#one in When The Wind Blows after the blast in the middle of the night when they're trying to work out what to do

[thedreadvampy]

The museum near my mum's was hosting a Raymond Briggs retrospective and it wasn't until we went today that I realised the absolutely outsize influence Briggs quietly had on my development and sensibilities as an artist. I've never really thought to flag him as one of my Favourite Illustrators but I realised walking around the room that his comics work - reading stuff like Fungus The Bogeyman and Father Christmas as a kid, and When The Wind Blows as a teenager - really formed like the platonic ideal for me of what comics should be and do.

A short list of things I think I've unconsciously learnt from his work without thinking about it:

the amount of character you can wring out of framing and posing

the idea of stylised faces in a highly rendered world

using repetitive panels to create meaning

breaking the edges of panels and frames

energetic lettering

filling up the world your characters inhabit with lots of little details you find entertaining

trying to create worlds and people that feel like Real Things That Exist by drawing on the world around you even if what you're making is a fantasy

borrowing faces and places that fit

it's allowed to be very silly

Anyway it's honestly left me quite emotional looking at his work like this bc I didn't know! I didn't know how much he'd influenced me! and there's something about looking at the artwork with all his notes to self around the margins and relettered phrases and "change this bit"s. there's a spread from fungus the bogeyman where the margins have been repeatedly filled with carefully drawn bubble letters counting down how many thousands of words and hundreds of hours of lettering he still had left to do and I'm just like i see someone is losing his actual mind lettering. relatable.

There was also. one of the last spreads in Ethel and Ernest, and it shows him and his dad coming to the hospital to see his mother's corpse after she died. and everything else on the page is done in his usual repeatedly-photocopied-and-redrawn style and worked through, but the body of his mother is almost just a pencil sketch over loose watercolour. and it's like. looking at that you can really really feel how unbearably hard it was to draw that. and next to that they had the closing spread where Briggs is showing his wife his parents' house after they died, and so right next to this drawing that evidently hurt too much to work on too long, you can see how in-depth and thoughtfully he's drawn the house he grew up in, he's done it brick by brick and every bit of detail worked in like he doesn't want to stop working on it and be done with the house. and idk it left me insanely choked up.

[primordyalsoul]

SEASONAL AESTHETIC

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑.     a chill right down to the bones. tobogganing. teeth chattering. sleeping all day. sitting by the fireplace. spending time with family. layered clothing. seeing another’s breath. loving the cold. a state of inactivity. cold hands. blistering winds shaking the windows. a bookcase full of brand new books and all of the time in the world to read them. cable knit socks. a bitter remark. a log cabin in the middle of nowhere. hating the cold.  full length windows to peer out of. pale skin. deep conversations. watching the snow fall. sharp edges. hot cocoa. smelling every candle in the store. a wild snow storm. melancholy. lighting candles around the bathtub. snow globes. expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words. the softest of blankets. liking, but not loving something or someone.

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆.     the smell after it rains. being in control of yourself. a soft breeze blowing your hair. lightning when it strikes. cherry blossoms. bright mornings. the first sign of hope. the relief of finding something you lost.  paris in the spring.  birds chirping. the art of growing. a kiss on the cheek. the clap of thunder. a tornado in the valley. smiling at a stranger. planning. saccharine pinks. making promises. trying something new. hugs when you need them most. a bee sting. sitting on the steps of the met. coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm. picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun. that feeling you get when you put on a good dress. a long hike. rushing when you can take your time. going to the gym, training at ungodly hours. excitement for what’s coming. becoming yourself. rain boots.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑.     lanterns lit around a campfire. seeing the sunrise like it’s the first time again and again. melting ice cream. the warmth of sun rays upon skin. fireworks. the feeling of never wanting something to end.  beach days. the lone blow up floaty left in the pool, drifting with the warm nights breeze and nothing else. music blasting at 3AM, loud and proud. palms trees on sunset boulevard. longer days and shorter nights. wanderlust. nights spent staring at the stars. sand castles. road trips. blood orange sunsets. leaving the laundry to hang outside. flowers in bloom. sneaking out of your room late at night. pure contentment. barefoot in the sand. the street lights coming on. the sound of the ocean in a seashell. freshly squeezed lemonade. loose clothing. a cannonball into the pool. sunflowers. the hazy pink before dusk. relaxation.

𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋.   the leaves changing colours. a heavy backpack. the smell of old books. eating until you’re stuffed. deep, dark woods. the silence in loudness ( the loudness in silence ). abandoned houses. ripped jeans. crunching leaves beneath feet. feeling like you’ve been somewhere before. sitting at a bay window. having endless amounts of work. charcoal drawings. screaming into a pillow as loud as you can. pumpkin patches. creaky floorboards. accepting that some things do have to change. museums. small talk. being ignored. procrastinating. a door slamming shut. going to bed early. baking pies. the fear of walking alone in the dark. feeling completely and terribly lost. a twig snapping. crisp, cool days. belly laughter after crying. converse. foggy mornings at the shoreline. writing a daily entry in a journal. a lonely day.

tagged by: no one, i yoinked it >:) tagging: @shoukous , @enshijou , @swynfyr , @kudakenai , @msteroso (nagisa <3) , @trattcria (conan !) , @donutghoul

[songandflame]

SEASONAL AESTHETICS .

bold what applies to your muse / repost, don’t reblog !

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑.

a chill right down to the bones. tobogganing. teeth chattering. sleeping all day. sitting by the fireplace. spending time with family. layered clothing. seeing another’s breath. loving the cold. a state of inactivity. cold hands. blistering winds shaking the closed windows. a bookcase full of brand new books and all of the time in the world to read them. cable knit socks. a bitter remark. a log cabin in the middle of nowhere. hating the cold. full-length windows to peer out of. pale skin. deep conversations. watching the snow fall. sharp edges. hot cocoa. smelling every candle in the store. a wild snow storm. melancholy. lighting candles around the bathtub. snow globes. expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words. the softest of blankets. liking, but not loving something or someone.

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆.

the smell after it rains. being in control of yourself. a soft breeze blowing your hair. lightning when it strikes. cherry blossoms. bright mornings. the first sign of hope. the relief of finding something you lost. paris in the spring. birds chirping. the art of growing. a kiss on the cheek. the clap of thunder. a tornado in the valley. smiling at a stranger. planning. saccharine pinks. making promises. trying something new. hugs when you need them most. a bee sting. sitting on the steps of the met. coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm. picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun. that feeling you get when you put on a good dress. a long hike. rushing when you can take your time. going to the gym at ungodly hours. excitement for what’s coming. becoming yourself. rain boots.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑.

lanterns lit around a campfire. seeing the sunrise like its the first time again and again. melting ice cream. the warmth of sun rays upon skin. fireworks. the feeling of never wanting something to end. beach days. the lone blow up floaty left in the pool, drifting with the warm nights breeze and nothing else. music blasting at 3am, loud and proud. palms trees on sunset boulevard. longer days and shorter nights. wanderlust. nights spent staring at the stars. sand castles. road trips. blood orange sunsets. leaving the laundry to hang outside. flowers in bloom. sneaking out of your room late at night. pure contentment. barefoot in the sand. the street lights coming on. the sound of the ocean in a seashell. freshly squeezed lemonade. loose clothing. a cannonball into the pool. sunflowers. the hazy pink before dusk. relaxation.

𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋.

the leaves changing colors. a heavy backpack. the smell of old books. eating until you’re stuffed. deep, dark woods. the silence in loudness. abandoned houses. ripped jeans. crunching leaves beneath feet. feeling like you’ve been somewhere before. sitting at a bay window. having endless amount of homework. charcoal drawings. screaming into a pillow as loud as you can. pumpkin patches. creaky floorboards. accepting that some things do have to change. museums. small talk. being ignored. procrastinating. a door slamming shut. going to bed early. baking pies. the fear of walking alone in the dark. feeling completely and terribly lost. a twig snapping. crisp, cool days. belly laughter. converse. foggy mornings at the shoreline. writing a daily entry in a journal. a lonely day.

tagged by: no-one || tagging: anyone who fancies it!

[imagine-a-fangirl]

They deserve it

Anon requested: could you do an Ikaris x Elemental!reader

A/N: Spoilers for the Eternals, obviously. Gender neutral reader.

The readers powers are based on Zephyr, one of the elementals in the comics.

Never in the seven thousand years he was on earth Ikaris had imagined he’d fall in love again. Not after what he had with Sersi, and especially not with a human.

A human, a creature that would only be alive for a fraction of his existence. Yet here you were, he just couldn’t stay away from you, no matter how hard he tried. It took a while but he finally gave into his feelings and let you in. You didn’t seem to be bothered by strange things that sometimes happened, or at least you didn’t mention it. This only calmed him down and almost made him forget about your differences. The only thing that he couldn’t get out of his mind was that one day this planet would be destroyed by the born of a celestial, he could only hope that this would happen long after you were gone.

After months if had finally settled in the back of his mind, until Ajak visited him last night, telling him about the upcoming emergence. “How much time do we have?”

“Seven days.”

“Is there a way we can stop it?”

“There is.” She had told him

“Then we have to try.”

“You changed since the last time we spoke.” Ajak remarked

“They deserve to exist. Y/n deserves to.”

Ajak already left to find the others, but now Ikaris had to tell you that he would need to leave as well.

“Earth to Ikaris.” y/n tried to get his attention.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

“What’s going on inside that head of yours? You’ve been distracted all morning.” The two of you had already planned to go for a walk, but he texted you last night that he wanted to talk. Something that didn’t feel right to you.

“It’s nothing love.” He tried to assure you

“Does it have something to do with what you wanted to talk about?”

“It might.” Ikaris held a little tighter onto your hand, as if you would suddenly disappear if he let go

“Do you want to keep walking or should we sit down somewhere?”

“Your hands feel cold.” He ignored your question “I’ll get you a hot chocolate.” He let go of your hand, making his way to the coffee stand the two of you just passed. You hesitated but didn’t follow him, you waited near the pond looking at the fog that was covering it. You were sunken in thoughts until out of nowhere something seemed to have appeared in middle of the pond.

You looked at it a little too long, noticing to late it was coming for you until you heard Ikaris yell “Y/n, watch out!” You managed to create an air shield between you and the creature. Ikaris hadn’t noticed you did and tackled you out of the way, followed by a surprisingly soft landing.

“What was that?!”

“No time to explain.” Ikaris quickly helped you up onto your feet “You have to go, now!” He urged

“What? No I’m not leaving without you.”

“You have to trust me y/n, I’ll find you when this is over.” He tried to convince you to run, but not a single hair on your head thought of leaving.

“I’m not leaving you behind.”

“Stop being stubborn for once, will you!”

“No I will not!” You yelled back

“I’m serious y/n, this is not a fight for you.”

Before you could respond you could see the creature charging towards the two of you “Ikaris watch out!” He quickly pushed you out of the way and blasted the creature with eyes. ”Your eyes!” You exclaimed but Ikaris didn’t have to react as the creature charged for him again. Instead of waiting again, you blasted multiple air punches before creating an airpocket to hold the creature.

“You…” Ikaris just stared at you. All those little moments in which the wind start blowing the other way, or the air around the two of you

blowing easier than around the rest of the world. It suddenly all made sense.

“No time to freak out.” You tried, but you noticed his look wasn’t one of fright but it was a look of relief.

“You are an elemental.” He finally brought out, a soft smile appearing on his face.

“Yes I am, a little help now please?” As you struggled to keep the deviant trapped. Ikaris blasted the it once more with his eyes, causing it to fall back. Only to crawl back up not more than seconds later “Is it healing itself?” You questioned aloud.

“It looks like it. I need the others to fix this.”

He mumbled more to himself than to you.

“What do you need? Time?”

“To start with.” Ikaris agreed.

It had been a long time since you opened a portal, but you still knew how to do it “Does Antarctica sound like enough time?” You stepped in front of Ikaris

“What? N/n what are you doing?”

“You have to trust me.”

“y/n?” He needed to resist his urge to take you out of the way from the deviant or to blast it once more. It wasn’t until the deviant was right before you that a portal opened and the deviant disappeared. “Where did it go?”

“Antarctica. Hopefully it doesn’t eat penguins.” Ikaris pulled you into a hug, relieved that you were alright. “What was that Ikaris?”

“What you just saw was a deviant, I don’t have the time to explain, but I’ll promise to come back when this is all over.” He pressed a kiss on your forehead before lifting himself in the air.

“Two can play that game.” You lifted yourself up in the air meeting his eye “I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt n/n.”

“And I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m not sure what we’re up against, but I know the help of an Elemental won’t hurt.”

[littlemissnoname13]

hi could you please make a part two to feeling colors, i LOVED your writing in it. no rush :))

Hiii nonnie! 💕 I did end up writing a second part for the fic after all. I hope you like it as much as the first. X

Feeling Colours - Part Two

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Hufflepuff!Reader

Word count: 2500 give or take

Summary: Draco’s feelings for the reader start to grow

Warnings: fluff, excessive drinking, mentions of throwing up, kissing, nothing explicit, Draco being a softie (lmk if this needs more warnings)

Masterlist | Part One 

Your eyes fluttered open to find Draco Malfoy sitting on a chair next to you, breathing quietly like sleep was finally hitting him. Ruffled blond strands of hair fell over his weary eyes and he’d used his suit jacket as a makeshift blanket. 

Your first instinct was to silently lift up your covers and check if your clothes were still intact and thank Merlin they were. 

“Have a little faith Y/n.” Draco grumbled, startling you in the process as he struggled to lift himself into a more comfortable position. “I would never take advantage of a drunk girl.”

Fragments of the previous night came back to you when you heard him say that. 

The party, the burn of the booze, the dust-filled broom closet, the throwing up, the taste of soup and the strong and sturdy arms of the boy now looking at you with a sheepish grin on his face.

You eased at the sight of his smile. There came a certain type of comfort after someone had seen you throwing your guts up. 

“Thank you for last night Draco.”

“Like I said before Miss raging alcoholic, Don’t make a habit of it.” He let out a small yawn and started to smooth out his hair but much to his dismay, the strands refused to cooperate. 

You couldn't help but laugh at the displeased look on his face. “Here, let me—”

“NO. I absolutely refuse to let you touch my hair.” He protested, grabbing both your wrists before your fingers could make contact with his precious hair. 

“Come on Malfoy.” You pleaded, now fully out of bed and trying to break free from his hands. “I swear I can fix it for you.”

“Nope.” He said firmly as he tried his hardest to maintain a straight face. “Stop it—No please not the sides—no..”

“Please, just a bit more...ah okay….there we go.”

“Haven’t you done enough Hufflepuff?!”

“Oh. that rhymed.” You laughed, still touching his hair when the two of you accidently tumbled onto the chair he was originally sleeping on. 

Draco was agile in cushioning your fall with one of his hands balancing himself on the armrest and one hand wrapped around your waist.

It was only the second time he’d saved you from falling and you were already getting used to it. 

Something inside of you was immediately hoping that Draco would be there to break your fall for a third time too. 

It felt good with him.

It felt safe with him.

~~~

Alone at the school courtyard in the afternoon of the next day, Draco sat down in a far corner to rearrange his cluttered thoughts about you into tidy little compartments in his brain. 

It should have been easy for him. He was a natural occlumens after all.

But for some bizarre reason, he couldn't find a way to erase your name, the sound of your voice and your scent that was slowly dominating all four lobes of his brain and all four chambers of his heart. 

Even with the sun still in the sky, the occasional gust of wind made his hands turn cold so he instinctively shoved his hands into his blazer pocket to warm up. 

It was only then that he realised that he’d completely forgotten to give your locket back to you. 

~~~

A few days had now passed and Draco had gotten several opportunities to give your necklace back to you. 

First it was at the great hall.

He watched you intently from the Slytherin table, waiting for the perfect opportunity to talk to you while you nibbled on a cupcake.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he watched you lick the powdery pink frosting off your Peony lips.

He wasn’t all that fond of those cupcakes you were eating but he’d have done anything for a taste of the frosting from your lips. 

Before he could even manage to walk over to you, you stood up and walked away with your friends.

When you were close to the exit however, you paused and turned towards the Slytherin table to give him a tiny smile.

He quickly reached into his pocket to look at the locket, it was the exact pink shade of the frosting. 

~~~

The second time he tried to return it was at Potions class. 

Theo had so graciously agreed to switch partners with Draco and Snape did not seem to mind as long as the potions were brewed right. 

“Crush the petals as best you can before dropping them into the cauldron.” Snape instructed and you quickly grabbed a fistfull of rose petals. 

Draco watched in awe as you crushed rose petals in your hands, releasing the floral aroma into the atmosphere. The scent caught onto clothes and a flush crept onto his face.

“Well, are you going to help me, Malfoy?”

Draco silently copied your motion and stirred the cauldron till the potion was simmering and ready.

Returning your locket in the middle of Severus’s class did not seem like a smart idea so he decided to come up with a better one. 

“We are having another party in the dungeons on Friday. You should come and bring Abott if you’d like.”  Draco shrugged it off like it was the most casual thing ever. 

“Will there be elf made wine?” You wiggled your eyebrows at him and he let out a rather loud scoff earning the attention of the sulky potion’s master.

“Malfoy, Y/l/n.” Snape called out, looking as unimpressed as ever. “Detention.Saturday.”

“Incorrigible.” Draco muttered and you nudged him in the rib with your elbow. 

“Two Saturdays.” Snape said, before dismissing the entire class. 

On his way out, Draco discreetly sneaked a peak of the necklace in his pocket because he already knew what colour it was going to be. 

It was the exact same pink of the rose petals you were crushing. 

~~~

Two days had gone by since potions class and Draco was no longer fazed when the necklace emulated the same shades of pink from the bubblegum you were blowing or the fuschia ribbon in your hair. 

Draco also didn’t think it was necessary to make another attempt to return your necklace until Friday.

He already had a lot of things preoccupying his mind like actually planning the party. 

There had been no Slytherin Party planned for Friday before Draco invited you and now, He was getting his friends to help him arrange one. 

Crabbe and Goyle were tasked with getting more liquor,  Blaise and Theo were responsible for music and food while Draco was responsible with the overall logistics like silencing charms and getting the word of the party out. 

“All this for a girl.” Blaise mocked. Theo took this moment to whisper something to Crabbe who then whispered something to Goyle. 

“Care to say it out loud, Nott?” Draco seethed as he watched his friends clutch their stomachs and laugh out loud. 

“Theo called you a simp.” A teary eyed Goyle spluttered. 

“A what now?”

~~~

Friday’s party topped the previous one. 

More people, A wider selection of liquor, wine varietals, good food and music blasting so loud that the floors were vibrating. 

As per usual, Hannah had already disappeared into some dark little corner with her paramour leaving you all alone with a group of Slytherin girls. 

“I love your dress!” Exclaimed a tipsy looking Daphne Greengrass who herself was wearing a gorgeous turquoise number. 

“Thank you.” You replied, giving her your most polite and friendly smile. 

“Come now, let's go and dance already.” Pansy crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at the interaction. Although it wasn’t super obvious, you sensed that Pansy wasn’t too pleased to have you there. 

Daphne intertwined her hands to yours and pulled you into the dancefloor with herself, Pansy Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode. 

Daphne’s surprisingly amiable nature took you by surprise but you decided to go with it. It was a party after all. 

When she placed her hands on your shoulders, you mirrored. When she swayed her hips, so did you. 

“He can't stop staring at you now, can he?” Daphne shouted into your ear over the music as you both continued to dance together. 

“I’m sorry who?” You shouted back. 

“Malfoy.” Daphne giggled. “ He’s been watching you all night actually. Why do you think he hosted this party in the first place?”

You stole a quick glance at Draco when no one was looking. He was sipping on a glass of whisky and watching you from a distance.

He had ditched his all black attire for a white button down shirt. The top two buttons were undone and his hair had a sort of laid back look to it

“See?” Daphne shouted again. “Hasn’t even taken his eyes off you once. It's driving Pansy nuts.”

Just to confirm if Daphne was in fact telling the truth, you tilted your head to the side to get a bitter view of him and the minute you did, your eyes met with his.

Heat spread all across your cheeks and he raised his glass to you as an acknowledgement before quickly turning away. 

After that, it was just an intense and tactical little gambit of who caught who staring. 

He covertly watched you sway your hips and you secretly noticed the way he tapped his fingertips on the glass he was holding.

Both of you refused to relent to whatever game this was up until the point where he grabbed a bottle of fire whisky and started to walk away. 

You didn't even need to think twice about where he was headed. 

“Go on.” Daphne nudged encouragingly.

~~~

Draco pulled the closet door open and stepped inside with a smile playing at his lips.

The last time he was there, he was introduced to you, your scent, your smile, your eyes. 

Before that night in the closet, he took colours at their face value. They were nothing more than visual representations of light—what amount, what hue, what saturation.

It was strange how things had changed for him. 

Not only did you make him see colours in a whole new light, you made him feel them, you made him hear them.

As Draco settled down with his drink, he saw the door creak open. 

It was still dark but he could already tell that it was you by the scent of your perfume. Oh, he could never ever forget that aroma even if he tried. 

Lumos. 

Draco held his wand in front of him and allowed himself to turn to his side to get a better view of you. 

Never had he ever seen someone glow the way you did under the lumos charm. The radiance in your eyes, the pearlescence of your skin and the curvature of your lips made him lightheaded.

“I feel like this closet is going to be a recurring thing for us huh?” You beamed at him and he found himself swooning. 

Salazar Slytherin. Nott was right. He was a simp.

“I guess so.” Draco quickly answered, Blaming this dizziness on the lack of ventilation while taking a big sip of his drink. 

“I don’t mind.” You said and twisted open the bottle of wine you’d brought with you. 

“Don’t tell me you brought another bottle of that god awful wine in here.”

 “It’s actually not that bad and it gets you drunk way quicker.” You shrugged. 

“Why do I feel like I might have to walk you to your dorm again?” 

He watched you take a long slow sip of wine and couldn’t help himself from noting that your lips were slowly getting stained red with the fruity nectar. 

“Might?” You shook your head. “Sorry to break it to you, but this wine is going to catch up with me soon.” 

Draco jokingly palmed his face, earning a laugh from you. It seemed like the perfect time to hand you your lost possession back. 

“Atleast, I’ll know when you are going to be sick though.” Draco said as he fished for the locket in his pocket. 

“How come?” 

“Because of this.” He explained, holding the necklace out. “I’m sorry I should have given it back sooner.” 

“That’s okay.” You murmured softly and pushed your hair away from your neck and he instantly took this as a cue to drape the necklace back to where it belonged. 

“Ah…there you go.” He whispered into your ear before shifting back to look at the gem. 

Draco expected it to be pink but to his astonishment, the gem had already turned a vibrant red. 

A new colour.

He could see red in the apples of your cheeks.

He could feel red pumping through his veins and hear red in the way his heart was rapidly beating. 

 “It’s red.” You commented and he slowly nodded. 

Even though he knew what red was for him, he needed to hear your interpretation before making his next move. 

“What does red mean to you y/n?” 

“To me, well…..red represents um..passion, something fiery, something that burns bright, leaves you breathless.” You whispered looking as if you were feeling almost as breathless as him. 

Draco swallowed hard when he noticed just how close your face was to his. 

“Y/n?”

“Hmm?” 

“If I kissed you right now, would you kiss me back?”

He noticed that your breathing was progressively getting shorter. You looked startled at his sudden question but held his gaze nonetheless. 

“I guess you’ll have to see for yourself, Draco.”

He couldn’t help but let out a hoarse chuckle before pressing his forehead to yours. “Is that an invitation hm?” 

You didn’t say a word but the deepening red color of your necklace gave everything away. 

Any remaining doubt in his mind went away when he felt you caress his cheeks with your cold hands. 

He gently let his fingers slip into your hair as he closed the distance between your lips. 

The kiss was reminiscent of the rush of first love. The innocence, the giggles. 

The kiss paid homage that perfumed night in the broom closet that had started it all. 

The kiss was bleeding, seeping, trickling In various shades of red and he was drinking every drop. 

Draco Malfoy could finally tell what the colour red tasted like. 

It tasted like your wine stained lips. 

He backed away and placed a gentle kiss on the top of your head and you gave him a shy smile in return. 

~~~

The two of you spent the remainder of the party inside the closet. 

Drinking, talking, laughing and more kissing.

So much kissing. 

“Alright y/n, let’s get you to your room now shall we?” Draco sighed when he noticed that you were getting more and more inebriated by the minute. “Come on.” 

You struggled to step out of the closet and almost tripped on your own two drunken feet.

Almost. 

“As if I’m going to let you fall face first.” He mumbled to himself before lifting you up in his arms. 

You let out a small laugh before looking up at him. 

“Draco?”

“Hmm?”

“I know you said to not make a habit of this but unfortunately for you, I already have.” 

FIN. 

~~~

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vi

[hellogoodbye14]

Just Leave (Part 2) - Gwynriel 

Sooooo an angsty one shot has now become a series because my brain went into overdrive. Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing this. Fiesty Berdara coming through, a badass Lucien and a jealous/completely at a loss Azriel.

Gwyn nodded to the Shadowsinger from her crouched position. Azriel would use his shadows and get closer to where Koschei’s men held Elain and Gwyn would take out the men near the exit.

Elain was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room with her hands tied behind the back of the shair. Tears escaped her glassy fawn eyes and dampened the cloth wrapped around her mouth. Though she seemed unharmed, Gwyns heart ached at the sight.

She took in a breath and was about to step out of the shadows when the front door was blasted away. A tall figure with flaming hair blowing with the wind stepped in.

Lucien…..

The men instantly abandoned their pool game and attacked. They were no match, no match at all in front of a powerful enraged fae male whose mate was in danger. He threw balls of fire at them. The man closest to Elain was instantly a pile of ashes.

Gwyn snapped out of her shock and attacked. Gwyn grabbed the nearest pool cue and threw it towards Azriel.

“Azriel!”

“Thanks Berdara.”

One man tried to grab her boot. She kicked him in the face, his bone and cartilage crunching. He yelped, covered his face with a hand, and stumbled back.

Another came in with a cue and swung it at her. She jumped to avoid the swipe and hopped on the near table, moving away from him. When she jumped back on the ground to attack, he shattered her cue with a thunderous crack.

“Gwyn?”, called out Azriel as he fought four men together.

“I’m fine.”

She threw the two pieces of the broken cue on the floor and used every single hand combat move Cassian had taught her. After three well placed punches, the man was unconscious on the floor. She wanted to celebrate a bit longer but another man grabbed her from behind.

With blurring speed, Lucien dropped his arms, and pulled something small from his pocket.

“Duck down!”, yelled Lucien.

She dropped her head as something whizzed millimetres above her head. There was a cry and her arm was free.

She looked back to find throwing stars extruding from the man’s chest.

She looked at Lucien and pointed down, “You have got to get me some of these!”

Lucien offered her a brief smile as he kicked a man unconscious.

Half the men were in deep while the other half were groaning in pain. She had just kicked one man in the ribs when she felt frantic hands on her face.

“You okay?”, said Azriel while looking at her and checking for injuries.

She nodded and stepped away from him. Well not before checking that he was okay too. When she noticed the cut on the side of his face, she quickly ripped a piece of her shirt and dampened it with the near ale.

She pressed it to his cheek to clean away the bacteria. Once it was clean she turned to see Lucien untying Elains bonds.

Elain sobbed as Lucien got everything put away. He held her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes.

“Elain… Elain, you’re okay. You’re safe.”

He took off his cloak and wrapped it around her.

Gwyn looked around and a few seconds later gave Elain a glass of water.

She nodded her thanks and took a sip. Lucien stood nearby with concern shining in his eyes.

Elain’s sobs quieted down after a bit and she straightened her shoulders.

“Can we leave here?”

“Of course”, said all of them in unison.

Lucien held out a hand to help Elain up. The minute their hands made contact they both glanced at one another as if they’d both been shocked at the sensation.

Elain smiled a bit awkwardly and looked away.

“How’d you find her?”, asked Azriel.

“I used the bond”, Lucien winced a bit at that and glanced down at Elain.

“I apologise for that intrusion my lady, I wouldn’t have used it if you were not in danger.”

“It’s fine.”

Lucien nodded and waited for Azriel to winnow all of them back to the Night Court.

————————————————————————

Nesta and Feyre were busy checking over Elain as was everyone else. Rhysand was absolutely furious that someone had managed to infiltrate the court without his knowing. Cassian and Azriel were in the same mindset. Nesta had calmed Cassian down, and Feyre had simply placed a blabbing Nyx in a pacing Rhys’s arms. Soon after she did, the anger in Rhys’s eyes had dimmed down and he smiled down at his toddlers antics instead.

Gwyn wanted to check in on Azriel because she knew he would be berating himself over this. But she couldn’t get herself too, not now. Not when she felt so raw.

She had requested Nesta to keep a check on him and had asked Rhys if she could use his office when Zaryn came in with new reports.

————————————————————————

Azriel almost growled as he walked into Rhys’s office.

Zaryn sat at the couch near the window with his one leg crossed over the other. He was reviewing some documents and his jacket was discarded on the arm chair. Gwyn sat next to him, her feet tucked beneath her, scanning something on the projector in her hand.

They looked cozy, cozy in a way that made his stomach drop and brought every insecurity right to the forefront.

Probably sensing the magic he was spilling out, Gwyn looked up.

“Yes?” she asked. Her tone was flat.

Azriel wasn’t feeling all great either since he walked in on this. Zaryn would probably call this, “The cute night I spent with Gwyn Berdara and a bottle of wine.”

Fucking dipshit

“Could I speak to you?”

Gwyn watched him for a moment before putting down her paper. He hated the distance between them, it was as if Gwyn was oceans away from him.

“Zaryn, would you excuse us?”

Zaryn walked toward the door, leaving his god damn jacket on the armchair, an indication he meant to return.

“Time is ticking. What did you want to talk about?”

He actually didn’t have anything to tell her. He had just wanted Zaryn out of the room, and perhaps a chance to clear the air.

“I have a potential location on the trove.”

“Where?”

“Border of Autumn and Summer.”

“So we go tomorrow?”

He nodded, “First light.”

She nodded back and started to mess around with the papers on the table.

“Is Elain better?”

“Yeah, she’s okay.”

“That’s good.”

Azriel sighed.

“We aren’t close, not in the way you’re suggesting. Not in the way Zaryn has been suggesting to you.”

“And you’re willing to draw that line?”

“Yes. Because I love you. Are you willing to draw that line? Sure looked comfy on the couch with Zaryn.”

She flinched as if he’d struck her.

“He’s a friend Azriel, and someone who has been helping us throughout this investigation.”

“Elain is just a friend too.”

Gwyn shook her head, “That’s different.”

Azriel frowned and stepped forward.

“How is that different?”

“Because I never had any feelings towards him in the past!”

Azriel groaned, god he loved this woman but she was stubborn.

“Gwyn. That was in the past. You are my future.”

He ran one hand through his hair, “Besides, any feelings I had were very shallow in comparison to what I feel for you.”

Gwyn offered him a sad smile, “That would have been true if you had prioritised us instead of her, Azriel.”

Gwyn made to turn back to the door. And then he was next to her, grabbing her hand, spinning her toward him. The warm heat of his skin sent a shock through her; she fought to ignore it.

“We’re not done here, Gwyn.”

“Shadowsinger ,” Gwyn said, eyes flashing with anger, “you appear to be laboring under the notion that I will tolerate coming in second. Allow me to set you to rights. This is over.”

He rocked back on his heels at her ire.

“We’ll never be over, Gwyn. Let me prove it, so we can work this out.”

Before she could begin to consider the words, he settled his mouth upon hers, robbing her of all thought.

“You are everything, Gwyn.”

He said giving her long drugging kisses that consumed her senses. He cupped one cheek in his strong hand, his thumb brushing over the 17 freckles on her right cheek. He met her gaze with a searing look. Shaking his head, “How could you even think, you’re not everything to me?”

He kissed her again, growling low in the back of his throat. Her hands found their way into his thick, dark hair as he caught her bottom lip in his teeth. He nibbled and licked at it until she thought she might perish from the intensity of the feeling. She whimpered and he rewarded her by deepening the kiss, giving her everything she desired.

But no… no she couldn’t. She couldn’t come second. Not to him.

She pushed away and breathed heavily.

“Azriel, we can’t.”

“Gwyn -“

She interrupted, “Please, let me finish.”

“I think you need time to figure out what you really want. You sabotage things, Azriel.”

He frowned and shook his head but Gwyn continued.

“You work yourself to death even when you don’t need too. You let your job consume you, even Rhys has told you on several occasions. Most of all, you let her, come in and become a priority.”

A tear escaped Gwyn’s eyes.

“I can’t be second.”

“You’re not.”

“I am, but I don’t deserve to be.”

She took his face in her hands and rested her forehead against his. Hating that it had come to this. But maybe… maybe if she distanced herself from him, it would ease the pain. How many times had she been warned, and yet she allowed herself to believe this fantasy. Here he was, playing with her emotions and love, and the worst thing was… he didn’t even realise it.

Perhaps she could have loved him enough for both of them. But could she survive a lifetime of knowing that he might never really have wanted her? She couldn’t. Not him.

A tear escaped Azriel’s eyes, his hands held her face and his eyes implored her.

“Gwyn, please believe me.”

She held back a sob and shook her head. She needed time…. He needed time.

“Remember that one solstice night, we made a bargain?”

“Of course I do.”

“Do you remember you promised me a favor? Of my choosing?”

A feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. All of a sudden, he knew what she was going to say.

“Gwyn, don’t do this.”

“I’m asking you to honor that promise. Please, just leave.”

The pain in her voice was heartbreaking, and Azriel itched to comfort her. Instead, he brushed his thumb against her wet cheek, cursing.

“Gwyn—” He stopped, not knowing what to say but determined to say something, anything, that would convince her that she was it for him.

“Please. If you care for me at all,” she repeated, “please, just leave.”

It was the one request she had made that he could honor, and he did.

Gwyn sat for a long while in the quiet room, allowing the darkness to surround her. The tears that came were fleeting, soon replaced by a deep sadness.

There was a small knock at the door. Gwyn quickly wiped her tears away and sent a silent thank you to the cauldron that the room was dark.

Emerie’s head popped in, “You okay?”

Gwyn looked up, her teal eyes shining with steel.

“No. But I will be.”

Emerie smiled, “That’s my girl.”

————————————————————————

“Please tell me you’re going to fix this clusterfuck.”

Azriel shook his head out of the gloomy clouds and looked at Rhys.

“Yes, we’ve already tightened up the guard at the border.”

Rhys and Cassian looked at one another and rolled their eyes.

“Not that clusterfuck you dumbass”, said Cassian.

Azriel frowned.

Rhys offered him a glass of whisky, “The clusterfuck of you messing the best thing in your life. Aka Miss Berdara.”

Azriels heart stammered at the sound of her name being spoken. His shadows pushing him, to go find her.

Not yet…

Cassian frowned at him, “Well? You’re not going to let this go are you?”

Azriel looked up at him, “Never. She’s it for me.”

Rhys smiled, “Well that’s great. What’s the plan?”

Azriel shook his head, showing his brothers that he was at a loss. All he knew was, he was her’s. Completely and irrevocably. He just had to prove it and he would.

“For now she’s asked for space and I have to respect that.”

He finished his whisky in one gulp and stood, a plan already formulating in his head.

I’m coming for you Berdara, and I’m never letting go.

To be continued…..

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[sunder-soul]

I’ll start off by saying I adore this blog due to how amazing ur writing is & how active u r, it makes me so happy. I’m hoping you could write some tom smut where he’s the virgin & the reader (preferably a hufflepuff) is the experienced one? (cause I really can’t imagine Tom being popular or caring about sex in hogwarts). Like I can just imagine him having no idea what to do & letting the reader take in control and he’s highkey loving every minute of it (like he’s secretly just a sub).

You cannot imagine the effect this had on me. I… I am a changed person.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. 

Nox

Summary: You’re trapped in a closet with Tom Riddle playing Seven Minutes in Heaven. What happens in the dark, stays in the dark. Word count: 4.8k Content warning: explicit sex scenes. Underage drinking I guess?

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

PART II HERE! 💖

It had taken some convincing to get you to come to the party, but you’d have to admit that it had been more fun than you’d expected – the Slytherin common room was the perfect place for a post-Quidditch game blow out, hidden away under the lake where the Professors wouldn’t hear the music blasting from enchanted gramophones, the creepy light filtering in through the tall glass windows leading into the dark waters of the lake giving the perfect background under the dim green lanterns illuminating the party.

You’re drunk on Firewhisky that a group of cheeky-faced seventh-year Gryffindor boys brought to bribe their way inside, and by the time the party is winding down at around two in the morning you’re laid out across Ruth Willows’ lap on one of the black leather couches by the fireplace, giggling and very unwilling to move.

“Alright you two,” one of the Slytherin boys you don’t recognise says, smirking. “Clear out – this is strictly Slytherin territory again.”

“Aww, come on, Hartley,” Ruth says teasingly, “don’t tell me you’re done for the night – out-partied by a couple of Hufflepuffs, are you?”

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Willows,” Hartley says seriously, pointing at her.

You sit up, the room spinning around you in a pleasant, warm way. “We can take you,” you say cheerily, resting your head on Ruth’s shoulder.

There’s a smattering of laughs from the circle of lingering party-goers – You and Ruth are the only Hufflepuffs left, but there’s a couple of Gryffindors too, and you recognise some sixth-year Ravenclaw boys whispering to each other next to the fireplace.

“A game, then,” Hartley declares, looking around the circle with a grin.

“A game!” you and Ruth echo cheerfully, lifting your drinks.

“Alright, who’s playing? Scott? Peters? How about you, Avery?”

You glance over your shoulder to the far corner of the Slytherin room at the only group left in at the party – the gaggle of Slytherin boys who had spent the whole evening sitting at the circular table looking disapprovingly at the revelry as they sipped their drinks and evidently thought themselves far too mature for such nonsense. You share an amused look with Ruth.

“No thank, you,” Avery says aloofly, turning up his nose.

“Too good for a bit of fun, are you?” one of the Gryffindor boys snickers.

“They’re just trying to show off,” another smirks back, “think they’re acting all grown up and responsible –”

“I’ll join you,” says a very unexpected voice.

The whole circle looks around in shock. Tom Riddle has stood from the table and approaches the couches, his acolytes staring after him looking surprised. “What are we playing?” Riddle asks pleasantly, taking a seat on the couch opposite you – Ella Scott from Slytherin scrambles to the side to make room for him looking like she’s just won the lottery.

“That’s the spirit, Riddle,” beams Hartley, “not like those hoity-toity friends of yours, are you?”

Riddle smiles with far too much charm as he laces his arm over the back of the couch and crosses one long leg over the other, his Slytherin boys sliding into spare places around the circle and casting him perplexed looks of surprise.

“So?” Ruth asks expectantly, grinning at Hartley. “What’s the game?”

“Seven Minutes in Heaven,” Hartley smirks.

The circle erupts; the Gryffindor boys whoop with cheers as the Ravenclaws groan and roll their eyes, and you laugh softly as your head rolls back against Ruth’s shoulder, the alcohol still making the room spin slightly.

“I don’t know this game,” Riddle says quietly through the cacophony – though everyone seems to hear him with ease all the same.

“It’s the best game ever invented,” the first Gryffindor boy grins – you think his name is Rory but you can’t remember his surname. “When it’s your turn, you spin your wand on table and whoever it points to has to spend seven minutes with you in the broom closet.”

“What is the point of that?” Riddle frowns.

There’s a smattering of snickers and Riddle’s frown vanishes at the sound, his face going strangely blank.

“Making out, of course,” Rory smirks, “catch on, Riddle.”

Riddle’s face remains expressionless but there’s a coldness to it that the others don’t seem to notice as they continue to chuckle quietly. He clearly doesn’t like being laughed at.

“Who’s going first?” you say quickly, looking around the circle to distract them.

“Hartley’s the one who suggested this, he should start,” a Slytherin girl (April…? Avril…?) smirks.

“Only because Willows goaded me!” Hartley accuses, pointing at Ruth.

“I’ll happily go first,” Ruth says with an easy smile, “since Hartley’s too chicken.”

There’s a low murmur of amusement as Hartley’s eyes narrow at Ruth leaning forward and spinning her wand on the table – only to explode into raucous laugher when it comes to a stop pointing directly at –

“Looks like you’ll be going first after all, Hartley,” Ruth says breezily, standing. “After you,” she gestures theatrically at the wooden door to the broom closet in the corner, and Hartley gets up from the couch looking extremely gobsmacked.

“Make sure you return him in one piece,” April/Avril snickers.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” Ruth says without missing a beat, grinning as she slams the door to the closet shut behind them.

“Hufflepuff’s got a set of claws on her,” the other Gryffindor boy laughs.

“Badgers are a natural predator of snakes,” you sigh, lying back on the couch and throwing back your arms in a content dizziness. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

You lie there listening to the group talk and laugh, the reedy music wheedling away in the background, and by the time the closet bursts open again it doesn’t feel like any time has passed at all – though perhaps that’s the alcohol talking.

“And that,” Ruth exclaims, falling back onto the couch beside you, “is how it’s done.”

“How’s Hartley?” you ask her, laying your head back on her lap.

“He’ll never be the same,” she says smoothly, inspecting her nails.

The group is still laughing when Hartley sits back down on the floor beside the table, his hair dishevelled and his expression rather shell-shocked.

“Have fun mate?” Rory smirks, clapping him on the shoulder.

Hartley nods blankly, and the laughter only grow.

“Alright then, who’s next?” Ruth says loudly, looking very pleased with herself.

The turn passes counter-clockwise, and April/Avril gets landed with one of the reluctant Ravenclaw boys before Edgar Peters spins Rory. Scott casts Tom next to her a very unsubtle hopeful look before she spins her wand, but when it lands on Lestrange she has the good sense not to look too disappointed.

“Alright Riddle,” Rory grins, his arm now around Edgar’s shoulders (who is blushing violently). “Your turn.”

There’s something strangely blank about Tom’s face as he leans forward and sets his wand on the table, and you let your head loll to the side to watch with interest as Tom’s long, pale fingers deftly spin his wand. You cast an eye around the circle and fail to hold in a laugh; nearly everyone is watching in utter rapture, mostly leaning forward expectantly. Your laugh is drowned out by the noise that erupts across the group when Tom’s wand comes to a gradual stop pointing directly at your face.

“Is that me or you?” you ask Ruth languidly, looking up at her from her lap.

“That’s you,” she smirks down at you, “I’ve had quite enough Slytherin for one night.”

“Alright then,” you sigh, sitting up and stretching before swinging your legs off the couch and sprightly standing.

Tom is looking up at you blankly, unmoved from the couch.

“Well come on then,” you say in amusement, waving your hands at him. “The clock doesn’t start until the door shuts, you know.”

Riddle blinks and then smoothly stands, and you totter around the couch and stroll towards the door to the closet, still buzzing from the Firewhiskey. Riddle follows you silently, not looking at you as you hold the door open for him.

“Have fun!” someone shouts from the couches to general giggles.

You roll your eyes and let the door fall shut. Darkness and utter silence immediately falls, and you realise at once that at least one of the previous players has cast a muffling charm on the door to stop any potential eavesdropping.

“Lumos Volant,” you murmur.

A little ball of warm yellow light springs from your wand and hovers happily above the two of you, casting the inside of the closet into view – it’s small and cramped, a table stacked with boxes of books and old parchments beside you and shelves crammed with all sorts of things on every wall, hedging you in. Tom is standing in the middle of the closet, his dark, even gaze on you. There’s something suddenly very funny to you about the fact that he’s still wearing his uniform, impeccable as always.

“I thought lights were not permitted,” he says quietly.

You lift yourself up onto the edge of the table, feet swinging slightly. “I thought we might talk for a moment,” you say casually, looking around the closet.

Tom hesitates. “Talk?” he asks slowly.

“You’ve not done this before, have you?” you ask him, meeting his gaze with a tilt to your head.

“I believe I made it quite clear that I’m unfamiliar with the rules of this –”

“Not the game,” you interrupt, shaking your head with a soft smile. “This.” You gesture between the two of you.

Silence returns. Tom looks at you with an impenetrable expression as you wait for his reply, your feet still swinging lightly.

“And why would you think that?” he eventually asks, very evenly.

You shrug. “Just my read on you, I suppose. Am I wrong?”

Tom just leans back against the shelves, his hands pushing back his robes and sliding into the pockets of his slacks. For the first time you take a moment to appreciate exactly how good-looking he is; the black waves of his hair, the high cheekbones, the elegant curve of his lips – and the naturally regal quality of his features only augmented by the calm composure he always seemed to radiate. It was easy to see why he’d been made prefect, why Slughorn always fawned over him, why everyone said that he’d be Minister for Magic one day.

“You know, we don’t have to do anything,” you say conversationally.

Tom arches one of his dark brows. “What do you mean?” he asks in wry amusement.

“A stranger in a closet at a party?” you smile. “With a time limit, no less… Not exactly a very romantic setting.”

“I’m not a romantic,” Tom says lightly, looking away.

“No,” you say quietly. “You’re not, are you?”

Tom’s eyes flash to yours. For a moment you think you see something almost annoyed in his eyes, like your comment rubbed him the wrong way, and then the look is gone and his attention returns to the closet. “Your read on me appears to be quite extensive,” he says distinctly.

You laugh. “Does it bother you to be so transparent?”

His lips curve into a rather unsettling smirk. “Transparent,” he echoes, looking up at the ball of light floating above. “I must say, that’s a first…”

“You don’t like being laughed at, do you?” you say nonchalantly. “Specifically when you’re being excluded – oh! Is that why you spend so much time with those horrible blood supremacists even though you’re a half-blood?”

Tom’s eyes narrow on you and his smirk vanishes immediately. Something sharp has taken over his face, and you think that perhaps if you hadn’t drunk so much Firewhiskey, you’d find it scary.

“You tell those boys what to do, don’t you? They listen to you even when they don’t want to – Avery didn’t even want to play tonight but he followed you the second you came over. Are you in control all the time?” you ask curiously. “Is that why you dress all…” you wave a hand at his absolutely perfect uniform, shoes charmed to a shine, hair set into tidy waves, Slytherin tie dead straight and his prefect badge gleaming on his robes. “Well anyway, I suppose that would explain the grades, too.”

“Extensive indeed,” Tom breathes, tone very cool. “Is there more?”

“Yes,” you smile, holding the edge of the table lightly. “I don’t think you’re one to be coerced into doing something you don’t want to do.”

“Is that so?” Tom asks icily.

You nod. “Which means you want to be here.”

“I’m regretting it already.”

“You are not,” you scoff, “or you would have left.”

“I’m considering it,” he snaps.

“Come here.”

Tom’s expression falters, his brow furrowing. “What?”

You lift a hand and motion him closer with a casual wave. “Come here,” you repeat softly.

Tom huffs disapprovingly and looks away. “If I were really so transparent you would know not to give me orders,” he says coolly.

“Tom.”

His eyes find yours immediately, and you tilt your head again. “I’m not ordering you,” you say quietly, “I’m inviting you.”

Tom frowns slightly, something very calculating about the way he looks at you in the ensuing silence. After a long moment, Tom gently pushes off the wall and takes three slow steps towards you, stopping a respectful distance from where you’re sitting on edge of the table, his hands still in his pockets.

You smile, amused. “Closer.”

The blankness has returned to his face. You wonder if perhaps that’s how he looks when he doesn’t know how to look.

Tom takes the final step towards you, just barely brushing your knees, looking down at you with impenetrable eyes. You slowly reach forward and gently take his wrists, pulling his hands from his pockets and placing them lightly on your thighs. Tom doesn’t react, he only keeps his eyes on yours, his hands utterly still where you’ve placed them. You let your own remain on top of his as you look up at him, watching his face curiously as you gently guide his hands to push your knees apart.

He blinks, the barest flicker of his eyelids, a seemingly involuntary reaction – but that was what you’re looking for. Something beyond the composure. Something out of his control.

Slowly, you glide your hands up his forearms, keeping your eyes on his face and watching for his reaction. You can feel his warmth through his robes, his body beneath the impeccable layers of his uniform, your touch traveling up to his shoulders, down across his chest, and in a single, unbroken motion you lace your fingers around his tie and pull gently.

Tom’s eyes flicker again, but he lets you pull him down towards you, smooth and slow, and you feel anticipation thrumming in your chest as he gets closer, those dark eyes fixed on yours, his expression still blank and inscrutable. He’s less than an inch from your lips when you stop. Tom pauses at once, bent to you with his hands still resting on your thighs, your knees brushing against his hips. He’s close enough that you can feel his breath warm on your face.

“Are you quite sure I can’t order you around?” you ask softly, leaning up and very gently pressing your lips right next to his mouth. Tom exhales slightly, his eyes closing. You smile and then press your lips up against his neck, right in the most vulnerable point under his jaw. “I think you might like it,” you murmur against his skin.

Satisfaction curls in your stomach when you feel his fingers press ever-so-slightly harder into your thighs. “What would you have me do?” Tom asks quietly, and he’s almost entirely successful at concealing the slight thickness in his voice – but not quite.

“I’d have you move those hands of yours,” you say softly, your lips trailing back up his jaw. “I didn’t put them there to stay still.”

Tom exhales again, tense and measured, and then very slowly his hands slide up your thighs. His hands are warm and reserved, travelling to your hips as you press your lips against his pulse point and listen to his breathing, the deliberateness of it, the brittle tension in it. Tom is trying very hard to remain in control.  

You pull away and Tom’s hands fall still on your waist. His eyes have gone hooded and dark, and a flutter of excitement swells in your stomach at the sight. “Keep going,” you say quietly, gently pulling on his tie again, bringing him down to your lips and holding him there, barely a breath away.

Tom hesitates only for a second before his hands start to move again, sliding up your waist, your ribcage, the side of your chest – you nearly smile at how obvious he’s being at avoiding touching your breasts – up your collarbones, your neck, coming to a halt on either side of your jaw.

For a moment he holds you there, and you hold him there too, your hand on his tie anchoring him in place mere milimetres from you. His gaze is level but you can see the hesitation behind his eyes, feel the reservation in his hands.

“Nox,” you whisper against his lips.

The light above you goes out.

In the darkness, the warmth is all-encompassing, the sound of his breath louder, the heady, rich scent of him more potent, and the feeling of his hands on your skin more overpowering, and you lean without hesitation, kissing him slow and smooth, and…

Your stomach twists. He’s kissing you back just the same, restrained at first, hesitant like you were expecting, but when your arms slide up around his neck to pull him closer, drawing him into you, some of Tom’s restraint starts to falter. His hands against your face hold you more firmly, his breathing getting sharper, and his head tilts to the side to kiss you deeper. When you lock your ankles together behind him, the inside of your thighs pressing against his hips he breaks the kiss and you look up blindly into the dark.

“What?” you ask softly.

“I… you were right,” he says, still breathing slightly harder than normal. “I haven’t… done this before.”

“Do you want to?”

There’s a ringing silence. You frown in the dark. “You don’t have to, Tom.”

“You’ve already noted that I’m not one to be coerced into doing something that I don’t want to do,” Tom says smoothly, leaning back down to your lips.

“Right on that count too, was I?” you smile, kissing him again before he has a chance to reply.

Tom inhales and his hands pull your face closer to him, his mouth moving more insistently, and as you twist your fingers through the soft waves of his hair, you experimentally brush your tongue against his top lip. He immediately pulls away again and you laugh softly.

“Sorry,” you chuckle, “too much?”

He hesitates. “I wasn’t expecting it,” he says evenly. Some of the restraint has returned.

“Shall I do it again? Now that you’re expecting it?” you ask with no small amount of amusement.

By way of reply Tom slowly leans in again and kisses you deeply, and then – exactly as you had done – his tongue traces your top lip, like he’s mimicking you. He is mimicking you, you realise as you kiss him back enthusiastically, he’s copying what you’re doing because he doesn’t know what else to do.

If you’re leading by example, then there’s only one thing for it.

You slide your hands from around his neck down his body, pressing your hands flat against his chest and sighing against his lips – he feels good. Down your hands fall, curving under his jumper, gently tugging his shirt from his trousers, and Tom is kissing you harder and harder, stepping in closer, a hand falling from your face and slipping around your waist to pull you closer to him.

Your fingers brush his warm stomach and Tom breaks the kiss again, his head falling onto your shoulder as you touch him, your hands travelling around his hips and up his back. His skin is soft and smooth, his body lean and warm, and you’re breathing hard yourself when Tom lifts his head again.

“Can I…” he says slowly.

“Can you what?” you breathe.

Tom slowly kisses you, full and open, his lips lingering when he pulls away. When he speaks, he’s so close that you can feel his lips forming the words against yours. “Can I touch you?” he murmurs.

You laugh softly again. “If you weren’t so opposed to being ordered around, I would have already told you to.”

Tom’s arm around your waist tightens and pulls you into another kiss, and this time when his tongue brushes your lips you reach up and take his other hand from where he’s still cupping your face, gently guiding it down your neck, down the swell of your chest – Tom’s breathing takes on that same brittle quality – down your hip, your thigh, coming to a stop where the hem on your dress rests just above your knees.

Your lips draw from his and there’s a ringing silence. Too quiet. You realise that you’re both holding your breath.

“Is this what you meant?” you ask softly.

Tom swallows, and he nods.

You kiss him again, sliding his hand up your thigh and under your dress. When you bring his hand up to the hollow where your thigh meets your hip, Tom exhales again, breaking the kiss as his head tilts down. “I… I’ve never…” he says slowly, swallowing again. “I don’t know what to do,” he finishes quietly, and you can hear the conflict in his voice, his pride battling with his desire.

“Would you like me to show you?” you murmur.

He takes a breath and nods again.

You guide his hand inwards, the touch of his fingers against the outside of your underwear making heat spread across your skin. Slowly, you push Tom’s hand into place and carefully press to curve his fingers. When he feels how wet you are Tom breathes out very shakily and then – to your surprise – his lips are against yours, kissing you as you move his fingers with your own, showing him what to do.

He’s a fast learner. Tom’s fingers slide gently against you, mimicking what you show him and kissing you the whole time – it’s too much very quickly, and you can’t keep yourself from moaning as searing pleasure burns at his touch, smothered by his kiss. Soon you draw your hand away, confident that he knows how to continue, and place your palm against his cheek to draw him closer into the kiss. Tom’s grip around you tightens, his tongue meeting yours, the pressure and speed of his fingers just barely increasing and making you gasp into his mouth.

“Like that?” he asks softly.

“Like that,” you breathe, your eyes squeezing shut as tension coils in your core. “Don’t… don’t stop…”

Tom’s mouth presses hot against your jaw and your head falls back automatically, his lips moving – just like yours had  – right on the vulnerable part under your jawbone.

You feel the pleasure hike, growing and growing, and then with your palm still flat on Tom’s cheek and your other curled into a fist around his tie, it hits you hard, gasping as the dark closet seeming to spin with lights for a moment before you slowly come down.

Tom slowly draws his hand from you, and over your own panting you can hear him take a long, tense breath that sounds suspiciously shaky.

“Now,” you say a little breathlessly, “it’s your turn.”

Tom is silent as you slide your palm down his neck, his chest, keeping one hand fixed around his tie as the other brushes his hip, slips under his shirt again and traces the top of his trousers.

With a small, sharp tug on his tie, Tom’s mouth is nearly against yours again and you hear his breath stutter. “Do you want me to touch you?” you whisper against his lips.

He swallows. Nods.

Your fingers curl around the button of his trousers, pull it open, and then slowly undo the zip. Tom reaches up and takes your face in his hands, taking another shaky breath as his forehead presses against yours, and you can almost imagine his eyes closing, the tension on his face, the wanting.

Slowly, knowing that you’re teasing him, you slide your hand against his skin just beneath the line of his trousers, feeling the flat warmth of his stomach, the sharp angle of his hip bone – Tom’s hands hold your face tighter and he’s trying to control his breathing as you push your hand lower, lower –

There’s a rap on the door that makes you both jump and you pull your hand from him quickly.

“Time’s up!” someone yells from outside, muffling charm broken. “That’s seven minutes!”

You suppress a laugh as you reach for your wand on the table next to you. Just when things were getting good… “Lumos Volant,” you say again softly.

From your wand the same ball of light erupts, and you freeze.

Tom is still standing in front of you, but he looks nothing like when you saw him last. The refined, impeccable, composed Tom Riddle has been replaced by a figure unlike any you’ve seen – Tom’s dark hair is tousled and curled, his eyes black with hunger, his lips slick and pink and his cheeks flushed. His tie hangs loose from his crumpled collar, his shirt untucked and his trousers still unbuttoned.

Worst of all is the way he’s looking at you.

Tom’s dark, ravenous eyes sweep over you in what must be the same way you’ve been looking at him, lingering on the sleeve of your dress fallen from your shoulder, the hem pushed up all the way to reveal your thighs where his elegant, pale hands are resting. Whatever he finds on your face catches his attention because his jaw tightens and he looks on the brink of leaning in again.

“We… should…” you say slowly, unable to look away from him.

He nods silently.

Neither of you move.

You clear your throat and force your gaze off his face, straightening your dress pointedly and standing. Tom’s uniform slides back into its usual perfection with a single wave of his hand, but as he moves to step past you, your palm flashes up and catches his chest. Tom looks down at you at once and your heart skips a beat at the heat in his eyes.

“Your… your hair,” you say sheepishly, nodding at it. “You might want to…” You reach up before he can and push your fingers through it, smoothing it out and returning it to its regular impeccable state.

Tom’s eyes don’t leave yours as you touch him, and your cheeks grow warm, pointedly not lowering your gaze to his as you work.

“There,” you say quietly, smiling at him as your hands drop.

He doesn’t step away. He just looks down at you.

Your face gets warmer still. “Listen,” you say softly, “do you… want to keep this between us?”

The barest hint of a frown appears on Tom’s face. “Why would I want that?” he asks evenly.

“I just thought you might,” you shrug.

His lips flicker into what might be called a smile. “Just your read on me?” he asks with the faintest brush of dry humour.

“So?” you smile, rolling your eyes slightly. “Would you like that?”

Tom’s expression falls sober. After a second he steps in a little closer and you can’t ignore the way your pulse spikes when he lifts his fingers and pushes your hair back behind your ear, so soft that you shiver. “Yes,” he says very quietly, “I would like that.”

You nod and quickly turn away before you can get distracted again, pulling the door open and humming absently as you step out. You know without needing to check that Tom is following you with that blank composure returned to his face.

“Oi oi,” Ruth calls, winking at you. “You sure took your time – longest seven minutes I’ve ever seen!”

“We just talked, Ruth,” you say with a wry grin, leaning against the back of the couch. “Tom is an excellent conversationalist.”

“Conversationalist?” she repeats, smirking. “Is that what they call it these days?”

“We should be going,” you say dryly, giving her a look. “It’s nearly three in the morning and we’ve got Apparating class tomorrow.”

“Merlin’s beard, if I don’t splinch myself it’ll be a bloody miracle,” Ruth mutters, standing. “Alright you lot, try not to do anything too irresponsible once we’re gone!”

You catch Tom’s eye as he sits back down on the couch, but both of you look away again.

“Good night lovely people!” Ruth calls gaudily, throwing an arm around your shoulders and leading you across the Slytherin common room towards the steps, “Oh – and Hartley.”

The circle snickers, and you chance one last glance over your shoulder at Tom – but he’s not looking at you. His eyes are fixed on the little table in between the black leather couches, on his wand resting there, still pointing at where you’d been sitting.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

PART II HERE! 💖

To request sequels/being tagged in follow-ups, leave a reply in the notes!  💖

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Tower

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | two

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You’re apart of the Refugee Relief Movement, an intergalactic organization providing aid throughout the systems, and you find yourself assisting at a resettlement camp in Lothal when disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rated: Mature

Warnings: descriptive violence, blood/injury mentioning, danger, mature language

Notes: Hi y'all, welcome. This fic is going to be set during Season 2 of The Mandalorian, and will be what I like to call ‘canon adjacent’. ALSo, this chapter is very much so Reader focused, setting up the scene and the general pacing of the story, but naturally, Din will be more and more featured as things progress. I’m a sucker for backstory and a slow burn, so ye be warned. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) I’d love to hear from you lovely little beans. Be safe out there, friends.

Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.

You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read ‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath. 

Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales of former splendor, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment.

The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin. 

Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades. 

And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.

On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.

She’s free from it now, but the scars remain— the planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled.

The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere - anywhere - for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.

That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever, and they had transferred you to this planet not six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars. 

You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and indescribably special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. It isn’t always painless— you aren’t immune to it. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing Maker, at least you were doing something— anything— everything you could.

And really, to call Jortho a town would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.

You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong. 

A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley.

You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip.

An easy moment passes, and it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you.

You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s everywhere. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle. The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead. 

And then—

Chaos.

You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull thwack. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground.

For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— Maker that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the damn dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink— until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close. 

Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once - twice - before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy and redownloading bipedalism, before that sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, finally, you take in your surroundings. 

The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you. 

Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the kriffing village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.

It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on. 

Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbled run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction, knees nearly buckling in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her. 

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you look her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.

“What the hell happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.

“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face.

“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. A-a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I don’t know— it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out. 

A man. 

Device. 

Charges.

A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an attack—and he’s still kriffing here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it.

“Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. “We need to find cover.”

///

You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.

Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves eerily different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax.

Almost.

But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but you hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. Footsteps. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. Closer. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. Closer. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. Closer- 

and then, nothing.

They’re here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… And the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang. 

You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, pointing a blaster directly at your head.

“Where is he?” He asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. “Volcur X’elo. The bomber. Where?” He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating.

You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had not idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.

“Fuck,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.

///

After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t. 

Can’t. 

You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision… 

You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.

Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this kriffing planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.

And he’s not alone.

You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this Volcur X’elo, by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stabilization of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward. 

The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.“- like swine, they are a plague to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders Mandalorian, but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically giggling, gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one.”

Your blood runs cold. 

Only one? Oneoneoneone, one what-

The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated one of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.

Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the smaller man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. Now.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands. 

The bounty hunter had heard enough. He clearly wasn’t getting anything more out of him, and with a quick strike, he rears his blaster and pistol whips the terrorist with it. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist. 

And with that, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air.

The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “Anybody. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it. It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder, and with a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group. You swallow. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out. 

“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.

///

You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it. 

You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.

And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the bright light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. They’ll all have to move, you think, pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again. The thought sinks in you like a stone, sobering you. 

Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.

“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment.

“H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed... For you to think like that. To do all... all this...” 

“Hey,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “Focus,” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you.

The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord, and frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks. 

He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention.

“— Dala.”

Does he sound annoyed? Kriff, you think he might... If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.

“Hmm? Sorry, what..?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin. 

Oh, you think, numb. Huh. 

Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian, towering over you, nearly at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his damn face, but you can tell he’s peeved— Maker, just how long had you been ignoring him?

A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I said, do you have a way off this skug hole?”

[halfwaythereroyalwrites]

Long Enough (Oscar “Spooky” Diaz x Reader) Kilig One-Shot

Pairing: Oscar “Spooky” Diaz x Reader (tried to make this as gender neutral as possible)

Warnings: Fluffy not smutty like the title suggests 😅. Secondhand embarrassment from flirting. Mention of buying snacks. Play fighting. No other warnings I can think of unless your secondhand embarrassment is really bad. 

Word count: 2k+

Kilig is a Tagalog word to describe the feeling of excitement and exhilaration and possibly embarrassment from anything remotely romantic.

Masterlist

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“Don’t you have some ‘important Santos business’ to do,” you teased, crossing your arms over your chest to reserve some warmth. 

“Nah, I thought we could go somewhere tonight,” Oscar replied, looking up at you from the driver’s seat of his red ‘63 Chevy Impala. Even from where you stood, you could smell the intoxicating scent of his cologne wafting through the air. The very cologne he knew drove you wild and therefore refused to name, no matter how many times you asked. A slight breeze blew between you, sending a chill through your body. These cold LA nights were rare, and it caught you by surprise to be caught in one when walking home from Monse’s place. 

The younger girl had asked you to have a night in with her to help take her mind off the latest drama with Cesar, and you happily obliged. Well...it was supposed to only be you and Monse. Five minutes into the night, Ruby and Jamal had shown up, eager to get in on a night of face masks, movies, and snacks. You didn’t realize how late it had been until you checked your phone and realized it was close to their curfew. After bidding Monse goodbye, you ushered Ruby and Jamal out and walked them back to their respective homes. This is how you got here now, in the middle of the street, talking to the big, bad leader of the Santos, Oscar Diaz. 

Better known as Spooky. 

“Where exactly are we going?” you asked, “There’s not much open right now.” 

“Just get in the car. I thought you liked mystery and shit,” Oscar quipped, his signature smirk on his full lips. Your eyes narrowed at his answer, wondering what Oscar had in mind. Your time with Oscar consisted of movie nights at his place with tension so thick, you can cut through it with a knife. This was new and unexpected, and you weren’t sure if the fluttering feeling in your chest was a good thing or a bad thing yet. “Come on. I know your ass is freezing out here.” 

You let out a dramatic sigh and walked over to the passenger’s side, mumbling loud enough for him to hear, “you’re lucky I’m fucking freezing out here...with your mysterious ass.” The passenger’s door was pushed open from the inside by Oscar, and you quickly ducked in and shut the door. Oscar shut the windows on his side, and you quickly did the same with your window, shutting out the air from further freezing you. He thankfully blasted the heater, and you wasted no time in adjusting the heaters to point directly at you, thawing the LA cold out of your body. “Why do you always drive with all your windows down? It’s so cold! See, feel!” Without warning, you grasped Oscar’s forearm with your cold, clammy hands. 

Oscar sucked air in through his teeth at your sudden intrusion but did not make a move to pry your hands away, “Fuck, you’re cold!” 

“See?! Ugh this is Southern California. We should never be this cold.” You retracted your hands away from him, realizing you were still holding on to his arm.

He smirked at the sight of you placing your face inches away from the nearest heater, the heater blowing your hair back, before shrugging, “I don’t know. I can warm you up if you want.” His voice became lower with every word he said, and you took notice of his raised eyebrow directed at you. 

You cleared your throat, which has suddenly become dry, before saying, “Can we please get something hot to drink before we go?” 

Oscar kissed his teeth before breaking out into a wide smile, making you forget the need to breathe for the briefest moment “Sure, buckle in.” 

“Ugh thank you!” You reached around and buckled yourself into your seat and proceeded to lean closer to the heaters. The car was silent as he steered one-handed through the dimly lit streets of Freeridge. There weren’t many people out, and the only sounds to be heard were the blasting heaters and the low rumble of the engine. You took a deep breath in and leaned back into the seat before asking, “So where are we going?” 

“I told you it was a surprise.” Another silence ensued as you turned your head to look at the Santos leader, who was looking straight ahead at the road, his face void of any expression.

“...but can I get a hint of where we’re going?” 

“No.” 

“...if we’re having a movie night, you could have just texted.” 

“It’s not a movie night.” 

“You haven’t texted me in the past few days,” you whispered. “That’s not like you.” 

“I had to figure some shit out. I’m here now, aren’t I?” His response made you press your lips together and look out your window, crossing your arms once more. You could feel the heat of Oscar’s gaze intermittently focusing on you, burning the side of your head. The rush of heat going to your ears was accompanied by the audible thumping in your chest. You leaned your body against the passenger’s side door as much as you could and started contemplating words to say when Oscar’s hand gripped your left thigh. “Hey. Hey look at me.” You continued to stare out the window. “Hey, I’m sorry alright? Things got real tense with the Prophet$, and I had to sort shit out. I forgot to text you. I’m sorry.” You turned to meet his gaze, and it seemed all your anger had melted away with just a look into his dark eyes. 

“Thank you. I was worried about you, and no one knew where you went, so I thought...something had happened to you,” you begrudgingly admitted, hyper-aware of the fact that Oscar’s hand on your thigh set a warm fire throughout your body. You wanted to throw up. Or hold his hand. Maybe. This...this...pounding in your chest. The sudden rush of warmth in your ears. The hairs on your arm standing up. Cold and hot at the same time with heat slowly crawling from your neck to your cheeks. What is this?! 

“You don’t gotta worry about me,” Oscar’s voice broke through your storming internal monologue. Did his voice get deeper somehow? “I’ll always come back for you, babe,” he chuckled. 

“Ok that’s...not necessary,” you made a weak attempt to push Oscar’s hand away as your cheeks burned in embarrassment over his new nickname for you. Oscar only squeezed your thigh in return and kept his hand exactly where it was. You watched him skillfully steer one-handed into the parking lot of the nearest corner store and turn the engine off. The still silence prompted you to turn your head to the handsome man seated next to you, only to find him already turned to you. 

“What are you looking at?” You saw Oscar’s devastatingly dark eyes flit back and forth, holding your gaze as if reading your eyes could give a hint of the storm currently occurring in your mind. Oscar let out a chuckle before squeezing your thigh and giving it a light slap. 

“Let’s grab snacks too. I’m hungry.” He let go of your thigh and exited the Impala, leaving you in a daze. Your hand instinctively covered the area on your thigh that his hand previously occupied, lightly feeling the remnants of his warm touch. Shaking your head at your actions, you unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the car door, only for the handle to be pulled away from your reach by Oscar, who had pulled the door open for you. You muttered a low thanks, eyebrows furrowed at the Santos leader. He locked the car before walking ahead of you and opening the front door of the corner store, holding it open for you to walk in, You glanced at him suspiciously before thanking him again and walking into the store, taking note of the slight brush of his hand against your hip. You made a beeline for the hot drink station at the back of the store, clasping your hands together and slightly shivering as you shuffled over. Oscar was not far behind you, acting as your taller shadow, his breath slightly fanning over your neck as he looked over your shoulder. You swallowed the knot forming in your throat and kept it suppressed by making small talk. When it came time to pay for your snacks, Oscar had pulled out a wad of bills faster than you could grab the card out of your wallet. He grabbed the snacks as you told him a halfhearted promise to pay him back. 

“Don’t worry about it. I gotchu,” he smiled, placing his hand on your waist and ushering you out the door. His cologne has taken over all your senses now, and the wires of your brain were beginning to short circuit. You found it hard to even think outside of this time with him. You found yourself taking notice of all the small ways he was currently driving you insane. 

Like the way he still kept a hold on your thigh as he drove. 

And how he told you about how he had watched the food show you had recommended on Netflix. 

And how he asked you to feed him a gummy worm and you felt the faint touch of his lips as you placed one in his mouth. 

He also told you to reply to a text from Sad Eyes on his behalf, telling him that he can’t hang out right now. 

And with every laugh and every smile, he would squeeze your thigh which would send a jolt of endorphins through your body.

Before long, the winding road Oscar was driving up on ended on a flat lookout. There were only two other cars there, considerably distanced from the two of you. Oscar had parked the car to where the trunk was facing the twinkling lights of Freeridge down below. Without saying a word, he got out of the car and popped the trunk open, where he pulled out a large blanket, big enough to fit the two of you. You got out of the car, clutching your drink, snacks in the other hand, and let a cheesing smile make its way onto your face. 

“What is this?” you asked Oscar who was now looking at you expectedly. 

“I thought we could just chill for tonight. See the stars and shit,” he gestured upwards to the dark sky. You giggled at the lack of stars in the sky. Typical for Los Angeles. You handed your drink to Oscar who took it without question. 

“May I?” you asked, looking between him and the trunk of his car. Oscar nodded, and you jumped up on the top of his trunk, and he followed suit, wrapping both you and him in the blanket. You rested your weight against him, placing your head on his shoulder. A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you looked at the yellow lights of the city below. “Why did you actually bring me here?” 

“...I wanted to ask you something.” You slowly raised your head off his shoulder, and looked at him, his face laced with an emotion you couldn’t quite pinpoint. 

“What is it?” you whispered. 

Oscar cleared his throat before focusing his dark gaze on you. “We’ve been hanging out for a while, and I thought...that maybe...we could give this a real shot.” 

You grinned. “Oscar Diaz. Are you asking me to go steady with you?” 

Oscar kissed his teeth at your teasing grin. “Come on, I’m being serious!” 

“So am I! Are you asking me to be in a relationship or to be exclusive? They’re sort of different nowadays.”

“The first part.” 

“...I need to hear you say it.” 

Oscar gazed at you before cupping your face in his hand, his thumb gently rubbing your cheek. He whispered your name before asking, “will you be in a relationship with me?” You blinked at him a couple times before your hand came to meet his hand that was still caressing your face. You held his wrist and kissed the inside of his palm. 

“...what’s the magic word?” 

Oscar rolled his eyes at you before whispering, “please?”

You smiled before nodding, a little too enthusiastically. Oscar shook his head at you before returning your smile with a bright one of his own. “Ok now hold me,” you demanded, flinging his hand away from your cheek to go around your shoulder. You snuggled into the warmth of his body as he drew you closer and placed a kiss to your temple. “Took you long enough to ask me,” you whispered.  

“What?” 

“Nothing.”

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A/N: I have finally broken my writer’s block. There’s quite a few life changes and obstacles I’m going through, and finally being able to finish a fic was so satisfying. Let me know what you think and if you want to be added to my taglist! 

General: @peppermintvanillaa @fantasticcopeaglepasta @panda-angela

Kilig taglist: @multifandomlife22 @thottiewinemom @princeabomination @svetlana-beilschmidt

[archetypal-archivist]

Grian- Boots for the Rain Gone Cold

Kind of a story idea for Ex-Watcher Grian, 3500+ words. This is what happens when you listen to the song Welly Boots on repeat for a couple hours. The premise is that Grian and the Hermits aren’t quite as nice as they seem, and when Grian has to flee Hermitcraft to keep his friends safe from the Watchers, his friends do some malicious compliance to take care of him while he is away.

------

A story in which the hermits take care of their own, even beyond borders they should not be able to cross.

Take a standard story about Watcher Grian. See him come to Hermitcraft, lost and alone and afraid. He has been through Evo, killed a dragon whilst alone and afraid, was taken against his will, watched his friends Pearlescent Moon and Taurtis die. He knows how to take care of himself, but nothing more than that.

Hermitcraft changes that, for him. Standing outside a portal that is unlike any he had ever seen, even during his time as a watcher, seeing a team of 20+ walk out is terrifying. But they had seen him, looked at each other, then rushed forward to claim him as their own. In the beginning he is left alone until he tentatively reaches out, saving Scar's stuff after he has died. An action unlike him, but he had appreciated their kindness in letting him stay, so he does his best to repay that.

Tit for tat is something he understands from the Watchers, even if this is a kinder variant.

Grian watches as people start to reach out to him, watching him with admiring eyes as he builds his first shops, offering items he's never needed or touched before now. (Conduits are so cool and he'll deny the shiver of excitement that crept up his spine when Xisuma first handed him one to his dying breath.) He watches as they smile and laugh at his antics, rather than come at him and his with sword and shield for his pranks.

He watches. He is good at that. He is significantly less good at returning their kindness, a trouble-maker to his core, intentionally or no. But he tries, and in the eyes of the Hermits, that is all that matters.

Iskall feeds him, sometimes, when he is sick and delirious, screaming at the shadows in the corners. They do not let him starve himself to death. (He learns to hide half stacks of golden carrots in their chests, just enough to replenish their supply, but not enough that they'd notice.)

Mumbo is patient with him when he comes crashing into his base like a wrecking ball, sometimes plowing into the taller hermit's redstone face first in the process. He just helps Grian up, smiling and laughing, helping him brush the red dust away. (Grian learns that Mumbo cannot sleep without noise, too used to the ticking of redstone clocks and firing pistons to sleep in quiet. He learns to fly in on late nights when Mumbo's base is still lit up and talk with his friend, chattering away until Mumbo can find it in himself to turn the lag machines off and fall asleep to the sound of Grian's voice.)

Xisuma watches the world with all the focus and patience that Grian once used when designing stars and bedrock towers. For Xisuma, Grian will watch the world too and ease its updates when he can- one less burden for his admin to carry, taken and handled with silent, secret grace.

Joe reads and reads and reads, spinning tales of his finds to all who stand still long enough for him to pin down for a bit. For Joe, Grian will bring out some of his old high school textbooks for him on the days when the man runs out of books to read.

Zedaph lives in a cave, warm and dry, but without color, the only life being the experiments rattling around in the background. For Zedaph, Grian will sneak in mushrooms and moss, encouraging them to grow in the shadows until the cavern blooms with them.

For the hermits, Grian is kind. For the hermits, Grian will learn.

Then one day it all comes crashing down, perhaps in the face of a bedrock tower springing from nowhere, perhaps in violent, screaming outburst of purple fire, perhaps in the face of a friend he once thought dead. The Watchers had tried their damnest to stamp out his heart and they nearly succeeded, but just as they could not stamp out his free will they also could not stamp out his humanity, and people- regardless of shape or size or color or race or species- are born to love and be loved.

Grian loves his Hermits. To protect them, he must leave. And so he does, quietly and in the dead of night, the faint echoes of screams ringing in his ears. If he has it his way, never again will he hear his hermit's pain, imagined or otherwise. It would be best to just forget.

Grian settles in a rainy little single player server that turns out to not be as single player as he would like. It seems instead to be an abandoned multiplayer server, lost dogs and empty houses abound in the distant corners, and every once in a while a new player stumbles in, running from something, settling in long enough to call the server home. Sometimes, these new players stay. Sometimes, whatever is chasing them catches up and they are forced to leave. Grian refuses to care for these fellow vagabonds, even as he watches from under the eaves of his perfectly constructed rustic house, rain dripping down and obscuring him from their wondering, pained eyes.

Grian has given up on having happy ending, and if the ending the narrative seems to want to give him is a tragedy, then he will seize it with both hands and rewrite it himself. What he does not take into account, however, is that the Hermits don't take kindly to being abandoned.

Grian was once a Watcher, and while watching and mimicking are perhaps some of his better skills, he was still new to the server and as such there is much about his Hermits he never had a chance to discover. Their pasts in large part remained a mystery to him, as he had learned to mimic kindness too well from them to ever pry. (They would have told him, if he had asked. Love was another thing he had learned from them, and if he had been seen and not just watched, he perhaps would have noticed how strongly they cared for him too.)

But yes. Though Grian was perhaps the only one of their number on the run from literal gods, he was not the only one with a tragic back story.

Xisuma, who watched the Hermitcraft server with all the vigilance of a soldier who had watched his fellow troops and their enemies weaponize glitches against each other, to the mass extinction of both. Evil X, who ran from it all, only to end up in a place where nothing violent simply became nothing.

Joe, who read and read and read, devouring knowledge the way he once devoured worlds, eyes flickering white on the nights when hunger panged in his stomach worse than usual. Cleo, who also knew the pain of consumption, from both sides of teeth like knives.

Zedaph, who popped into existence one day, whole and unsullied, with a vast, empty void where his past ought to be, who forgot sometimes that people are supposed to have likes and dislikes and colors and an instinctual obedience towards the laws of gravity. Tango and Impulse, who watched their friend and each other with eagle eyes to keep their trio from slipping back into old, self-destructive habits. (Overwork, overclocking, over-stimulation. All were equally killer.)

Grian, who's first and best skill, even before his building, was causing mischief and creating fun. A welcome distraction from old pains.

They loved him, the Hermits. In whatever flavor they chose, they loved him. They knew his darkness, though perhaps not the exact nature of it, and they knew that he loved them back. And then he left them.

The Hermits were powerful with love and sorrow and determination. Grian thought he could leave them so quickly, uproot himself from their hearts like a ghost in the night? Ha.

As. If.

It begins like this- Grian wakes in his little spruce house in the middle of a mostly abandoned town. The rain is pouring outside as it nearly always is and the rushing of wind through the trees puts him in the mind of his old ship-in-a-bottle base, warm and safe from the wet outside. He wakes up, stretches, thinks of eating. Steps outside and-

a brand new pair of bright red rain boots, almost glowing in the grey mist of early morning. They are in his colors, Grian just knows they would fit him perfectly. A welcome sort of gift, perfect for a world drenched in rain. Perfect for him, gifted with thought, with care. His stomach curdles and he just knows he won't be eating breakfast today either. A curl of a finger and the boots go up in purple flames, the scent of burnt rubber joining the petrichor of the air. He goes back inside. Goes back to sleep. Tries not to dream.

The boots are back the next day, shining red and a little closer to the door to better keep them out of the rain. He burns those too.

The boots keep appearing. Always bright red, always perfectly sized to fit him- squeaky new rubber, perfect for keeping out the rain. In the face of that, red boots like clockwork, is it any wonder that Grian gets tired? His front porch stinks of burnt rubber and there are new planks wherever he had to remove the scorched oak. Perhaps it's the burning that causes a new pair to appear- if there are no boots, a new pair comes to replace them, so perhaps a different method of disposal is in order.

He throws the next pair into the river. A new pair comes back to him the next day, alongside the old ones, dripping with sea grass and mud. Hmm.

(Cleo has friends in the rivers and oceans. It's easy enough to call in a favor or three to get the boots returned.)

Creepers next. A loud hiss and an even louder boom has him flinching back, phantom burns dancing across his fingers, but the boots are naught but ash. Three pairs of boots next time, one of them a dark swirling grey rather than the traditional red, as if mocking their scorched past.

(Doc's work. He's had enough experience with accidentally blowing up his own tools to know how to make a blast protection charm strong enough to keep his clothes and armor safe in the case of an unfortunate accident. The grey starbursts left over the material are just a neat bonus.)

Lava. Concentrated spider venom. Flattened by pistons. Dropped into the void. Left under a lightning rod. Thrown up into a tree. Fed to a guardian.

Each and every time, the boots come back, usually with some change in pattern, color, or marking that signals just what they have been through. All in perfectly usual condition, even the pair he cut in half with an axe.

(Stress had a field day piecing that pair back together, using molten honey and mending enchants to stick the halves together again. She always had loved a challenge.)

Eventually, Grian's front porch is covered in boots in all manner of designs, and fed up with the mess, he sets the whole mess on fire again with his signature purple flame, the only thing sure to reduce the number of boots permanently. He sets his house on fire in the process. Hmmmm.

There's an influx of new people into Grian's world all of a sudden. A pair of twins jump in, bloody, battered, and exhausted, and not a week later a roughed-up blond boy joins, snappish and hurting. All three lack shoes.

Now, Grian very firmly does not want to interact with any of them. He had found true friends among the Hermits and if he can't interact with them, then he certainly doesn't want to interact with a trio of traumatized children- however, he does have a pair of boots to give and dropping them on the children's doorstep requires no interaction at all. The female twin puts them on, marveling at how big the red boots are on her while the other kids stand watch suspiciously. Grian watches this from his front porch, hidden by the mist but eyes glinting purple in the gloom so he can see comfortably. The male twin seems to spot this, shouting and pointing, and Grian goes back inside to avoid the mess.

The next morning, the boots on his doorstep are rainbow-striped and several sizes smaller, perfect for a child's feet. Grian stares down at them, something hurting and tremulous in his heart, but his face remains blank. These boots are placed on the trio's doorstep as well. The male twin wears these, and the last child ends up with a pair of blue and black spotted ones.

(False had had fun with the patterns, feeling a little bit of relief that she could hunt down some rubber in a pattern other than plain red.)

Rumor spreads of a purple-eyed monster in the woods that gave people boots to keep them safe from the rain, although Grian very carefully avoids such stories. The children begin leaving trinkets for their monster in hopes to repay him, and Grian ignores these too until one day, the children somehow manage to get an old red dog collar to give him. Upon spotting this, Grian's heart gives a squeeze as it reminds him of Rendog, and he pockets it to put on his rather empty bookshelf. Other things also get picked up, all things that remind him of the friends he had to leave behind.

An allium, pressed into a book of galactic picked up from a stronghold. A jar of electric blue ink dried into a gelatinous cake. A tiny knight figurine, scuffed and missing an arm. A handful of spicy red jellybeans. Eventually, as time passes on and on and the rain bears down harder on Grian's tiny world, a trio of heartfelt, thankful cards appear on his kitchen table, all three drawn in crayon and filled with cheerful scribbles.

It rains harder, and the world shrinks down to just Grian and the three children who call out into the gloom every morning, grateful for the boots and the glimpses of purple eyes and feathered wings in the dark that tell them that they are not alone. The boots stop coming.

In their place, new things appear.

A toaster. Firewood. New sweaters and combs and soap. Little things designed to make life easier, many of them children-sized or painted in rainbow stripes or blue polka dots or a shade of red just off from Grian's favored color. These too go to the children, and the number of gifts Grian receives increases, many of them built from the material that he gives the trio of children.

(If the Hermits cannot gift things to Grian directly, then they will gift them to people who will transform them into something their wayward friend would accept. They do so with equal parts love and spite, angry to have been rebuffed but unwilling to let Grian feel himself forgotten. The trio of kids end up with a rather odd assortment of things. Tango, for example, is fond of the easy-bake oven he sent them that always burnt the food it made. Grian got nothing but his favorite chocolate chip cookies for a week, all of them scorched.)

In time, Grian does his best to drive the children off, building traps and leaving weapons on their doorstep to scare them. The stories of the monster in the woods increase in number and many more children join the server, encouraged by tales of purple-eyed, winged beast that taught its charges to be wary and gave them tools to defend themselves. Grian's cabin remains hidden in the mist, but many more wooden structures join it in the forest.

New boots appear on his doorstep. They aren't made to fit him.

(His heart aches, but his eyes remain dry. Morning dew condenses on Grian's cheeks.)

It comes to a head like this- no world, no matter how small or safe, is fully protected from the Watchers' gaze, and in the end, they find him. Only now, there are people here that cannot leave, that Grian cannot leave behind.

The children scream for their monster to save them. He rises from the mist, eyes heavy and wings heavier, dragging upon the ground and leaving trails in the brick red mud. They think they are saved. They are wrong.

Chains shoot out from the mist, forcing Grian to his knees as a huge female Watcher, Astrid, stares down at him, mouth turned down into a tiny frown and the rest of her figure still as stone even as she floats in the air, white robes fading into the surrounding fog. The purple emblem on her mask glows like a brand. Grian watches her with purple eyes glowing dim and dull, resigned to his fate but unwilling to flee if it means the deaths of those who do not deserve to serve his sentence in his stead.

He thinks, quietly, that he will die here. He wonders if this- any of this- is worth it. He thinks, yes. Yes it is.

He is wrong.

A figure coalesces before him, clad in yellow armor and arms crossed, the very picture of annoyed defiance. It tilts its head back, hard light construct featureless but practically radiating scorn, and from the mists a voice echoes.

"You are going to leave him alone. He's not for you." Astrid hisses behind her mask, galactic crackling and vile from between her lips, and the sound of wingbeats thrums like a heartbeat through the clearing, bass-heavy and loud in Grian's ears. He winces, closing his eyes as more chains shoot out from the ground to attach to Xisuma's- for what else could it be but his admin projected across time and space (that stupid, crazy, wonderful man)- construct. They coil around it, doing their level best to drag it to the ground, but the figure remains still and hovering before Grian, entirely unmoved.

"No. You will leave him alone." Xisuma's voice again, commanding and stern even from a figure that looks more like a glowing yellow armor stand. "I'll ask that you don't test me, it took a while to put this projection together and it will not dissipate until it fulfills its intended purpose." Astrid merely hisses again, this time with an underlay of static beneath it, and Grian's wings are suddenly pulled back tight and away from his shoulders- all three pairs of them, not merely those he prefers to wear.

The sound of flesh and feathers ripping through one plane and into the next has Grian feeling sick. Wrong, his mind repeats on loop, screaming. Wrong wrong wrong. Xisuma's figure freezes at his pained squeak before unfolding its arms and going carefully still. It tilts its head to the side, considering and cold.

"Is that your game? You do realize that that is death sentence, right? We would never let you survive it." Astrid nods. The chains rise up again, clinking softly as they loop once, twice, three times around Grian's outermost pair of wings, the ones most used to the physical plane and with the most nerve endings besides. The damp air is cold and aching in his lungs.

A rip. A scream. And then everything shrinks down to a flicker of brilliant yellow light, the shrilling of broken violins, and the long, drawn-out death wail of a Watcher unused to pain. A computer crash in slow motion complete with a harsh base note as Astrid's wings fall to join Grian's in the mud.

The world expands again, overwhelming. Agony. Silence.

Chains clink to the floor, broken, as Xisuma's hard light construct comes forward to stand before the Hermits' erstwhile server mate, slumped over in a pool of blood but conscious, something in his purple eyes bent, if not a little broken.

A voice, hoarse, achingly loud in the quiet of the glade. "You didn't stop her."

"No."

"...Is this my punishment then?" A moment of quiet and then the figure stoops down to gather Grian into its arms, its featureless gaze doing little to ease his fear.

Then, gently, ".....No."

Grian slumps, the last bit of tension seeping from his limbs as the pain in his back begins to register, sapping at his will and leeching into his voice.

"I'm sorry, you know. I- I'm sorry. I didn't want to go. It just- it hurts. Hels it hurts, so much. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"I know. I know." Xisuma's figure stands up, hoisting Grian a little higher up against its chest so that hiss remaining wings don't drag on the ground quite as much, then turning to face the cowering children. Eventually, a little girl in bright red rain boots stands up to meet its gaze.

She blinks back tears, scrubbing at her face to hide them, but her expression is brave. "Where are you taking him?"

The figure clutches the children's monster close, looking just as fierce as any dragon in a fairytale. "Home. Will you stop me?"

The girl pauses, considering. "No. Don't think I could, really."

"Will you try?"

"To keep going? Yeah, of fucking course, sure as my name is Clementine. To stop you? Not bloody likely, I like my head right where it is." Xisuma's figure nods, satisfied, and with a blink, it and their monster are gone.

Notes:

[ridethewritings]

spending a day with the boys. (headcanons!)

request: hey, i got a request!! i know this is super like general lmao i hope it's enough to work with! but maybe some headcanons on how each of the boys would choose to spend a day off from band duties with the reader! thanks in advance, dude!☺️

a/n: thank you @glambby for being my very first request. i’m forever grateful! :’) i hope you like these headcanons! i may or may not have gotten super emotional while writing cliff's headcanons. </3

warnings: none!

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

james hetfield:

- being with james, you knew you had signed up for everything that came with this package. you fucking knew that you were about to have fun when he brought out some liquor from your liquor cabinet.

- this living room sure as hell was big enough for the both of you to get drunk and dance around, singing the lyrics to some random music you put on the stereo.

- the drunken stumbles of the both of you sent you into a fit of laughter as you slowly crumpled to the floor. james would have a huge grin on his now reddened face, cheeks pink from laughter.

- there is nothing like getting stupid, silly drunk with james hetfield. you thanked whoever was in the sky that you two didn't have neighbors in close enough proximity to y'all. hell, you damn sure knew if you did that you'd be getting noise complaints.

- once you two calmed yourselves, james brought out one of his acoustic guitars. another thing you absolutely loved about spending time with him this way. he gets relaxed, and he plays whatever he wants, and you sit there with a glass, the last few sips of your liquor in it.

- god damn, this man can sing. listening to him sing was amazing. it always amazed you at how talented he was, and it makes you wonder how the fuck you got to this point, being with him, the love of your life.

kirk hammett:

- this boy and his horror movies. you like horror movies too? "new horror movie out! let's go to the movies tonight-"

- "kirk, honey, you just got home today. relax-"

- "this movie looks so good though, just look at it!"

- eventually you gave in, and to be honest, you looked at the trailer and unfortunately, it did look like a good movie. now you REALLY had to see it.

- at the movies, he lets you get all the snacks you want, and he gets some himself, and of course he's getting the largest bucket of buttery popcorn for the two of you to share. he wants to make sure you both have everything you possibly need so that way the two of you wouldn't have to get up during the movie.

- go to the bathroom BEFORE you get into the movie, too! just so you don't miss any of the movie. if you do end up having to go again, he won't be upset, but instead, he'd follow you out so he can make a soda run for you after because your sodas ran out.

- oh yes, reclining in the top row of chairs and holding hands between all of the snacks you both put out and started munching on, stealing little kisses from you every now and then.

- needless to say, you two had a blast, and when you went home, you both went to bed, your head on his chest listening to his heartbeat slowing to a resting.

lars ulrich:

- walking through downtown, checking out small shops, his hand was in yours almost the whole time. crossing the street, he would never let your hand go, he'd keep you near him at all times. this man is protective.

- the street was lit with dim street lanterns, and the brick sidewalks made ways for the people in town to get around easily. there was music thumping throughout the town from not only the restaurants, but a small music store you spotted.

- you ended up dragging him into the music store to look at the metallica records. whoops? and the first one you grabbed to look at was the and justice for all record, which you knew had a picture of lars on the back. "look at you!" you said softly, pointing your finger at the picture of him.

- your comments on the photo made him have to resist the urge to smile, his cheeks getting rosy as he let out a small and barely audible laugh. and thank GOD no one noticed that it was actually him, lars ulrich, in the music store as you were making your way around, looking at the metallica albums happily.

- as much as he loved seeing you excited, and seeing your happiness about his band's success, he knew it was almost time for the two of you to get going.

- you've both never been in this town before, and you loved it already. you loved the hustle and bustle of this small town, the sidewalks crowded with small groups of people every once in a while, which wasn't a problem because they usually kept on their side and passed y'all without hesitancy.

- it was great, until he checked the time, then he took your hand, telling you that you both needed to leave.

- mans really made a secret reservation to a really really great restaurant that was located in this town. that was why he wanted y'all to be here this late. you weren't complaining about the town, though. you loved the streets and the small stores. this town was pretty cute.

- when he led you towards a restaurant that you laid your eyes on when you passed it moments ago, you made an audible noise.

- the smile that appeared on his face told you everything. and you loved him for that.

- the restaurant smelled and looked absolutely stunning, and he knew you wanted to go there when you passed it before. and honey, disappointment was not a word in your vocabulary when you left that restaurant. you two had a blast, and in fact, that restaurant was now your number one favorite. that food was BANGIN'.

cliff burton:

- cliff would be the person to take you out for a ride in his car, and just park at a peaceful and quiet place that he knows won't have other people at. just a regular hangout place that only he knows.

- it's nothing too fancy, but it's a great place to just relax and get away from society. how he knew about this place, you have no idea, but you're glad he took you here.

- he'd probably smoke a small bit, listening to music on the car radio, and eventually he'd turn it up so the two of you could go outside and sit on the hood of the car, taking in the fresh air.

- he would let you rest your head on his shoulder, and smile when you point out different clouds and their shapes. stay out for a little longer and the both of you would be looking at the stars, the first constellation he points out, being orion's belt.

- if you were hungry afterwards once he'd taken you home, he would call and order in.

- being in cliff's presence was and always has been a blessing from the stars, and you were very very grateful to have him. he may be quiet and chill, but you love him for it, and it always makes you relaxed whenever you are able to spend time with him. no matter how you spend that time.

jason newsted:

- you found yourself mesmerized by jason's curly hair blowing in the wind while the top of the convertible was down, the two of you going 85 on the freeway towards the mountains.

- boy were you excited to spend time with him for the night in that cabin in the mountains, seeing the pictures of the cabin and the views online before you went and booked a cabin over call.

- well, you were not disappointed when you rolled up to the cabin. even the views while driving up the mountain were gorgeous. remembering the way jason compared the mountain to you, saying that the views were gorgeous, but not as gorgeous as you.

- he said that, and all you could do was let out a small laugh, and he noticed that what he said, was in fact cheesy. but it was okay, because you loved him.

- getting into the cabin, the first thing you noticed was the warm smell of vanilla and cinnamon. maybe from the candles, maybe from the brand new bottle of rum that you spotted in the small liquor cabinet, along with some small shot glasses that were tempered with the gentlest of hands in warm red and orange color.

- the rest of the night went extremely well, you both had a nice dinner, some drinks, and relaxed in the outside hot-tub that sat in the corner of the screened in back porch, which overlooked the mountains of trees, a lake in the middle of the valleys.

- sleeping with him next to you for a night had to be the best feeling in the world, being in his arms after he was away for so long. it really takes it's toll on you, and he knows it. every time he has to leave, he apologizes profusely, and you tell him it's okay, that it's his job. and hell, whenever he does have free time for you, he always misses you too.

robert trujillo:

- what can i say? robert is a romantic, much like lars. he will want to take you out, no ifs ands or buts about it. insist that you two should stay home? sure, but he’ll find a way to make it romantic. want to go out? you bet your ass he’ll take you wherever you want to go.

- if you want to stay home, he would definitely close the blinds and curtains, make the house dimly lit instead of all bright from the light outside.

- hungry? he’ll cook for you, and you better not get up to try and help him. and to be honest, he’d cook a slammin’ meal.

- if you’re cold, he’ll go and grab both of you a big blanket to wrap the two of you up in, just to snuggle and watch whatever you want. another giant teddy bear!

- going out on this day, he’d cruise around in the vehicle with you, giving you the reins for the choice of music. no complaints from him, not a peep, he'd just listen to you sing the lyrics and have a smile on his face.

- man is just happy to spend this day with the love of his life. he'd do anything to make you happy.

[violetsoju]

perfect timing

miya atsumu · fluff · 3.6k

take 1 · take 2

summary: a weekly grocery run takes an unexpected turn, but brings an unexpected surprise too

a/n: an attempt to brush up my rustiness after months of staring at my uncompleted wips before working on a fictrade piece T_T

Having a good sense of time is important.

Being punctual for appointments, managing time well and efficiently, making sure every second is well spent and not wasted.

It’s a trait that should be rightfully ingrained into the daily habits and lives of everyone. An unspoken rule that should be abided to.

Miya Atsumu has a good sense of time. Perfect, literally.

Perfect in the sense that he’s always there when he shouldn’t be. Hogging the toilet when your stomach is about to unleash its flurry of misery and rage, using the washing machine and taking up all the space on the laundry rack when the sun is finally out, barging into your room without knocking despite telling him to do so for the umpteenth time when you’re in the middle of a workout that has the wind knocked out of you or a gravity defying headstand.

“I swear to God, Miya, if I break my neck or back with you giving me yet another heart attack, I’ll mix bleach into your shampoo so your hair will fade into the ugliest shade of blonde where your roots and ends will be all frizzy and damaged and unsalvageable even if you cry and beg the professionals for help.” You seriously need to come up with new threats because the man that’s currently splayed on the couch isn’t the least affected by your words.

Atsumu merely shrugs, tapping away on his phone without meeting your deadly glare. “Come on, you’re not that weak. Plus, it’s important news!” You’re a hundred percent sure that you’re capable of ripping that shit-eating grin on his face with your bare hands if it wasn’t a crime. “And you’re the first to know. Even before ‘Samu, so consider yourself honoured, yeah?”

“I would love to reject the honour of knowing the colour of your poop and ensure the safety of my well-being.”

Maybe you should burn his beloved sneaker collection next.

But sometimes, it isn’t all that bad too.

Like how he’s somehow always at home or somewhere nearby when you forget the keys to your shared apartment or accidentally lock yourself out, using him as a human shield or his hat as disguise when you run into someone that screams “To avoid at all costs” on the streets (it’s always when you’re on the third day of unwashed hair, in your most comfortable yet much worn out shirt, or in mismatched socks and slippers), coincidentally having similar off work timings, you wrapping up your day at uni and him wrapping up his day from practice, waiting for your respective trains to arrive to walk home under his umbrella on a rainy day because being the scatterbrain you are, umbrellas and rainy days don’t go hand in hand.

Or that one time when you dragged him to your favourite curry place on a random Thursday night and earning a coupon for a months’ worth of unlimited gyoza for being the 300th customer of the day in celebration of their 3rd anniversary. You kept the coupon, of course. He was the 299th customer and you were the 300thcustomer (He nearly tripped on himself when you pushed him through the front door upon hearing the congratulatory news. You brought him along whenever you went that month).

So if you were to balance out the pros and cons, as much as you would like to deny, they actually balance out pretty well, you guess.

So yes, Miya Atsumu having a perfect sense of time is praiseworthy indeed.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽.* :☆ﾟ. ───

Sunday evenings are usually reserved for staying in, snuggled in the comfort of your blankets, with either a book in hand or a show that needs serious catch-up on. In other words, Sunday evenings are meant to be spent in the comforts of your home.

But on this Sunday evening, you find yourself out with a week’s worth bag of groceries in hand, hoping you can blast this stuffy nose of yours at the gust of chilly autumn wind blowing your way, with one Miya Atsumu beside you.

It’s a routine for Atsumu and you to go on weekly grocery runs together every Sunday morning. But due to his extra practice session for his upcoming match in a week or so, the trip to the local grocer had to be rescheduled.

It all started when MSBY’s fitness trainer started giving out diet and nutrition plans to the team to keep them in shape during the season. Without his personal chef, Osamu by his side, Atsumu was one lost puppy when it came to meal prepping and preparation in the beginning stages. So being the nice and responsible housemate you are, you assured the younger twin that you’ll make sure he gets the necessary nutrients he needs. The teasing eyebrow waggles and suggestive looks thrown by the middle-aged ladies at the both of you were not in the plan though.

To be honest, you’re surprised that Atsumu has a fair share of cooking knowledge and skills, and that you actually picked up some tips and tricks in the kitchen from him. Like popping rinsed broccoli into the microwave for a minute to pre-cook instead of boiling it because apparently, most nutrients will be lost if it’s boiled over 5 minutes (To quote Osamu, he says). Or that ginger paste which he uses that smells and tastes amazing than the one you’re using.

He can make decent meals for himself, but Osamu definitely has the upper hand here. You’re sure Osamu would shake his head in disapproval at his twin’s menu that changes only once in a blue moon. It’s just because of the diet restrictions, Atsumu would argue. But having the standard broccoli, carrot and chicken trio combo for a whole whooping month is enough for Osamu to burn down his kitchen without a second thought.

There’s a tunnel beneath the railway tracks that links both sides of the neighbourhood, one that is frequently used by the residents of the neighbourhood to get to the other side of town. The local council could have built a railway crossing instead of digging the earth, but perhaps it was due to the natural rolling landscape of the area. It has no doubt become distinct trait of the small cosy neighbourhood you reside in.

Especially during spring, when the pink and white cherry blossoms are in full bloom, or during autumn, when the dense foliage shower the stone pavements with a sea of luscious red and yellow.

“Oh hey, look. They repainted the walls.”

It takes a huge effort to keep your sniffles together and look at your surroundings in peace.

Atsumu’s right. The once dull walls filled with paint cracks are now replaced with vibrant colours splashed on each corner. They’re mostly abstract shapes, but you make out some animal and floral patterns in the midst under the dim lighting. To capture the attention of the fellow younglings in the neighbourhood, you suppose.

“This is new. I don’t think it was here last week.” You trace your fingers against the cold cement walls. “Wait, why didn’t we notice this on our way to the grocer just now?”

He whistles in admiration at the new murals. “We were too hung up on how your precious puddings in the refrigerator just poofed into thin air, I guess.”

“It was definitely you.” You sneer, narrowing your eyes at him. “Who else would have demolished my puddings if it wasn’t you?”

“I told you it wasn’t me! I don’t even like puddings!” He snaps back, flashing his fangs at you. “Maybe it was ‘Samu when he came over last week. Maybe he thought they were mine instead of yours.”

“Fine, let’s see if that’s the case, shall we?” You whip out your phone, ready to dial Osamu’s number when Atsumu suddenly lunges forward towards the nearby wall, bursting out loud exaggeratedly.

“Hey, look! There’s a fox here! Doesn’t it look like our mascot?” He points to the animal drawn on the wall animatedly like a child, eyes sparkling in delight. “Wait, I gotta show this to the team. They’ll be ecstatic! ‘Samu too-”

“First off, your team’s mascot is a jackal, not a fox, you dumbass.” You interject, standing with your arms crossed against your chest, not buying into his ploys. “And your team’s mascot is black, not reddish-orange. There’s a reason why your team is named Black Jackals, player no 13.”

The wide smile on his face stiffens, along with his eyes that loses its glint of hope when you strut past him, not sparing him a glance. “I’m sure you have no objections with this week’s house chores, don’t you?”

He deflates in defeat, trailing behind you with his tail between his legs, accepting his poor fate he brought upon himself.

Along with the chilly wind in autumn is the change in the colour of the skies. It’s around 6 to 7 in the evening, but the sun has decided to call it a day, taking its leave to allow its friend, the moon to grace the skies in its absence.

So despite the new fresh splash of colours on the surrounding walls, the shadows trailing behind your figures lurk longer and with the limited amount of light in the enclosed space.

“They could give the tunnel such a makeover but not the lights, huh.” Atsumu comments. The dim overhead yellow lights flicker even more at his words, buzzing louder than before.

“Don’t you find this familiar?” You ask, a mischievous smile tugging your lips as he tilts his head to look at you in confusion.

“It’s the perfect scene.”

“For what? A secret place for lovers to kiss and make out?” He jokes, casting you a teasing look.

Maybe he should have kept his thoughts to himself.

He gulps nervously when your smile grows wider, eyebrow arched playfully as you take one step, two steps, three steps closer to him, closing the gap just a little more with each step.

There’s no way you’re having the same thoughts as him now, right? Because there’s no way you’d do. Not you, for sure.

He forgets how to breathe when your face is just mere inches away from him, forgets how to move when he finds his back pressed against the cool walls, grip on his reusable grocery bag so tight he feels his nails digging into his skin. The tip of your shoes meet each other, grocery bags hanging side by side, moist breaths mingled with each other.

If he were to dance with the devil, he guesses this would be it, because the devilish smile stretched across your face has him ready to risk it all. Just for you.

A small, cold shiver runs down his spine when you lean in, warm breath ghosting his skin as your lips find its way next to his ears, chuckling at the change in his usual confident demeanour.

The drop in your tone intensifies the goosebumps trailing on his skin even more, tickling the shell of his ears as he shudders. “It’s the perfect scene for…”

This can’t be happening right now. This isn’t what he had in plan. This is all too much to process at once. This is-

“Murder.”

His eyes that he didn’t know were shut closed shoots open immediately.

“And it’ll be the perfect spot to commit it.”

What the actual heck.

You can’t help but smile smugly at the look on Atsumu’s face as you pull back, like a deer caught in the headlights, frozen in place. Smoothing out the invisible creases on his upper chest, you flash him the sweetest smile you can while giving his shoulder a tight squeeze.

“Remember to take a good look around and choose your spot when the time comes, yeah?”

It takes Atsumu a few seconds to snap out of his shock and disbelief, and by the time he comes back to his senses, you’re already steps up ahead from him.

The audacity of this woman. You, to be specific.

“Hey, that wasn’t funny! At all!” He shouts as he jogs towards you, face burning from the heat of dismay and embarrassment.

“What did you think I was gonna do to you, huh?” You ask, laughing at the small pout that sits on his lips, betrayal written all over his face as he falls in step with you. “Don’t tell me you thought I was gonna kabedon you like those shojo mangas.”

Atsumu snorts like it’s the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard. “As if you’d have the chance to. Don’t be so full of yourself. If anyone were to kabedon anyone, that would be me, not you.” But boy, he’s sure that his heart was about to leap out of his throat right back then.

“But I’m serious though,” You stop in your tracks to face him straight on, holding in your chuckles as he acts like everything’s normal despite visibly flinching at your sudden pause. “Do something that has you on your death list like barging into my room without knocking again and this is where you’ll end up.”

“There’s always the option to lock your door…” He mutters under his breath.

He curses the echoes bouncing off the walls as you shoot him a murderous glare that says, “Try me”, raising both hands in surrender.

The tunnel seems to stretch on for miles today for some reason. It feels like you both have been walking for hours, given the number of incidents and threats he has received over the course of navigating through the straight dark tunnel.

“They seriously need to change the lights.” He grumbles. “I did not sign up for a free haunted house pass when I moved to this neighbourhood.”

“It’s a horror story living with you already, so it makes no difference.”

The offended scowl on his face and daggers shot with his eyes makes it hard for you to stifle your laughter. You’re on a roll roasting him today, while he’s on a roll getting roasted by you today.

“One more flicker and I swear that it’ll trip, and we’ll actually need torch lights to get through like coal miners with headlamps. Or like cavemen with fire torches.” He continues grumbling on like an old man.

“Stop being so dramatic, Miya. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you and save your ass if that ever happens so just trust me-”

A loud thud crashes from behind, startling the both of you, jumping slightly, words dying at the tip of your tongues. Two pair of wide eyes blink at each other, slowly turning to the source of the sound.

The light at the furthest end of the tunnel has gone out. After a few seconds, the loud thud crashes again. First on the left side, then on the right side, followed by more loud thuds, series of dim yellow lights dissolving into the darkness segment by segment.

If this isn’t a scene from a thriller or a horror movie, you really don’t know what it is.

“What in the world-”

“Miya Atsumu, I swear to God, your goddamn mouth-”

The static buzzing noises are swallowed by the loud thuds overhead, and like a predator making its move towards its prey, there’s only a few more segments before the both of you are plunged into the eerie darkness.

“We gotta move. Like now.”

“Yeah. Move.”

There’s no fight or flight option here. Only a flight or flight option when his terror-stricken face is replaced by the absolute obscure darkness.

High-pitched screams and shrieks ring in the enclosed space, amplified by the superb echo effects.

The only thing you can make out of the incoherent string of jumbled screeches is the word “Run”.

So you run. And he runs. Dragging your feet towards the light at the end of the tunnel with all your might, away from the unknown dangers gnawing at your footsteps behind.

It’s the sound of crunched dead, dry leaves on the ground and the yellow streetlights on the sidewalk above that has the both of you screeching to a halt, flipping off your flight or flight switch, gasping for air although it pierces your lungs like a cold arrow. The sweat dripping on your foreheads is cold, a stark contrast with the burn in your legs from the life-or-death sprint.

Atsumu’s hair is tousled in different directions, his blonde locks swept up messily like he just got down from a ride up a tornado. He blinks forcefully a couple of times, shaking his head lightly to get the hair that’s sticking his eyes out of the way. But they stick firmly like glue on his forehead, beads of sweat acting as a glue to keep them in place.

He stops moving around when your fingers brush his curls away from his eyes, soothing them out gently, a soft smile dotting your lips. You’re sure your hair is as unruly as his because he returns the action, albeit a little clumsy and as he fumbles to smooth your hair as neatly as he can with the chilly wind not being much of help.

You wonder why he doesn’t use his dominant hand to carry out the action until you look down to your side.

Oh.

His eyes follow your trail of sight, wandering downwards too.

Atsumu’s right hand is wrapped around your wrist. It’s a firm grip, but not one that hurts, but one that’s protective.

Maybe it’s the shock that hasn’t worn off from the chaotic situation just now, because instead of letting go of your hand, he holds it a little tighter, and instead of shaking your hand away, you ball your hand into a fist.

He looks at you quizzically, not comprehending what’s going on.

The worst part is, you yourself don’t know what’s going on in your brain too.

Who clenches their fist when someone is holding their hand, all ready to land a punch?

“Rock. In like, scissors paper rock.” You blabber nonsensically, gesturing your fist like it isn’t the most obvious thing ever. “You have paper, I have rock. So I lose. You win. Ha ha.”

The confusion and puzzlement distorting his face doesn’t ease at your half-ass attempted explanation.

This is why you shouldn’t open your mouth when your brain is fried and in haywire mode.

And there’s no way you’re going down alone in this terribly awkward situation.

You nod your head towards his hand that’s still on your wrist, giving him the same questioning look he gave you before.

Now it’s Atsumu’s turn for his brain to go all wonky and out of tune.

“I, er, thought you would be scared. Yeah. That’s why.” He stumbles on his words, bringing your hand up like some prized possession. “And to prevent losing you along the way. What if some aliens captured you just now? Don’t wanna lodge a missing person report later.”

His sloppy reasoning earns a snort from you in return. “You’re just scared, that’s all. Told you I’ll be the one protecting you.” You poke at him playfully.

He opens his mouth to shoot a retort, but stops midway, as if a cat got his tongue. Instead, he pulls your hand forward, leading you up the slope to the sidewalk above with big, long strides.

You almost miss the reddish hue on his cheeks and the sheepish grin tugging his lips. “Yeah, maybe I was scared. Maybe I wanted to try protecting you too.”

Ah, the wonders of the brain going into overdrive with the brake pads nowhere to be seen.

When you match your steps with him on the flat pavement, looking up to his side profile, you wish you could capture the moment forever with your eyes, because the silver glow that the moon goddess showers on him makes him look ethereal. It’s like he’s glowing under the night skies, with the stars as a mere backdrop, complementing his boyish yet soft features.

The gods do really have their favourites.

He catches you staring, and flashes you his signature grin knowingly.

You nudge his ribs with your elbow to hide your flustered expression, gesturing towards his hand that’s still on yours.

“Not taking a chance. Gotta make sure you don’t disappear off somewhere to save my trip to the police station.” He huffs, shaking his head in defence firmly like a child rejecting candy from a stranger.

“Fine, fine.” You giggle, swaying your hands with each step. He chuckles at your actions, warmth blossoming across his chest. “Here’s to you protecting me from whatever harm and danger there is for today.”

It wasn’t the perfect timing for Atsumu to hold your hand, but perhaps it’s the perfect excuse to hold your hand.

It wasn’t the perfect move for you to make when Atsumu held your hand, but perhaps it’s the perfect moment to hear the quiet confession that whispers in the night.

Next time, if he is blessed enough to be granted the chance again, he wants to have his hand not on yours, but in yours.

And he wants to protect you from whatever harm and danger there is in this big wide world not only for today, but for as long as he can.

Maybe the perfect timing isn’t all that perfect, maybe it’s hidden within the chaos and uncertainty, tucked in the deepest ends of the beating heart where the raw and honest feelings lie.

The chilly breeze in the night nipping on your skin doesn’t feel that bad anymore.

“I should’ve taken a picture of you just now, looking like a madman with your hair sticking out like a starfish and send it to Osamu.”

“Don’t you dare.”

[davidsons89]

2AM Drives

pete davidson x reader

warnings: smut, drug abuse, mentions of cocaine, high driving, light language, car sex

✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑ ✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

you had been dating pete for over a year now, colson was practically your best friend just as much he was pete’s, you were even close friends with megan fox. you all spent so much time together that you were basically family.

you, pete and colson were all so bored that you decided to take a night drive to take the time away. you were driving around the streets of new york, blasting loud music and having the time of your lives.

•2:20AM

you are sat in the back seat of colson’s car, as the two guys are in the front. one of colson’s songs are on, so the guys are rapping it whilst you’re texting your sister. you didn’t speak for a while, so pete leaned over and grabbed your phone. “get off your phone, have some fun” he laughed, handing you a blunt, you laughed too as you took the blunt from his hand and started smoking it.

•2:50AM

the car is now parked up somewhere, in the middle of nowhere. there were fields and forests for miles around you, so you all just sat in the car getting high and messing around. your snapchat memories were flooded with selfies of you three, videos of you rapping, singing and dancing, videos of you making out with pete etc.

•3:25AM

colson started driving again. where too? you have no idea. you’d never been around this part of town before, it was all knew to you, but you were too high to even give a fuck.

“i need to pee” you chuckle. “oh for fuck sake” colson chuckled back at you. “can’t you go in a bottle?” pete asked and handed you an empty bottle of water he found under the passenger seat. “very funny” you joked, snatching the bottle and throwing it right at pete’s head. he picked it back up and threw it back at you and you both just played about until colson pulled over as a gas station. “here. go” he said and pointed to the creepy restroom on the side of the gas station. “oh hell no. i’m not going in there alone” you say, noticing some homeless guys and junkies near the area. “i’ll come with you” pete says, taking off his seatbelt and opening his door. you opened your door too and grabbed his hand as you walked to the rest rooms. colson stayed and waited.

you walked past the group of junkies and homeless guys and you tightened your grip on pete’s hand, he pulled you closer to comfort you. you knew he’d do anything to protect you, colson would too. “you’re ok” he whispers to you, leaning down and kissing the side of your head. “want me to wait outside or?” pete asked as you stopped outside the restroom. “no, come in” you say, opening the door and pulling him inside, shutting it right behind you and locking it quickly. “don’t be so paranoid.” pete said and chuckled trying to calm you down. “i’m not, i just don’t trust men like that” you say, pointing at the door talking about the creepy drugged up guys outside. “i understand.” he nodded as he stood by the door whilst you made your way over to the toilet. you pulled your pants down and quickly did your business.

after you’d finished, you flushed the toilet and washed your hands and fixed yourself up in the broken mirror in front of you. “you look so beautiful.” he said, giggling as he walks beside you and nuzzles his face into your neck. you giggle back and shove him away playfully. “want some of this before we go back?” pete asked and chuckled as he pulled a small packet of cocaine from his pocket. you looked at it, then looked up into his eyes with an angry look on your face. he looked concerned, but you were only joking. “i’m kidding. gimme some” you say, giggling as he smirks, taking some out and lining it up on the edge of the sink.

pete leans down first and sniffs the first line, then comes back up and wipes his nose whilst looking at you. “your turn.” he says, pointing down at the other line. you smirk and tuck your hair back as you lean down and sniff the second line. you cough as you wipe your nose and the two of you just look at each other and burst out laughing. “we’re gonna end up like those guys out there if we carry on like this...” pete joked you laughed at him as you grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the door.

the two of you exited the restroom and jogged over to the car where colson was smoking a blunt waiting for you both, you both got in the back this time and closed the door. “dude?” colson asks, looking back at pete and frowning at him. “just drive, bro.” pete says and points at the wheel, colson shrugs and drives out of the gas station and continues driving around the empty streets of new york.

•3:40AM

the windows were rolled down, wind was blowing all around the car. music was still blaring, and you and pete were high as hell. he grabbed your face and started making out with you, as you slipped in some tongue. “jesus” colson mumbled to himself and chuckled as he looked in the rear view mirror and saw you two going at it. you both ignored him as pete pulled you onto his lap, still making out with you. “please don’t start banging” colson chuckles, watching the road ahead of him. “great idea.” pete says, pulling his lips away from yours and staring into your eyes. “guys” colson laughs as he looked in the rear view mirror again and sees pete pulling your top off. “jesus christ.” he mumbles to himself and turns the music up louder, ignoring what you two were doing.

you lift your butt up off pete’s lap as he pulls your pants down, leaving you in just your undies and bra. he slid your panties across to give him access. he doesn’t take any of his clothes off, he just pulls his dick out and you slowly began to sit on it. you quietly moan in his ear when you feel him inside of you as you rest your head in the crook of his neck. you place your hands on his chest above his top, and he grabs your waist and pulls you down further, making him go deeper into you. you moan a bit louder, all whilst colson is driving. he genuinely doesn’t care, because you two are his best friends.

“i love you.” you whisper in his ear as you continued to moan each time his big length slides in and out of you. “i love you too” he whispers back as he moves your head and kisses your neck. after going at it for a few more minutes, you crawled off him and sat next to him, putting your hands behind his neck and pulling him down on top of you. he is a tall guy, so this is difficult in the back of a car. he manages to find a comfy position on top of you and pushes himself into you, making you moan and dig your nails into his upper back. “go harder” you whisper in his ear, causing him to do as you say.

colson feels the car shake more so he huffs. “chill out back there” he says and chuckles, shaking his head and taking a puff from his blunt, blowing it out the window. the roads were empty, there wasn’t another car for miles, none of you will get caught.

“fuck” you say in pete’s ear as you reach your climax, you were super horny when you were high, so coming fast wasn’t an issue for you. you guys continue going at it for a little longer until you had to cum, he stopped himself so he could go for another round on you later... you smirk at him as you put your clothes back on, and you crawl into the front passenger seat this time. “you better have kept it clean back there, i ain’t wiping cum stains from my own seats” colson glares at you, then at pete in the rear view mirror. pete gives him a guilty look which makes colson groan. “sorry, brother” he says whilst laughing as he begins to wipe the seats with his bare hands...

a/n: i’ll be writing a part 2 to this, i have some more ideas :)

[mementomori-demimonde]

All this for me?

Pairing: Missy x reader Genre: Fluff / Romance Word Count: 916 Summary: a soft!Missy surprising her human. (Rating: G)

Write fluff or smut  challenge: prompt “all this for me”?  - ☂️

“I don’t get what am I supposed to look at?” You huff petulantly, trying to readjust your body.

You’re currently nestled between Missy’s legs, her skirts bunched up over the petticoat, all white and soft around you, your back against her front, her arms loosely wrapped around your torso - and you’re not sure whether she’s trying to keep you close or trapped.

You can feel her breathing by the regular rising and falling of her chest, you can feel her warm breath crashing against the back of your neck and a shiver runs down your spine when she touches the taut skin with the tip of her nose.

“You told me it was New Year.” She purrs low in your ear.

You can’t help but giggle at her.

“Missy, that was months ago!” You protest, trying to wiggle out of her hold, not really seeing the reason for all this: you were already clueless as it was, the fact that she’s trying to do something for a recurrence that is already gone feels ridiculous.

“So?” She asks, squeezing you so hard that the wind gets knocked out of you.

“So… what’s the point?”

“Don’t you humans celebrate with fireworks or something?”

“Yes, but New Year was-”

“Shush, poppet,” She admonishes, smacking a loud kiss on your pulse point that has you shiver in surprise. “Don’t argue with a Time Lady about time.”

“Alright.” You agree, heaving a sigh and finally relaxing into her embrace.

After all, that place it’s not that bad: the night is falling rapidly and it’s somehow darker, on that planet, and the sky is a spectacle of its own. Even if nothing is going to happen - which is highly improbable by now - the sight of those galaxies so close to you, all glowing and pulsing with their different colors, has you pleasantly dizzy.

“Thank you for bringing me here, Missy.”

“That’s better.”

“Please tell me why we’re here? So I know where to look.”

“Straight ahead, poppet. It’ll be much more fun and beautiful than fireworks… in three… two… one…”

She screeches in delight when she reaches zero, and you don’t even have time to turn your head back and watch her as she bares her teeth into that psychotic smile of hers, that a distant roar floods your ears. It’s so loud that you feel the vibrations curse through you while the ground beneath shakes and trembles.

She shushes soothingly in your ear, tightening her hold to make you feel safe.

You do.

Swallowing, you look up at the sky and, with a gasp, you realize you can’t take off your eyes from the unexpected sight: tails of fire are invading the dark sheet of the sky, moving between the stars like striking snakes. It’s amazing how you can hear the galaxy bursting, how you can feel your skin crawl with billions of lives vanished forever, planets, stars, all gone in a glorious blast of colorful clouds.

“Space fireworks!” She cries happily behind you, a perfect mix of childish glee and mad enthusiasm, but you’ve grown to love the sound of her giggles.

You wouldn’t admit it because it’s macabre and incredibly sad, but Missy is right: it’s beautiful. And then, of course, the Doctor will prevent it, somehow, by traveling back with the TARDIS and fix Missy’s whims.

Because you know this is a whim of hers.

You can tell for sure by the way her blue eyes gleam in the darkness, you can tell for sure by the way she smiles, and it’s not like she’s baring her teeth to show that she can bites, if she wants: no, Missy is just smiling at you as you stare in awe at the masterpiece she’s orchestrated just for you.

Finally able to avert your eyes from the sky, you turn back to her, and you can’t help but look at her face, feel the warmth of her love for her invade you completely. You know she’s capable of loving and even if she’s afraid to admit it, she’s being softer every day, she looks at you differently every day. You would combust like that galaxy if only to prove to her that she can allow herself to love completely, without holding back, without fears.

“All this for me?”

Missy nods slowly, her eyes apparently incapable of looking away from your face.

“I would blow up the entire universe just to see your eyes sparkle with the death of infinite, all eternity in just a zeptosecond.”

Squirming between her legs, you settle on your side, hand easily finding her cheek. She doesn’t recoil, and she surprises you when she actually gasps your wrist, tugging you closer, asking silently to stay. Your thumb traces the sharp edge of her cheekbone, the upper lips, your pad smearing the blood-red lipstick there.

“You don't need to blow up the entire universe for that, Missy.” You murmur, a soft smile spreading on your lips, and growing reassuringly as her face falls in confusion. “I just need to look into your eyes and I feel in a perpetual loop of death and rebirth. I can live billions of years in a moment just by kissing you.”

Her face softens, but her other arm, still linked around your middle, holds you tighter, pulls you nearer.

She kisses the tip of your nose, then presses your foreheads together, lips so close you’re practically breathing into each other’s mouth.

“Then what are you waiting for, poppet?”

[free-pancakes]

there's a big beautiful male statue in the middle of the city. it stands for hundred years. the rumor said, if the statue touch hands with his soulmate, he will become a human. hange, an average archeology student comes from different city to learn about the statue. when she's in front of it, she's mesmerized by its beauty; a male with undercut and sharp gaze. but unlike others, she never believed in such rumors so that day she just observe, take some notes, feel no need to touch its hands. but why on earth out of nowhere an idea comes to her. in the middle of the night, she goes out of her hotel room to where the statue is. she remembers most people come to the statue to take some photos or videos while holding its hands. that's it! she wants to share her best selfie with the most talked statue to her group chat. so she takes some, well of course while holding its hands too. but the results for her action are; a suddenly empty statue podium and a very confused man in her arms.

Hange sat in her hotel room, checking her bag for all her supplies. She froze, eyes wide in a slight panic—her notebook! No time to clean up and change from the archaeological dig. Her rand were ridden with dirt, and she tracked mud out in the hallway as she ran back to the site.

“Phew!” Hange sighed in relief. She found her notebook right where she had left it, and dropped it happily in her backpack. As she walked back, she passed a huge statue, on her way back to the hotel. She stopped right in front of it.

She remembered the rumors told before she came to the city for work—the statue was of a kind man who lived many years ago, who died much too soon. He had saved children from a burning building, but didn’t make it out alive. And the story goes that he had lost his soulmate even sooner than that—his best friend from childhood, a girl who was quite the opposite of him in every way. The irony was, that she had actually died after saving him from a burning building, and it seemed he ended in a similar way.

Hange felt sad as she thought of the story again, and strangely enough, she felt very drawn to that story.

And also, drawn to the statue.

She looked around to see if anyone was around, but the square was empty. It was just her and the statue under the calm glistening night sky. A cool breeze blowing at her back, as though it was pushing her to go hold the statue’s hand, and she listened.

She jumped up by the statue. She stared into its eyes, and readjusted her glasses.

Why was she smiling?

She felt her hand move on it’s own, and she touched the statue’s hand.

A loud crack sounded, the wind blowing in spirals around her. Visions of a small boy with grey eyes and an undercut, a small girl with glasses and a messy ponytail showed before her—the two kids looked so happy together, running after each other in what looked like the same square she stood in. The scene changed to two people, who looked quite similar, blasting through the air, fighting what looked like fearsome giants, smiling at each other as they slashed their swords the back of the creatures’ necks. Then a final vision showed, one of…

herself.

It caught her quite off guard—she sat in a home, her archaeological notes sprawled throughout the floor. But then a small child stomped over them happily, and then jumped in to her arms yelling “Mama!”

The little boy looked like her in every way except his eyes. The little boy had the same grey eyes as…

The wind stopped, and the air stood still.

Hange opened her eyes, trying to catch her breath, reorienting herself.

There before stood a man, who looked exactly like the statue. But in the flesh.

The two stood unnaturally still, both having seen the same visions.

Hange felt tears falling from her eyes.

Why was she crying?

And she saw tears fall from the man, as well.

She reached her hand out to him.

“Hange.”

He stared back at her, the sound of her voice like music to his ears. Like, he knew that voice his whole life. As though he had known that voice for… many lives.

“Levi,” he answered, and reached up to grab her hand.

[mandowh0re]

Remember Me

Chapter 3

Summary: While cleaning up the timelines that he broke, Loki meets and inevitably loses the one person that’s understood him in life. But he’s not losing you without a fight.

A/N: Beta’d by the ever beautiful @edgyvege. Go show her some love!

Warnings: Mention of suicide, attempted kidnapping

Word Count: 2892

Happy Reading!

When Loki is finally confident enough that he wouldn’t look like a fool, he settles down in his bed and grabs the book you had given him, and enters the number inside the cover.

He ignores the fact that his hands tremble as he taps ‘call’ with his index finger.

The phone rings a few times before you pick up.

“Hello?”

“Hello, darling.”

“Loki?”

“Is anyone else calling you ‘darling’? That would certainly be a shame,” he grins as he settles back into the pillows behind him.

He hears you giggle before you respond, “No. Just you. I think if anyone else called me that I’d punch them.”

“That would be intriguing.”

You giggle again, “I miss you.”

It’s a moment before he replies. Loki bites his lip, butterflies coming to life in his stomach, “It’s only been a few days, dear.”

“I know. I still miss you though,” you rub your finger across the wood grain of the counter.

“I miss you as well. Please know, this is not how I would court you if I had things my way.”

“Court me?”

“I-” he sits up, “Ah. I thought… Was I not-“

“I’m kidding,” You interrupt his sudden anxious rambling, “Calm down.”

He hears you chuckle and he takes a few careful deep breaths.

Joking.

Typical of you.

“You think you are funny, darling?” Loki pokes as he rests back into his pillow.

“I like to believe so,” You turn away from the counter and lean against it.

“You are lucky that I find you so endearing,” His voice is deep.

“Is that so?” You tongue your cheek.

“It is,” His voice is even and playful again.

The conversation flows from there, easily and freely. The two of you talk about nothing and everything for hours. When the conversation would die down, one of you would grasp for a new topic, neither one of you wanting to end the call.

It becomes a daily routine. Every evening, Loki would call and the two of you would often talk late into the night until you didn't have a choice but to go to bed for work the next morning.

**

It’s Thursday again, and you’re floating around your shop, hanging some new decor you had bought to brighten up the small space.

It’s been two months since Loki first showed up, and you can’t remember a time when you were happier.

There was no label between the two of you. You sometimes wished there was. But Loki, though confident and smooth talking, seemed to hold some reservations. He never shared them with you, but you could tell in the small changes of his expressions or body language when the flirting began to go too far, or how he expertly changed the subject if the conversation veered too far into relationship territory.

But even so, you were content. You finally had two good friends, after years of pushing away anyone who got too close. The fear of hurting those closest to you, or vise versa, always creeping in the back of your mind.

Your mind tried to make you do the same with Loki, and eventually Thor, but the rational part of you knew that they could protect themselves. At the same time, something deep inside of your soul somehow knew that you could trust the raven-haired god.

And it annoyed you to no end. You always did your best to follow reason. It was your way of ensuring your own and others’ safety. But it felt impossible to ignore the feeling of security you had around him.

The windchimes tinkle once again and you smile to yourself. You’re standing on a chair to reach the low ceiling, taping some colorful paper flowers to the dull off-white paint.

“Hey, Loki.” You greet happily, applying the last piece of tape and stepping down from the chair.

There’s a hand on your waist, and, thinking it’s Loki, you turn and go to place your hands on his chest only to see a tall, brooding man behind you. You jump, and take a step backwards.

He’s dressed in civilian clothes, but you know better. You see the edges of a tattoo peeking from just beneath his jacket collar. There’s an indent in his jeans, suggesting he’s concealing a knife. And his boots are almost military grade.

Your eyes flick towards the door, hoping to see Loki walk in.

He doesn’t.

“Can I help you with something?” You ask, taking a subtle step back.

His eyes scrape down your body and you’re suddenly sick to your stomach. Whether he’s sizing you up, searching for weapons, or just looking at you like a piece of meat, you’re unsure. But you don’t like it.

“Your presence is requested.”

You raise a brow and try to take another step back, but the bookshelf behind you keeps you from moving any further.

“You should leave,” You tell him, narrowing your eyes, “And tell Hayward to go to hell.”

He grabs your wrists and pulls you flush against him, his hot breath fanning across your face, “Listen here, little girl. You’re coming with me, quietly. I have never failed a mission, and I don’t plan on starting today.”

Realizing you have no other options, you brace yourself against the shelf behind you as you begin to call upon the energy around you, white light balling between your captive hands. It reflects against the various decorations you had just hung up, them swaying just slightly and the growing wind around you, and just before you blast the agent to hell, a different force rips him from you.

Because his hands are still connected to you, the force makes you tumble forwards, slamming into the ground with him. You lift your head from the carpet and look up, confused as hell, and your eyes immediately land on Loki. He must have come in right after you had been grabbed. You didn’t even hear the windchimes this time.

Loki’s eyes seem to glow just slightly, and he looks absolutely furious. He leans down to pick your attacker up by the throat and slams him against a wall, a knife materializing in Loki’s other hand. He raises it to the man’s throat in an instant, leans in, and sneers, “I should kill you where you stand for even gazing upon her,” Loki growls, pressing the knife further into his skin and drawing blood, “Touching her?” Another millimeter deeper, “That deserves a punishment worse than death.”

Your brain suddenly catches up to the situation and you run up to Loki, grabbing his arm, “Hey! Hey, I’m okay!” You tug at him gently, hoping to keep him from committing murder in the middle of your store.

“Brother!” A familiar voice booms behind you. You spin on your heels to see Thor, an annoyed expression on his face.

“He attacked me,” You blurt, knowing that Loki could get in a lot of trouble for this outburst, “Loki was just trying to help.”

Thor looks at you, his expression softening, before he looks back to the other two men and walks over to them. He places a large hand on Loki’s shoulder, “Brother, let me deal with him. We do not want to cause a spectacle.”

Loki’s hold on the man tightens, before he rips himself away, his knife disappearing allowing a trickle of blood to leave the cut on the man’s throat.

Thor made a call and the man was subsequently arrested and taken away.

After the cruiser drives off, Thor walks back into the shop where he had left you and Loki, and offers you a kind smile.

“Brother, what do you say we bring her back to the compound for the evening?”

Loki’s head snaps up, his eyes landing on his brother’s, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Thor shrugs, “I don’t see why not.”

Loki looks to you and intertwines his fingers with yours, “What do you think?”

You smile back at him, squeezing his hand, “Sounds good to me.”

***

After locking up the store, Thor and Loki guide you to the empty alleyway they usually use for Loki to transport them.

There’s a tingling sensation all over your body, and gold specks dot your vision before you’re suddenly on a grass lawn. You look up and your eyes blow wide, seeing the Avengers Compound right in front of you. The place is huge. You’d seen pictures before, but never imagined it to be as large and complex as what you’re currently seeing.

As Thor leads you both toward the silver and glimmering building in front of you, you feel Loki’s hand slip into yours again.

You look up to him and smile before your eyes are pulled away, meeting the glances of the compound staff as your presence momentarily distracts them from their current tasks.

You step into Loki’s space, pushing yourself closer to his side, making the others’ glances fade from your attention as his proximity makes you feel safer.

Once making your way past the main yard, and a long driveway, you arrive at what you assume is the main entrance of the building, though you do not stop there. Thor finally stops when you meet him in a back hallway near one of two elevators. Thor presses the call button, taking you gods know where.

You’re still pressed into Loki, though now you’re using him as a crutch, feeling a little faint. Whether from the dramatic turn of events or the teleportation, you have no idea. Either way, this wasn’t what you had expected for today and in all honesty, you’re incredibly overwhelmed.

“Is everything alright?” Loki asks, noticing the extra weight against him and your increasingly labored breaths.

You nod, but the movement makes you dizzy and you clutch onto Loki, eyes screwing shut, “I think I need to lie down.”

Thor and Loki exchange worried glances.

“Take her to your room. I shall speak with the others.”

Loki nods, carefully sweeping you into his arms. As soon as the metal doors slide open, he makes a beeline towards his own room. He unlocks his door with magic, a shimmering green momentarily covering the knob before disappearing. The door opens itself, allowing Loki to keep from jostling you too much.

He walks over to his bed, carefully depositing you on top. He grabs the soft green throw blanket that Peter had gotten him as a welcome gift some time ago and carefully places it over your form. He leans down and brushes the hair away from your face, nimble fingers softly caressing your face.

“You have had quite a day. Rest now.”

You smile at him, pulling the blanket farther over yourself.

“Stay?”

Loki smiles warmly, before climbing into bed with you, his back resting against the headboard. You turn to snuggle into him, and soon you’re fast asleep.

***

You wake a few hours later, feeling much better than you had earlier in the day. You notice that the space next to you is now empty, and you sit up to take in your surroundings.

The room is a generous size. The walls are painted grey, and the bed is larger than any bed you’ve slept on, adorned with a fluffy and extremely soft black comforter. There’s a dark stained heavy wooden dresser against one of the walls, a large gold mirror hanging above it. A large bookshelf lines the same wall, filled to the brim with books, and you notice that every book you recommended to him in the last two months were on a shelf of their own.

On another wall, a desk is tucked into the corner, neat and organized with a small black leather book sitting atop. To the left of the large bed is a closed door, and on the right is a door that’s slightly ajar, and you can see it’s an ensuite bathroom.

One of the walls is completely made up of floor to ceiling windows, and the room faces the west so you can see the colors of the sky morphing into an array of purples, oranges, and pinks as the sun sets. It’s a breathtaking sight.

You climb out of the bed, keeping the fluffy blanket around your shoulders. Curious as to where Loki had gone, you leave the room, looking both ways to try and remember which way you had come from earlier. Choosing at random, you begin your small journey, hoping to everything that you don’t run into an Avenger. How the hell were you supposed to explain that one?

Apparently, you chose correctly because the further you go, you begin to hear voices.

You peek around the corner to see a large open living area, and your jaw drops. Whenever you imagined the Avengers’ living space, you imagined sleek, modern decor, and expensive as shit furniture that would look as if nobody even used it.

And while you were mostly correct, you were also met with a bright room with floor to ceiling windows, picture frames on the walls and tables. The black leather chairs and couches looked well loved, and there were different colored throw blankets all over the place.

Loki was sat next to Thor on a loveseat, while several other members of the team were scattered throughout the room.

You hadn’t even been listening to what they were saying, but you hear your name and you immediately hone in on the conversation, hiding behind the wall once more.

“All I’m saying is that a little notice would have been nice.” You think the voice belongs to Tony Stark.

“If it was any other circumstance, it would have been planned ahead of time. But after she was attacked, I don’t believe any of us were comfortable with leaving her alone.” That was Thor.

“Speaking of, I called the police department to ask about her attacker. They said he committed suicide with cyanide.” Natasha states.

The entire room falls into silence, before Steve pipes up, “That sounds a bit too familiar.”

“Why would HYDRA be after her?” Clint asks, and everyone looks to Loki.

Loki shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Brother?” Thor pushes.

Loki sighs, “I promised her I would not tell a soul.”

“Look, Loki,” Steve moves closer to the edge of his seat, “I understand you want to protect her, but we can’t help you protect her without knowing why she’s being targeted.”

“I can protect her myself.” Loki growls, but Thor gently places his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“You can, but she would be safer with all of us protecting her. You have not dealt with HYDRA before, and therefore do not understand their capabilities. You trust me, and I trust my team. Tell us why Y/N is being hunted.” Thor tries to reason.

Loki sighs again, and you wonder what the hell they’re talking about. It wasn’t HYDRA who was after you. It was SWORD… Right? You feel nerves begin to take hold of you, and you clutch at the fabric around your shoulders.

And how the hell did Loki know why they wanted you? You hadn’t told him anything about that specific part of your past or of your abilities, much less making him promise anything.

So your heart falls to your stomach when you hear Loki’s next words.

“She has these… Abilities. She can manipulate the energy around her to do just about anything she wants. Back in timeline 656, she used her powers to help the resistance and destroy that timeline. But here, in this timeline, she has yet to mention these powers to me. I think she’s afraid. I know that her parents were SHIELD agents and were killed while on a mission when she was ten years of age.”

“If her parents were part of SHIELD, they may have been involved with HYDRA.” Tony offers.

“I think we have a visitor.” Wanda says, effectively ending the conversation.

You curse internally, but don’t move in hopes that maybe she was talking about someone else.

But suddenly Loki steps around the corner, a horrified look on his face, “Darling?”

You look up at him, and suddenly you’re angry. You’re unsure why. Maybe it’s because you worked so hard in life to stay off the radar of people like the Avengers. Maybe it’s because your efforts in keeping your secret to yourself were in vain because somehow Loki still knows. Maybe it’s because you’re suddenly terrified. Of yourself, of the Avengers, of HYDRA.

Your eyes flick over to the Avengers, who are now all looking at you in silence.

Loki moves to touch you, but suppressed survival instincts kick in and a blast of white energy bursts from your body, sending Loki flying into another wall. Your hands fly to your mouth.

“I- I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean-”

Thor steps closer to you, hands up in a placating gesture, “It’s alright. Take a breath. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

You take a step back, seeing all the horrified eyes on you.

Loki can see where this is going, so with a flick of his hand, he puts you to sleep, jumping to catch you before you hit the ground.

“This is what I wanted to avoid.” He spits, hoisting you up for the second time that day.

“Loki-” Thor tries, but he’s gone before the god can finish.

***

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