ask Crowley about its meaning later.

Turning the page over, a few verses written on the back gave Aziraphale pause before he broke out into another smile. “Oh, a limerick? How delightful!”

Or, at least it was. Until Aziraphale took a good, long gander at it.

 While your coy conduct enchants and enthralls me

I dream of revering and ruining your entirety—

To the Angel of my doomed desire

My body hungers in salacious fire

While I lay frustrated and unfulfilled in plea

 Aziraphale dropped the letter as if it burned. Well. It might as well have with the way the apple of each cheek flushed a lovely red, a hot rush of blood tingling underneath his skin. What in Hell—

Just who did Crowley intend to send this to?!

The Angel brought his hands to his face. That’s right. It was his moniker on the page, wasn’t it? Of course. This was Crowley, after all. Exasperation extraordinaire. Annoyance Aficionado. Prince of perturbance.

“That little—” He can imagine it now—Crowley throwing his head back in peals of laughter at the thought of Aziraphale blustering and blushing at the read of such lascivious imagery—

Oh no. Aziraphale will not be played for a sucker this time!

.

It had taken him an embarrassingly long amount of time to come up with that blasted poem and Crowley could only hope that—at the very least—Aziraphale enjoyed it. But if all were to go according to plan, Aziraphale would get the intended message of their now official, fifth rendezvous point.

The falls roared loudly in the distance, and Crowley drew himself up tighter. He had debated all into the earliest hours of dusk whether or not it had been a good idea to send the poem rather than a more… overt invitation to meet him at the borders of the capital, but something told Crowley that the fastest way to Aziraphale’s heart would be through some fanciful, written word.

Not through his stomach, apparently. He already tried that.

And if all were to go according to plan, not only would Aziraphale find this place, but he…might not even mind the fact that Crowley had essentially and humiliatingly bared his heart and soul to the blasted Bird that had captured both so effortlessly and entirely.

Even if the villanelle didn’t paint a vivid enough imagery, he was sure the limerick got his point across.

And if all were to go according to plan and Aziraphale didn’t run for the hills at the very thought of his charge professing his undying love and searing lust for him, then perhaps this little vacation had means of becoming so much more than just a proposal for rest and relaxation.

In fact, if Crowley got his way and if Aziraphale was enthusiastically amendable to it, there wouldn’t be a whole lot of resting to be had…

In his pleasant reverie, Crowley almost missed the flurry of white at the periphery of his vision. “Oh?” He turned, just as Aziraphale tucked away those lovely, snowy wings. A shy smile greeted him, and Crowley felt his heart and hopes soar. At the very least—Aziraphale wasn’t running for the hills. “Clever Bird—you made it!”

“Yes, well,” Gracious, his Angel looked lovely painted in streaks of setting suns. “It was quite clever of you to hide the coordinates in the guise of a poem.” He looked to Crowley with an air of admiration and— a crippling lack of adulation (or even abhorrence, Crowley could take that) and Crowley knew then and there the double entendre of his poem probably flew right over those cloud-fluff curls. “Well done,” he chirped, plopping down beside the prince.

Crowley, rather valiantly, tried not to be too stung by the crushing defeat. “Haha…yeah. In the guise of a—right.” There goes two hours of honest work.

Maybe next time I should just stick with I LOVE YOU, YOU DAFT, BLOODY BIRD.

“So why was it that you wanted to meet here of all places?” The Angel peered over at the falls, admiring the shimmer of droplets absorbing the melding colors of fire and settling dusk. Crowley, in turn, couldn’t help but admire the romantic glow that basked the Angel in colors of eventide. Still, Crowley couldn’t just go ahead and say something positively stupid like I always imagined taking your hand and asking you to run away with me by the setting of the sun, now could he? “And how did you know about this place to begin with?”

But that question, Crowley can safely answer. “Oh, just listening on strategy meetings and all. May not have participated, but the king loved his planning.” He gestured to beyond the edge. “This was regarded as one of the least-defended sectors of your capital. Not that I blame your lot— you’ve always had the advantage of the skies, whereas we had to make do with slithering on our bellies on the ground, furthest from God’s light.” He gave a bitter smile. “No, this place wouldn’t have been a good strategic point of invasion at all, not with the unforgiving seas below; the jagged rocks jutting out beneath the waves are a good deterrent, and the faces are too slippery after being molded by the waves for as long as they have.”

A tilt of his head and a question in his Angel’s voice: “What of it, Crowley?”

And Crowley, ever a flair for the dramatics, merely gave his darling, dearest Angel a smirk, “Well, let’s just say that it’s a good thing the war didn’t progress any more than it did. Because your lot definitely wouldn’t have seen this coming,” and a snap of his fingers.

.

Several things happened at once.

There was a sharp splash of something monstrously big cresting over the waves, a bellow of a mighty beast muting the rush of the falls. Then, a flood of winds suddenly halted as a mass of midnight-black scales, leathery wings, and razor-sharp claws blocked the stunning view of the sunset. And finally, golden, slitted eyes greeted Aziraphale’s vision, sending a none-too-friendly bolt of primordial fear racing down his spine.

Oh bugger.

But Aziraphale was first and foremost a warrior and, much to his chagrin, Gabriel did train him well. “CROWLEY!” He grabbed the prince, putting himself between him and the beast. “Get behind me—” And then the creature roared.

It was the stuff of horror and magic and after seeing all the individual pieces assembled neatly into the picture before him, Aziraphale couldn’t help but shudder at the beast gazing down at him. The beast being a bloody dragon with oh-so-sharp teeth and plumes of smoke ebbing from its nostrils, and ohhh Aziraphale did not like the low rumble it emitted from the back of its throat.

It sure beat the prospect of fire razing the lands from its gaping maw, however.

“Angel, Angel, wait!” But then panic truly flared when Crowley approached the beast with frantic cry of, “Woah, steady, steady!” before Aziraphale could grab him by the scruff of the neck and fly them far, far away from here.

But then the other pieces started to fall into place as well as he stood, frozen as Crowley ran up to the creature.

One particularly helpful piece of evidence being how the bloody dragon lowered its massive snout to receive a few pets and strokes from the prince as he spewed soothing croons and praises with practiced ease. “There, there…calm down.”

There was a thunderclap of realization and Aziraphale felt the oncoming of a very large, very painful headache. “Crowley, you idiot—!”

“She’s just—excited, that’s all!” he defended.

“She—”

Crowley gave a nervous laugh, arms ready to gesticulate a grand old introduction. “Angel, this is—”

May the Queen herself help him— “YOU HAVE A PET DRAGON?!”

The little bastard had the gall to grin at him. “Cute, innit? Her name’s Bentley!” In true, tamed fashion, the bloody dragon nosed the side of Crowley’s fire-red hair with a soft, affectionate snort. “Oh, don’t worry, she’s harmle—”

And in true untrained fashion, roared, mightily and proud, right at Aziraphale’s face.

Dragon breath and dragon spittle aside, Aziraphale was tired and teetering between sheer terror and exhaustion and somehow met in the middle with “decidedly unimpressed”; if he were to die by this idiot prince’s frivolity, then so be it. It would make for an interesting epitaph, after all. “My dear, that’s quite rude,” he chided; he deftly ignored the grumble of disbelief from the reptile. His ire was instead trained on the grinning serpent before him anyways. “Crowley, you can’t just bring a dragon to Heaven, we—”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, that’s why we’re not staying here.” He rounded to the dragon’s back where—oh dear Lord is that a saddle?! The prince gave an expectant look at him as he patted the leather. “C’mon—up you get!”

What.

Aziraphale blinked.

Then Aziraphale sputtered. “W-what?!”

“Yeah! Don’t worry, I trained her myself!” Which meant that this bloody dragon was little more than a glorified deathtrap. Crowley frowned, sensing Aziraphale’s lingering unease. “I said don’t worry.”

Aziraphale shot him a pointed look. “Your previous statement makes that quite impossible.”

Crowley gave a dramatic sigh, irritation ticking at his brow. “Fine. You can fly yourself to Old-End, then.”

For all Aziraphale’s intellect and vast vocabulary borne of collecting his books, poring over literature, and a lifelong dedication to the written word, one of his favorite playwrights did say that Brevity is the soul of wit. So, to sum Aziraphale’s current feelings with a hearty and shrill “What?!” seemed only appropriate. “Why are you going to Old-End?”

That was a cause for concern—even more than the bloody dragon.

The island sat at the very edge of their current maps, the furthest point where any Angel—or Demon for that matter—ever dared travel. Well…traveled and returned home to tell the tale, anyways. Beyond its shores, the seemingly infinite rest of the word was left unexplored behind a veil of endless seas and dense fogs. And, if legends were to be believed, if one was to venture far enough, they’d reach The Other Side, where sky meets the sea, the two becoming intertwined and inseparable.

To tack onto that, there were also innumerous tales of terrible monsters lurking in the depths of the skies and seas as well.

But Crowley didn’t seem deterred at all. “We,” he corrected and Aziraphale startled. Crowley sighed. “It was your suggestion!”

Aziraphale balked at the insinuation—since when did he opt into this?!

God help him, the Demon was pouting. “Didn’t you say you wanted a vacation?”

“I never said that!” he blurted. Sure…it might have been implied last night—and oh bugger— was this what it was all about? “Besides, it’s been abandoned for decades!" he countered. It was hardly a luxury resort fit for a prince and Aziraphale had every reason to be concerned. Old-End had small post before, but it’s been abandoned since the wars between Heaven and Hell began. After all, it was hardly wise to expend resources for exploration while the rest of the kingdom went up in flames.

“Not in those exact words,” Crowley admitted and, right, Aziraphale should really watch what he says in front of the prince from now on. “And that’s exactly why! C’mon, it’ll be great! No need to pack, I have everything we need.” Lest he pull another stunt like this one. “Just get on and we’ll—"

And Bentley let out an ear-splitting shriek.

It wasn’t the worst of Aziraphale’s fears being actualized. No, what occurred next was merely the penultimate of those horrors: of the massive, bloody dragon shaking the prince off her before propelling herself into the air, swooping down, and snatching the Angel before he could decide between ducking for cover or taking Crowley by the hand to safety.

In all honesty, he probably should have let Crowley fend for himself this time.

But then that would have been the worst of Aziraphale’s horrors coming to light.

Just like that—in a blink of an eye, a bat of a lash, a beat of a wing, and a howl into the winds, the dragon made off into the clouds, a shrieking Angel between her claws.  

For Crowley, it took him a moment to fully realize that one second ago, he was bickering with the love of his life (who was currently berating him on his choice of exotic pets and his choice of exotic vacation spots), and then the very next, said love of his life was being stolen away from him with a panicked cry of, “CROWLEEEEEEY!” echoing through the skies.

And it took perhaps a few more seconds for the sheer terror to set in at the very uncomfortable realization that there was really no way for him to ensure Aziraphale’s safe return from the hands of his rather spoilt and rather unruly dragon.

“BENTLEY,” he screamed off into the distance, the flapping figure growing smaller and smaller as they sped off into the horizon. “GET BACK HERE YOU USELESS REPTILE!”2

=-=-=-=

My Bonnie lies over the ocean

My Bonnie lies over the sea

My Bonnie lies over the ocean

Oh bring back my Bonnie to me

-=-=-=-=-

1 Atul Gawande’s Complications: A Surgeon’s Notes on an Imperfect Science: “This was not guilt: guilt is what you feel when you have done something wrong. What I felt was shame: I was what was wrong.”

2 This chapter was heavily inspired by How to Train Your Dragon, can you tell? Also, a smidge of Kingdom Hearts.

Also, that monstrosity of a villanelle was written by yours truly. And a special thank you to @valnine (on tumblr and ao3) for making sure it was sappy enough. And in my defense (even though I’m technically the one roasting it), villanelles have no set meter or syllable count. I’m looking at you Aziraphale—not everything has to be in a structured form!

[coloursflyaway]

not sure if you take just miscellaneous prompts but if you do; good omens, something soft and/or smutty with hands? this fandom is great for hand kink, yeah?

I’m so sorry it took ages, but thank you so much for the lovely prompt, I had so, so much fun with it ♥And since I had so much fun with it and it got slightly out of hand, you can also read it on AO3 here!

Aziraphale’sfingers are soft when they brush across Crowley’s knuckles, just a moment’stouch. They are soft like everything about the angel is, the curls ofsilvery-blond hair, the blue of his eyes, the way he looks at Crowleysometimes, when their conversation halts for just a moment, not uncomfortable,never that, just a second for both of them to breathe.

Aziraphale’sfingers are soft, leave a trail of warmth across the back of Crowley’s hand,and they mean nothing at all. Crowley knows that much, for after six millennia,Aziraphale would use his words to tell him if anything had changed, or if not,at least a gesture more substantial. Crowley knows better, but Aziraphale’s fingers are soft and when they pullaway, they have planted a seed of hope in Crowley’s foolish, loving heart.

 He picksthe angel up to get ice cream later that week. It’s a sunny day, almost toosunny for London, but Crowley has always enjoyed the sun, the warmth, so whenit takes Aziraphale a few minutes to come out of his shop after he has arrived,Crowley uses the time to get out of his Bentley, close his eyes and bask in thegolden light. It paints his eyelids red and pink, something Crowley has always found ascurious as lovely, the reminder that his useless heart is beating, blood isneedlessly pulsing through his body, transporting the oxygen he doesn’t need tocells that don’t have to produce a thing. In some way it is an indulgence tobreathe, to keep his heart beating and his blood rushing, but it’s one heenjoys too much to let go of, just like Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to denyhimself the pleasure of macaroons and frothy milkshakes.

At the sametime, though undoubtedly the only being Crowley knows to be even more prone toindulgence than himself, the angel is the last thing that made him forget abouthis heart, leave it unbeating for several minutes at least, until the weakmuscle screamed at him when being made to work once more. It had been a night like any other, spent with truffles Crowley had broughtwith him from Bruges, port wine Aziraphale had had for decades, the warmth of afire neither of them had started. His hair had been longer then, falling inginger waves just past his shoulders, and he’d been in the middle of a storyabout causing chaos during a bull fight in Sevilla when Aziraphale had leantin.

The lightemanating from the fireplace had been soft, made the angel’s skin glow golden,the ring on his finger glisten as he’d reached out with one of his hands, as ifto cup Crowley’s face. And Crowley, as foolish, as hopeful as ever, hadthought, finally. Finally, Aziraphale would kiss him, acknowledge the thing they both knew wasbetween them, finally, they’d go at the same pace, their pace, finally, they’d be what they were meant to be from thevery start.

BecauseCrowley might be a fool, might be too soft and too hopeful for a demon, buthe’s not an idiot and he has seen love often enough to recognise it when itpassed across Aziraphale’s face.Felt it every time he looked at the angel, for millennia by now.

He had felthis lips part in anticipation, all his attention, his entire being focussed onthe angel’s fingers, his smile, what couldn’t be anything but adoration shiningfrom his bright, blue eyes. And Crowley’s heart had stopped, utterly forgotten, while it seized up, readyto flood his body with love so overwhelming no one would expect a single organto be able to hold it all.

Only thatthe second that Aziraphale’s fingers touched his cheek, something changed inthe angel’s face, in the depths of his eyes, a sort of recognition sparkingthrough them like a bolt of lightening through a calm night. His fingers veeredoff their path, upwards to clumsily brush a strand of hair from Crowley’s eyes,and the demon could watch something ache so fiercely in Aziraphale’s eyes thatit had almost drowned out his own heart’s breaking.

Back inLondon, more than thirty years later, it’s the same hand that brings Crowleyback to the present, again by touch. Crowley’s eyes flutter open, leave behind crimson-tinted memories; Aziraphaleis standing in front of him, the same blue eyes, shining with affection, agentle smile on his lips, his hand on Crowley’s forearm, squeezing ever soslightly. He’s beautiful, but then again, he always is.

“I’m sosorry, dear”, Aziraphale says instead of a greeting, and he sounds it, too.“You seemed quite lost in thought, I didn’t want to disturb you at first, butthen again, it has been half an hour, so…”His voice trails off, his smile turning a little sheepish, and Crowley can’thelp but chuckle, noting distantly that Aziraphale still hasn’t pulled away hishand. “It’s quite alright, angel”, he tries to reassure, and watches Aziraphale’ssmile brighten. “Nothing but old memories, nothing important.”“Ah, well, that’s a relief”, Aziraphale breathes out, his hand lingering onCrowley’s arm until he takes a step back, presumably to get into the car. “Ihope there were only nice ones, of course, but I was looking forward to that ice cream…”

He keepstalking as he rounds the car, gets into it, and Crowley tries to listen, butfor another few moments the only thing his brain can focus on is that backthen, after Aziraphale had pulled away, a faint dusting of pink across hischeeks and the blue of his eyes dulled, it had taken Crowley three tries tocoax his heart into beating again.

 Crowley canstill remember the first time they touched, the sudden shock of warm skinpressed against his own, the tingling feeling Aziraphale's fingers left himwith, even if back then, he hadn't been certain if the cause for it had been Aziraphale'sangelic nature or the feelings that slowly and yet far too quickly developed inhis own chest.

It feelsthe same still when the angel’s hand brushes his now, handing him a strawberrylolly, the very last one that the man behind the trolley could find,inexplicably hidden in the container for another flavour in which the man haddefinitely checked before. A faint tingle, drowning out the vendor’s confused mumbling, the chirping ofbirds, the sun itself, because of how much Crowley needs this, even a touchthis small, has needed it, and will need it for the rest of his eternal life.

 A monthpasses, then another, then another, and it’s winter when they walk throughEdinburgh’s steep streets, Aziraphale bundled up in layers upon layers of whiteand beige, Crowley’s only concession to the cold being a slightly thickerscarf. “-and I am telling you, I need totake you to Salzburg sometime soon”, Aziraphale tells him, his cheeks rosy andexcitement painted across his entire face. “Before Christmas, that is, as theyhave the most charming Advent market. Especially in the evening, wheneverything else is dark, just the glittering lights, the ornaments, the music…Ah, and the Glühwein, you would loveit, I just know it. Let me take you, dear. My treat.”

There’snothing Crowley could ever say but yes, and Aziraphale must know it; still,when Crowley nods, the angel’s face lights up as if he’s been given the moonfor a gift. “Oh, splendid. Maybe next Thursday, if you’re free? Or Wednesday, maybe?”,Aziraphale answers, immediately starts to plan their trip, his excitementinfecting Crowley just a little, not because he cares about the delicaciesSalzburg has to offer, but because he’ll be able to share them with Aziraphale.And maybe it’s because of that that Crowley doesn’t notice Aziraphale shifting,changing his posture, his position, until a warm, soft hand slides into his,tangles their fingers together. It’s a shock unlike any other, making Crowleystop dead in his track, the entire universe, the universe he helped build, reduced to a few square inches of skin pressingagainst skin, warmth seeping from an angelic palm into his.

He looksdown to their hands, then up at Aziraphale, whose cheeks are even pinker now,whose eyes are still bright, but hopeful, scared. Yet, his hand is holding ontoCrowley’s, his thumb brushing across the demon’s knuckles, leaving a trail ofwarmth. “Is this alright?”, Aziraphale asks like he really doesn’t know the answer, andthe seed of hope he planted into Crowley’s heart months ago starts to grow afew vulnerable tendrils that latch onto his mind, ready to bud. “Of course, it is”, he replies, surprised when he finds that he can speak, andsqueezes Aziraphale’s hands in his. It feels right just where it is. “Justperfect.”

 They go toSalzburg on Thursday, since the weather is just dreadful the day before. It’s quite charming, Crowley admits it freely, covered in kitsch andfresh-fallen snow; Aziraphale buys them both cups of steaming Glühwein and chocolate-coveredstrawberries, and laughs so sweetly it almost causes Crowley physical pain whenthe demon presents him with a gingerbread heart that spells out Für meinen Engel in white frosting. This time, when Aziraphale takes his hand in the midst of a bustling crowd andthe scent of cinnamon, of cloves, he doesn’t have to ask for permission.

 Wintercomes and passes; Crowley hardly cares about it, spends almost a month inSicily and brings back cannoli, cassata and sickly sweet limoncello as gifts. Wholebags of them, because there are almost as many versions of them as there areshops to buy them in, and Crowley doesn’t trust himself enough to pick the onesAziraphale will like best, so instead, he gets them all. They clutter the backseat of his Bentley, so Crowley forgoes driving to hisapartment after he has miracled both him and the car back to London’s streets,instead goes straight back to the angel’s bookshop.

It’s been amonth since he last saw it, just a short, inconsequential month, and yet hisheart seizes up in his chest when he sees the familiar sign, the red-paintedexterior.  There’s no light pouring from the windows, but it doesn’t have to mean a thing,at least Crowley hopes it doesn’t. Aziraphale prefers reading by light, butneither he nor Crowley need it to see.

So, Crowleyparks the Bentley, gets out with his arms full of boxes and plastic bags, afamiliar tightness fighting to close off his throat, wrap around his chest. Hecould, should knock, and yet doesn’t, partly because his hands are clutching toall the sweet treats he brought, partly because just barging into the shop likehe belongs there is a pleasure Crowley hasn’t been able to permit himself forvery long yet. The door flies open, maybe a little bit more forcefully than strictlynecessary, because Crowley hopes for a small cry of oh, do be careful, dear! in a voice he has missed more than helikes to admit. Nothing comes.

“Angel!”,he calls out, waits for a few moments, but there’s no answer, no Aziraphale.It’s not only the lack of a reply that tells him as much, it’s the atmospherein the shop, some key component of it missing. The angel’s warmth, his mirth,his kindness, and after having been deprived of it for weeks, Crowley feels thelack of it even more fiercely, even more so now that he is somewhere Aziraphalecould be.

Gingerly,as not to damage the pastries, Crowley sets down the bags and boxes on a nearbychair, before he looks around a little, finding nothing much has changed. A fewstacks of books seem to have increased in height, a thin layer of dust hasjoined the one he already had the chance to get acquainted with, and thegingerbread heart has moved from being propped up against a couple of books tohanging from a nail Aziraphale must have miracled into the wall for this sole purpose.He likes the look of it, a single piece of Crowley to have found its way intoAziraphale’s refugium.

There isnothing to do without the angel here, so Crowley doesn’t pretend there is, justgets a fire started in the fireplace with a flick of his hand, lays down on thesofa in front of it. It’s not enough to replace the warmth Aziraphale causes to bloom in his chest,but a good enough substitute for it; if he has made it a month without theangel’s touch, he’ll survive another few hours.

 He wakes upand the fire is still burning, illuminating the room in gold and copper, andfingers slowly weaving themselves through his hair, tugging gently at theginger strands. His head is still pillowed on his own arms, but Aziraphale issitting next to him, warm and solid, and for a few minutes, Crowley allowshimself to just enjoy the caresses, bask in the affection that seems to flowmuch more freely from Aziraphale nowadays.Maybe his heart is not quite so foolish after all, maybe this is what he has beenwaiting for, a world in which Aziraphale takes his hand in the middle of thestreet, threads his beloved fingers into Crowley’s hair, has finally caught upto the demon’s speed. And even if it isn’t, even if Crowley has to wait another millennium, he’lltake it.

Eventually,because he has missed Aziraphale, not just his touch, but the colour of hiseyes, the tone of his voice, the sound of his laugh, Crowley turns onto hisback, looks up at the angel. Aziraphale is holding a book in the hand he hasn’tstill buried in Crowley’s hair, but he diverts his attention immediately,looking at Crowley with more warmth in his gaze than the fire could ever hopeto possess. “Oh, you’re awake”, he says softly, in lieu of a greeting, starts to tease hisfingers through Crowley’s hair once more. It makes the demon’s heart skip abeat, maybe two.

He hums hisanswer, blinks up at Aziraphale slowly, too warm, too comfortable to find wordsfor another few moments. “How was Italy?”, Aziraphale asks, and scratches his fingernails gently acrossCrowley’s scalp, drawing a pleased noise from the demon. “Beautiful, I’mcertain.”“Was nice”, Crowley mumbles, just so keeping his eyes from slipping shut oncemore. “Very sunny. You’d have liked it. Spent a lot of time in Syracuse,remember that? They dug out all the old Greek stuff, was nice to see it again.”

A momentpasses with Aziraphale thinking, his fingers pausing their ministration, untilCrowley sees his eyes light up, a sunset in blue and gold. “Oh, right! We met there once, didn’t we?”, he asks, and Crowley nods, amazedand pleased in same amounts that the angel remembers. “You took me to thetheatre, didn’t you? Sophocles, if memory serves correctly. An absolutelydreadful performance though, of that I am certain.”Crowley doesn’t bother correcting Aziraphale, telling him that it wasAeschylus’ Persians they saw, justlike he doesn’t tell him he can remember almost every moment of that evening,from the colour of Aziraphale’s toga to the way he mispronounced several Greekwords and almost sent Crowley into a laughing fit. Instead, he says, “The main actor forgot half his words, it was a disaster. Butwe had figs, and those prickly pear things you liked so much, and afterwardsmore wine than we should have drunk.”

Somethingabout that makes Aziraphale chuckle, his eyes glaze over for a moment with theintensity of a memory. “Far more wine, you’re right”, Aziraphale says ever so softly, rubs hisfingertips across the tattoo on Crowley’s cheek in a way that makes him almost purrwith pleasure. “There was a moment after that, when we were walking alongsidethe coast, must have been almost morning, and you looked at me… it was just asecond, but I almost thought you’d kiss me.”

The wordssteal the air right from Crowley’s lungs, make his heart stop for just amoment; the world seems to freeze, because Aziraphale might not remember theplay they saw, but he remembers the important part. He remembers them.It’s the same feeling as standing on too-thin ice, threatening to break with asingle careless step, but Crowley can’t help but barge on, never could. Notwhen it’s Aziraphale and not when he loves the angel so much, he seems to burnup with the intensity of it, the feeling drowning out every other sensation,every other thought. “I know”, he answers, and all but prays for the ice to support the weight ofhis words. “So did I.”

And itdoes. For the world starts to move again, the clock next to the fireplace tentativelyreturning to ticking, the flames starting to dance once more, and Aziraphalesmiles down at him with overwhelming tenderness in his gaze. “Just in case you’re wondering, I think I would have let you.”

 They spendthe whole night talking, Crowley only sitting up when Aziraphale discovers hisgifts and insists on sampling all of them immediately.So, as the sun rises and London around them wakes, they feast on thoroughlyterrified pastries and sip limoncello from ceramic mugs, because Aziraphaleinsists that the fine crystal glasses aren’t dishwasher safe.

And thereis a moment, when the fire has just died, its glow been replaced by sunlight,and their eyes meet over the rim of Aziraphale’s mug, in which Crowleyconsiders kissing the taste of sugar and lemons off the angel’s lips.He doesn’t.

 SaintJames’s Park is prettier in spring than any other time of year, and so it’s nosurprise they find themselves there more and more often as the seasons change. Like today, a Tuesday with no particular significance, but with a sun thatseems to shine a little bit more brightly than it did just a week ago, birds singinglove songs from their branches.

Aziraphalehas gotten a new coat just the week before, cream-coloured, the lapels a littlebit sharper, the buttons on each side shining amber, and Crowley enjoys lookingat it as much as Aziraphale seems to enjoy wearing it. They’ve settled down on their usual bench, a small carton of strawberriesbetween them, two paper cups filled with what Aziraphale deems the bestespresso in town, and the angel’s smile so bright it rivals the sun.

“You know,I’ve been thinking, maybe we should visit Warlock”, Aziraphale says pensively,while he picks the leaves off a particularly luscious looking strawberry. “Iknow he isn’t the antichrist, but over the years I did grow fond of him. Wecould just pop by, have a cup of tea maybe. Dust off those old costumes,pretend we just happened to pass by and remembered our old charge. He musttwelve by now, right? Or thirteen? Open up dear.”Crowley obliges, parts his lips and lets Aziraphale feed him anotherstrawberry, fingers just so brushing the corner of his mouth. It’s delicious,even if he isn’t as partial to food as the angel is, he could get used to it ifit was Aziraphale feeding it to him.

“Don’t youthink it would look a little strange, both his nanny and his gardener justhappening to show up on the same day after having been gone for, oh, sevenyears?”, Crowley answers, still chewing, but Aziraphale just chuckles, start towork on another strawberry. “I doubt it”, he replies, pops the fruit into his own mouth this time, butdoesn’t give Crowley the time to miss the whispers of fingertips against hislips, because Aziraphale puts his hand over the demon’s, curling his fingersever so slightly. “I’m relatively certain most of the staff and at least partsof the family were under the impression we were a couple.”

He givesCrowley a smile that could almost be mischievous, squeezes his hand before hestarts to prepare another strawberry, apparently uncaring that the demon isstaring at him from behind his glasses. “What?”“Oh, yes. You know, with all the secret meetings in at midnight, the frequenttrips to London both of us took at the same time…” Aziraphale looks up from thestrawberry, brows furrowing all of a sudden. “Why, it doesn’t bother you, doesit, dear? Because if it does, if I’d known –“ “No, no”, Crowley interrupts the angel, gives him a smile he knows looks morehopeful than anything, more like how he feels. Light. Loving. “Not at all. Ijust assumed you wouldn’t much like the implications.”

The worryon Aziraphale’s face is replaced by kindness, by tender joy sparkling from hiseyes. “Oh, nonsense, darling. Not for a moment.” He holds up the strawberry, asks,“Do you want another one?”When Crowley opens his mouth this time, Aziraphale’s fingertips brush acrosshis lips in a way that couldn’t possibly have been an accident, and hope grows,just where the angel planted it in his chest.

 With aglass of Bordeaux in his hand, the dark liquid sloshing around in itdangerously, Aziraphale leans in, alcohol having slowed down both the angel’sspeech and Crowley’s thoughts. “Y’know”, he slurs, reaches out to put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder but findshis neck instead, curls his fingers around the sensitive, cool skin. “I’m gladthat the world didn’t end, I really am. Love it here, all the food, the books,even the people, but, if, you know, in case it had all gone south, I would’vebeen happy on Alpha Centauri. With you.”

Crowley’sheart understands what he is hearing before his brain has; the seed of hope haslong since grown into a little sapling, strong and new, soaking up the words,the honesty in Aziraphale’s eyes, the warmth of his touch as he drags his thumbacross the sharp line of Crowley’s jaw. “You din’ even want to go”, he reminds Aziraphale, even as he leans inslightly, just enough to feel the angel’s breath on his skin. “No”, Aziraphale agrees, and for a moment, Crowley thinks the angel will kisshim. He doesn’t, and he’s glad for it; it will happen, but when it does, hewants to be sober, wants to soak up every little detail of it. “I didn’t. But Iwould’ve come t’ find you, if you’d left. Even up there. Always.”

 Come lateJuly, they go to visit Warlock. It hardly lasts longer than half an hour of stilted small talk, but evenCrowley has to admit that it’s nice seeing Warlock again, who must have grownthree inches since she last saw him. Apart from that, though, it seems the boyhas stayed much the same, interrupts them both, makes faces at his mother whenhe thinks she isn’t looking and tries to sneak away from the table to play somesilly game on his phone the moment he’s finished his cake.It’ll be a shame to watch him die.

But thepart Crowley will remember comes when they are about to leave, and Aziraphaletakes her hand, something they have both gotten so used to that Crowley hardlythinks about it anymore. For a moment, Mrs. Dowling’s face changes, grows soft like she is rememberingsomething she thought she had already forgotten, then she looks up from theirjoined hands up to Crowley’s face. “I’m happy for you both”, she tells them, and for the first time since theywalked through the door, she sounds sincere. “We always wondered – but thatdoesn’t matter. I’d tell you not to make the same mistakes as Tad and me, but Ithink I know you won’t.”

She looksdown at her wedding ring, her own hand that maybe should be holding another,and Crowley feels a moment of ache seize her heart. They won’t, they couldn’t, but still she wishes she knew how to tell Mrs.Dowling that sometimes, drifting apart is inevitable.

 When theyget back to the Bentley, Aziraphale turns to her, reassurance shining from hisblue eyes as he squeezes Crowley’s hand. “I couldn’t do much”, he tells Crowley, brushes his thumb across her knuckles.“But I gave her a bit of hope. Today when her husband comes home, she will atleast feel that there’s worth in trying to fix what they have broken.”And he’s right, it isn’t much, but maybe it’s enough.

 It’s a warmnight, the kind poets write whole books about, and they’re on the roof ofCrowley’s apartment building, looking up at the stars above them. It’ssomewhere Crowley has always felt comfortable, under a star-speckled sky,looking up at suns he can remember creating out of empty space. And it’s better still with Aziraphale next to him, pressed against his side,his head resting on Crowley’s shoulder and their tangled hands in between theirthighs.

“Tell meagain which ones you helped build”, Aziraphale mumbles into the warm air aroundthem, sounding soft, sounding just like Crowley feels.In love. Slowly, Crowley raises their joined hands, points them at a star, so far awaythat human eyes wouldn’t even be able to see its light. But he does, and heknows Aziraphale does, too. “That one. And – “, he moves their hands a little bit upwards, slightly to theleft, “And those two. Twin stars. They were always my favourites to make, twosuns, circling each other until they go out together. It always seemed, I don’tknow. Better, somehow.”“Is that why you wanted to go to Alpha Centauri?”

Crowleypauses for a moment, lets their hands sink down back to his lap; it’s somethinghe never considered, never thought about. He’d been desperate, close tomindless, scared, and yet there had been a million of places he could havepicked and yet he chose a set of suns that revolve around each other. “I don’t know”, he confesses, and Aziraphale next to him shifts slightly.“Maybe. I never thought about it.”“Perhaps we can go someday. Not forever, but for a holiday. Or you could showme those other stars, the ones you made. I’d like to see them.”

Crowleysmiles, even though he knows Aziraphale won’t be able to see it, rests hischeek atop the angel’s head before he looks back out into the vastness ofspace. “Yeah, sounds good”, he tells Aziraphale. “Wherever you want to go, angel. I’llgive you a ride.”

 It’s stillthe same night, if anything, the sky has gotten darker around them, andAziraphale stirs slightly against Crowley’s side. At first, the demon expects him to sit up, but Aziraphale doesn’t, even if heseems to hold his breath for a second before he speaks. “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”, Aziraphale asks into the silence, and Crowleyexpects his heart to skip, but it doesn’t. Maybe it’s because this whole nighthas been heavy with love, with affection, maybe because they have been buildingup to this for more than six thousand years now, because every touch Aziraphalehas bestowed upon him in the last two has been a word in a silent confession. Aconfession Crowley has been waiting to hear ever since he can remember.

“I didn’tknow you wanted me to do that already”, Crowley replies softly, gives himselfanother moment or two, before he sits up a little straighter, removing hischeek from where it has been resting on the angel’s head. Aziraphale does the same, turns around to look at Crowley and it’s the look inhis eyes that finally manages to take Crowley’s breath away. He’s built stars that didn’t shine so brightly, has looked at God’s face andfound her love not as overwhelming, has lived since the beginning of time andyet hasn’t seen anything looking so determined.

Theirfingers are still intertwined, and Crowley tightens his hold on Aziraphale’shand a little as he waits for the angel to speak. For a long time, he doesn’t, just watches Crowley’s face, and the demon letshim, knows he will give Aziraphale all the time, all the answers he needs. Andmaybe it’s just that what Aziraphale needs, because whatever he finds inCrowley’s face seems to be enough. Half a smile tugs on angelic lips, and when he speaks, his voice is softer thanfresh fallen snow, than Banarasi Silk. “Oh, darling”, Aziraphale says, “I’ve wanted you to for years.”

The world around them holds its breath, and yetCrowley seems to breathe freely for the first time in centuries, his eyesunable to tear their gaze away from the angel’s face. “Oh”, Crowley murmurs; the hopeful sapling in his heart blossoming, blooming,stretching out tendrils that touch every molecule of his physical body, everyparticle of his eternal one. “I would have waited.”“I know.” Aziraphale shifts again, and Crowley thinks he sees a hint of a haloaround the angel’s head, illuminating the night just enough to make the rest ofthe world fall away. He raises the hand that isn’t clutching Crowley’s and cupsthe demon’s cheek, holding it like Crowley is precious, like he is somethingAziraphale couldn’t bear to break. “I don’t want you to.”

He doesn’t know which one of them moves first,but it doesn’t matter, couldn’t matter, because their lips meet in the middle,Aziraphale’s as soft as his gaze was. Crowley’s eyes flutter shut, block out everything that isn’t the angel’s touch,the slide of lips against lips that he has been waiting for his entire life.There is no hope necessary anymore, so it turns to devotion within the confinesof Crowley’s body, turns to love as his heart beats faster, turns to tendernessas he holds onto Aziraphale’s hand to keep himself from being swept away. The angel tilts his head sideways just enough to deepen the kiss, and Crowleyparts his lips, lets Aziraphale take from him whatever it is the angel wants.

The hand that isn’t clutching Aziraphale’scomes to rest on the angel’s thigh, even while Crowley kisses his love ontoAziraphale’s lips, pushes it into his mouth, pains it across his skin withevery single breath. And Aziraphale responds in kind, thumb brushing across Crowley’s cheek as if tosteady him, his tongue writing his confessions against the roof of Crowley’smouth, promises love as it draws soft sounds from the demon.

It’s easy to lose himself in the sensation, inthis one moment that seems to stretch forever, so Crowley does, clings toAziraphale until the sun has risen, painted the clouds around them first pink,then orange, then gold. The city beneath them has been roused, started theirday, without knowing that two immortal souls have become one above them, onlyfinding themselves well-rested, more optimistic than they have felt in weeks atleast. Above them, feeling like they both have lost any connection to the ground,Crowley only pulls away once he knows he has committed every detail ofAziraphale’s lips to memory, has heard every of the angel’s sigh, tasted hislove until it’s the only thing left on his tongue.

Aziraphale is the first thing he sees once heopens his eyes again, and the angel looks more beautiful than Crowley has everseen him look before, his skin glowing with angelic light, his lips kissed redand his cheeks dusted pink, his eyes so blue, so clear that Crowley almostexpects to see his own face mirrored back in them. His hand is still resting on Crowley’s cheek, so the demon turns his head topress a kiss to the palm, to Aziraphale’s wrist.

“I’ve loved you for six thousand years”, hemutters against the angel’s skin, and Aziraphale curls his fingers justslightly, allows Crowley to bestow kisses to the tips, worshipping each one ofthem with his lips. “I know”, Aziraphale responds, brushes his thumb across Crowley’s love-bruisedmouth before he captures it in another kiss, shorter this time, but just assweet. “I’ve loved you longer than I am even aware of now.”“I’ll love you forever”, Crowley whispers back; neither of them has moved away,so he can feel the hitch of Aziraphale’s breath against his lips, can taste thelove it carries with it. “I know. And I will love you just as long.”

[brooklynislandgirl]

83. Have you ever wanted to have sex with someone but knew you couldnt for any reason? Why?

Once Bitten || Accepting

“No.”

The single word and the way she says it is both true and disingenuous at the same time.

She also doesn’t look up at Anakin as he quietly drops the question, all sharp edges and shot through with that specific kind of anxiety that is endemic to him, predicated on the experience of how other people treat him; either listening and completely disregarding his genuine need for guidance or clarification, or...ignoring him altogether and misunderstanding what it is he’s looking for. Anyone else, anyone not her, would have decided he wants to know out of some twisted sort of vengeance for the myriad questions she tends to ask at the most inopportune times. For the curiosity that sometimes eats her alive and knowing he won’t deny her an answer even if once given it isn’t nearly close enough to what she’s specifically trying to ask but is absolute truth all the same. It’s complicated. The way they dance around each other some days. Because they have to, because there isn't any other way to get by.

There is something very noble in his small acts of self-betrayal. In the way that he reaches into himself and pulls out parts of himself for her to examine. Turn this way and that under the bright light of scrutiny, see the lustre that exists in even the smallest kernel of his wishes. Which, she notes and not happily, have over the years dwindled down to a handful of sweet and simple things. How she hates that they have taken the rest from him. She wishes she could give them back to him. One by one. But she's just as powerless as he is. So tightly bound by rules that it's so hard to even breathe. The best she can do is to still herself. To carefully gather up the things she doesn't say and spread them out before him, let him pick and choose which he would like to keep.

Emerald shifts from dark to light and back again in a single flare when she finally looks up, dares to grace his visage with a questioning gaze. Brows knitted above her eyes. Mouth pursed just so. Makes the way the tip of her tongue probing the space between her upper teeth and the inside of her lip unmistakable for anything else. A thing she sometimes does when her thoughts become treacherously deep. When she's reluctant to divulge whatever she might find in them.

She's trod these paths that stretch out before winding back on themselves in an uncultivated mess of would-bes and mights with Anakin before. Usually under a controlled indulgence of alcohol and sugar that was only permissible under the auspices of a mission or investigation. And far, far away from the walls of the Temple. Similar but different now because the focus is on specifics about herself, about her reasonings behind it. And she's already put one foot forward with a single word. Turning back isn’t an option.

"No."

She begins again. She could ask him what his definition of sex is. They could set up artificial parameters, constructs that pass for qualification into this arena but it would hardly matter. Their only reference about it came from holovids and carefully hoarded novels, at least she thinks so. From sublimely ridiculous flower petals and wine, soft music and candle light to near animalistic acts of brutal sensuality, the only goal of which was to find release in whatever fashion it could be obtained. Expanded only by furtive whispers between clan-mates the few times they gather in leisure when they aren't being overseen by their Masters. Sex isn't explicitly forbidden by the dozens of codified rules of the Order but love is. It is attachment at its purest. Attachment is forbidden because it leads to fear and jealousy, to selfishness which is the root of all things in the Dark Side.

"To be honest? Sex doesn't interest me in the least. It's bio-mechanical, a simple physical act, instinctive enough that any animal can do it. The idea of it ~impractical, impersonal~ only for some kind of occasionally unobtainable gratification...just feels gross to me. For decades we have wrapped ourselves up in tunics and under-robes. Outer layers that swallow us whole and obscure our skin, make us one and the same, like a uniform. Not only do I not like the idea but also...it sort of scares me...to just strip down and use someone else for this purpose. 

“For years, I thought maybe it was because I might not be compatibly built, though eventually that myth was dispelled. But I still don't want to be groped and pawed at. To lay down and spread my thighs and hope that in those seconds and minutes I can derive some kind of pleasure with someone I wouldn't sit and eat with, whose name and face I only know in passing. That sounds like a nightmare to me, Anakin. I couldn't do it. Would rather go for self-gratification if it came down to it."

She shudders almost delicately, but in a rare moment, she withdraws from him, from the conversation, possibly even from herself. Her elbows drew closer to her ribs, and she enfolded her hands into the bell sleeves of her robe, not unlike he's done a thousand times. There's no evidence that she's twitching in the sheltered dark, or plucking at the seams or herself but maybe the worst part of it is that she shrinks from him in the Force. Thins out like a wisp of smoke, more ephemeral than she can possibly be, closed off.

Her lips half purse. Hesitation. A lick of nervousness so ripe that as it sweeps up her spine and makes her flesh burn under its auspices, so too does it threaten to reach across the bond they have always shared that it might immolate him, too.

Her breath hitches despite how hard she tries not to let it, and she slowly sucks in her lower lip until it becomes nearly perforated by the points of her teeth, the mild pain of her own nip reminding her to let it go.

“There is...someone I want to...I want to make love with. And that’s the difference, isn’t it? It’s more than being naked. It’s slowly unwrapping so that inch by inch there are no more boundaries. There is already love and connection and an ocean of feelings recognised and never spoken of, but there. Known. Every attachment, fear, scar, beauty. Every hope and desire reciprocated, the act itself of delving into one another is because there’s already no separation but the physical. A lick or a kiss is only words made into touch. Finally surrendering to the passion and the need to join together is because we can’t stand to be two different beings, that it hurts NOT to be one entity, where you forget where one starts and the other ends.

“I can all but feel it sometimes, the trembling of a gorgeous, long fingered hand writing broken Huttese poetry across my skin. I can taste the suns and the salt on his skin, the sting of copper because of a tiny bit too indelicate bite. Or the way his bliss eases down into the back of my throat, the way he looks when he glances up from the apex of my thighs so careful, so afraid that something isn’t right because all we want to so is share this boundless joy. Of his hands on my hips, as I’m looking down at him through strands of my hair as we finally come to that moment, every question and desire we’ve ever had about to be answered and there’s no secrets, no walls, just the purity of us in the physical and in the Force and....” And she realises that as she speaks, she’s picturing it in her mind. So starkly vivid, so exact down to the smallest detail that he cannot possibly not share the image of it. And her face...falls. Eyes damp and crystalline with the horror of saying it out loud where she could be overheard, over-felt. Mouth parted in vague horror that makes her breath reedy sounding in the strangled way it comes out of her and the sudden disruption in the Force that can only be described as a panic so close to total systems-collapse.

“But..a.h.....ah... You know...you know the reason that can’t be, ever. We are Jedi and it isn’t permissible and ...uh.” To her credit she tries to recover herself, eyes darting anywhere at him while waves of shame and fright continues to roil through her.

“We...in the general term, of course. I wasn’t meaning you specifically...just...” Liar. She did mean him. Has always meant him. Cannot imagine anyone else she would share something so intimate with, or would want to, even across a thousand galaxies, spread out over the most infinite of time. And how can she even know he’d feel the same way? Anakin is sought after, maybe for all the wrong reasons, but the Republic loves him. Those few people he considers his closest friends, love him. If he wanted to...he could have whomever or whatever he wanted. “Well, I mean, you asked...and...” She suddenly finds herself praying to the Force, to her four moons, that she’s stricken dead right there on the spot before he can say a word and kill the dreams she has.

[easyobsession]

A Vow

SQUEE!! I feel like I’ve been working on this for DECADES when in reality it’s only been a few weeks, but IT’S FINALLY DONE! So here you are! I proudly present my latest creation, inspired by all the time shit happens and WWE likes to pretend Seth and Roman have never met and wouldn’t run out to defend each other.

Enjoy.

It’s all because of a promise.

A stupid promise, actually. A goddamn piece of shit horse crap fucking dumb promise.

It happened the week after Elimination Chamber. Roman had waited until Raw ended and they’d both signed autographs and taken selfies with the fans; after they’d gotten something to eat, showered, and settled in to bed at the hotel, taking a few minutes to simply come down from the day’s craziness and enjoy being in each other’s arms.

“I need you to do something for me,”

Much to Seth’s disappointment, he could tell whatever was about to be discussed wasn’t at all sexual, which was perplexing because aside from something dirty Seth truly couldn’t imagine what his lover would need to talk about. He could tell it was important though, from the way Roman had pulled back enough from their embrace to look him in the eye.

Seth let out a slow breath, frowning a bit as he finally responded.

“Okay…”

“I know things are starting to pick up for both of us at work,” Roman began, “Especially after tonight, our paths for Mania are becoming clearer.”

Seth nodded. Ever since he’d won the Elimination Chamber Roman had been getting ready for his match against Brock Lesnar, calling the other man out for not being around and arguing with Paul Heyman while Seth was heading into a feud for the Intercontinental Championship with Finn Balor and the Miz. Of course a small part of him wished he was the one going for the Universal title, but he was also beyond proud of his man for winning a title shot at Wrestlemania. Plus, this way they could both leave the Grandest Stage of Them All as champions (and maybe indulge in a longtime fantasy of fucking with nothing but the belts on).

“There’s gonna be a lot of shit starting,” the Samoan continued, “You know as well as I do Lesnar isn’t gonna let that title go without a dog fight, and I wanna take as much pleasure as I can ripping it from his hands-” he let out a small laugh as his boyfriend surged forward, kissing him deeply.

“I like when you talk like that,” Seth murmured against his lips, clearly not the least bit sorry for interrupting, “It’s sexy as hell,”

“You’re sexy as hell,” Roman returned, dropping another quick kiss before pulling back and blurting, “You can’t help.”

“What?” Instantly Seth’s arms fell from their position around his shoulders while his face filled with confusion and a bit of hurt, “What the hell does that mean?”

“You can’t come out and back me up,” Roman elaborated, reaching for the other man’s hands as he tried to explain, “Look, we both know this thing is gonna get ugly- it already is. This is something that started over three years ago and never really got proper closure. Don’t,” he put a finger to Seth’s mouth as it began to open, already aware of what he was about to say and having no desire to go over it again. They’d had many discussions both in private and with Ambrose since Seth’s cash in at Mania 31, and the event and Seth’s betrayal in its entirety was a thing of the past. Hell, Roman and Dean had even admitted that, personal issues aside, the move was pretty fucking epic.

“You know what I mean. It’s only gonna get worse from here. You know how tired I am of having a champion that’s never around- I’m gonna do everything I can to make the rest of the locker room and the fans see it that way too.”

Seth nodded, still unsure of why this meant he needed to apparently not get involved. He was completely on board with everything Roman said. Shit, so was a good percentage of the locker room. Even if some of their coworkers weren’t Roman’s biggest fans and hadn’t wanted him to win the Elimination Chamber, they were ready for a champion that actually showed up on a regular basis.

“And you know I’m with you all the way,” Seth promised.

“I know, baby. And you know that means the world to me,” Roman pecked the smaller man’s nose before continuing, “But this has to be something I do on my own.”

“…alright,” Rollins let out a small sigh but relented with a nod. It made sense that Roman wanted to do this without help and Seth fully believed he could and would, so while it sucked it wasn’t too ridiculous to suggest. Plus, since Dean’s injury nearly two and a half months ago the reboot of The Shield had been placed on hold and he and Roman were doing the singles thing anyway. “I won’t come out for the match,”

Roman frowned. The other man wasn’t getting his meaning and it broke his heart to actually say it out loud.

“Seth, you can’t come out at all,” he corrected, “No promos, no matches, nothing. And you can’t come defend me if anything goes south. Even if I’m getting my ass handed to me.”

“Wait a minute, you’re saying if Lesnar gets the upper hand and starts beating the shit out of you, I can’t come out?” Seth demanded, pulling away to glare at the other man, “What if he has back-up, Roman? Or Heyman makes some sort of deal and he’s got people backstage? They’re both so far up Vince’s ass you know he’ll give them whatever they ask for. What, I’m just supposed to stay back and watch you get hurt? That’s bullshit.”

“I have to do this my way. This is a two-man game, Seth. Him and me- that’s it. Nobody else can be involved.”

Seth cocked an eyebrow, “What about Heyman?” he questioned, causing Roman to shake his head.

“Heyman might be an asset at times, but at the end of the day there’s only two people in the ring,” he replied, “When Lesnar gets taken out, it has to be by my hands alone.”

“So what, this is all for your pride?” Seth scoffed, unable to believe what he was hearing, “Roman, come on!”

“It’s more than just my pride, Seth! It’s my dignity, my livelihood; it’s everything I’ve ever stood for!” Roman exclaimed, “It’s about a rivalry that’s gone on for years and finally proving once and for all who’s top dog around here. This is for me, it’s for you, it’s for Dean, our families, the fans, and everyone in that locker room!” his volume lowered significantly, eyes pleading for the man before him to understand, “This is about what’s right and proving that title still has value and holding it stands for something bigger than just one person. This is what we do, Seth. We fight because it’s what we love and because it means something,” he reached forward, grateful when his boyfriend didn’t yank his hands away again, “I have to do this.”

Seth grimaced down at the bed sheets. “If Dean were here-” he began, only for Roman to cut him off.

“Nothing would change,” he interrupted calmly, “I plan on telling him the same thing when I talk to him next. Whether he comes by to visit or gets cleared early, nobody else can get involved. Not you, Dean, the twins, anybody,” Roman let out a small breath. “I know this is gonna be brutal,” he promised, “Lesnar wants to break Punk’s streak and putting an end to that isn’t gonna come without a little pain. But I’m ready.” He leaned forward, letting their foreheads rest together.

“I have to do this,” he whispered, “It’s time.”

The entire situation blows, basically. Especially because Seth knows he can’t fault him for a word he said and what’s more, if the roles were reversed, Roman would respect his wishes and stay back. Hell, he already did when Seth had been fighting with Finn Balor for the very same belt years prior.

“I fucking hate you, Roman Reigns,” he pouts, finally allowing their eyes to meet again and making the other man laugh.

“I know,” he promises fondly, “But you love me too.”

“Yeah,” Seth leans forward to meet him for another kiss, “I really do.”

…

As expected, the promise sucks.

At first it seems like maybe fulfilling Roman’s wishes won’t be too difficult since Brock is never around. There’s much less of a chance for something to go south when it’s just back and forth with Heyman on the mic. Seth does get heated after Vince suspends Roman from Raw the following week, but he holds his tongue when the Samoan assures him it’ll be fine.

“They’re not used to someone calling them out,” Roman says patiently while packing up his belongings in the locker room. “It’s understandable. Not acceptable, but understandable. They’ll figure it out, even if I have to force the point,” He leans forward to peck Seth’s lips twice. “I’ll meet you back at the hotel. See if I can get us an upgrade to something with a Jacuzzi tub to celebrate you kicking Finn’s ass.”

…

But when US Marshalls appear the week after and put Roman in handcuffs, Seth isn’t so comfortable anymore. And when Brock comes out and attacks him with his hands bound, things get ugly backstage as well.

“HE CAN’T USE HIS FUCKING HANDS!” Seth shouts, unable to understand why no one else is as upset as he is about the situation. “And they’ve got some second-rate security guards and a few refs out there? What the hell, man?!” His heart nearly breaks in two as the man he loves is put on a stretcher, a bit of comfort coming at the sight of the Beast Incarnate seemingly having his fill of unnecessary torture only to be ripped away when Lesnar apparently reconsiders and heads back towards the ring.

“Seth, try to calm down-” Sasha gives him a look of sympathy as she and a few others block the locker room door. While loving him with all his heart, Roman knew the likelihood of Seth losing his cool was high and had taken precaution and spread word to a handful of their friends in advance.

“He’s on a goddamn stretcher, dude! This isn’t okay!” the Architect exclaims, searching for some way to release his fury at the situation, “Let me out!”

Apollo frowns, “Sorry man, Roman made us promise,”

“Fuck promises! There was nothing about stretchers in the stupid promise!” Letting out another swear, Seth throws a kick against the locker’s wooden paneling. “He needs help!”

“Honey, he has to do this himself,” Nia says gently, quickly echoed by Matt Hardy.

“She speaks the truth! It is a quest indeed the Large Canine himself must complete without the aid of even his most beloved,” Matt places his hands together, tone full of serenity as he speaks with complete confidence, “Though fear not, he who seeks the Title of Intercontinents! I have foreseen this journey’s end and can guarantee that after the necessary trials and tribulations have been conquered your suitor will indeed emerge triumphant!”

For a moment the room is silent, everyone turning to stare at the self-proclaimed Woken Warrior until finally Seth snaps out of it and questions, “Who the hell even let you in here?”

(It’s once Roman is being wheeled out to the awaiting ambulance and demands Seth stay for the rest of the show that he manages to calm down a bit simply because the other man is able to speak. The only reason he doesn’t ignore the instructions and head to the hospital anyway is because Mike Kanellis agrees to go in his place and keep him updated and Roman threatens to ban Seth from his bedside.)

…

“I should never have agreed to this,” It’s the following week that Seth is once again watching chaos unfold on the locker room’s tiny television screen.

“You know as well as I do if you go out there he’d never forgive you,” Dean Ambrose’s voice barks from the cell phone speaker, “Once he makes up his mind there’s no changing it. He’s a hard head like you.”

Seth doesn’t even bother arguing. It’s a trait all three of them have in common and they know it. “Yeah well, his head is giving me an ulcer,”

“He can handle it, Uce. Look, he’s holding his own, see? Totally fine,” Rollins can almost hear his best friend grimace a minute later when Roman goes flying through the stairs. “Shit that looked painful,”

“You’re really a big help, man. I can’t say it enough,” he comments dryly.

“Suck it up, Princess. He’s taking a couple bumps, not being permanently confined to a wheelchair. Get him some ice and maybe a shot of whiskey for yourself and quit the crying.”

Seth sits forward in his folding chair and stares at the monitor intensely, his left leg bouncing with nerves, “Get up, Roman. Come on, sit up,” he murmurs, letting out a sigh of relief when the other man slowly begins to rise.

“See! What I tell ya?”

“Dean, shut the fuck up.”

…

There almost isn’t even time to panic at Wrestlemania simply because everything happens so fast.

After an endless (epic) week in New Orleans, Sunday is spent doing last minute press and getting ready until show time.

Fresh off his triple threat victory, when the finale comes Seth is beaming from ear to ear as he watches the love of his life walk out to thousands of screaming fans. It’s obvious the Big Dog isn’t super over at the moment, but to Seth it doesn’t matter if he gets the crowd reaction of Daniel Bryan or Tommaso Ciampa. Love him or hate him, Roman Reigns owns this yard and everyone watching live in Louisiana and around the world through the WWE Network is about to see why.

It isn’t easy to watch. Roman kicks ass obviously, but after the third F5 Seth can tell the battle is wearing on him. Which is expected, of course, however throughout the entire match he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. Roman is on fire as usual, but there’s something in the air Seth can’t quite describe that has him shifting the Intercontinental title over his shoulder uneasily as he watches among countless other Superstars just past gorilla position backstage.

“Fuck,” the word slips out of his mouth without warning when red begins to seep at the Samoan’s hairline, and he can’t even bring himself to care that countless higher ups are milling around to hear his profanity. It’s clear from the hushed murmur of his peers he isn’t the only one starting to get anxious.

“That’s… a lot of blood,” Bayley points out nervously, Natalya nodding in agreement from her place nearby.

“Was that spot planned?” she asks, glancing to Jimmy and Jey Uso, who both shrug, and then Seth for an answer. But the Architect can only shake his head. Everyone knows Roman isn’t the type to go for gore or special effects; he’s been raised to always showcase talent over anything else. Besides, Seth knows that every attempt to contact Brock to map out the match had gone unanswered by the self-proclaimed mayor of Suplex City.

“…he’s not moving,” Renee breaks the silence after a few more minutes when Lesnar lands another F5, this time through the announce table. Even Dean, who can be seen connected via FaceTime on the phone in her hand, is looking a bit paler than usual.

Xavior Woods shakes his head. “He’s good, he’s just taking a second to regroup,” the gamer attempts to reassure the room as well as himself, staring on.

“Yeah,” The twins force themselves to nod, backing up the sentiment, “He’s got this,”

…

To everyone’s shock, Seth doesn’t try to rush out when the ref finally counts to three. Instead he remains silent, feet slowly moving until his back hits a concrete wall, the gleaming white belt slipping as he stares ahead with a blank face.

He didn’t expect this. He was prepared for a lot of things to happen tonight, but never did the possibility even cross his mind that Roman would lose.

He wants to throw up. He wants to scream and cry and throw a fit like a child whose mother refuses to buy them candy in the grocery store. Not because he’s upset with Roman for losing, but because of the situation as a whole.

This shouldn’t have happened. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Lesnar was supposed to drop the title and go back to the UFC- that was what everyone heard. That was the plan. So something had to have changed. Except Roman would have told him if that had happened, there was no doubt in Seth’s mind. So what the hell happened out there?

The crowd of Superstars has spread out by the time the performers are arriving backstage, a handful giving Brock polite applause when he appears. The reigning champion barely spares anyone a look, shaking hands with Vince and a few other big wigs before making his way through the parted crowd, Heyman at his heels like that of an obedient Golden Retriever.  

It takes a little longer for Roman to arrive, a towel in one hand soaked with blood and a look of pure defeat clear on his face. His gaze is locked on the floor, unable and unwilling to look anyone in the eye until Samoa Joe of all people slowly begins to applaud. One by one the rest of the roster joins in, as well as a large part of the crew, meeting his eyes as they shower him with respect.

Roman sucks in a breath, doing his best to hold back the tears already building. While Vince only offers a solemn nod of the head, Hunter steps forward and pulls the other man into a hug, quickly murmuring words no one else can hear before releasing him with a pat on the back and push towards his peers.

The Superstars keep it brief, offering a few words of encouragement or a clap on the shoulder as he passes. Everyone knows what it’s like to come off of a huge match on the opposite side of victory, so the rest of the talent quickly disperses to finish their own tasks and give Roman his space.

It’s Seth that meets him at the end of the line, of course, finally having snapped out of his revere when Roman reaches him. Rather than speak he simply turns to the concerned ref nearby and holds up a hand, silently asking for five minutes before having the wound examined at medical. Receiving a quick nod in response, he follows Roman to their shared locker room and twists the lock behind him, dropping the title onto his bag before letting out a breath as his back hits the door.

For a moment there’s nothing but heavy silence, a small groan slipping from Roman’s lips as he lowers himself to a plush sofa in the corner the only audible sound.

Naturally, because he’s Seth Rollins and it’s what he does, Seth speaks first.

“I love you,” he announces, taking no offense when he receives  zero response from the other man’s bowed head, “There’s a lot more I want to say, and we both know I will eventually, but right now I’m just gonna say that I love you and I’m here and that’s never gonna change.”

A few beats pass before Roman opens his eyes, face rising as Seth crosses the room and crouches down in front of him. Rollins holds back a sob when their gazes connect. The other man’s face is the picture of a broken human being. A few tears have escaped and roll down his cheeks, devastation and frustration and humiliation just a few of the emotions radiating from his person.

“I didn’t know,” Roman’s voice is garbled, thick with physical and emotional exhaustion when he finally speaks, “They changed their mind and nobody told me. He was coming down the ramp when the ref pulled me aside.” He shakes his head, almost as if he himself can’t believe the situation. “I didn’t know,”

And because he isn’t sure what else can be done in this type of scenario, Seth just pulls him into his arms and lets him cry.

…

As much as he wants to believe the worst is over, Seth knows once Mania ends things aren’t going to ease up any time soon. The Greatest Royal Rumble is announced to be taking place in Saudi Arabia in just three weeks time, including a Wrestlemania rematch for the Universal Championship inside of a cell.

By now Roman is over his sad phase. He isn’t the type to feel sorry for himself anyway, but he has moments of weakness from time to time like anyone else because he’s human. Once those are over though, it’s back to protecting his yard and being the warrior everyone knows him to be.

And of course, now more fired up than ever, he’s also hellbent on Seth still staying out of it. Luckily Brock doesn’t show up (shocker) until the Raw before the Rumble, and even then somehow things manage not to get out of hand. So it isn’t as difficult.

Then they go to Saudi Arabia.

Don’t get him wrong, Seth totally loves the UAE. The cities are beautiful, the culture is incredible, and the people and the fans they meet are the best.

But some complete and total horse shit goes down at the Greatest Royal Rumble.

It’s not confusing. There’s not a debate. The rules announced before the match clearly state the first contestant’s feet to hit the floor is the winner.

Roman’s feet hit the floor first.

No ifs, ands, or buts about it. It’s on freaking film.

But of course, by sheer coincidence and one of the only recorded times in history, the ref makes the wrong call.

Naturally, Seth is livid. He manages to remain in the back, but the locker room is rather impressed with the extensive vocabulary of curse words he throws out. Titus O’Neal even quietly reminds him they are indeed in a foreign country as guests and trying to make a good impression not just as a company but as individuals, so he does lower his volume slightly, but his peers still wear masks of surprise at his vast collection of swears.

Roman doesn’t even know how to react. He’s so exhausted at this point, between the physicality of the match and the mental fatigue, not to mention their bodies are all thrown off by the time difference, all they can do when they return to the hotel is exchange a few tender kisses and pass out in bed.

…

The following day on Raw, when they make the announcement that they won’t be reversing the call, everyone expects an encore of the previous evening’s tirade but Seth can’t even muster up the energy. Like Roman, he’s tired. He’s very, very tired. Hell, by now he’s barely surprised.

He does get pissed off when Bobby Lashley and Braun Strowman of all people get to run out and help defend Roman, and that they get to tag with him against Owens, Zayn, and Jinder. Because yeah, Seth gets that he’s doing his thing with Miz and Finn and the IC title and it’s epic, but he hasn’t completely forgotten Roman exists. Like seriously, Braun Strowman? Didn’t Roman try to run him over with an ambulance a while back?

But of course Braun didn’t make a promise to stay in the back and the man adores any excuse to beat the shit out of someone, so when management calls for him to head out and assist the Big Dog he doesn’t have to think twice.

Damn semantics.

…

It’s clear by now Brock won’t be dropping the belt any time soon, no matter what happens. Not until he beats and seemingly erases Punk’s record from the history books, outcome of the matches be damned. Management won’t allow any other result as a possibility. It’s crap and it’s unfair, not just to Roman but to the entire locker room and the fans, but they can’t change anything. So really, they might as well not waste time crying about it.

All they can do is show up every day and do their best to put on an amazing show for the fans time and time again and have as much fun as possible in the process. That’s why they got into this business in the first place: because they love what they do. Not because of notoriety or fame or ugly red belts, but because it makes people happy, makes them feel alive, and because it’s so much fun every single time.

Every night they lay in bed, almost unable to tell whose limbs belong to whom in the tangled mess under hotel sheets, bodies pressed tight up against one another, they make sure to remember that.

When the time is right, Roman will get his turn with the Universal championship; whether that’s next week, next month, or ten years from now, it’ll happen. And it’ll be the ride of a lifetime and Seth will be the first one out to the ring to celebrate.

Until then, at the end of the day, they have each other.

And as it happens, compared to that, the glory of a title is practically insignificant.

fin.

[bbbarneswrites]

What if Bucky dated a fellow assassin?

Notes: Almost 3k of headcanons for this assassin!au that me and my friendo Kuni came up with some time ago. Happy reading! <3

Killing people for money is one of the things that you consider yourself to be very good at.

But not just for the money because you aren’t that immoral, no. You can’t deny you like the feeling it gives you when you’re able  to wipe the map off of some mysoginist, asshole man that had too many shitty things on his historic to be saved from.

That’s one of the  conditions that are listed on your deep web ad as an assassin slash mercenery for hire – you need your targets to be dirty. Even better if they’re mysoginist trash men. They’re the most fun to kill. 

You might be young at age but you aren’t young in the business – you’ve seen a fair share of weird deals and you’ve had your own share of shady negotiations so you don’t think much when you get an anonymous proposal offering a few millions to kill a convicted man. 

It’s been a while since your last job so knowing your target was trouble is enough despite the fact you’re most definitely thirsting over a few more dollar signs on your bank account. 

The weird thing about said deal is that your employer doesn’t tell you your target is The Winter freaking Soldier himself, as in war hero turned into soviet assassin turned into Avenger, Bucky Barnes. 

The Winter Soldier was never for hire as long as you remember but he was most definitely known into the business even when nobody knew where he came from or what was his deal. He was a legend to you as much as he was to the regular civilians who dared to believe in his existance. One thing that was common ground to everyone that believed was that nobody should mess up with the guy because he was just that good. 

And then S.H.I.E.L.D happened. And HYDRA happened. 

You found out that your fellow partner in career was actually Captain America’s long lost best-friend. That he didn’t necessarily want to be a fellow partner in career. And oh, also that you were a target in a freaking nazi hitlist. Details. 

To do your job, you need your target to be dirty. And Bucky Barnes most definitely is but not exactly in the way you usually expect. 

The address you’re given is to a very nice apartment in the funky, hipster area of Brooklyn. You usually don’t get up and close the people but the fact that he’s Bucky Barnes adds up to your curiosity and soon you’re disabling all his security protocols, stepping into the apartment with a new found purpose. 

It doesn’t take long for him to arrive and you guess it’s because he must have been informed about the security breach. 

It’s also funny how he steps into the apartment instantly knowing that you’re there. 

You love that he doesn’t seem surprised that you’re a woman but you hate that the bastard is just too damn good looking for your own good. He looks like a dream dressed up in a white tight shirt, dark grey sweatpants with stubbly cheeks and hair up in a bun that didn’t hold a few strays of his dark locks. The metal arm detailed with gold is a plus. So is the fact you can make out the shape of his thighs in those pants. 

(You just can’t imagine why someone would like this handsome man to be killed). 

Ever since you knew your target was the Bucky Barnes, you decided you weren’t killing him. You aren’t stupid as the people who say he’s at fault for what happened in D.C. You know he’s a victim and even though he did kill a few people in the last decades (like the damn United States president), it was actually HYDRA who pulled the trigger. 

You’re actually just indulging yourself to a very nice view of a very nice looking man even though he can kill you too. 

But obviously, he doesn’t know that and your heart actually skips a beat when he decides to talk you out of doing your job instead of taking you out as some would do. You would never admit it to anyone (anyone but him when you actually get together) but that is probably the first time that someone saw you for you, past your usual façade. 

Still, you know he’s ready for a fight and that fact becomes truth when you decide to test him, attacking him in the middle of his nice expensive looking living room only to end up straddled by the said man, his metal fingers holding up your wrists as his thighs locked up your legs. 

You leave his place a few millions poorer, without one more name to your list but very content about yourself. 

That’s the sort of thing that usually happens after flirting with a ex-soviet assassin for a night. 

In the next day, Bucky goes back to the Tower and keeps his mouth shut about the whole ordeal. Steve is worried about the security breach but Bucky does his best to soothe the man’s nerves, assuring it was only a power outage in the building. Bucky keeps his mouth shut but finds himself digging for every bit of information on the girl from the previous night. 

With a flirty smile and a cup of coffee, Bucky manages to convince the cute I.T guy to set up his laptop so he could search around the illegal specialized websites. 

He finds you in less than 5 minutes given you’re one of the best and fairly popular on the business. 

Your ad is also one of a kind which actually helped and made Bucky laugh on the spot. 

 ASSASSIN FOR HIRE 

Wrongs Righted. Bad Guys Beaten. No Crime Too Small to Crack. No Villain Too Villainous to Villify. 

LET ME SOLVE YOUR PROBLEMS FOR YOU 

Fairly Cheap Rates – Great Results – Light housekeeping 

 The more Bucky searches on you, more he gets himself hooked and curious. He’s seen some people around the sites to codename you as Foxglove and he’s amused to know the real reason behind the name. Unlike all the assassins and mercenaries that he’d had the pleasure of knowing, he learns that you act through poisonous gas and needles through your targets.

It’s also very well known that you’re quite good in martial arts and have a soft spot for your target’s soft spots. Especially if they’re men, if anyone can catch the drift. 

Bucky gathers that you’re into this business for a while and he couldn’t help but wonder how’d you get in. 

The aftermath of your meeting with The Winter Soldier brings you some unwanted situations. Having broken your anonymous employer’s deal, you find yourself in a tough spot where you have to lay low for a while. Thing that isn’t necessarily bad, just not exactly ideal. 

Bucky Barnes was different from what you had envisioned and before you can even realize, you’re looking up on every bit of information on him. You’re surprised with how much time tv news anchors and politians spend talking about the Avengers. And you’re amused to find out that the guy is actually very much loved online and has his fair share of both fangirls and fanboys to back him up. 

He’s a mystery to you just as much you’re a mystery to him. 

But laying low isn’t something that you particularly enjoy and adding up the previous thoughts you’ve had since the meeting and everything you’ve seen from the Avengers so far, it isn’t surprising that you turn to fighting New York street crime as an Avengers slash neighborhood friendly vigilante. 

You don’t catch much attention from the team at first because you aren’t the first vigilante to show up in New York but that changes when you stop an alien weapons deal and send a nice warning to the said mightiest heroes. When Bucky, Steve and Sam get to the place, the weapons are safely secured and the mob bosses leading the deal all had signs of deathly poisoning. Bucky couldn’t help but smirk despite the situation. 

The same thing happens a few more times – your friendly warnings causing confusion and drawing attention from the team. 

But then you start to stick around after your calls. Only making yourself known to Bucky. 

And then both of you start to long for the moments where you’re both together and hidden from the team at some place, the thrill of your shared secret making your chests buzz with anticipation. You can’t quite pinpoint when it starts but the flirting and the teasing feels so natural that you can’t help but love it. 

Unbeknown to Bucky, the team gets suspicious on his sudden disappearances on the vigilante’s calls and it doesn’t take long until Steve is demanding him to track you for good and bring you in as easily as he could. 

Bucky honestly tries to. But you just look that good wearing only your customary leather jacket and lace panties when you open the door that he completely looses the track of time between one make-out session to another. The couch make-out session, the kitchen counter make-out session, the wall make-out session. 

The bruises on his neck are enough of an answer to Steve once Bucky comes back to the Tower late night and the Captain can’t help but sigh disbelief once he sees his best-friend’s unbothered smirk. 

It takes a while until you let yourself be convinced to join the Avengers. 

You’re just fine with your vigilante business even though it doesn’t have as much privileges as being an assassin for hire. The Avengers are a high-up, globally known team and you most definitely don’t want that for you, especially with your past. It takes a lot of insistance from Steve and Tony’s part until you give in. 

You settle for being a simple agent even if your skills are way too good for such a meek title. At least that’s what your official papers say. 

In reality, you turn out to be more Bucky’s partner than anything else. 

Your missions are always successful and even though you try not to brag about it (especially to Sam who hates hearing anything about it), you know that the both of you make a good team together. It can sound weird or cheesy to anybody else’s ears but you know how to complete Bucky just as much as he knows how to complete you. He knows you and your fighting style, your skills and your mindset just as much as  you know his and you can easily say that’s why you work so well together. 

You trust him to have your back like no one else and you know that he’d do whatever to keep you safe. 

It’s not a bad thing to work with your man too – even if the team absolutely hates it sometimes. 

Seeing him in his all black uniform, riffle in hands and mission face on is just as amazing for him to see you in your deep black catsuit, spinning your thighs around some poor dude’s neck before taking him down with a harmless sleep needle. It’s also fun to tease him through the comms with dirty talk, even more when the rest of the team is just done with it. 

(You particularly like that one mission you had to slip out of your dress and into your catsuit after stealing blueprints of weapons prototypes from a rich maniac at his extravagant birthday party. 

Bucky’s priviliged sniper spot was the perfect place for your change of clothes and the team didn’t put much thought into it. 

That is, until both of you found much more interesting activities to attend than the mission itself). 

Having Bucky as your work partner is amazing but having him as your boyfriend is even better. 

Bucky most definitely is easy on the eyes with his sharp jaw, killer blue eyes and smile but he’s  got his demons just as much as you do. Your previous line of work wasn’t exactly conventional enough to land you a partner but now with Bucky everything seems a lot easier for you. He’s got his past and you got yours and having him by your side more often than not makes you forget about life’s sidelines. 

You live for his kisses – the ones he always make sure to spread through your neck and collarbones, to the curve of your breasts and stomach. The feeling of the tips of his fingers trailing through your back and thighs and almost always inside the edge of your panties grounds you and makes you feel as wanted as ever.

His arms are your safe place from your doubts and insecurities and even though both of you know that you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself, it’s still nice to know that he’s there to support you at all times. 

You love that you get to call him your man, you love that you get to feel his lips on your skin everyday, you love you get to mark his skin with your lips everyday. 

For Bucky, you’re his partner and his protector, his girl and his confidant. He’d never put much thought into having someone by his side given who he is but now he often wonders how he’d gotten so far without you. 

He likes the idea of thinking of you as his soulmate, someone who understands his struggles and overcome them with him. He likes that you trust him so blindly from the very beginning, giving no care as to the things he did back with HYDRA. He likes that you defend him as fiercely as Steve does, he likes that you know him, he likes that you know your way around him, he likes that you let your walls down with him. 

He likes every little piece of you. 

Your skills and your personality that gives him a run for his money, the curves of your body and the marks of your skin, your perfume and your hair. The kisses that are almost always followed by a bite that will mark him, the gentle caresses through his chest and arms. How perfectly you fit under and on top him. Your flirting and your teasing and your declarations. 

It amazes him to no end how you feel more and more like his haven and he relishes on each day he’s able to wake up in the morning and call you his baby girl, just like you love it. 

A few years down the road, you decide to move in together to an apartment away from the Tower. 

Your saved money and Bucky’s generous backpay earns you both a nice, fairly big apartment in a renewed cute brownstone building near all the hipster bars and restaurants you make fun of but secretly love. 

Life is as sweet as it can be with shared bubble baths, Netflix cuddling nights, morning sex in the kitchen, clothes forgotten by both of you and lazy post-mission sleeps when you get home. 

It almost feels like you’re married – even more when you bring a cat home, that you claim it is your son, even though it absolutely hates Bucky’s guts. 

You name the black green eyed cat Sebastian due your obsession with his actor dude you insist that looks like Bucky and that only adds to the soldier’s occasional distaste for the pet. The cat is as needy for your attention as he is, and as just as protective of you. Bucky normally appreciates it, just not when you’re on top of him with the sweetest moans and the cat is stratching the bed’s sheets to have you back. 

And, yeah, let’s not talk about all the scratches his metal (and flesh) arm gets from Sebastian’s claws. 

And, no, Bucky isn’t jealous of how you treat the cat with your cuddles and kisses and baby voice whenever it does something to him or his stuff. 

The only time where both your boys settle down and tolerate each other is when you leave for missions. 

Bucky always records videos and takes pictures of needy Sebastian cuddling up to his side as he reads, or settling on your side of the bed at night just because it needs its cuddles and you’re not there to provide. You know that Bucky has a soft spot for Sebastian deep down in his heart and that he loves it everytime the cat shows some affection to him. 

(Also, it isn’t unusual for Bucky to actually speak to the cat when you’re not home. Their talks usually consists of how much they miss you and can’t wait for you to be home). 

It’s funny how the second you’re back in the house, they’re suddenly enemies again. 

It almost feels like you’re married – so much that you decide to really do it, even if not on the conventional way as you decide to elope. 

There isn’t a fancy dinner so you have some drinks by Tony Stark himself instead. There isn’t a formal party so you have a nice gathering with the team only instead. There isn’t a white dress so you have a black sexy party one instead. 

Nothing is conventional, including you and Bucky and your relationship, but the best part is that your love makes up for all of it.

[bussanbaby]

veni vidi amavi

soulmate (noun) - a person with whom you have an immediate connection the moment you meet; a connection so strong that you are drawn to them in a way you have never experienced before.

What does time mean to an immortal being?

Mundanes have a limited amount of it. Aware of the final line, they try to live out every fantasy before their hourglasses run clean. They plan out the years, goals to be achieved, memories to be made in the right order. They dream of being remembered after their years have rushed by, whether for something worthy of fame or just simple photographs set in frames on homely mantelpieces.

Sometimes, Magnus hears people say ‘We haven’t seen each other for so long!’ when it’s been a year or five, and it makes him smile. He’s always felt stationary, almost solid against the waves of time; for Magnus, there’s no end line in sight, no set rules, no bracket to keep him contained.

Immortality doesn’t mean invincibility - Magnus has learned that the hard way - but there is a specific sense of freedom in not having to count your years.

He turns the shower lever and waits until steam rises from the stream of water, then steps in.

Magnus has lived over four centuries on this earth, watched it evolve before his very eyes. He’s lived through many wars, fought to keep himself and his kind alive against all sorts of evil. But there have also been years of peace, when he was free to indulge in adventures, his studies and pleasures of life. With these years, came people.

He’s made great friends, like Catarina and Ragnor, who’ve stuck with him through thick and thin, made unforgettable memories and annoyed him out of his mind in the most loving way possible. There have been other acquaintances, warlocks he worked with, loyal clients, and random downworlders whose presence Magnus enjoyed immensely. They’ve all made his life different in their own ways and he will remember them, even if the world forgets about their existence.

There have also been lovers, many of them. Single night flings he remembers as clothes draped over furniture, long hours tasting like liquor and laughter, followed by parting ways. Some people stuck around for longer, held Magnus’ hand and went with him on dates, but, sooner or later, they always fled. Whether it was his cat eyes, past deeds or something else entirely, the relationships never lasted, each leaving behind a new fissure in Magnus’ soul.

Magnus tips his head back, letting the water from the showerhead spray over his face. He’s not sure why he’s thinking about all of this, old loves and the many years he remembers; maybe it’s the date or the repetitive motions that leave his mind wandering. His eyelashes flutter as droplets of water hang onto them, only to slip down his nose and chin, catch on the sharp edge of his jaw.

At first, he had hope - a romantic at heart, Magnus loves like he lives, to the fullest. But for an immortal, love, like everything else, is only temporary. He understands these feelings aren’t meant to be timeless, because even other warlocks or vampires he’s been with had never stayed as soon as the flame of affection dimmed.

Of course, break-ups are a commodity in the world of relationships, but, at some point, a tinny voice in the back of Magnus’ mind warned him to not get too attached, because he would always end up alone. By the point Camille had come into Magnus’ life, he was tired of it all, but let himself take a last chance; a last shot at putting his hand in the fire and hoping it wouldn’t burn.

She was good for him for a while - distracted his thoughts, set his mind at ease with her colorful personality and all kinds of frivolities, told Magnus she understood the pain he felt in his heart, pulled him away from the edge in more ways than one. They crashed events as famous people, partied until the sun rose overhead; Camille made Magnus feel good, made him feel important and wanted when the world meant to prove him otherwise. He loved her with his whole being, gifted her with his best works to keep her smiling, but her feelings for him were never quite the same.

Magnus has realised her decadence over time; for Camille love was just another plaything, an entertainment, something that required little effort on her side. Ruthlessly cold at the core, she toyed with Magnus’ emotions, selfishly manipulated him into giving her all she wanted, put thoughts in his head, ones he should have never believed. Where for him love was a gorgeous thing, for Camille it was a ball and chain; despite all she told Magnus, she never intended to be his forever.

Camille broke Magnus’ heart, shattered it into sharp pieces it took decades to pick up and put back together. After her, Magnus had had enough; he closed himself off from any kind of feelings for other people. He was sick of baring himself, letting people in, only to be pushed away over and over. And so, he’d promised himself to never love again.

Magnus lets his head lull forward, blinks his eyes open as water trickles down the back of his neck. Puffs of white foam wash down the drain, swirling around his feet, as he stands under the warm stream just for a moment longer. There’s no rush for him to be anywhere, no lives in danger, no early calls, no war to fight.

With a relaxed sigh, he steps out and dries himself off before wrapping the towel around his waist. Without the loud hum of the water, Magnus can clearly hear the birds chirping right outside the house through the open window; the air brushing his bare skin smells of sea salt and the citrus trees growing nearby. Hair dry after a click of his fingers, Magnus combs it back loosely, and with a brief glance into the mirror, he leaves the bathroom.

He’s bought this Provençal little house on a whim, after on one date night Alec suggested that if they ever get a day off, they should elope, spend it out in the countryside and away from the big cities. And now, they’re here on a sunny Saturday, with their phones turned off and all day to themselves. Fingers dragging over flowery wallpaper, Magnus makes his way over to the master bedroom, old wooden floors creaking under his weight.

They’d arrived yesterday evening, just after they both got off work and said goodbyes to their kids, who were staying with Luke and Maryse. The summer warmth stuck to their skin the second they stepped through the portal, kept them company while they strolled around a nearby quaint town tucked into the seaside, hand in hand down cobblestone alleys lined with buildings painted the muted shades of sunset. They tried the food and listened to stories told by locals, until it got dark and the stars rose above their heads. New York’s sky couldn’t ever measure up to to the bright-freckled night in the middle of a heather field.

At one point, when they were already drunk on love and rosé, when Magnus was laughing at something Alec said so hard he had to prop himself on whatever was near, it seemed like they were the only people in the entire world. Not hearing Alec’s laughter along his own, Magnus looked up, caught him staring with a gaze intense and tinted with something earnest and tender, something that spoke beyond simple words.

“Look at you. You’re so beautiful.”

Magnus has heard those words many times from Alec, who takes every chance to tell him how gorgeous he is, inside and out. He has made Magnus feel far from an abomination, monstrous and dangerous - when faced with Magnus’ past, Alec hadn’t passed judgement; instead, he’d embraced Magnus, along with all his vices and virtues, and accepted him as he was. Alec had made Magnus feel safe.

With stars above them and the brightest ones set in Alec’s eyes, Magnus crowded him against a wall, kissed him with all he had - passion and fondness and devotion. Alec smiled against his mouth, Magnus could feel him push his entire body into the gesture, respond to the kiss like a storm, electric and enticing at once; Magnus would never tire of it, of how each kiss made his heart grow two sizes, whether it was an everyday greeting or something deeper and more reverent as this.

When Magnus walks into the bedroom, Alec seems to still be asleep. Before, he was settled on his stomach, his bare back exposed to the rays of sun slipping in through the wooden shutters, pale ochre-colored light cutting thick lines like painter’s strokes into his runed skin.

Slipping out from beneath the thin sheets, Magnus had dragged his gaze along the curves of Alec’s muscles, over paths Magnus’ hands have taken more times than he can count. It felt impossible to leave the bed with his husband still in it, warm and solid, yet he had, mind heavy with thoughts only to be resolved under a stream of hot water.

Now Alec is on his back, tangled in the lavender-colored fabric, sleep-hazy and uninhibited, with his arms resting loosely over his torso and a sliver of thigh peeking through a gap in the coiled sheets. He looks like an artist’s muse, Greek Apollo captured in tan marble. Stuck in the doorway, Magnus smiles absentmindedly, wanting to keep this image forever.

The clothes they’d shed the day before, lost in the sensation of skin on skin and fingertips pressed into muscle, are still scattered over the wooden floors; Magnus picks up a crumpled shirt and a pair of pants on his way over to a small suitcase they’d brought along. He throws them onto an armchair in the corner of the room and fishes out some fresh underwear, the breeze from the open balcony door wrapping itself around his ankles. The towel lands on the ground with a soft noise and Magnus pulls the red boxer briefs over his ass.

“Nice view,” Alec murmurs, his voice rough with disuse, the words slurring together into one noise Magnus deciphers with years of practice. He turns to look behind him, only to find Alec with a smile on his face, somewhere between sleepy and playful, an arm tucked behind his head as a pillow.

Magnus lifts an eyebrow at Alec, unimpressed.

“Good morning to you, too,” he says with a semi-flat tone, his amusement at the mischievousness coloring his voice despite best efforts.

With a sigh accompanied by Alec’s chuckle, Magnus looks towards the horizon beyond the balcony railing - the pale sand bordering overgrown flower fields, the sea waves lapping at the coast, cerulean lined with white foam. He glances back towards Alec and sends him a sly wink.

“It’s quite impressive, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, it’s extraordinary,” Alec hums in agreement, then huffs out an indulgent laugh at their stupid little jokes; the sound echoes bright between Magnus’ ribs as he goes to hang the damp towel over the balcony railing.

The late-morning sun touches at his skin when he leans against the carved wood, letting the wind play with strands of his hair. He’s spent so much time in New York that this kind of quiet feels almost eerie - there’s no honking taxis, no helicopters flying over buildings at random hours in the night, no people with their easy chatter littering every nook and cranny of the city. Instead, there’s just nature, bees and birds mingling, the rustle of branches against the roof tiles.

“Come back to bed? I haven’t kissed my husband today yet and I really want to,” Alec says, voice teasing, yet soft.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Magnus remarks, taking deliberately slow stops towards the bed, watching Alec’s smile grow into a sleepy grin.

The mattress creaks beneath Magnus’ weight when he settles on his knees across Alec’s hips, arms pressed into the pillow on both sides of Alec’s head. Alec looks up at Magnus, hands raising to rest against his neck, feather-light and adoring. It’s slow and easy to drown in, Alec smiling mid-kiss, pressing soft pecks to the corners of Magnus’ lips before pushing up for more open mouthed kisses.

When Magnus met Alec, he had long forgotten what true love felt like. It was a tumultuous time, with Valentine on the rise and the warlocks uneasy. Then, Clary came like a whirlwind back into Magnus’ life, turning it inside out. With Clary, Alec had begrudgingly tagged along, at first thorny and closed-off, always keeping himself safe in the shadows of others. Yet, since the first time they’d spoken to each other - even before that - they’d had a connection.

It was beyond simple physical attraction; it was more than skin-deep. Even in the aftermath of their short-lived fight with that Circle member, they took a moment just to breathe each other in, Magnus watched a smile grow on Alec’s face, unabashed and uninhibited with the burdens of his everyday life. There was something so special, something Magnus couldn’t deny, and it was exactly what pushed him to reach out, start the entire chain of events that led them here.

Kissing Alec feels easier than breathing, their bodies responding in sync to each other, one of Magnus’ hands travelling down Alec’s chest, over coarse hair and to his side, thumb dragging against the sharp line of his hipbone only to grab at his thigh. Before they even realize, their chests are pressed flush together, legs tangled and hearts beating to one rhythm.

They’ve done this more times than Magnus can count, kissed until their mouths were red and puffy; sometimes it was all passion and heat deep in the pit of Magnus’ stomach, their hands reckless and needy, but sometimes it was just like this, steady and lazy and slow, touching for the sake of it.

The initial leap into the unknown was terrifying, every exposed piece of Magnus’ soul a step onto the minefield. The first Shadowhunter to come into Magnus’ life, Alec was a key to the cage Magnus had locked himself into a century ago. And it wasn’t easy at the beginning - with every move forward, they made two back; after all, nothing good ever comes easy. The turning point was the wedding Magnus crashed, when he decided to fight once more for his and Alec’s happiness, with a little bit of help from an old friend. In hindsight, it was one of the best choices Magnus has made, because Alec was like summer rain - powerful, yet soothing.

He turned Magnus’ world upside down and led him home at once.

Magnus presses his lips against the deflect rune on Alec’s neck and feels the fingers buried in his hair tighten, pulling a hum from his chest. It’s mouths brushing against stubbled cheeks, smiles hidden in collarbones, ticklish touches leaving them giggling like teenagers. They kiss and kiss and kiss, until they feel full, if for a little while.

Helplessly tangled up in the sheets, Magnus lies down on his back next to Alec, who shuffles closer, resting his chin on Magnus’ chest and winding an arm around his waist. Without the need to say anything and slightly out of breath, Magnus moves his fingers through Alec’s hair, combing back the unruly curls that keep springing back into their place.

“25 years, huh,” Alec muses, his chin digging into the muscle underneath with each movement.

Magnus cranes his neck down at a strange angle, pretty positive he’s sporting a double chin from Alec’s point of view; his fingers keep running through the motions.

“That’s roughly half your life you’ve been married to me. How does it feel?”

“Wonderful, actually.” Alec smiles lopsidedly, halfway lost in his thoughts, swallows around the next words. “Do you think I’d be bald by now, like Camille said? Or maybe I’d have grey sides, all rugged and sexy a la Oscar Isaac.”

Magnus chuckles, a vision of Alec dressed like the Star Wars pilot forming in his imagination; the leather jacket would look surely nice on him, fitting well into Alec’s already existing fashion sense.

“First of all, did you hang out with Simon recently? And second of all, Camille didn’t know what she was talking about. I love you as you are, in all your messy, bed-hair glory.”

Alec’s snicker is mixed with a soft glance from beneath his eyelashes, before he pushes up on his arm to peck Magnus on the mouth, lingering close just for a couple of seconds. “Love you too, baby.”

He lies down comfortably again, this time with his scratchy cheek against Magnus’ skin. The hand that was resting loosely around Magnus’ waist begins to trace feather-light shapes over his side.

Magnus’ hand stills, settling against the curve of Alec’s skull, almost cradling it against his chest.

Their love was a conversation, a dialogue of souls made of the same material. Smitten with each other from the very beginning, it was impossible to stay away - no matter what life threw at them, they’ve always returned, found the right path and tangled their hands together. They’re good for each other, but in a healthier way than Camille was for Magnus. While it’s impossible to avoid comparisons, Magnus knows deeply they’re two entirely different worlds, a theatre show versus something so real and tender that sometimes it hurts to feel.

Alec has made Magnus open up and believe again - in true love, in stability, and a kind of safety going beyond locked doors and magical wards. That he still can have his happy forever. Alec has listened to Magnus’ doubts and fears, opinions and memories, heard beyond his voice. Alec has loved him in the moments when Magnus felt unlovable.

Magnus sighs, a subtle smile settled on his mouth, as he blinks himself out of his thoughts. He used to have quiet days a lot back in his more lonesome times. There’s less of them now, but they still happen, almost welcome - times likes this sun-lit morning, where’s no darkness weighing down on him, but something peaceful and complete instead.

His fingers dance down Alec’s back, over the straight line of his spine, pulling a drowsy hum from Alec resting on his chest. He seems to be drifting in and out of sleep, eyes closed, but fingertips still moving against Magnus’ side.  

“Let’s have breakfast, dove,” Magnus says quietly, drumming his fingers against the knobs of Alec’s vertebrae.

“Can’t we have breakfast in bed?” Alec groans back, pushing his face into Magnus’ skin as if he could escape the reality and the sun slowly climbing higher and higher in the sky.

It’s a tempting offer, one snap of Magnus’ fingers and they could have the feast of their lives in these very sheets, but it doesn’t feel right; he’s gotten so used to doing things the mundane way with Alec that it’s almost ridiculous.

“Come on, you lazy oaf, there’s only so many hours in a day. And I’m really craving your special recipe scrambled eggs.” Magnus pats Alec’s ass and with one final sigh of defeat from the Shadowhunter, they both start to get up, the mattress squeaking with each sluggish movement.

Alec pads over to the suitcase and picks out a pair of black underwear to slip into before brushing past Magnus in the doorway, his hair sticking out in every possible direction. They walk down the stairs, the worn carpet rough beneath their bare feet. The small kitchen they walk into is connected to a dining room, framed with black and white linoleum and kitchen isles, plenty of space for a whole family. The sun is pouring in through the window, exposing all little dust particles floating around.

“Chef Alec is in the kitchen, two orders of five-star scrambled eggs with spinach and tomatoes coming right up,” Alec jokes as he pulls a pan from one of the cabinets, twirling it in his palm before he sets it on the stove.

The fridge is freshly well-stocked, charmed with a spell to always provide everything they need, and Alec dumps an armful of ingredients onto the counter, busying his hands and mind with making breakfast, already looking much more awake than moments before.

Magnus, on the other hand, busies himself with coffee and making the toast to accompany the eggs; he cuts thick slices of dark bread and puts them in the oven to crisp up, before pulling out the french press.

Still, Magnus can’t help but stare.

Alec still looks so young, bright-eyed and with morning scruff covering his face; there are no grey hairs on his head, no wrinkles embedded in his skin, except for little crow’s feet around his eyes that came from smiling. The golden band around Alec’s right ring finger catches the light as he cuts the tomatoes, quick and efficient.

It’s an unspoken rule that warlocks rarely marry. Usually, it’s the fear of commitment with mortals - the promise of heartbreak after they pass lingering like a ghost over your shoulder or people not wanting to spend the entirety of their lives devoted to one soul. But Alec has always had a tendency to surprise Magnus.

He always manages to say things that nobody has ever told Magnus before. There’s nothing ugly about you. I don’t think I can live without you. Will you marry me?

How could Magnus say no to the love of his life? They’ve gotten married, surrounded by their friends and family, all dressed in shades of gold. Magnus has never thought it would happen to him, that he’d be able to walk down the aisle covered with rose petals, holding his newly-wed husband’s slightly clammy hand, to see him smile at Magnus like he hung the stars and the moon in the sky. Magnus had resigned himself to a life alone, but there was Alec, taking down all his walls one by one, pressing a pair of gentle hands against Magnus’ heart.

There have been many lovers in Magnus’ life and he could not count them all, no matter how much he tried - fleeting romances, deeper connections, flings that turned into friendships. But never before has there been a person like Alec. Never someone who was more than a lover, who was also a best friend, a partner in crime, a kindred spirit.

With Alec, everything clicked - every joke was funnier if told by him (even if he stuttered through the punchline) and trouble never seemed as daunting with his presence behind Magnus’ back; they could talk about anything and everything from dinner options, politics and opinions, dreams and deepest fears, right to their plans for the future.

There wasn’t a day where Magnus didn’t think of his husband, his honest and loyal and tender husband, where his chest didn’t burst at the seams with all the love he harbored for so long. Alec isn’t Magnus’ longest relationship by far, but Magnus is sure it will outlast the world itself - he is a constant in a world full of temporary people.

After dumping a few spoonfuls of coffee grounds into the press, Magnus sets the kettle with a click of his fingers, not wanting to get into Alec’s way as he’s shuffling the eggs around with a wooden spatula. The food smells heavenly and Magnus feels hunger gnawing at his insides, almost tempting him to steal just a little bit off of the pan.

Alec glances up, one of his eyes lit up by the sun while he studies Magnus’ expression; since somewhere along the lines he’s learned to read Magnus like a book, he smiles and scoops some of the food onto the spatula, blows on it to cool it and carefully brings it closer to Magnus’ face.

Magnus dips down and takes a bite, managing to not spill any on the ground. With his mouth full, he can’t speak, so instead he expresses his emotions by a dip of his eyelids and a shamelessly exaggerated moan; there’s just the right amount of spices and herbs in the food.

Alec chuckles, his smile somewhere between smitten and pleased. “I’ll take that as a yes?”

With a hand on the side of Alec’s neck to draw him closer, Magnus nods, pauses chewing to peck Alec’s mouth and wink at him. “Yum.”

The kettle starts whistling, bursting their flirtatious bubble. While Magnus pours the boiling water into the press, Alec reaches into the oven with the mitts on, pulling out a pan full of already browned, crispy, and perfectly warm toast, then sets it aside for a bit to cool.

With a sigh, Magnus focuses on stirring the coffee mixture, waiting for it to brew properly; nobody wants to drink bad coffee.

He didn’t want to let Alec go, still doesn’t. And while at some point in his life, Magnus had had come to terms with the issue of mortality, sometimes it surfaced like an oil spill over seawaves, dark and worrisome. Over a year of their marriage later and right on the day of Alec’s birthday, they were sat with half-full glasses of wine on the loft’s balcony, when Alec turned to him with a vulnerable look after Magnus asked him what he’d like for his birthday next year.

“The only gift I want is an eternity with you.”

The words resonated loudly as if the entire world had disappeared into silence, only leaving him and this hazel-eyed mystery of a man, always making Magnus’ heart strain against his ribs. Immortality is not something he’d ever push Alec about, because while it sounded good on the surface, it came with a price of death - not yours, but everyone around you.

But Alec was sure of his decision, sincere and quiet in the way he held Magnus’ hands; for Nephilim, death was always on the other side of the coin. It had taken a deal - a dangerous amount of energy and an exchange with a yellow-eyed creature in the middle of the glowing summoning circle.

And now, there were the two of them, moving against the current of time, watching almost everyone around them age with grace.

The clink of plates pulls Magnus out of his thoughts again and it’s a miracle he hasn’t spilled any coffee on himself. Alec piles the eggs onto the dishes in even amounts, pairs it with the now-buttered toast and sprinkles everything with just a bit of grated cheese.

Magnus closes the lid and pushes down on the press, filtering the coffee before pouring it into two mugs, one of them chipped at the handle and Alec’s utmost favorite. With their hands full, they move to the porch on the back of the house that looks out onto the shore, a small space surrounded with glass walls and a ceiling like a greenhouse. The cold from the stone tiles seeps into Magnus’ feet as he wanders over to the patio furniture to put down their coffees - a dark wicker table and matching chairs, the entire space cluttered with potted plants.

Alec lingers behind, his deep breath audible in the vague quietness.

“We should bring the kids here for a weekend, you know, have a little picnic at the beach.”

Magnus smiles to himself, takes the plates from his husband’s hands and sets them down alongside the mugs. “We should, I’m sure they’d love it here with all the space to run around in and explore.”

“They’re a lively bunch, just like the ones before them. I fear for Luke and his back.” Alec chuckles, his words conjuring the fresh image of pepper-and-salt haired Lucian in Magnus’ mind, the eldest Garroway-Lightwood enjoying his role as a grandpa.

“He’ll handle himself. If he made it through Clary’s puberty, then what are three little downworlders in comparison? And he’s got Simon and your mom on stand-by,” Magnus shrugs and they sit down side by side.

Through the glass, Magnus watches the sea move, waves folding over each other, washing out empty shells and starfish onto the sand. Alec takes a bite of his food and washes it down with a sip of coffee, then turns in his seat to face Magnus, cheek resting against the top of his palm, the fork unsteady between loose fingers and dangling above the plate.

“A penny for your thoughts?”

Magnus sighs, turns to meet Alec’s eyes, curious and roaming over the lines of his face with half-hidden worry. He looks and looks and looks - takes in the little scar in his eyebrow, the edge of the rune curling up his jaw, the small birthmarks at the base of his throat.

This is the man who has stolen Magnus’ heart, the one who knows him better than anyone else in the world, the one that treats Magnus like a sacred and powerful demigod. Alexander Lightwood-Bane, Magnus’ immortal husband, the father of his children, his North Star.

Magnus lifts his palm, presses it against Alec’s face, thumb swiping in slow motions against his cheekbone. He leans into it, patient and golden-hearted.

“I am glad to have met you.” It’s a simple statement, underlaid with emotions too big to describe in any sort of language.

Maybe it’s Magnus’ expression what gives it away or the way his hand stills as he gathers the next words, but Alec seems to understand - he smiles encouragingly, his coffee-warmed palm settling over Magnus’.

“When I saw you for the first time, not at the loft, but at Pandemonium, my heart ached and I knew you’d be someone special. That you’d be it.”

In that moment, as Alec pushed past Magnus just after saving his life, a feeling surfaced, something almost like a voice in Magnus’ ears despite the bouncing club music - there you are, please stay for a while.

Now, he’s looking at Magnus with this bittersweet fondness, as he tugs his hand down from his face and instead cradles it in his own palms, long fingers wrapping their way across Magnus’ skin. The touch is grounding in a way, a quiet expression of love and awe.

His grip tightens for a breath and he smiles again, there and gone.

“Listen, I had a whole speech ready for our candlelit dinner later, but I wasn’t prepared for this.” They laugh, because of course Alec had a speech planned. He keeps saying he’s far from a romantic, but if the spontaneous and heartfelt confessions and random gifts, just because, are anything to go by, Alec is one of the most sentimental, idealistic people Magnus knows.

“I wasn’t prepared for you, either. From the moment I was born, I was taught to not believe in the idea of happy love. Practical marriages, alliances for wealth, yes, but not the kind of affection that makes your life better, that makes you happy. You saved me, Magnus.”

The words hang in the air, echoing in Magnus’ mind. He has never really believed in the concept of soulmates, two people destined to cross each other’s paths, two hearts bound to each other before they were born. Fate herself is a trickster, painting an endless amount of paths to take, and before meeting Alec, Magnus would’ve scoffed at the notion of someone meant for him; it just didn’t seem reasonable, but now, it’s different. Maybe they did save each other after all - from loneliness, heartache, a sort of emptiness nothing material can fill.

“Hey.” Magnus catches Alec’s gaze, their hands still tangled in his lap, cooling breakfast be damned. “Thanks for loving me.”

Alec’s following eyeroll is a mix of exasperation and understanding, because he’s been there too, when the best things in your life feel like a dream never meant to last. But theirs had, against all odds.

“You are the man of my life and if I could marry you again, I’d go down on my knee right now. It’s an honor to love you,” Alec says with pure conviction, lifting Magnus’ palm to his lips, branding a soft kiss onto his skin, a knight’s promise.

Magnus swallows the lump in his throat, voice breathy. “I’d say yes. Always.”

They fall quiet against the song of the sea and Alec leans closer, kisses Magnus; it’s far from rushed, not a fire doused with gasoline, but a steady light against the dark. With that, they settle back into their seats, hands still linked, but now resting on Magnus’ bare knee. He clicks the fingers of his free hand to heat up their food again, the steam curling above the plates in abstract shapes.

Alec hums, then laughs quietly, almost as if to himself. “We’re giant saps, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are.”

They both pick up their respective coffee cups, clink them together in a mock-toast like champagne flutes.

Fifty, a hundred years ago, Magnus was disillusioned, disappointed by what the world was to him. He was drowning in something dark, a cold and deep ocean that sat inside of him - pretty on the surface, but harboring things nobody wants to see.

Here he is now, bathed in something peaceful, something that tastes like black pepper and coffee. The darkness, the cold water, they’re still there; love will not erase it, nor it will fix it, because it was never broken. Love just makes living easier, all the rights brighter and all the wrongs more bearable.

Alec smiles at him, fingers squeezing Magnus’.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

Whether it’s in a year or five or ten, it will be okay. Storms at sea pass and one day everyone finds their someone, their somewhere; for every sailor, there is a haven.

Magnus smiles back, lifts his cup to his mouth and takes a slow sip. The hot liquid warms him from the inside as it travels through his body.

“Happy anniversary, my dear Alexander.”

It will be okay.