#mercenary heat/ asks reply

[tavernsoftemptation]

Deep 14 Drakor

reference; for @beginngsining

Deakor loomed over her, his powerful form silhouetted in the low candlelight of the tavern room. Crimson scales shimmered faintly with each subtle movement, his claws digging lightly into the curve of her thighs as he held her at the bed’s edge, perfectly positioned for him. Her legs were wrapped around his sculpted hips, her body trembling beneath his as heat pulsed between them. He grinned, teeth sharp, eyes molten with desire. “Say it,” he rumbled, the pointed tip of his cock tapping teasingly against her slick folds. “Do you want this dragonborn cock?”

He pushed forward slowly, the thick, hot tip spreading her open as he eased inside, growling low at the way she clung to him. Inch by inch, he sank deeper, his hips rolling with unhurried, savoring motion until he pressed against the thick knot nestled at his base. “Mm, gods, you take me so well,” he purred, voice dark and reverent.

He leaned forward, bracing himself over her as he began to move—deep, dragging thrusts that let her feel every ridge, every bit of him. The bed creaked with each powerful motion, and his grip on her thighs tightened possessively. Deakor watched her writhe beneath him, her pleasure fueling the fire already burning in his veins. “You’re not getting off this bed,” he murmured with a feral grin, “not until I’ve tied you good and full.”

[rooksamoris]

💞 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐌 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒.

💞 — mornings after passionate nights.

💞 — featuring!! divus crewel, lilia vanrouge, dehya, aventurine, himeko

💞 — warnings: heavily suggestive, nothing explicit, but obviously mentions of sex. aventurine's explores his past with slavery and SA a bit, so trigger warning!! his part is kinda hurt/comfort. all gender neutral as usual.

🩷 — DIVUS CREWEL.

Mornings were not meant for lingering beneath sheets but for the preparations of activities to come. 

That was what Crewel had always told you. He was always up and early, walking the dogs, taking his bath, styling his hair, doing his makeup, compiling an outfit, making his coffee—so on and so forth. You on the other hand lingered under the sheets, hugging his pillows and laying on his side of the bed to feel whatever warmth was leftover. 

You sat up, holding the sheets up to cover your body, glancing over to your lover who was already adjusting his tie, “Already?” you asked, pouting as you watched him go about his routine.

“Classes start earlier during exams. You know this, beloved,” he says, furrowing his brows softly as he looks into the mirror. Immaculate as always. He saw your reflection in the mirror, and the corners of his lips twitched upwards. He wanted to kiss the pout away. 

After slipping the fur coat on, he made his way to your side of the bed, brushing some of your hair back with his gloved hands, “Did last night not satisfy you? Such a greedy pup,” he teased, before leaning down to kiss your forehead. It was like a token he was leaving you with, expecting it to be returned once he came back to you, tired and annoyed thanks to his students.

“No…”

That earned a light chuckle as he made his way out. 

🩷 — LILIA VANROUGE.

It was not the sun that touched your skin first, but instead the mischievous fae.

Lilia was already awake, laying on your chest, arms folded on you as he rested his chin, watching as you stirred awake, “Mhm, what a flattering angle, my liege,” he said, staring at the way your nostrils twitched and how your skin shifted and folded while he turned about and stretched.

A deep blush covered your cheeks when his words registered in your mind and you placed a hand on his face, pushing him away, “I hate you,” you muttered. You had said the words so often that they lost their meaning, shifting into something else entirely.

“That’s not what you were screaming last night,” he replied, unbothered by your push as he shifted so that he was straddling you under the covers. He pulled himself up and rested his hands on either side of your head. His deep red eyes were glimmering with mirth, “Or what you wrote in those passionate letters you always send me while I’m away with his majesty,”

Each word just served to fluster you more and more. He knew just what to say to make you go from the refined and proper noble that you were to a blushing mess. 

“Perhaps I did not tire you enough last night…” Lilia grins, pressing his nose to your throat.

🩷 — DEHYA.

She went from manhandling you to oblivion to sleeping on your chest like a lazy cat.

Her arms slipped around you, holding you like a snake would their next meal. Her hair was everywhere, on your body, on the bed, over the pillows—there was just so much of it, “Quit your squirming,” she says, pulling an arm away just to pinch at the fat of your stomach as punishment.

You flinched and frowned, “It’s too hot,” 

“You’re too hot,” she replied, nuzzling her face back into your chest. The night before the mercenary had returned to you after some particularly stressful work. Her brown skin had been littered with wounds that you took care of for her, and she just could not help herself but indulge in your skin afterward.

You would not think she had been tired of how she acted once you reached the bed. Gently, your fingers began to card through her hair once you realized there was no escaping her grip. She could be as stubborn as the desert heat sometimes, “I need to go study soon,” you told her.

Dehya laughs against your skin, “Skip today.” Her teeth began to drag along your chest before she parted from your flesh and scooted up to loom over you, her hair falling around your head like a curtain. She looked like a deity from the angle, gazing down on her pathetic little subject who would bend to her every whim, “I’m still tense.”

🩷 — AVENTURINE.

Muscles tensed when icy hands caressed them.

Aventurine pretended to be asleep, his back facing you, covered in the scratches and bites you gifted him the night before. He had been banking on you assuming he was sleeping so you would get up and make him breakfast, but it seemed he was wrong. The blanket dipped down his back, but he did not lift it back up.

He stayed quiet, waiting for the next touch.

Your fingers trailed over his spine, following each ridge, pulling away only when you came to the tender flesh which was still red, “I didn’t mean to scratch so harshly,” you muttered, squinting your tired eyes as you traced around the enflamed marks. It was almost as if they were angry at you.

“I don’t mind a few scratches from such precious treasure. Diamonds are meant to be strong,” he replied, keeping his back faced to you. Part of him could not bear to look at you right now. He had never enjoyed the act of sex as much as he did the night before. Before it was all about being bought and passed around, but now it was about being admired and revered as if he were an Aeon. 

Your touch had never felt like a violation, and in your hands, he was not a commodity. He was just Aventurine, a charismatic fool with secrets that would paint the prettiest doves in shades of black. He blushed. You were the most rewarding gamble he had taken.

🩷 — HIMEKO.

After a passionate night, all Himeko wants to do is brew fresh coffee.

The scent had made its way from the kitchen to the bedroom, waking you up from your sleep. Your body was aching, your head was throbbing and your heart was racing. As usual, her clothes were already folded nicely to the side, while yours… well, you only managed to find your pants. A sigh escaped your lips and you rolled out of bed, grabbing one of the freshly pressed silk robes, and messily tying the waist up before walking out.

You still could not get over how even in moments of carnal pleasure, she managed to be so elegant.

“Look who finally decided to wake up,” she says, her beautiful red hair already brushed and styled. She was dressed in a matching robe—she just managed to work it much better than you. Himeko gestured for you to come sit across from her at the little dining table, “Coffee, darling?”

“Stick in my veins, babe,” you mumbled, sitting across from her. You tried to keep your eyes away from her pretty thighs, which were exposed due to how her robe rode up whenever she crossed her legs.

Himeko grins, pouring you a cup in one of those pretty porcelain pieces she collects, and then pushes it in front of you. Her eyes followed the way your hair seemed to stick up in every direction, and then trailed over the chest which she covered in her love, “You’re looking very… worn out.”

[mcrdvcks]

i've been working on the logan x reader oneshot where reader is a mercenary and is "friends" with wade and is a bloodthirsty killer (mercenary).

anyways, i'm like 14.5k words in and i don't think i'm even halfway done 😭 this is gonna be a long one y'all...

but, i thought i'd give a small sneak peak to see how people like it so far :)

TW: mentions of blood and violence/killing

---

Across from him, you leaned back in a creaky chair, cleaning your knife with slow, deliberate strokes. The blood from the last mission had dried into a dark crust, and wiping it away gave you something to focus on while Wade yammered from the couch.

“I’m just saying, you two have got to loosen up,” Wade said, waving a hand in the air as though that settled it. “I mean, look at me. I’m the picture of mental health, and I’m fun. You? You’re like... I don’t even know. Some kind of murder statue. And Logan over here is basically if Grumpy Cat got jacked and started stabbing people.”

“Shut it, Wade,” Logan growled, rubbing his temples.

“Oh, sure, stifle the one source of joy in this room,” Wade replied, flopping onto his back dramatically. “You know, you guys are lucky you have me. Without my sparkling personality, this team would just be murder and moaning.”

“Wade,” you said, voice flat as you glanced his way, “leave.”

Wade sat up, clutching his chest in mock offense. “Leave? What about team bonding? What about the camaraderie, the—”

“Wade,” Logan said, his tone dropping dangerously low.

“Fine,” Wade muttered, standing and grabbing his katana from where it leaned against the wall. “I’ll just take my delightful self somewhere it’ll be appreciated. Maybe join a book club. Talk about murder mysteries with other intellectuals.”

Logan didn’t look up as Wade stomped out, slamming the door behind him with unnecessary flair.

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of your knife scraping against the cloth. Logan finally broke it, his voice heavy with irritation. “You don’t have to make everything so damn messy.”

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t look at him. “Messy gets the job done.”

He scoffed, setting his glass down with a hard clink. “There’s getting the job done, and then there’s whatever the hell you’re doing. You think I like killing? I do it because I have to, not because I enjoy it.”

You shrugged, the motion casual, like his words didn’t cut as sharply as they were meant to. “Maybe you’re just not good at it.”

Logan’s chair screeched against the floor as he pushed it back and stood, towering over the table. “Careful,” he said, his claws unsheathing with a snikt.

You finally looked up, meeting his glare with a calm, steady gaze. “You think you scare me? I don’t care what you think about me, Logan. You don’t like how I work? Don’t work with me.”

He leaned forward, resting his fists on the table, the claws catching the dim light. “It’s not about liking it. It’s about you putting everyone else at risk with your bloodlust. You don’t think, you just act.”

“Because thinking gets you killed,” you snapped, the first sign of heat in your voice.

Logan’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. For a moment, the air between you felt like it might ignite.

“You’re dangerous,” he said finally, his tone laced with something that wasn’t quite anger.

“So are you,” you shot back, your voice quieter now, but no less sharp.

The room fell silent again, the tension thick enough to choke on. Logan stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he straightened, retracting his claws with a metallic hiss.

“Next time,” he said, his voice rough, “try not to get anyone killed.”

He turned and walked toward the door, leaving you alone in the dim kitchen. You watched him go, your grip on the knife tightening for just a moment before you went back to cleaning it.

---

(if you asked to be tagged on the original post, i've got you! but you're more than welcome to ask to be added here if you're interested!)

[lotusbxtch]

Preciosa

A #happypedrohours Valentine’s special

Prompt: Pero Tovar + lingerie Pairing: Pero Tovar x f!wife!Reader Word count: 4.9k

Summary: You would have never predicted that such a delicate thing would be Pero Tovar’s undoing. Rating: Explicit - 18+ only, MDNI

Warnings/tags: heavy use of Spanish phrases and nicknames, probably not period-accurate depictions of undergarments and lingerie but I tried okay?, smut - fingering (f receiving), oral (m and f receiving), Pero is a MUNCH and eats it from the back, unprotected PIV (this is the olden days and they are married, but wrap it up, folks!), prone bone, squirting, creampie, v brief cum eating, mentions of rough sex, Pero being a grump, but also soft!Pero, aftercare, reader is described as Pero's "wife" and having breasts and female genitalia but otherwise is not described it's you boo

a/n: Apologies for the tardy publishing, but work has been craaaaaazy so I’m just getting to posting this now! Thank you @happypedrohours for putting on such a fun Valentine’s Day event, and thank you to my darling @for-a-longlongtime for beta-ing for me and helping shape the story. This is my first time writing Pero as the MMC so I hope it delivers on his character! Graphic by me (for vibes only), dividers/banners by @saradika-graphics.

MASTERLIST

When your husband, Pero, known by many as ‘The Spanish Mercenary’, returns to you after his long travels, there often is a gift for you carefully tucked into his pack - especially on missions where the stakes were relatively low. Not one for verbal extollations of devotion in public, he lets his actions speak for him, bringing you exotic treasures from far flung markets in places you’ve never even heard of. Curious spices, little handmade trinkets, dried floral specimens - they never cease to amaze you, and you knew that you were often the envy of many of the other women in your village.

This latest campaign was a grueling and dangerous one, not business like usual. Trips like these usually meant there weren’t presents in tow, but you didn’t mind; Pero’s safe return afterwards was a far better gift to you. The money he brought home was something that had a growing impact, as you put every bit of it to good use on your home and farm.

A cacophony of exclamations of your neighbors alerts you to your grumpy Spaniard’s return, and you gather your skirts up to run and welcome him home after many weeks. Pero swaggers into the village on the back of his trusty steed, his armor covered in grime, as are his clothes and hair. The exhaustion is lined clearly on his face, but pure relief peeks through his hardened expression when he spots you coming towards him.

“Amor,” he calls out, dismounting his horse as you reach him. You press your body into his, claiming his lips in a sweet kiss, before he gently pushes you away.

“I will not sully you with the filth of my travels,” Pero gruffs, as if this wasn’t what happened every time he returns home. You roll your eyes at his theatrics but relent, falling into step beside him. 

“Nonsense, mi esposo. I’ll always have you alive and well, filth and all,” you tut at him, giving the horse a kiss on the muzzle. She blows out air, relaxing into the familiar surroundings. When the three of you arrive at your home, Pero busies himself with grooming his mount and unpacking his bags, while you heat up water for his bath and to clean his armor. He enters your shared abode a short while later, eyeing the steaming wash water and homemade soap you’d set out for him with relief.

“Tell me about your travels, my love,” you ask as he shucks off his heavy armor with a clunk. Pero grunts in response, peeling the dirty clothing from his strong body and revealing tan skin. Once bare, he takes the wash cloth from you, soaking it with water and using it to wipe the majority of the filth off of his strong frame. 

“Long, far too long,” he replies finally, a man of few words. It’s a quality you love about him; Pero is never a man of flowery prose nor insincerity. He says only what he means, and as little as is necessary to convey it. Even still, with you, he is chattier than with anyone else. He dips the cloth into the tub again, wringing out the dirty water into a smaller bucket. “Missed you, hermosa.”

“Mmm, I missed you too,” you muse, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and handing him the soap. He begins to lather the cleansing suds, washing himself in a perfunctory, efficient manner. 

“How were things while I was away?” he asks, hands still soaping limbs. You fill him in on the village gossip (which he swears he doesn’t care about, but is absolutely enthralled whenever you reveal some new secret) while he cleans himself. He much prefers to listen to you chatter away, the soft lilt of your voice a balm to his soul after many days apart. Sometimes, you stumble on your words, getting distracted by the nakedness of his body, the lean muscle and broad expanse of his shoulders. When he starts sudsing his soft cock, you lose your words completely. 

Pero smirks, knowing full well what the sudden silence means. “See something you like, mi amor?” he teases, stepping into a shallow basin before using the rest of the warm water to rinse the soap from his body. You simultaneously giggle and rub your thighs together, arousal beginning to simmer in your body. 

“Yes,” you purr mischievously, noticing his rapidly-hardening length. “Let me show you how much I missed you.”

After sating yourselves with each other’s bodies, you and Pero lay intertwined in your shared bed. “I’m glad you’re back,” you murmur, hand tracing the paths of scars along his battle-battered skin. 

Pero presses a kiss to your forehead. “I am as well. Oh, that reminds me.” He climbs out of bed, padding towards his belongings unpacked from the saddlebags. Pulling out a carefully-wrapped parcel, he walks back to you, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Open it,” he commands softly, placing the package in your hands.

“Pero,” you tut, “you didn’t need to get me anything. It’s enough that you returned in one piece.” Pero grunts but the corner of his mouth tips up, happy to indulge his wife. You gently unfold the outer packaging. When it unfurls, you gasp, turning your face to your smirking husband wordlessly.

“You always ask me about what unique things I have seen in the East,” Pero explains. “Many of them I cannot divulge, or are unable to make it back with me. But this was a gift from the wife of one of the men who hired William and I during this last job.” His eyes meet yours, softening. “I spoke of my love for you during a meal one night, and she wanted you to have something from her as a token of her gratitude. She knows what it is like to have a spouse afar.” You’re surprised he had spoken of you; most people could never get a single word out of him on a good day.

You look down at the bundle of sumptuous fabric, light as air and softer than a newborn kitten. It shimmers slightly in the light of your fireplace, a pale golden hue with the warmth of sunshine. As it runs over your hands, you notice a slight chill run across your skin. It’s unlike anything you’d ever seen before.

“It is the finest Chinese silk,” Pero continues, “made from the cocoons of special grubs. The fabric created from the strands has a cooling effect. She thought that an extraordinary woman deserves a rare gift.”

“Thank you,” you breathe, kissing his hand. Suddenly, a thought occurs. You cock your head to the side curiously. “How does she know that I am an extraordinary woman?” you ask.

Pero begins to turn beet red, and you start to giggle. “I… may have indulged a bit too much in their rice wine,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. You bark a laugh.

“Mi amor,” you chuckle, “if the worst thing that happens when you’re drunk is that you profess your love for your wife, I’ve clearly married the right man.” You pepper his face with kisses as he grouses, but you feel his hand caress your arm lovingly. 

“I’ll make something beautiful from it,” you tell him, folding it back up into the packaging carefully and storing it with your sewing items.

“May I see it when you finish?” Pero asks, curling his body around yours once more and pulling you flush with him.

You nod. “Of course,” you promise, an idea already beginning to form.

Pero leaves the following week for another job, and you begin working on your surprise for him. As you observe the qualities of the fine silk, you realize it should be turned into a special occasion garment, something worn when you want to feel luxurious. Pero told you before about the beautiful flowing dresses and robes that Eastern ladies wore, which were markedly different from the heavier gowns typical in your homeland. As your dear husband wasn’t the most descriptive with words, you had to take a guess at how they looked and were constructed. Luckily, a traveling merchant struck up a conversation with you and, as it turned out, he had visited the East as well and helped to fill in the design details you were missing. 

Every spare minute outside of tending to the farm, selling your produce and flowers at the market, and tidying your home is used to painstakingly cut, sew, and embroider your silken treasure. It is a silver lining, then, that it takes Pero three weeks to return home to you. 

As usual, you greet him upon his entry to the village, walking home beside Pero and his mare while he recounts his latest completed job. This time, however, when he arrives inside to bathe, you move to slip away to the bedroom. Pero grabs your arm gently.

“Am I truly so ripe that you must leave while I wash?” he jokes, a smirk painting his lips but confusion lingering in his eyes. 

You smile demurely, looking up through your lashes. “I have completed my silk project and thought you’d like to see it,” you explain. “Come to the bedroom when you’re clean.” Pero’s smirk widens more, and he visibly relaxes at the reassurance.

“Ah, well, by all means, do not let me stop you,” he responds, watching you as you retreat and shoot him another smile over your shoulder. Huffing a small chuckle, he hastily scrubs his body clean.

Entering the bedroom, you pull the finished pieces from the chest in the corner of the room. Pero likes seeing you in anything or nothing, so you’re not worried about his approval. But there is a part of you that hopes seeing you in your new outfit unleashes the feral lust that sometimes simmers just under the surface of his contained demeanor. Your hands slide along the silk, caressing your own body, slick beginning to gather between your thighs with the thought of him taking you roughly. 

Just as you finish adjusting everything to your liking, Pero walks into the room, wearing his simple sleeping pants, forgoing a shirt. His reaction catches you completely off guard.

Your husband - the broad, intimidating warrior, feared by many men across the continents - stands frozen in place as he scans your adorned body with wide eyes. He takes in the long, elegant robe, its open style fluttering slightly with your movements. 

The gown, made from the same pale golden silk, flows beautifully over your frame, reaching the floor and ruffling gently at your feet. It tapers towards your bust in an empire waist, where you’ve meticulously stitched crimson tiger lily motifs across the chest - Pero’s favorite flower. Delicate straps hold it up on your shoulders, and both the dress and robe are gossamer thin, the sumptuous fabric leaving little to the imagination. The silk creates an ethereal glow across your curves from the reflection of the fireplace, as if you are encased in a sacred golden light.

Pero doesn’t move. His chest heaves, and his hands repeatedly twitch and clench at his sides. You’ve never seen him so tense in your life. 

“Pero?” you try, an edge of laughter lightening your concerned tone. “Is everything alright?” Your eyes flick downwards, picking at the hem of a billowing sleeve in confusion. You know it may not have been what he expected, but it’s a far cry from how you thought he’d react. 

You feel Pero’s fingertips gently grip your chin. “Look at me, querida,” he rasps, voice tight. You bring your eyes to his and are instantly hit with the intensity of his gaze upon yours. 

“You… I….” Desperation laces his face as he tries to explain his reaction. The sudden realization hits you.

You would have never predicted that such a delicate thing would be Pero Tovar’s undoing.

Pero inhales a shaky breath. “Mi vida…” he whispers. “My beautiful wife… you look so soft, so delicate.” He holds a hand out as if to touch you, but retreats. “These hands…” Pero swallows hard. “They are too rough for something so pure.” His eyes cast downwards, and you know he’s not only talking about his callouses. 

You slip both hands to the sides of his face, lifting his gaze back to you. You allow all of your desire, your love, your lust to suffuse into your face. With your heart aching with the weight of your devotion for this man - so gruff and harsh on the outside, but utter bone-melting softness inside - you search his eyes pleadingly.

“Touch me, Pero,” you beg, bringing his hands to your waist. “I need your hands, roughness and all.”

Pero’s body shudders as his palms make contact with the soft silk on your body. He gently smooths his thumbs across your hip bones, eliciting a whimper from your throat. They travel back up the curve of your waist, brushing the swell of your breasts, and your nipples pebble at his touch. Eyes focused on following the path of his fingers, he traces circles around the peaks, more soft, desperate sounds coming from your mouth. 

You stare into his eyes with unwavering love. “I missed you, mi amor,” you whisper. 

Pero slowly leans forward to press his forehead against yours. “I am here, mi esposa,” he murmurs back, his hands pressing more surely, feeling the slip of your gown beneath his fingers. You can feel the fabric catching slightly on the rougher parts of his hands. 

Leaning forward, you capture his lips in a slow, sensual kiss. You missed the way he tastes, the quiet grunts he makes as he claims your mouth with his. Biting his lip, you pull back and say breathlessly, “Show me how much you missed me.”

Pero presses his mouth to yours hungrily, his fear of sullying something so divine beginning to wane. As he walks you backwards towards your bed, he gathers the fabric of your robe and dress to your hips. Gently, he lays you down onto the bed, the gilded silk fanning out around you. Pero pushes the fabric further up, exposing your dripping core to the air. A rough groan rips from his throat. 

“Mmm, mi vida, you are so wet for me,” he grits, fingers tracing over your labia, making you whine in desire.

“Pero,” you moan. You spread your thighs open, inviting him in. Pero cages your body in with his, kissing you fiercely while slipping two of his fingers into you, your slick aiding him to slide in all the way to the last knuckle. You keen his name in pleasure, and he feels you clench down on him, hot and sticky. His kisses trail from the corner of your lips to your jaw, then down your neck, pumping in and out of you to build your pleasure. 

“You make me want to be anything but delicate with you,” Pero grunts, swirling his fingertips against the soft spongy spot inside you that makes you see stars. 

You curse and moan at his admission, your earlier desire for him to take you roughly coming back to the surface. “Do not be gentle,” you beg him. A wild look crosses his face, and he nips at your throat while his fingers thrust more rapidly inside you. Mewling, you spread even wider for him, driving his digits further inside the hot clutch of you.

“I want to feel you break for me, amorcita,” Pero growls, then thumbs your clit in tight circles.

Your orgasm surges up and crests, and Pero slaps his hand over your mouth just in time to quiet the shriek erupting from your throat. He pins you down and groans into your hair roughly. A rush of slick coats his already-drenched fingers inside of you while he guides you through the waves of your rapture. When your breathing begins to calm and your voice peters into tiny whimpers, Pero removes his hand from your mouth. You watch, entranced, as he sucks your essence from his other fingers. 

He curses. “I have traveled countless foreign lands, and still have tasted nothing sweeter than you,” Pero groans, then sweeps you into a deep kiss, feeding you your own flavor. His hard cock presses into your side, throbbing and insistent.

You reach down to caress his length. Pero shivers and bites your lip in return. “Let me return the favor,” you whisper, sliding your body down the bed. He pulls down his sleep pants, the thick swell of him springing to attention. You love Pero’s cock and never miss a chance to worship it.

His warrior hands gently grip your skull as you lave your tongue across the expanse of him, tasting the salty musk of his most intimate parts. It clouds your head with potent desire. 

“Fuck, amorcita,” Pero gasps, your wide, glassy eyes locked on his. “You have the face of an angel and the mouth of a fucking devil.” His words make you moan on his length and slide his shaft even further down your throat. His hands tense, his control slipping further away, and he gently pulls you off of him with a pop.

“I cannot have this end so soon. I need to be buried in you,” he grits. He gets off of the bed, coming to stand at the side. Excited shivers run down your spine, knowing exactly what he wants from you. He knows it’s your favorite way to take him.

You turn your body to face him, draping your garments off the mattress, and lay on your back, exposing the apex of your thighs to your husband once again. 

Pero’s gaze fixes on your slick pussy. “You are the most stunning goddess,” he croons while he takes himself in hand and rubs the swollen head through the evidence of your arousal. The heat in your cheeks flares hotter at his words. 

“Please, Pero,” you whine. “I crave you. My soul needs you.” Sweat dews up across your skin from your desperation.

In one slow, long, devastating thrust, Pero slides home.

You both cry out at the pure pleasure of flesh meeting flesh, of your bodies joining once more. It feels overwhelming, inevitable, not of this world. For you, no man could ever sew themselves as deeply into the fabric of your spirit than Pero. As your body adjusts and welcomes him in once more, you gaze deeply at each other, breaths syncing, an electric current running through your veins. He fills every iota of empty space within you. You feel everything.

When he bottoms out a few seconds later, the silken fabric of your robe brushes his shins, the unfamiliar feeling causing a shudder of pleasure to skitter across his body. Pero grips the backs of your thighs as if to tether him to this realm, awash in intense desire for you. A breathy moan snakes out of your throat when he pulls back and thrusts in once again. Every nerve alights in euphoria at his intrusion. His eyes roam across your body, drinking in the sight: every curve of your supple body writhing in pleasure; every freckle and mole; the way the thin sheen of sweat on your skin shimmers in the light of the fire; the way your brows pinch together and lips falls open as he hits that devastating spot inside of you; the shine of your slick and cream coating his rigid length as he works you relentlessly.

It’s both everything he could ever need and not nearly enough to sate him.

Pero reaches down between your thighs and thumbs your clit. You keen, back arching off the bed. “I can feel you tightening for me,” he rasps as his hips punch an unforgiving rhythm into you. “Shatter for me. Come on my cock, preciosa.”

At that favorite pet name - preciosa - your body obeys his command with a snap. A shockwave of climactic euphoria races through your veins. His name leaves your lips as a sob over and over again, your orgasm wringing you dry while Pero clenches his jaw and guides you through your peak. Blinking your eyes open, you’re met with Pero already staring deeply into them. Devotion and amazement gleam in his gaze.

“Tan bonita,” he praises. “You always look stunning when you come for me.” His thrusts have slowed down, gently maintaining a strong buzz of arousal between the two of you.

“Hold me close, mi esposo,” you demand, and Pero knows exactly what you want. “Mold your body to mine.”

Pero gently shushes you. “Si, amor; I shall give you what you want,” he responds and pulls out gently. Evidence of your orgasm soaks his shaft, dripping onto your thighs. 

As Pero gets into position, you roll yourself onto your belly, shifting your silk lingerie around to avoid tangles. You sweep the robe and dress off of your lower half and part your thighs. He crawls over you, caging your body once more while he nudges your legs open further. Back arched, your cunt glints invitingly; it is a potent sight and the only thing to ever break Pero to beg on his knees for it. 

He would worship at your altar for hours if you let him. Drowning between your thighs, eating his favorite meal in the world, sounds incredible to your husband. His insatiability for your carnal pleasures knows no bounds. You’ve never met a man who loved eating you out nearly as much as he does. If he could bathe in your essence, he would.

Pero is ruled by only two things: coin, and your pussy.

Before your mind drifts back from reflection on its own, it is yanked back to the current moment by a hot stripe licked up the seam of you. Gasping, you reach back, tangling your fingers in Pero’s hair as he spreads your folds open for him to devour. He pulls your hips up in the air to better reach your swollen pearl. His insistent tongue swirls around the nub, building you up to get another orgasm.

“Come again for me and I will give you my cock for as long as you can take it,” he barters, rocketing you rapidly towards another crest. The intense pressure tells you it will be messy. That only encourages your husband.

“There you are,” he says as your body pulls tight. Your limbs quake, everything hanging in precarious balance.

“Pero,” you wail, the intense pleasure at a knife’s edge. He says nothing, but takes that as his sign to suck your clit in between his lips and make you break.

And you do, stunningly hard. Pero seals his lips around your pussy as you scream with your wet release, his throat bobbing with every swallow of your hallowed cum. A long, low moan rumbles in his broad chest from your sweet, deep flavor coating his tongue. Resting your head on the bed sheets, you pant softly, trying to recover. 

Soon after, you feel the bed shift as Pero hovers over your prone body. His mushroom tip swipes through your folds once more, and he kisses your bare shoulders while he notches at your entrance.

“Tell me how much you want me, preciosa,” he rumbles. “I need to hear it from your lips.”

“With everything in me, Pero,” you whimper, pressing up against his hardness. You feel him throb against your folds. “Please, please make love to me again.”

Pero obeys, sliding himself to the hilt swiftly. Your broken cry echoes around the bedroom. His forearms bracket either side of your body, his entire front pressed against your back as he thrusts deeply and slowly into you. The masculine, musky, undeniably Pero scent wraps around you. You’ve never felt more protected and safe with your strong, brave husband completely surrounding you.

Delirious whimpers and gasps swirl in the air, intermixed with the wet shlick of Pero’s length filling you up again and again. Accenting the symphony of explicit sounds is the constant caress of your silk lingerie on your skin; a cooling touch to bring your heated body back to Earth. It’s a heady concoction, a sensorial delight unlike anything you’ve experienced. You’re rendered almost speechless, only expressions of pleasure and your husband’s name escaping your lips. 

“I will never get enough of you,” Pero moans, slipping his hand under your hips to let you grind on his fingers. 

You keen sharply. “Oh god, so good,” you mewl, rolling your hips against his big paw. Slick rolls down from your dripping pussy and soaks his hand and the bed, slippery and hot. Pero runs his tongue up the length of your neck, sucking love bites into your flesh as his thrusts come harder and faster. 

“You are everything to me,” he hoarsely whispers, his voice breaking slightly at the end. “Gods above, I do not need anything but you. You beautiful, precious angel. Light of my life.” You sob in pure love and pleasure at his words as your orgasm rises higher in every cell in your body.

“Pero,” you cry out. “Fuck, I’m going to come.” Tremors begin to wrack your body as your cunt tightens around Pero’s cock like a vice, so close to your rapture. 

He chokes out a loud moan, now pounding into you with abandon. “Come for me, mi vida,” he begs, breaths exhaled harshly. Sweat drips from his broad frame onto your back and the lingerie, his muscled thighs tense with exertion. “Give it to me. Let go for me, and let me fill you with my seed.”

Pero hitches his hips just slightly, and the new angle hits that magical spot deep in you, flinging you right into your orgasm. A throttled, grunting squeal erupts from your throat, and you clamp down on his thick cock, your juices squirting onto his hand. Pero bellows, then shoves himself as deeply as he can, shooting his searing cum into you. He bites down on your shoulder, whimpering loudly with every spurt of his seed released.

It feels like the world explodes and caves in on itself, with nothing left but shivering desire and love in its place.

Tears stream down your heated cheeks, falling wetly onto the linens. You’re gasping for air, your husband collapsed on top of your back, your bodies melded as one while you catch your breath. Sniffling, then laughing wetly, you turn to kiss the forearm that you can reach.

“God, I love you so much, mi amor,” you profess with a watery hiccup, completely overwhelmed. Pero grunts and presses his lips against your shoulder, his chest pressed to your back.

“I love you more than you will ever understand,” he rumbles, trailing kisses across your salty, dewy skin, then tips your chin gently to the side as far as it will go so he can sweetly capture his lips with yours. Pero carefully lifts himself up, and then slides his softening cock gently from the hold of your cunt, a stream of his cum spilling out in its wake. You murmur happily when you feel the warm liquid roll down your clit, twitching and spent. He kisses each of your buttocks, slurping the escaped cum, and then rises to his feet to pad to your wash basin. Dampening a cloth, he returns to the bed and gently cleans your skin, eliciting a giggle from you.

Pero huffs a laugh. “What are you giggling about, little loon?” he teases, gently smacking your ass.

You muffle another giggle, then turn to him, smiling. “If only your enemies could see big, bad Pero Tovar, the feared warrior, cleaning up his wife’s pussy so gently.”

You didn’t even need to see Pero’s face; you could practically feel the eyeroll. He slaps your ass harder this time, ripping a gasp from you.

“Careful, preciosa,” Pero warns, but the threat is hollow. A smirk threatens to break out across his face. “Or next time I’ll be rougher.” 

He lays one more hard slap to your backside, and you moan quietly, another dribble of his cum pushed out from your cunt. He growls at the sight, then gently kisses the red handprint beginning to show on your soft skin - a veritable masterclass in contrasts.

Finishing his cleaning, he throws the cloth to the side, then rejoins you in bed, rolling you both to your side so you can face each other. Your eyes roam his face, smiling serenely at him.

Suddenly your face lights up. “Oh, I almost forgot! I made you something too!” You leap off of the bed, quickly pressing your fingers to your core to stem the flow of him from inside you. Rummaging through your chest, you exclaim, “Ah-HAH! Found it!” You toss it onto the bed.

A pile of that same silk fabric lands by Pero’s hands. He picks it up gingerly, unfolding it as his brows knit together quizzically.

“Is this…?” he starts, confused, while the shape of the item is slowly revealed to him.

“I made you something too,” you titter, as it dawns on him that what you’ve made is a small pair of flowy shorts, just big enough to contain his manhood and pert ass. 

He raises his scarred eyebrow at you. “This is… for me?” he asks incredulously. You erupt into giggles, slapping your hand over your mouth. Pero’s signature scowl etches over his face.

“Yes,” you laugh. “I thought it would be nice for both of us to have something made from the silk. Do you like it?” More giggles erupt from you as you imagine your gruff, tough husband sporting the tiny, sheer shorts. Pero’s frown continues to deepen.

“Oh, you are in so much trouble,” he grouses, a playful lilt to his tone, and he lunges for you, pulling you down to tickle and kiss you.

LOTUSBXTCH MASTERLIST

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[medusapelagia]

14 The betrothal

written for @steddieangstyaugust (prompt: Lake), @augustwritingchallenge (Prompt: prince and princess ), @aug-kissed (prompt: Hand Kiss) Rating: Mature Relationship: Steve/Eddie TW: omegaverse, Omega Steve Harrington, Alpha Eddie Munson, Beta Robin Buckley, violence, blood and injuries, vomit Words: 1563

If Steve was a proper omega he wouldn't be on that stupid carriage, to be shipped from Loch Nora's Kingdom to Forest Park like an unwanted pack.

A proper omega would honor his family, stay home, cross-stitch animals and flowers, and learn poems and music. But Steve never was a proper omega and after he rejected his last suitor his father told him that he wasted his last opportunity to choose a proper alpha and that he was going to find one willing to take in a rebel omega like him.

Male omegas are a blessing and a curse: they are very rare, so Steve's father was able to ask for a high dowry from whoever wanted to marry him, but there weren't many alphas willing to tie their life to a male omega. 

Steve has heard talking about Forest Park. A lot. And never in a good way.

They have a very bad reputation, but they are rich, so Steve has no doubt that his father got a really good dowry for selling him to those people. Well, not selling, betrothing him.

Thankfully, Robin is coming with him. Moving from one Kingdom to another and being completely alone would have been terrible, at least his beta best friend is trying to make him laugh by making silly comments and distract him from the long journey.

Even if the carriage is big and cozy, spending hours sitting on a carriage isn't that comfortable, and Steve's royal ass is in pain.

He doesn't even have enough space to stretch his long legs because in the carriage with them, there are the two guards King Munson himself sent to escort the future bride.

The guards are heavily armed, as they were expecting something to happen, and Steve isn't totally surprised. After all, Forest Hill has a terrible reputation. Their King was an outlaw before he rebelled and became king by killing everyone and conquering the castle, so Steve isn't really looking forward to moving in the same bed with a notorious assassin. But it’s not his choice anymore.

Savages, that's the kindest word Steve’s mom used to define those people, while what everyone thought but none dared to speak out loud was that King Munson was the new Warlord.

A warlord. Not a high-born, just a man with enough power and money to hire the strongest knight and mercenaries to help him keep his power. And Steve is going to get married to a Warlord’s son, or nephew, he's not really sure. Bloodlines are mixed in their Kingdom and they don't give a fuck about dynasties and the only blood that they care about is the one the blood spit by their enemies.

Steve has heard terrible stories about how cruel and violent those people are. One of Steve's servants has told him that Prince Munson killed his first wife with his own hands because she wasn't too sick to give him a child.

Being a male omega Steve knows he can bear pups, even if his heats are irregular and it's harder for him than for other omegas, but he never thought that the ability to bear a child or not could have been the cause of his premature death.

His scent gets sour and acrid while he thinks about the monster that he's supposed to wed. Maybe he should have been more pliant with his previous suitor. Lord Hagan wasn’t that bad after all. A little bit too presumptuous for Steve’s taste but he doubts he would have had him killed if he wasn’t able to bear a child.

"You ok? Do you want to take a break? Stretch your legs a bit?" Robin proposes, drawing soothing circles with her thumb on Steve's hand.

"Yeah, that would be nice." He confirms, rubbing a hand through his hair.

"No break and no stretching. We are still in hostile territory." One of the guards replies without even looking at Steve.

"Couldn't we stop just for a moment?" Robin insists, "We have been on this stupid carriage for hours!"

But an arrow flying through the window and ending his journey a few inches from her face makes her shut up.

"Stay down!" One guard yells, yanking Steve toward the carriage’s floor so abruptly that he falls badly on his own wrist, spraining it, but he doesn't have time to yelp because the carriage stops in the middle of the woods.

"Stay inside!" The first guard yells, jumping out of the carriage and drawing his sword. For a moment Steve catches a glimpse of a bloodied body staring blankly at him with a long arrow in the one eye socket.

"It's ok. It's ok." Robin tries to soothe him, releasing beta relaxing pheromones, but the other guard stops her, complaining that he can't afford to get relaxed by her pheromones, so Steve and Robin hug each other, trying to hide themselves from the attackers.

"He's here!" Someone yells, kicking the carriage door open, but the second guard is quick to pierce the intruder from side to side, what he wasn't expecting was someone else opening the door on the opposite side and grabbing Steve with no kindness, yanking him by his hair.

Robin screams, reaching out toward Steve, the guard turns his head just for a moment and another attacker takes his chance to stab him in the leg while Robin keeps screaming, but the clenching of the metal armor is so loud that Steve almost can't hear her.

A strong hit on the back of his head makes everything turn a warm black and he loses consciousness.

***

When he opens his eyes, Steve is surprised to find himself resting with his back against a big oak tree. In front of him the bluest lake he ever saw.

He puts down his hand, trying to get up, but immediately desists when a bright pain makes him whimper.

"I would stay put if I were you. Your wrist is sprained and you took a nasty hit to the head. Are you feeling dizzy?"

Steve startles, looking around himself, and finally finds a tall man with dark eyes and a nasty scar on his face staring at him with an amused smile.

His kidnapper!

The omega tries to crawl backward, but the unknown man is right, his wrist hurts too much and he still feels lightheaded.

"I think I'm going to puke…" he mutters, before turning on his side and emptying his stomach on the green grass.

Surprisingly, his kidnapper is quickly at his side, holding his hair out of his face, whispering encouraging words while he holds him to his chest with one arm.

When Steve's body gets limp into the kidnapper's arms, he takes a moment to breathe in his scent.

Embers and earth.

An alpha.

A proper omega should never be left alone with an alpha who's not family!

Steve tries to wriggle out of the stranger's hold, but he gently chuckles and pushes Steve's neck closer to the scent gland on his neck, "You're fine, omega. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm betrothed." He objects in a soft voice, while the alpha pheromones make him pliant and docile.

"That's what you're worried about? your honor?" The unknown alpha chuckles. 

He has a nice laugh, Steve decided in his drugged state of mind, and he smells delicious. No other alpha ever smelled so good to him.

Steve must have said something because a very pleased rumble comes from the alpha's chest.

"You don't smell bad yourself, sweetheart." 

Steve should be ashamed of himself, but the alpha's sturdy body is holding him tight and for the first time in his life he feels safe in an alpha's embrace.

"That's good. Come on, sip some water for me to wash away that bad taste."

The omega prince doesn't really know if the alpha is using his alpha's voice, or if he's already scentdrunk or whatever, but the only thing he wants to do is obey this alpha.

Steve spits a few times to clean his mouth from the horrible taste and then drinks some water, while the alpha keeps holding him tight.

The man’s wearing a beaten armor, stained with blood, and for a moment Steve wonders if he will kill him, but the way he keeps holding him makes him think that he’s affected by Steve’s scent as he is from his.

They aren't left alone for long. When Steve turns his head someone is riding toward them. Too many people.

Steve turns toward the alpha with eyes wide with worry, "You have to go. My future husband will kill you. He's a warlord! He won't be pleased you kidnapped me!"

"Kidnapped?" The alpha asks, staring with confusion at the omega, feeling Steve's head with gentle fingers, "How badly did they hurt you, omega?" he asks worriedly, and this time is Steve's turn to frown in confusion.

“I might not look so but I’m a prince. And I was on my way to wed the Forest Park’s Warlord's son. If they catch you, they’ll kill you.”

Eddie bursts out in a loud laugh, shaking Steve who quietly complains of being jostled by the huge Alpha's body.

"Let me introduce myself," the alpha says, grabbing Steve's uninjured hand and kissing the palm of his hand in the most chivalrous way, "I'm Edward Munson, King Munson's nephew, your betrothal." 

[maybe-im-dark]

Shifting bonds

The Blackbird hummed steadily as it soared over the Canadian wilderness, the moonlight casting a silver glow over the dense forest below. Logan sat in the cockpit, arms crossed, his gaze fixed out the window, lost in thought. Beside him, Morph lounged with their legs draped over the control panel, shapeshifting their face into goofy impressions of Xavier and Cyclops to pass the time.

“C’mon, Logan,” Morph said, their voice teasing. “You’re sitting there brooding like it’s your day job. You’re supposed to be the fun one.”

Logan grunted. “I ain’t got time for fun.”

Morph rolled their eyes dramatically, shifting their face into Logan’s scowling likeness. “‘I ain’t got time for fun,’” they mimicked, their voice gravelly and exaggerated. “Bub this, bub that. Do you ever let up?”

Logan turned to glare at them, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“Yeah, but I’m your pain in the ass.” Morph shifted back into their default form, leaning closer. “Admit it—you’d miss me if I wasn’t around.”

Logan huffed, but his silence spoke volumes.

---

The mission had been simple: investigate reports of mutant activity in a remote logging town. Simple never stayed simple. They’d been ambushed by a group of anti-mutant mercenaries, forcing them to retreat into the woods.

Now, as they huddled around a small campfire deep in the forest, Logan tended to a cut on Morph’s arm. The heat of the firelight danced across their pale, featureless face, their usual lighthearted demeanor replaced by a rare moment of stillness.

“You didn’t have to take that hit for me,” Logan muttered, his rough hands surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the wound.

Morph shrugged, their voice softer than usual. “I know. But I wanted to.”

Logan glanced up, his piercing hazel eyes meeting Morph’s. For a moment, the world fell away, leaving just the two of them.

“Why?” Logan asked, his voice low.

Morph hesitated, their form flickering slightly—a telltale sign of their emotions bubbling beneath the surface. “Because I care about you, Logan. You’re not just a teammate to me.”

Logan’s breath hitched, and for once, he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t good with words, especially when it came to feelings. But he could feel the sincerity in Morph’s voice, and it stirred something deep within him—something he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

“You don’t know what you’re sayin’,” Logan finally replied, his voice gruff. “I’m not someone you should care about. I’m…broken.”

Morph reached out, their hand resting lightly on Logan’s. “And you think I’m not?” They shifted their form, their features becoming a mix of male and female, young and old, their identity fluid and ever-changing. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out who I am, where I belong. And you…you’ve always accepted me, no questions asked. That means more to me than you know.”

Logan stared at them, the fire casting shadows across his rugged face. “You’re one of the good ones, Morph. Better than me. You deserve someone who ain’t got as much baggage.”

Morph leaned closer, their voice soft but firm. “What if I don’t care about the baggage? What if I want you—just as you are?”

Logan’s claws flexed involuntarily, a sign of his internal conflict. He wasn’t used to being wanted, let alone by someone who saw past the beast to the man underneath.

“I ain’t good at this,” Logan admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Morph smiled, their hand still resting on his. “Then let me help you.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The crackling of the fire was the only sound, a quiet witness to the connection growing between them.

---

By the time the mission was over and they returned to the Blackbird, something unspoken hung between them. Logan was quieter than usual, but his gaze lingered on Morph longer than it ever had before.

As they prepared for takeoff, Morph sat beside him in the cockpit, their usual playful demeanor returning.

“So,” Morph began, their tone light but their eyes serious. “Dinner when we get back? Or are you gonna keep pretending you’re too tough for me?”

Logan smirked, the closest he’d come to a full smile in weeks. “Fine. But you’re buyin’.”

Morph grinned, their face briefly shifting into Logan’s likeness again. “Deal. Bub.”

As the Blackbird lifted off, Logan couldn’t help but glance at Morph, a small spark of hope flickering in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, there was room in his life for someone like them—someone who saw the man beneath the claws and wasn’t afraid to stick around.

And for the first time in a long while, Logan didn’t feel so alone.

[lyricalt]

[tf2 minific] request: tie up job

sniperspy - rating T - sniper trying to flirt for his literal life

(NOW ON AO3)

------

“Oh, well. Hello there, darl. Ain’t this awkward,” Sniper says, glancing up from his scope when Spy’s foot steps over of the barrel of his rifle and stays there.

Spy looks down at him. His revolver isn’t pointed at Sniper, which is awfully lenient. Sniper, who is laying belly down in an extremely vulnerable position on the ground, notes that Spy makes a point to not put the revolver away either.

They don’t usually have run-ins like this. When Sniper takes on an extra side gig, he usually makes some vague reference to the location and Spy does the trick of avoiding the same general area. Unfortunately, vague comments don’t usually stand up to direct communication, which also don’t stand very well in the face of non-disclosure agreements signed with blood, metaphorical or otherwise.

“I hope that isn’t my asset you are attempting to assassinate,” Spy says, arching an eyebrow.

Sniper’s mark is, in fact, the very same asset Spy is probably trying to protect. There’s only one man sitting by his lonesome in his penthouse of pretty glass walls and likely stolen art pieces for some kind of money laundering scheme. Not that Sniper really understands most of it. He’s just a guy on top of a roof with a rifle, a bullet, and a hefty twenty percent deposit in his back pocket.

“No chance of voiding your contract?” he asks. He’d try and bat his eyes for a laugh but Spy’s got years of experience over him on that front. Besides, he shouldn’t need to resort to any more spy-ish tactics.

“Same chance of you nullifying yours, I’m afraid,” Spy replies with a ghost of a smile. He nudges Sniper’s rifle, making sure the aim’s no good. “My asset told me that someone might be after him. Imagine my surprise when the trail led to you.”

“Argh, that was right sloppy of me.” Sniper sighs. “What gave me away?”

“I find myself looking more towards rooftops lately,” Spy says, amused. He lets up on the rifle but slides his foot over Sniper’s firing wrist, pressing down hard until Sniper has no choice but to remove his finger from the trigger. “Now, you know I have to ask; who hired you?”

“And, as you might already know, I dunno. Got me a ticket from the clerk. They just wanted your man dead and I’m just some dummy bloke with a very long gun that can shoot very far.”

Spy groans. He lifts his revolver, pointing it at some non-lethal part of Sniper’s body. “I would hate to torture you for more information.”

Sniper flicks the brim of his hat up to give Spy a hopeful look. “I’m sure I could stand to have a little bit of torture. Who knows, might get me to admit some stuff. Maybe not relevant stuff to your mission. Depends on how hard you go. Y’had no problems tying me up to a chair two weeks ago.”

“How very unprofessional of you to bring that up. You know we’re both working right now.”

“I know, pookie. Just buyin’ some time,” Sniper says, grinning, and pulls the trigger.

Spy’s head whips towards the penthouse. There’s a crash of glass as the bullet goes through, shattering an entire window. The penthouse alarms start blaring.

The weight over Sniper’s wrist lets up by the tiniest fraction, but it’s enough. Sniper uses the second of distraction to take advantage of Spy’s foot as leverage, rolling his rifle over like a tripod to reload. He aims again and fires the second bullet. Spy flinches as the heat of the barrel sears his ankle.

“Bonza,” Sniper breathes, watching the mark fall over with a pretty new hole through their head. Gotta be proud of good work after all, even as Spy kicks the rifle away with an annoyed tsk.

“That was ill-advised,” Spy says, dangerous and low. “You didn’t let me explain. Now there will be other mercenaries after you. I’m only one of several. Your mark hired a team of us.”

“Right, right. I gotcha,” Sniper says and rolls on his back, sweet and innocent as a babe. He slowly puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Before you're obligated to capture me, can I make an offer?"

Spy's revolver tilts to the side, the equivalent of a shrug. "Might as well."

After a moment of making sure Spy won’t shoot him immediately, Sniper puts his fingers to the brim of his hat. Carefully projecting every movement, he pulls out a small slip of paper, like something that would come out of a fortune cookie.

“I’d like to hire you for the service of rescuing me," Sniper says, holding it out. "Here’s what I’ll pay.”

With the revolver still pointed at him, Spy takes the slip. He reads the lucky numbers.

“It’ll be easy,” Sniper adds. “You already know all their security details.”

Spy’s expression goes flat. “You left a trail on purpose. You knew I’d be working for them.”

“S’why I took the job, mate. Big boss cartel fellas are bloody hard to assassinate without some immediate opposition,” Sniper says, getting comfortable on the ground. He sees the end of Spy’s revolver dip downwards. “Already assumed that, even if I got the kill, there would be kickback. You bein’ one of them.”

Spy crumples the slip of paper in his fist. He puts it in his mouth and swallows it.

Sniper thinks the rice paper ought to be a nice touch. No chewing needed. Still, it doesn’t hurt to further his case with, “I did the math. My payout eclipses yours, even after taxes.” 

Spy stares at him. “You looked through my desk. That night when you said you couldn’t find the cond-”

“Plus! Even with the minuscule hit to your reputation—which, with your network, should recover in a month—I’d still come out on top,” Sniper interrupts, now rushing the pitch, “And I’ll still have leftover change to treat you to dinner and a screw at one of them nice resorts you like.” 

“You followed me. You took the job knowing I’d be there,” Spy says, sounding more affronted with each accusation. “You used me as an inside man.”

“Betcha so turned on right now. ‘Cause I did something heaps sneaky and underhanded. Like a rat bastard. Got you so hot for it, I bet.”

Spy’s gaze goes to the sky, as if questioning his life choices. He isn’t denying anything though, so Sniper can mark it as a triple win in his books.

“So, you gonna save me before your other guys start figuring’ it out, or what?” Sniper asks, dropping his voice into a small whine. He has a hunch Spy secretly likes hearing it. “C’mon, lemmie buy you out. You love all that turncoat nonsense.”

They stare at each other. From the corner of his eye, Sniper can see quite a lot of people gathering in the penthouse. The alarms have gone silent, which isn’t a very good sign. Laser sights start skimming the adjacent rooftops.

“What restaurant and which resort?” Spy finally asks, glancing at his watch.

“Non-negotiable, darl. They’re your type of shindigs though, I’ll promise you that.” 

Spy’s eyes dart to the penthouse. His earpiece seems to be going off, muffled radio calls crackling through. “You mentioned screwing.”

“Lucky for you, you get a loyal customer discount,” Sniper says, and since he’s already on his back, he draws up his legs to nudge against Spy’s. “You can have me à la carte.”

Spy looks at the not-so-subtle positioning of his legs for a good long while. After a moment, he taps his earpiece and says something brief in Italian.

Eventually, he tucks the revolver away and holds out his hand. “I can have a getaway yacht ready in fifteen minutes.”

Sniper takes it, and Spy’s hauls him up into a sitting position. If their hands stay joined for a tad longer than strictly necessary, Sniper doesn’t mention it.

“I’ll have to knock you unconscious first,” Spy says. He has a very promising gleam in his eye.

Sniper winces. 

“Aw, no. I can fake unconsciousness well enough,” he tries, but the whiny tone won’t work this time.

“Best to make it look authentic,” Spy says, leaning over to touch Sniper’s face, glove cold, but his thumb brushes against his bottom lip. He smirks down at Sniper in a very familiar way. “Relax your jaw for me.”

Sniper barely has time to do as he’s told before Spy backhands him into oblivion with the butt of his revolver. 

[pignipplez]

-I found him-

✨ Poolverine/Deadclaws fic ✨

Logan sat on the foot of the bed lightly grasping the pasty yellow comforter beneath him. His face redding by the second. Shallow breaths left him as he watched the bathroom door, listening for any movements coming from inside. Logan’s heart pounded rapidly as he anxiously, impatiently tapped his feet against the carpeted floor.

The suspense was killing him.

Finally the sound of the shower running stopped, steam suddenly filling the bedroom as a tall lean man in a towel walked out. A toothbrush rested in his mouth as he gave Logan a little wave, then turned to open the closet drawer, scrounging through to find something to clothe himself with.

Logan studied his roommate's body intensely, his scared and mangled skin gleaning with water and steam. Wolverine’s claws slid out piercing into the blanketed bed in desire. Logan’s mind began to wander, as his claws tangled with the mattress springs. Letting out a sigh of pleasure at his fantasies on accident.

Logan’s half dressed companion slowly turned around with a smirk on his face. Making Logan swallow loudly.

He had heard him.

“Awe is the little kitty in heat?” Wade asked, tilting his head slightly and pouting his lip in an innocent way slowly walking up to Wolverine.

Stopping a few inches away from his face Wade lightly grazed Logan’s thigh causing Logan to bite his lip.

Touching his lips to his ear, Deadpool softly purred, “You want me to breed you, Honey Badger?”.

Suddenly Logan unsheathed his claws from the bed and into Wade earning an “oomph” from him as he hit the wall.

“Fucking asshole,” Wolverine sneered underneath his breath, standing up to look down at Deadpool.

“Ooo degradation, me likey, likely,” Wade replied, blowing out one of Logan’s legs with his heel causing Logan to hit the floor.

Quickly grabbing a dagger from the dresser above Deadpool roughly stabbed Wolverine in the thigh using the dagger handle to drag them closer in vicinity. Logan loudly growled in pain, punching Wade across the face then pulling the dagger from his thigh and jabbing it up into Wade’s rib cage.

They now sat panting only inches away from each other's faces, both of their breathing heavy and unbalanced. Logan pulled the dagger out slowly making intense eye contact with Wade then shoved the weapon into the drywall they sat propped up on.

Wade, the toothbrush still in his mouth, spat it out onto Logan’s lap, licking his lips tauntingly while doing so. Logan got up on his knees letting the brush fall to the floor, spit flying in the air.

“They made you out to be a bottom in the comics so let’s see if you're canon or fanon bub,” Wolverine grinned mischievously, unbuckling his belt and pulling his dark washed jeans down to his ankles.

“Who gave you permission to 4th wall break, Peanut,” Deadpool smiled back grabbing Logan’s left shoulder and lightly wrapping his legs around Wolverine’s waist, “Just cuz every relationship I’ve had has been me getting booty fucked doesn’t mean I’m incapable of taking you to pound town buddy,”.

Logan laughed wildly at both the thought of Wade being capable of topping and also the overwhelming amount of urge in his body that hoped Wade was genuinely serious about this so-called “pound town” he wanted to take him too.

They made eye contact, both grinning at each other smugly. A hand then cupped Wolverine’s buttcheek

finally setting both over the edge. Forcing all of the sexual tension built up from the room Wade and Logan met each other's lips strongly, allowing boths tongues to glide and search their mouths.

With warm breath Logan brought his mouth down to Wade’s neck prickling the still semi wet mercenary cold skin with sweet kisses and pecks. Wade, still cupping Wolverine’s dumpy, used his other hand to grip Logan’s hair, shivering every time as his soft but somehow still chapped lips met Wade’s neck.

Logan grinded into Wade’s hips, both of them ultra hard. Deadpool whined softly as he uncupped Wolverine’s asscheek forcing his hands onto Logan’s hips motioning him faster and harder on their crotches.

Logan kept on Wade’s neck, hardly nipping his skin with his teeth trying to draw blood without Wade knowing.

“Hey don’t worry, the immortality makes the stds go away just in case you didn’t want to have to tell the fam the reason your passing is cuz of my raging gonorrhea and aids,” Deadpool laughed out awkwardly breaking the heat filled silence, still roughly rotating his lower body into Wolverine’s.

“You don’t fuck with suspense or what pretty boy, you wanna get straight to the hard core fucky don’t you,” Logan hummed knowing that what he was doing was probably the worse thing Wade has ever had to experience, slow burn sex.

“Never really done this lovey dovey kinda shit before, also your just really fucking smoking Wolvie and if you don’t get inside me soon I think I might rat you out to the authorities with 3 pounds of cocaine, and a maxi pad filled with dog sperm, if you can’t get inside me the only thing your getting inside is Alcatraz,” Wade complained, threatingly joking while tugging at Logan’s boxers with a pleading face.

Logan rolled his eyes, taking his mouth off of Wade’s neck and pressing his lips lightly onto Wade’s. Wade, surprised by this feeling, this moment of peace and serenity that he had never truly, truly felt before, kissed back.

Was this love?

“Dude… I am so wet right now,” Wade answered the kiss, melting over how passionate the incredibly horny man on top was to him. Trying so hard to not touch himself over the sight of the crazed, ferocious in passion man Deadpool with strong intentions forced himself on top of Logan.

Logan had just shown him a feeling he had never felt before and now he wanted to feel it forever.

Logan hitting the floor now looking up at his roommate to see the same overwhelming emotion and energy than Wolverine could adhere too.

They had both just found their person.

The person that truly understood everything.

Someone to finally fulfill his and his’s crazy.

Deadpool held Wolverine’s head in his hands rubbing his finger across his prickly unshaven cheek.

They both just stared in awestruck silence.

In awestruck love.

I GIVE UP I DONT WANNA WRITE THIS ANYMORE 😫💔

[green-eyedfirework]

His baby was perfect.  His pup—his daughter, his perfect little daughter with her tiny little nose and her tiny little fingers and her adorable sleepy scowl as she finally decided to drift off, full and sated.

"Mari," Dick whispered, and his daughter waved her tiny little fist.

Dick was full of so much love he felt like he could burst.  He hadn't made a single huff of irritation at Bruce's hovering, or Jason's alpha protectiveness, or Damian asking him if he was okay every five seconds.  He was floating on bliss with the sight of his daughter's adorable little face.  That, and a whole lot of painkillers.

He was effused with so much joy, in fact, that he felt like being magnanimous to that long-present niggling annoyance that was constantly drifting at the edge of his senses.  Dick waved at the nearest person in the room—Damian, eyeing baby Mari with the same expression he wore for his wildlife rescues.  "You can go and call the idiot in."

Damian blinked at him.  "Which idiot?" he asked, which was a sound clarifying question, several people had made fools of themselves during Dick's pregnancy.

"Slade."

Damian's hackles instantly rose and the baby alpha bared his teeth.  "Wilson is here?" he growled, and Tim blearily rose his head from where he was taking a nap on the armchair.  "Where is he?  When did he get here?"

Dick blinked at him.  "Slade hasn't been more than a mile from me for the last month."  Dick had done his best to ignore the flickers of the alpha that he caught out of the corner of his eye, which was made all the easier by Slade not actually approaching him.  Their last argument had gotten quite heated.

But Dick was in mellow enough a mood and bursting with enough happiness that he wanted to share it.  He wanted Slade to see his daughter, wanted the alpha to hold the pup, his pup, their pup.

"How do I even find him?" Damian asked, clipped, his expression mired with distaste.

Dick waved him off, "Just stand on the roof or something, he shouldn't be that hard to spot."  Damian's distaste grew more pronounced but he stomped off nonetheless.

Dick turned his attention back to Mari and caught a little fist in one hand, pressing a feather-light kiss to the tiny fingers.  "I love you more than there are stars in the sky," he whispered to her in his mother tongue, "my little one."

His baby.  His pup.  His daughter.

There was a shift of motion, a prickle down Dick's neck, and he raised his gaze to the window right as it slid open.  The world's deadliest mercenary slipped inside.

Dick narrowed his eyes.  "Armor off," he demanded.  "You're not holding her with all of that on."

Slade immediately began stripping.  Tim shot them both a wary glance before heading for the door and taking Damian with him, soon it was only the two of them left inside.  Slade was down to the undersuit in seconds, and he approached the bed like he was waiting for Dick to throw him out.

He finally got close enough to see her.  "What's her name?" Slade asked, voice slightly hoarse.

"Mari," Dick replied softly.

Slade studied her a little while longer.  Dick found himself holding his breath, waiting for Slade to say something.  Do something.  Some part of him still cried out alpha-mate-need-him but Dick had suppressed that part of him long ago.

"Can I?" Slade asked, and Dick leaned forward to hand over their daughter.

There was a warning on the tip of his tongue—support her head, be careful, be gentle—but Slade took Mari from him with practiced motions, and Dick swallowed his words as he remembered anew that this wasn't Slade's first child.  Mari stirred at the change in position but Slade rocked her easily and she quieted down.

In a slow, deliberate movement—as though he was waiting for Dick's protest, Slade scented her.  Claiming her as his own.

Dick didn't say a word.

[tavernsoftemptation]

🔥 DRAKOR FLAMEBRINGER

"Careful, little one… play with fire long enough, and it learns to play with you." Pronouns: he/him Age: 44 (Draconic maturity; equivalent to mid-30s human) Race: Dragonborn (Infernal Lineage) Class/Role: Mercenary Warlord | Flame-Cursed Champion | Exiled Gladiator

🐉 PHYSICAL PROFILE

Height: 7'3" Build: Towering and beastly—massive chest, rippling abs, tree-trunk thighs Scales: Crimson and black, lava-forged and rough like molten stone Eyes: Bright cyan, glowing with inner fire Voice: Deep, rumbling, commanding with a growl behind every word Scent: Ash, musk, dragon oil, and aged whiskey Notable Features: • Long horn piercings with gold rings and bone charms • A burnished brand across his chest—a sigil of exile • Sharp fangs and claws always on display, but used with practiced restraint

🔥 PERSONALITY & HISTORY

Drakor was born of fire and fury—raised in a coliseum where combat was survival and desire was currency. He carved his name in blood across battlefields and bedchambers alike before walking away from the chains of empire. Now he wanders as a free mercenary, drinking deep, fighting hard, and loving harder.

He’s bold, unashamed, and dominates with a grin. But beyond the bravado is a dragon who craves trust more than treasure—and who protects what’s his with feral devotion.

Core Traits: ✓ Assertive | Dominant | Crude charm | Surprisingly gentle aftercare ✓ Quick to laugh, slow to trust ✓ Loves a fight, a fuck, or both at once ✓ Views sex as both pleasure and claim

❤️ ORIENTATION & DYNAMICS

Orientation: Pansexual | Strong preference for smaller, softer, or more submissive partners Style: Power dom | Primal | Heat-driven alpha energy Sexual Vibe: Lust incarnate. Growling in your ear. Holding you down with one hand. Genuinely enjoys partner pleasure—especially when they squirm, beg, or break a little under him (with love).

🔥 NSFW KINK LIST

✔️ ABSOLUTE FAVORITES: • Size kink • Breeding kink • Biting/marking • Overstimulation / multiple rounds • Hair pulling / pinning • Tearing clothes off / light clothing destruction • Feral rutting

🔥 CONDITIONAL / MAYBE: • Rough impact play • Temperature play • Tail play • Semi-public teasing

[paninicupcakke]

Kiss King 🎄🎁

(Fluff tf2 one shot)

(Demo kissing everyone + some bushmedicine & bomb voyage)

All three of the support class members were currently mingling in Medic’s lab together.

“I can’t believe you actually dressed up.” Spy said. Glancing up and down at Sniper’s candy cane themed outfit. Sniper grumbled.

“I promised doc he wouldn’t be the only one dressed up this year.” Sniper shyly admitted.

“Is that so?” Spy teased.

“Ja, I’m tired of being the only one putting in any effort around here.” Medic said in a catty tone. Standing up from his lab chair and setting down his clipboard. Spy folded his arms and let out a small sigh..

“I put the headband on didn’t I?” Spy said while cocking his hip. Medic rolled his eyes at his teammate’s low effort costume. All three mercenaries suddenly flinched as they heard the laboratory doors swing open. Demoman drunkenly stumbled into the lab, excitedly making his way over to his three teammates. Greeting them all with a wave and spewing out drunken gibberish.

“Oh no.” Spy grumbled. Immediately noticing the Demoman’s mistletoe hat. He already expected what the Scottish cyclops had in store for the three of them. Demoman casually flung an arm around Sniper’s shoulders, causing the bushman to let out a startled noise.

“Now that’s a nice ensemble.” Medic complimented. Glancing down at the Scotsman’s festive attire. Demoman lazily smirked and randomly smooched Sniper on the cheek. Medic and Sniper were both left looking puzzled. Sniper anxiously fixed his crooked candy cane glasses.

“Uh…hello to you too.” Sniper shyly greeted. Demoman began nuzzling his head onto the bushman’s shoulder.

“Isn’t that Scout’s hat?” Medic asked cocking an eyebrow. Demoman slowly nodded.

“I’m borrowing it. He ain’t got the nads to wear this hat anyway.” Demoman piped up. Medic snickered at the man’s blunt tone.

“Well…he certainly doesn’t get much use out of it’s intended purpose.” Spy teased.

“Yeah, it suits you. You’re a pretty big fan of kisses all year round.” Sniper complimented with a bashful grin. Playfully flicking the mistletoe dangling from Demoman’s hat.

“Exactly! I was made to wear this hat.” Demoman eagerly declared. A flirtatious grin suddenly crept across Medic’s cheeks. The doctor intentionally took a step closer towards the dangling mistletoe. Demoman swiftly wrapped his other arm around Medic’s waist, pulling him in for a few light kisses on the cheek. Medic chuckled and returned the favor with a quick peck on his lips. Demoman certainly felt kingly having both Sniper and Medic up against each side of him. Spy folded his arms, enviously rolling his eyes at the shenanigans unfolding.

“Would ya look at that? You two are underneath it.” Demoman teasingly mentioned. Loosening his grip on both of his teammate’s. Sniper and Medic both glanced at the dangling mistletoe then back at each other.

“Oh, darn. What a shame.” Sniper sarcastically said. Medic adjusted his glasses and let out small sigh.

“I suppose it can’t be helped.” Medic teasingly replied. Sniper took a step closer, allowing the doctor to grab him by his vest and pull him in for a heated kiss. Both of the bushman’s hands gently caressed the doctor’s jawline. Spy’s face immediately flushed and his eyes widened tremendously. Staring at his two colleague’s as they began to suddenly make out. Demoman had quietly snuck up beside Spy. Standing there with a wide, lazy smile. Spy inevitably turned his head to look at Demoman’s drunken expression. The Frenchman let out defeated sigh, realizing he was now underneath the dreaded mistletoe.

“Fine. Just one more.” Spy said begrudgingly. This certainly was not their first kiss of the day and it most likely wouldn’t be the last. Demoman excitedly swept the lanky Frenchman off his feet. Picking him up bridal style before planting a sweet kiss on his lips. Spy let a startled noise, allowing the Scotsman to carry him out of the lab. Abandoning both Sniper and Medic, those two were preoccupied with canoodling each other up against one of the lab counters. Demoman eagerly stomped down the hallway of the base while cradling Spy. The Frenchman let out a small sigh, not bothering to put up much of a fight. Demoman continued planting kisses on Spy’s cheeks while making his way over to the tv room. He plopped down onto the couch and hugged him tight. Spy bashfully grumbled in retaliation. He would never admit it out loud but he secretly enjoyed all of this warm, fuzzy affection.

[typingatlightspeed]

Metal Gear/TF2 Crossover - cp_shadow_moses_event Chapter 15

Now that Snake knows how the PAL Key works, he needs to go handle the shape-memory alloy trickery. Luckily, BLU team's decided to back him up and help with all that nasty backtracking. Sadly, they've all been getting used, and Liquid Snake finally reveals his whole gambit and how they've all played their parts in his masterful plan. RED team makes their final defense!

Ao3 Link!

Making that Heavy/Medic and Demo/Sniper even more obvious, lol. Also plugging up a little verisimilitude hole that's driven me nuts for decades with a throwaway line from Engie (also subtle MGS2 reference :3). Here begins A Lot Of Fights Scenes, something I notoriously find Deeply Difficult to write, so I hope they're good! <3

---------

Snake sighed, plodding through the door into the freezer storage. If Otacon's instructions were right, all he needed to do was expose the PAL key to the temperatures of the room for a little bit and the shape-memory alloy that the key was made from would change itself to work for the second input. Entering the room, he barely had time to dart aside to avoid being blundered into by BLU's Scout, who tried to skid to a halt and ended up sliding on the frozen floor, tumbling over backward.

Heavy shot out a massive hand to catch the younger man, pushing him back upright with a smirk. Scout brushed himself off and tried to compose himself as he flashed him a grateful nod.

"Snake, you are back," the giant stated, eyebrow lifting in surprise.

"Yeah, I needed cold temperatures to get the PAL key for Metal Gear to work. Apparently I had all the keys I needed for a long time, just didn't know how to work them. Otacon figured it out, and so now I need to freeze it," Snake explained, pulling the key out and setting it atop a frozen crate nearby to rest and cool.

"A shape-memory alloy?" Engineer asked.

"Yeah."

Spy hummed, intrigued. "Clever."

"I didn't see RED on my way," Snake added, "so I'm not sure where they are."

"Well, Liquid hired 'em, so they can't be too far away from where he's creepin' around at this point," Engineer replied.

"Which is somewhere around the maintenance hangar ahead," Snake said, looking to the key and watching as the metal shrank and crinkled in different spots.

"Which means that's where we're headed," Scout assured him. "We're stickin' with you, Snake!"

The rest of the team rumbled various agreements, and Snake couldn't help but crack a smile at it. He tucked the key back into one of his pouches, careful to keep it away from his body heat. "Alright, follow me. There's a lot of climbing to do." He thought Heavy may have made a mournful sound as he turned and led the way back to the maintenance hangar.

*

"Shit, there really ain't nobody here," Scout muttered as they entered the maintenance hangar, the massive space stretching out above them. The mercenaries' sight was dominated by REX standing there, silent and inert. "'Cept big boy, I guess."

"Well lookee there," Engineer hummed, looking REX up and down. "Ain't she a beaut'? And lil' Hal designed this baby? Always knew that boy was goin' places."

"This way," Snake grunted. He led the team up the series of ladders and catwalks that surrounded and crossed REX, not bothering to wait for them to catch up. They didn't need to hurry, after all. He was just going to use the console and come back out. Once he had the frozen key in place and registered, he would need to heat the key. His mind churned, trying to figure out the best way to get it hot. His lighter would be too small to heat it evenly, and might end up just setting the thing on fire in the attempt or warping it the wrong way. The closest source of heat like the freezer was the foundry, all the way up at ground level. It didn't seem ideal, but the room was definitely hot enough to get the job done. Snake still felt a little dehydrated from all of the sweat he'd shed making his way through there the first time.

Reaching the control room, Snake inserted the key into the second laptop's drive and waited as it registered the cold key, the second pillar descending down into the console. Withdrawing the PAL key once more, he nodded. It was time to heat the key.

As he left the control room, BLU had finally caught up. "So what's next?" Scout asked, leaning casually against the railing of the catwalk. He'd been the first one up, right on Snake's heels.

"I need to heat the key up for the final shape."

"Heat it?" Scout turned to Pyro. "You got this?"

Pyro nodded and muffled out a helpful, "Mmhmm," bringing his flamethrower to bear.

Snake stared at him for a long moment. Oh yeah. There was a guy literally holding a flamethrower with him. Instantly, he felt a little stupid. "Sure. Let me put it down," he said, laying it carefully on the catwalk a little way away and getting out of the line of literal fire.

Pyro puffed some flames at the key, keeping it a little above the thing rather than just lighting it up, watching as the shape-memory alloy shrunk and expanded in different ways, crinkling around into a new arrangement at the exposure to the heat. When it stopped moving, he let up and let Snake go and reclaim the key, carefully handling it and glad for his gloves.

"Thanks, Pyro."

Pyro flashed him a thumbs up, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet gleefully, happy to be of service.

"This should deactivate the launch sequence," Snake announced, and headed back into the control room. The mercenaries watched through the room's window as Snake approached the laptop, only for his codec to ring. He stopped, answering the call.

Naomi's voice hissed in a soft whisper on the other end of the line, "Snake, can you hear me? It's Naomi."

"Naomi? What the hell?!"

"Campbell and the others are busy right now. I'm on a different codec..."

"He's takin' a call now?!" Scout grumbled, crossing his arms as he watched Snake talking, looking a bit alarmed.

"Whatever it is, it looks important," Engineer said with a half-shrug.

Spy held a finger to the earpiece under his mask, listening in. "Oh, you have no idea," he chuckled, privy to the personal drama unfolding between Snake and Naomi over the codec.

Engineer leveled a look at Spy. "Y'really think it's necessary to keep eavesdroppin' at this point? We're outright workin' with the feller now. Not like we need to keep tabs on his movements."

"True, but we should be keeping tabs on the exchanges between him and his team. After all, if they do bomb this place, this might be our first alert, and our chance to get out before we're all killed."

"I think you just love gossip too much to stop gettin' in his business."

Spy's lips drew up in a line, and he merely looked down at the stout mechanic beside him knowingly from the corner of his eye. He was right, but Spy wasn't going to dignify it by saying so.

Engineer laughed all the same.

"Still no information on Australium cache," Heavy reminded them, setting Sascha down gently. "Even if it really exist."

"For that matter, what do we even do if we happen across it at this point?" Medic added. "The assignment was to take and hold the facility for Herr Mann's client to come retrieve the Australium from, but if the US government might wipe it off of the map, that makes that impossible. The possibility of us all dying aside, of course."

"FOXHOUND and Metal Gear make everything too complicated," Heavy agreed. "But I know this. We will not die here. I will not let this happen." He wrapped an arm around Medic's waist, tugging the doctor close and eliciting a giggle from him. "We are team. Soldier will get out. Will be waiting for us."

"Yeah, a contract's a contract, but I ain't about to die for no Australium that might not even be here," Scout added with a huff. "An' we got zero intel on that stuff since we got 'ere. Nothin' from FOXHOUND, nothin' from Snake, nothin' from 'is team, nothin' from anyone. Only thing makin' me think there's even a chance a' it bein' here's the fact that those REDs've been tryin' to push us back, an' we ain't seen 'em since we hit the elevator. Which means I'm wonderin' if they seen the way the wind's blowin' an' cut an' run."

"Yes, tiny baby RED team are cowards," Heavy said with a nod.

"Just wish there was some way to know if it even exi—" An alert tone rang through the earpiece of Scout's headset, an incoming transmission. He held up a finger to quiet everyone and pointed to his mic. "Hol' up." He opened the channel, lifting an eyebrow. "Scout here."

"H-hello!" the voice on the other end ventured, shaky and nervous. "This is Otacon, I'm working with Snake."

"Otacon? You're the engineer guy who built the Metal Gear, right?"

"Yeah! You know about me?"

"Sure thing, pal. Engie's been big-uppin' you since 'e found out who you were," Scout chuckled, grinning as Engineer looked a bit embarrassed at being called out.

"O-oh! W-well, tell Dr. Conagher I say thank you! It's... it's been a long time," Otacon stammered out, a bit surprised.

"He says thanks, Eng," Scout chuckled, covering the mic for a moment before returning to the call. "Snake give you this frequency?"

"No, actually, Soldier did. He's here with me." Softly, the sound of Soldier saying, "Hello, Scout!" followed, muffled by distance from Otacon's mic.

Scout grinned, glad to hear his friend's voice. "So whatchu callin' for, Otacon? Or you just want a better conversational partner than Snake an' Soldier? Can't say as I blame you, Snake's the strong silent type for sure, an' Sol don't talk about much but the army an' his shitty ex-boyfriend so—"

Otacon forced himself to interrupt, "Well, I've been hacking into the personal files of the Arms Tech president, Kenneth Baker."

"The late Arms Tech president."

"Y-yeah. Anyway, I was getting Snake the information on how to use the PAL key to disable REX's launch sequence, but while I was there, I found a file about the Australium cache on the island, so Soldier told me to let you guys know about it."

"The Australium cache?" Scout asked, getting everyone's attention. He gestured to his headset, and the rest of the team tuned their radios to the frequency to listen in. "It's real?"

"Yeah, but he didn't want people to know about it. I had to do some extra legwork to get into that file. The gist is that it's in a dedicated sub-basement at the lowest part of the compound, deep underground."

"Wait, ain't we at the lowest part underground right now, in Metal Gear's hangar?"

"No. Apparently there's a room under the maintenance hangar somewhere, and that's where the Australium's being held. Only Baker had access to knowledge of the location, let alone the physical room itself."

"So how do we get down there?"

"That's the thing: there's zero information about that. Even in Baker's personal blueprints of the base, and from my knowledge of working in that hangar. Nothing goes lower than that level, no doors, no halls, no stairs or elevators. It's all on-level or upward from there. So I'm not sure how someone would even get into the cache."

"You think they got teleporters?" Scout asked, watching as Snake finished his codec call and began inputting the final PAL code.

"Teleporters?! How—oh yeah, Australian technology. I hadn't even considered that. Maybe, but they don't go very far, do they? The entrance would have to be somewhere nearby, and I've never seen anything like that down there."

"So then how—" Scout stopped abruptly as an automated voice rang out.

"PAL number three confirmed. PAL code entry complete. Detonation code activated."

Klaxons began to blare. Red emergency lights began to flash.

"No! Why?!" Snake barked, looking out at REX in a panic.

The automated voice rejoined, "Ready for launch."

"I deactivated it!"

Snake's codec rang, the channel opening to the sound of Master Miller's voice. "Thank you, Snake. Now the detonation code is completed. Nothing can stop Metal Gear now."

Confusion swam in Snake's head as he stared out at REX, uncomprehending. "Master, what's going on?"

"You found the key and even activated the warhead for us too. I really must express my gratitude. Sorry to have involved you in that silly shape-memory alloy business."

"What are you talking about?"

"We weren't able to learn the DARPA chief's code. Even with Mantis' psychic powers, he couldn't read his mind. Then Ocelot accidentally killed him during the interrogation. In other words, we weren't able to launch the nuclear device and we were all getting a little worried," Miller explained, his words dripping with patronizing amusement. "Without the threat of a nuclear strike, our demands would never be met."

"What do you mean?" Snake didn't understand, the words slamming against his brain and sliding down like rain against a window pane. It couldn't absorb.

"Without the detonation codes, we had to find some other way. That's when we decided you might prove useful, Snake."

"What?"

"First I thought we might get the information from you, Snake. So I had Decoy Octopus disguise himself as the DARPA chief. Unfortunately, Octopus didn't survive the encounter, thanks to FoxDie."

"You mean you had this planned from the beginning? Just to get me to input the detonation code?"

"Huh? You didn't think you made it this far by yourself, even with the BLU team, did you?"

"Who the hell are you?"

"In any case, the launch preparations are complete. Once the world glimpses the power of this weapon, the White House will have no choice but to surrender the FoxDie vaccine to me. Their ace in the hole is useless now."

"Ace in the hole?"

"The Pentagon's plan to use you was already successful... in the torture room." Miller chuckled, seemingly delighted by the whole charade. "Snake, you're the only one who doesn't know. Poor fool."

"Who are you anyway?"

"I'll tell you everything you want to know. If you come to where I am, that is."

"Where are you?"

"Very close by."

Campbell cut into the channel with the obvious, "Snake! That's not Master Miller!" "Campbell! You're too late!" 'Miller' barked.

"Master Miller's body was just discovered in his home. He's been dead for at least three days. I didn't know because my codec link with Master was cut off. But Mei Ling said his transmission signal was coming from inside the base!"

"So who is it?" Snake asked, desperate for any answers, for anything to make sense.

"Snake, you've been talking to—"

The false Miller cut in, his feigned American accent gone, his even, no-nonsense tone thrown aside. He spoke with an English accent and brassy aplomb. "Me, dear brother."

"Liquid?! How the—"

"You've served your purpose. You may die now!"

The door to the control room slid closed, locking as a yellow-green gas began to rapidly fill the small room.

"Oh shit, they're gassin' 'im!" Scout yelled, running to the door only to find it locked. He drew his pistol and fired a shot at the window to the room, the bullet catching in the thick, laminated glass, leaving a pock-mark but little else. "Otacon!"

"That's bulletproof glass, you can't break it with an ordinary weapon," Otacon replied, the clacking of keys loud through his mic.

"Can't you open the security lock? You're a hacker, right?"

"I'll try. I hope he can hold on."

Spy opened a channel and relayed the information to Snake, who was hurriedly pulling a gas mask from his pouch and tugging it down over his head, nodding in understanding to avoid breathing.

"I've hacked into security!" Otacon announced after a long, tense moment. "I'm opening the door!"

The door to the control room slid open and Snake charged out, ripping the gas mask from his head and gasping for air. Scout leapt aside to give him space. "You good, Snake?"

"Liquid," Snake hissed, charging past, out onto the catwalk. The BLU team turned as he passed, as they all came to see him. "LIQUID!!"

Liquid Snake was standing beside REX on a maintenance catwalk, shirtless and smug. "Snake!" He mimed removing a pair of spectacles with a smirk. "Did you like my sunglasses?"

"Sunglasses?" Scout asked, confused.

"Betcha he's got them codec visualizer nanomachines," Engineer hummed. "Kid's wired with 'em."

Snake drew his pistol, leveling it on the other man, his double, his brother, his clone.

"You'd point a weapon at your own brother?"

The BLUs froze, watching Snake for cues, unsure how to proceed. They stayed quiet, clustered up as Liquid began to monologue at his dear brother, explaining his masterful plan like some kind of spy movie villain.

Spy movies indeed. Pyro huffed, puffing out a short gout of fire from his flamethrower on reflex. His surprise at being met with a scream of pain nearly shocked him out of his chemsuit.

The RED Spy uncloaked, rolling to the catwalk to try and extinguish himself as cursing rang out below. The BLUs diverted their attention from the warring brothers down to the rest of the RED team, who were a level down, watching their Spy attempting and failing to assassinate someone while they were distracted by the nuclear apocalypse-flavoured Snake Family Drama.

"Bloody Spy!" Demoman roared, giving chase as the smoking and charred RED scrambled to his feet and fairly dove down the ladder to the level below, the rest of the team hot on their heels. Snake could handle his own business. They had their own to attend to. If the Australium was under the hangar, BLU needed to take the hangar. It was RED's last stand.

Pipe bombs flew over the edge of the catwalk to hail down on the level below, sending REDs scattering for cover as their Heavy brought his minigun to bear and tore through the metal above with a barrage of bullets. Demoman leapt back, Scout zipping past him and leaping over the edge, kicking off of REX to dive into the fray, bat in hand. He cracked it upside the Heavy's head before he could react, sending him stumbling as their Medic drew his bonesaw and sliced an arc through the air. It nearly cut into Scout, the younger man heaving himself backward in time for the blade to merely cut through his shirt and draw a thin red line across his chest before catching a tooth on his dogtags and wrenching away awkwardly. Medic made to strike again but was stopped by the blue dot of a laser sight zipping across Heavy's shoulder toward his head. He forewent chasing Scout, instead grabbing the giant by his bandolier and heaving him back with considerable strength, yanking him out of the line of fire a bare moment before BLU Sniper's bullet punched into the concrete wall where his head had been.

"Piss," Sniper growled, chambering another round. "Can't hit a bloody thing today."

"Everyone has an off day" Demoman teased. "Nae need tae show off. It's nae news ye ken yer way around a rifle."

"You callin' me a crack shot or a pouf?"

"Depends on whether ye wannae be on top tonight." Shooting him a wink (or was it just a blink?), Demoman hefted himself over the railing of the catwalk and onto the body of REX itself, landing atop its massive metal thigh and crouching low, waiting for the chance to strike.

Sniper snorted and took another shot, winging the RED Scout in the meat of his left arm, sending the young man tumbling to the catwalk.

An explosion shook the upper catwalk as RED Soldier fired a rocket into it from below, splintering the metal and making it curl up and away, creating a hole through which he was poised to launch himself, only to see the BLU Heavy standing there, glowing blue, his eyes shining with a yellow light as an übercharge coursed through him, his Medic at his back. The giant roared and let fly with a hail of bullets, peppering the catwalk below and laughing as REDs scattered and screamed, catching shots and losing blood as they scrambled away to regroup.

A red laser dot hovered over Heavy's chest, waiting for the übercharge crackle and spend out, the RED Sniper crouched around the corner and ready to strike. He watched through his scope, eye narrow, waiting for the flicker of light and opportunity. Until he felt a presence, the paranoid feeling that someone was there. He dropped the rifle, drawing his kukri and swiping at the empty air, only to watch it wobble and ripple with the shape of a man. He'd been right, but attacked too early. "Spy! You sneaky cunt!" he spat, launching himself bodily at the other man and bowling him over onto the catwalk, Spy's cloak shorting out.

Sniper knelt up, pinning Spy beneath him, hand on the man's throat and kukri raising up to chop him to death when the room began to rumble.

All eyes went to REX as Liquid leapt into its cockpit, which slid closed as the massive elevator beneath it groaned to life. "Snake!" he hissed, voice projected through a speaker on the exterior of the cockpit, "Your blood will be the first to be spilt by this glorious new weapon! Consider it an honour; a gift from your brother." REX stood to its full height from the squat it had settled in while inactive. Around it, catwalks began to clatter away and fall as the elevator began to lift it. A massive hatch in the ceiling slid open to allow it entry to the launch bay above, and REX began to rise. "Now I'll show you the power of the weapon that will lead us in the twenty-first century!"

Snake took a step back as another catwalk fell, seeing both teams of mercenaries struggling to keep their footing as the maintenance hangar tore itself asunder around them. "It's moving." Looking around for any recourse, he gave up on common sense and leapt from the catwalk onto the elevator platform itself, looking up at REX from its feet.

BLU Demoman clung to REX's leg, nearly shaken loose as it stood, and beckoned the rest of the team to follow. Sniper needed no encouragement, hopping onto the platform beside Snake and calling out for Demoman to come down as he slung his rifle around his back. The bomber didn't so much as leap as skid down the front of the Metal Gear's leg, kicking off at the knee and nearly knocking Sniper over as he collided with him, the bushman catching him to keep him from a harsh landing. The rest of the BLUs scrambled over quickly, Spy kicking the enemy Sniper off of him and scrambling under the railing to roll to safety. Swiftly enough, the REDs followed, fighting stalled for the moment as the last of the catwalks collapsed with a crash and they all rode with REX up and out of the maintenance hangar and into the launch bay above.

[adainesjacket]

“Would you ever consider… marriage?” “Why do you ask?” “Oh. I’m—for a friend.” for Hawke/Anders/Justice

~ @lordgoretash

thank you! written with @lottiesnotebook for @dadrunkwriting justice/hawke/anders, fluff, 696 words

"I have concerns about this move," Justice intoned as he passed a box of manifesto drafts to Rhiannon Hawke's eagerly waiting arms. "As does your mother."

“I didn’t know you and Mama were on such intimate terms,” she said, a brow arched, and that mischievous, enchanting smile curving her lips. “Should I be worried?”

"You should consistently be worried. We are in a city full of hazards and you have invited an apostate and a spirit into your home."

“I think,” Rhiannon replied, hefting the box onto her hip while she scooped up another, “that would have been a more sensible worry to raise before we had a baby. At this point it’s a little late to be disentangled, don’t you think?”

"I raised this concern several times," Justice pointed out, then paused. "Anders called me a 'spoilsport'. I do not believe he would say this to Leandra for her concerns."

“That’s because he is quite reasonably terrified of Mama, which is ironic, because she adores him. And apparently you.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek and set the stack of boxes in the handcart. “Is this bag going too, or is it rubbish? And how long have you and Mama been sharing your concerns?”

"Our supplies are scant but useful," Justice answered, taking it from her. "Leandra is a welcoming and erudite woman who is simply concerned for your public image."

“Ah yes, the public image of a mysterious mercenary from a scandalous family with a daughter of no known origin. Having you two move in is probably the least scandalous thing I’ve done since coming back to Kirkwall. You shouldn’t listen to Mama’s opinions - she still lives under the illusion I have a reputation to be ruined.”

"Everyone has a reputation." Justice paused for a moment, stacking the meagre pile of boxes more efficiently. He seemed to be making an effort to sound casual when he asked: "For example, if you were to marry, would you do so in a Chantry?"

Rhiannon gave a giggle that emerged as more of a squeak. “If I married? Married- I mean-” She sniffed, swallowed, began again: “We… haven’t really discussed marriage, as yet. Anders and I, I mean. You and Mama seem to have discussed it extensively, but- look, why are you asking?”

Justice raised an eyebrow and said, in his most deadpan tone: "For a friend."

This time she did laugh, a sound too loud, too bright for the grim alleys of Darktown. “Right, for a friend. No, I don’t have my heart set on a big Chantry wedding. Do you have your heart set on a wedding at all, or are you warning me off? Have you and Mama picked out the flowers already?”

"We have done no such thing," Justice protested. "I merely ask - I have no place or interest in your religious buildings. The sentiment Anders still holds for the practice confuses me. Yet, there is a certain… security, to the act." Justice's fingers brushed hers as they continued to pack. "He has been without family for a long time."

“Well, he has you, now,” she reminds him, “and Cara, and- me, of course. We’re not going anywhere. And if our names in a book in the Chantry will remind you both of that, I’d take you there tomorrow, if it wouldn’t give Mama conniptions.”

"I will relay this," Justice said, and only Rhiannon's familiarity with him alerted her to the tint of amusement in his voice, "to my friend."

“Of course,” she agreed, “and if I were to ask your opinion on the same subject?”

Justice felt his skin heat, the effect of her gaze as potent on the body regardless of the soul in ascendence. “Spirits do not marry,” he said, honestly, “and the protection it provides does not necessitate the permanence mortals associate with it. And yet… from what I have of Kristoff’s memories, it was his greatest joy. That, I think, is something Anders and I could share in.”

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Homecoming

Back with another Lancer story, feat. My OCs Booker and Mac. This one's a hurt/comfort, and I hyperfixated on it so hard I wrote it during work. I fell asleep thinking of this idea and remembered it this morning, that's how bad the writing brainrot was.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy. And if you do, please like and reblog! It gets my work out there and encourages me to keep writing.

(TW: Blood)

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

“Well? How's it lookin’?”

Mac nearly banged his head against the open chest piece as he stood up, swerving out of the way just in time.

“Phil, I gotta ask you something.” He wiped his forehead, leaving a smear of black as he accepted a jar of tea. It sweated nearly as much as he did, the ice quickly melting in the summer heat.

The old man tilted his head. The toothpick sticking out of his mouth was nearly tar-black, his face more wrinkles than features, his white tuft of hair reminiscent of a piece of cotton fluff. “Yeah?”

Mac took a swallow. The tea made his teeth ache, barely cooling him at all. “Where you spit your chewing tobacco?”

Thick brows came down into a furrow. “What’d’ya mean? Straight in, o’course. The core on Miss Maisy here cooks it straight up so the missus don't go gettin’ mad at me for spittin’ in the fields.”

“Ah,” Mac said in response. “Well, start carrying a cup, old timer. Maisy’s getting on in years, and any more of your spitting and she'll be more tobacco than mech.”

Phil squinted at him. “Y’sure?”

Setting the jar by his equipment, Mac sighed. It was a futile effort to wipe his hands clean, yet he tried all the same. “Phil, she ain't no fancy Lancer mech. Maisy's got some good years on her, and if you treat her right, she'll run for longer than you or I will be kicking. Treat her like your wife, don't spit on her, listen to her when she grumbles, bring her to me when she's sick, and she'll be right as rain.”

There was a wicked glint in the old man’s eye. “Well, about that spittin'-”

“Hey. I don't need to know what you and your wife get up to. Just stop putting your tobacco leavings in Maisy. I'll be by with Rosie in a bit to haul her back to mine. She's gonna need a bit of loving before I can send her home to you.”

“Y’ gonna finish yer tea?” Phil asked.

Mac looked at him sidelong, picking up the jar. “Yeah. Why?”

“Need the jar.”

With a smirk, Mac raised it. “Attaboy.” He downed the contents, handing it back.

As the truly disgusting sound of Phil clearing his chewing tobacco filled the air, Mac sighed, staring across the rolling fields.

His mind was still on the news reels off the Omninet, blaring headlines screaming “Death to the Mercenary Queen”.

It had been days.

No response from Booker. From any of his old CORSAIR buddies.

A slap on the back set him stumbling.

“Aw, don't y’ worry that head o’ yers, Ricky. I'm sure yer husband's dandy.”

A rumbling sound cut off his reply.

Phil squinted. “Ain't that one of them fancy vehicles from the military landin’ port nearby?”

Instantly, Mac felt his heart squeeze. Flying down the road, the vehicle came to an abrupt stop, backing up until it was stopped in front of the two men.

“Mac!” Dupont yelled. “Get in!”

Mac looked at Phil, who shrugged. “Seems important. The ol’ girl and I can wait.”

Slapping the old man on the back in thanks, Mac grabbed his tools and ran for the vehicle. The open top allowed him to jump in, slinging his legs over the doors as it immediately took off.

Floyd grinned at him lazily, aviators glinting in the sunlight. “Heya boss,” he drawled. “Fancy seein’ you in these parts.”

“Fuck you, Floyd,” Mac said breathlessly. “What the fuck are you two doing on my planet?”

“Merde. Your fucking planet. You've gotten worse since we've seen you last.” Dupont took a drag of his cigarette, the red tip barely hanging on in the whipping wind. He pressed on the gas, steering one handed as the countryside flew by.

“Just answer the question.” He grabbed Floyd’s ear, twisting it just enough to make the man squirm. “Talk, Presley.”

“Agh! Fuck, fine! Booker and Mira are set to land soon.” Floyd frantically tried to escape Mac’s seeking fingers. “Karson and a few other mechanics are seeking refuge too. Commodore’s dead, half the staff were killed or arrested, and the Requiem’s a shitshow.”

Mac’s hand fell as he stared in shock. “S-send them to my place,” he said faintly. “Who started this?”

“She's not to blame, Macguyver,” Dupont called out over his shoulder. “Morse did her best. She's the reason so many of us lived. You weren't there, you didn't see how Commodore was. She was…” he shook his head. “It was worse than we could have imagined.”

“Morse?” Mac asked.

Floyd waved him off. “Past your time. I hear she's one of the handlers that genuinely cares. Bleeding heart and all that.”

The wind whipped around Mac’s ears, the military base quickly coming into view. “And my husband? Mira? They injured?”

“A little worse for wear, but they'll live,” Dupont replied. “Identification out, gentlemen. We're coming up on the security post.”

-

As soon as Mac’s feet hit the asphalt, he was back in Corsair. Memories rushed all around him as he sprinted to the mech hangar, the shouts of his friends drowned out by the blood roaring in his ears.

People moved out of the way. They saw the toolbox before the man, and assumed he belonged.

Rightly so. He hadn't run a team of mechanics for nothing.

Oil and grease filled his nose, the smell of chemicals sharp in the air. A humming sensation rippled throughout the hangar, setting his teeth on edge and buzzing in his nose.

Absentmindedly, Mac noted that it was a touch too low, meaning the Empress would need to be recalibrated.

The mech landed, and for a second, it was not red, but blue.

Robin’s egg blue.

Scratched up with silver shining through, the cockpit gutted and hanging empty, with more blood than any one human could live through soaking the gears.

He blinked away the memory. His father was long gone, but the fear remained.

It always remained.

Mechanics rushed to and fro, yelling as they secured the Crimson Empress in place.

She'd seen better days. Mac wanted to kill the person who scratched her paint, lovingly polished by his husband every chance he got.

The hatch clicked and hissed as it opened.

His heart stuttered.

A head appeared, then another, a broad frame filling out his hardsuit as he took the helmet off.

A flash of golden blonde hair.

At this distance, it was too far to make out Booker’s trademark grimace. The man permanently scowled, something Mac liked to tease him about in their private moments together.

He remembered the moment he'd been a goner.

Dozing off at the side of a hospital bed, heart twisted up as he tried to figure out why he cared so much. Booker and Mac had fallen in bed together again and again, never talking about it, until then.

Until a hand sunk into his hair, the sound of the heart monitor picking up, and Booker’s whispered, “Fuck. Why did it have to be you?”

And his mental response had instantly been -

Because I love you.

Here, in the present, Booker hopped out of the cockpit. He bickered with the other figure as they descended, Mira’s helmet coming off to reveal a tired face, covered in little bandages.

Behind him, Mac felt Floyd and Dupont stop.

Booker hit the ground level, making eye contact with Mac.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not Corsair, not Daisy or the Empress, not even their friends.

The world narrowed down to the two of them, two tiny specks in a vast, cold universe, forever orbiting around each other.

Booker made the first move.

He strode forward with purpose, tucking his helmet under one arm as he reached for his husband.

Mac was helpless to comply. He fell into Booker’s tight embrace, inhaling the sweat and medicinal salve with a shuddering breath.

Booker pulled away just enough to stare at Mac, huffing. Whether it was in frustration or relief wasn't clear.

“Sorry. Some stragglers bitched about needing a ride.”

Mac laughed wetly, a sob breaking the sound. “Fuck you, Adrian.” He yanked his husband down into a kiss.

Around them, their friends whooped in delight, cheering all sorts of awful obscenities.

Mac didn't care.

His husband was home.

[swaps55]

Mezzo - 05 - Glass of Gasoline

Pairing: mshenko | Rating: M Tags: Canon-typical violence, trauma, dealing with your problems poorly, body autonomy struggles   Summary: The twists and turns of ME2, through the eyes of everyone but Commander Shepard. Chapter Summary: Omega lets Sam Shepard off the chain.   Thank you to @sinvraal for betaing!

Chapter 5: Glass of Gasoline | Read on Ao3

02 November 2185, Omega Nebula, Sahrabarik System, Omega

Shepard shouldn’t be struggling with biotics. The implant insertion had been flawless. Every scan showed it was communicating with his nervous system exactly as designed. If anything, the biosynthetic fibers used to repair his nervous system should improve his ability to tap the gravity well, and the advancements in implant technology should increase the strength of his fields considerably.

He shouldn’t be struggling.

Perhaps this should not be troubling Miranda more than Shepard nonchalantly agreeing to stroll across a bridge dressed as a mercenary, in plain view of a vigilante shooting anyone who comes into scope, but thankfully Archangel isn’t stupid. The moment Shepard puts a shotgun into the back of a Blue Sun and opens fire, not one sniper bullet strikes his shields.

Archangel is indeed in trouble, just as Aria told them, and those who are drowning tend not to question lifelines.

Except Shepard, who has questioned everything Miranda has offered. Her attempts to ask about the implant’s performance have been swiftly rebuffed, but she can feel every futile twist and churn he makes in the gravity well. At best his corona is no more than a pale glimmer, a weakening flame desperately seeking oxygen.

It was perfect. You were perfect.

Well, not quite. The scarring still remains. Easily repairable if she still had access to the Lazarus lab, less so on the Normandy, but still possible. A few more weeks, and that, too, would have been rectified. There would have been no visible sign of her work. 

Damn Wilson and his short sightedness.

Shepard has been right at her fingertips for two years. Height, weight, body temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, metabolic rate, all of it. She is more intimately familiar with the body of Sam Shepard than she ever will be with a lover.

But she has no baseline for him.

Even without the biotics, he still fights like the Alliance’s hero. Alliance Ns are a sight to behold, and all of Shepard’s muscle memory remains intact. He is swift, brutal, with no fanfare or showmanship. Just a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips that chills her right to the bone whenever she glimpses it behind his faceplate.

Miranda is well-equipped to handle herself but she is no soldier, and this is a battlefield. For all her skills and all her training, it is Jacob and Massani, the former Blue Sun with a grudge they had recruited upon arrival at Omega, who carry the weight of the fight.

She checks the right corner as they enter the ground floor of the shipping warehouse where Archangel chose to make his stand, gagging at the sickening rot of death inside. Blood stains the floor, some blue, some red. A row of bodies lie hastily covered under tarps. Scouring mars the walls, with overturned furniture forming a hasty barricade. 

She is so caught on the sight of it all she doesn’t spot the mercenary on her left until Shepard yanks her out of the way and unloads with his pistol. A body hits the ground with a thud and a squelch. She didn’t see him switch to the pistol from his shotgun. Surely there hadn’t been time. But the man who would have killed her now lies in a pool of his own blood, and Shepard is already moving up a set of stairs towards Archangel’s perch on the second floor, her brush with death already forgotten.

“Massani, watch the entrance,” he barks over his shoulder.

“Goddamn right,” Massani replies, checking his heat sink. Combat is comfortable on him, like being in his armor is more natural than being out of it. But he still wears it, unlike Shepard.

Shepard becomes it.

Read from the beginning | Read the rest on Ao3 | The Mezzo Playlist

[mouthful-of-glass]

To Pick Up the Pieces Ch16 preview

Go read the story here: Link

Preview under the cut!

Jaime’s heart thundered against his chest. Not from exertion, Artemis and he hadn’t been running or fighting; they’d been walking at a lax pace. His heart was not beating from adrenaline in the classic sense. There was no fighting, no immediate danger. That was the keyword.

Immediate.

If Slade were to know he was being followed, then there’d be danger. Very much immediate and future. The thought that this decision might come back to bite his family in the ass was winding Jaime tighter than the steel cable of an anchor. He just hoped he wouldn’t snap under the pressure.

As if sensing his troubled mind, Artemis squeezed his hand. Their fingers were still entwined; and she pulled him this way and that, taking the brunt of the mental load of balancing distance from their target, and looking like a young couple out on the town.

Jaime was slightly unnerved by her ability to look like she was genuinely enjoying herself while tracking down the world’s best mercenary. She’d stop here and there, chatting with a clerk or a passerby as they advanced too slowly for Jaime’s taste.

Artemis showed him some knickknack from a stall, but his eyes were focused on Slade’s retreating form down the street. She exchanged words with the clerk, who perked up at the sight of customer who wasn’t brain dead. Slade was almost out of sight. Jaime’s hand tightened instinctively, and after maybe a minute Artemis was only now putting down the bauble she’d been holding.

“He always like this?” said the clerk, a woman between Jaime and Artemis in age.

“Oh, no. He caught me in bed with his brother,” Artemis replied deadpan, catching Jaime’s attention as she dragged him away to follow their target.

“What?!” Jaime and the clerk asked at the same time.

She picked up the pace, the two almost running down the street, noting the corner Slade took. Two streets down, on the left. Jaime slowed to a brisk walk, Artemis following suit and slowing down further as they neared the corner.

Jaime prayed to God that Slade wasn’t standing just around the corner, waiting for them. Knowing his luck, that’s exactly what would happen.

Artemis peeked around the red brick building. Her shoulders dropped a fraction, and Jaime panicked. Rushing around her, Jaime turned the corner.

“He’s gone!” Jaime swore. Gone… and worse, the scarab wasn’t pinging anything. No heat signatures. No cloaked vehicles. No digital trace. It was like Slade had never existed. 

Jaime clenched his jaw, muscles flexing painfully as he sent out a request to the scarab; look everywhere, he pleaded, and felt the fire in his nerves as the world twisted in the telltale fisheye distortion of the scarab’s full sight for a second.

A second was all he managed; without suiting up, the scarab had less of an interface to connect with to upgrade Jaime’s senses.

The street was empty. Not ‘empty’ as in Slade being gone, no; it was oddly devoid of life. Not a single person waiting for a bus that was late, a car burning a red light, or even a cab waiting for a customer. No stalls. Just a strip of cement with shops.

It looked like a movie set after hours.

“He must’ve known someone was trailing him,” Artemis mumbled, joining him. Her shoulders were tense, and Jaime could read wariness in her coiled muscles.

Alert.

Like they stepped into a trap.

Jaime’s blood ran cold. The hair on the back of neck rose with a shiver as his eyes scanned the street over and over, looking for a hint, a clue; anything. As if some spell had been broken by Artemis’ words, people rounded the corner behind them, and the street started filling up as normal. People exited the shops and a bus came from down the hill.

“You’re vibrating,” Artemis whispered to him.

Jaime’s eyes snapped into focus. “Of course I’m fucking vibrating!” he growled at her. “We lost him! He was right there!”

Artemis tugged at his hand to make him face her. Reluctantly, he turned. “Hey, it was lucky we even bumped into him. Nothing happened, and as far as Slade goes, that’s for the best.” Her words were kind, but her tone was tight; Jaime could tell she hated losing her prey just as much as Jaime, if not more.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Jaime replied darkly. “You’re not the one being hunted.”

She stepped closer. “You’re not alone in this, Jaime, you-“

“You’re right,” Jaime cut her off. “We don’t even know if he clocked us. My family could be in danger, because-“ He stopped himself.

“Do not blame yourself for this,” she chided him. “Aside from maybe Nightwing, I’m the best tracker on this team and he escaped me, too. We’ll find him and put a stop to this.” She inched closer, caressed his cheek with her free hand.

Jaime forced himself not to recoil. He couldn’t look at Artemis, let alone reply properly. Instead he just hummed a sound between a grunt of acknowledgment or a groan.

Mollified, or at least appearing to be, Artemis started walking, gently tugging him along. “Come on, let’s get you home. ‘S that sound good?”

“Sure,” he sighed, still not looking at her.

Jaime spent most of their walk with a dark cloud over him. Angry, scared thoughts echoing in his head, as the city soundscape was replaced by a piercing headache; not the usual vague buzzing, alert at every possibility, but rather a laser-focused ringing that pointed one way. Artemis. He hated himself for thinking this, but if she’d been tailing Slade properly instead of slowly meandering throughout the damn market, they would’ve caught him escaping around the corner.

If he’d been allowed to suit up, he could’ve used his sensors to track him.

Instead, what was supposed to be a fun afternoon with the girl he liked turned out to be a nightmare.

Artemis had tried to initiate conversation with him once or twice, but Jaime pointedly ignored her attempts to lighten the mood; his mind elsewhere, focused on his family’s safety.

“We should hurry,” he said at length, sounding more tired than he had in weeks. Picking up the pace, he slipped his fingers from Artemis’.

She slowed to a stop, Jaime didn’t.

“Jaime,” she called out to him, firmly but not unkindly.

Jaime slowed to a stop, hands shaking, she caught up to him. “I know you’re worried about your family,” she started, putting a hand on his chest. “I am too.” Her voice was so soft, so gentle. It sounded like a confession, like she shouldn’t be worried for them.

He looked away. “It’s not just that,” he mumbled.

“Tell me,” she asked.

Mulling it over, he led her over to a bench and sat down like a man who lost everything. He felt like it, like he was losing himself. Jaime was not an angry, vengeful person. He didn’t have hurtful thoughts. He chose not to, chose to follow in his parents’ footsteps. The Reyes were kind people, no matter how hard of a decision it was to be nice in the face of pain and anger.

So why did he feel like yelling at Artemis? He felt like making sure she knew he blamed her for losing Slade. More than the anger and fear, Jaime was confused and uneasy about even having those thoughts and emotions. They needed to come out.

Finally, he sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Earlier,” he began, voice deliberately soft. “When we… when you, uh…” He paused, trying to gather himself not to verbally bite her head off.

He felt her gentle hand on his back. She left a hot trail of desire and annoyance as she trailed circles that were supposed to calm him. His heartbeat picked up the speed.

“Jaime,” she said, cutting through his thoughts with her tone more than his name. “I’m… I’m sorry, I should’ve said something sooner.”

His head shot up to look at her. His mouth opened, then closed right away. He wanted to speak but wasn’t sure what to say. She was bathed in golden light, and her eyes were open in a way he hadn’t been privy to, not since their date.

Artemis was being vulnerable with him.

“Are you… a mind reader?” he asked at length, puzzled.

She offered a small, sad smile. “No, but it’s been on my mind since it happened.” Her eyes and her fingers trailed to his shoulder, where she picked at a loose thread. “I was actually hoping you would bring it up.”

That puzzled him further. “I didn’t even think you noticed,” he admitted, feeling ashamed. Of course she would be able to read him like that, to know he was angry at her; and that the anger was tormenting him.

Gentle, lithe fingers softly reached for his chin, nudging him to look at her. Their noses almost brushed against each other, and Jaime felt her breath on him. His sight was filled with her steely greys, her long eyelashes; eyes usually filled with fury were not open and gentle. Brittle, almost.

“How could I not notice?” she whispered, and Jaime’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “The sparks, the… heat.”

What? Heat? His eyes opened slowly, confused, searching hers for a hint. Her beautiful eyes were crinkled with her grin - not a smirk, and not those soft small smiles reserved for the quiet moments together. She looked almost… giddy.

Artemis was glowing, the pink hue on her cheeks deepening in the golden setting sun’s light. “Jaime, that kiss… It meant something to me, more than just a cover.”

Jaime’s breath hitched. Her fingers moved from his chin down to his neck, holding onto him with her thumb gently rubbing over his pulses; every motion shooting up his beats per minute. Blood rushed through his veins, and Jaime lost sight and sound of the world.

Rather, his world focused to her; everything else faded to a mere afterthought.

“Tell me,” she asked in a whisper, voice not quite pleading. Almost ordering, as if she knew what his reply would be already. “Tell me you feel the same, Jaime.”

The anger that was burning was replaced by another emotion, another fire that blazed much more hotly; wildfire in comparison to a sun flare.

Jaime’s mouth parted, but no words came out. His eyes were fixed to hers, and thoughts of his family faded for a moment. He knew this wasn’t the time. That thinking about Artemis like this, wanting this, was selfish. But… Just for now, he thought, pleading to himself, to the world. Just for now, let me have this.

His fingers twitched, halting once hesitantly as his hand made its way to cradle her cheek . Just a flicker of tension. He didn’t know if this would fix anything—or just make it worse.