#Tom Ward x Reader

[theostrophywife]

little dove.

pairing: tom riddle x reader.

song inspiration: if u think i'm pretty by artemas.

author's note: can't believe this is my first tom fic, but please know that this man awakens the feral, unhinged side of me. let me slytherin to your chamber of secrets and ride that basilisk tommy 😏

This was a stupid, idiotic, and terrible idea. 

Unfortunately for you, those were the conditions in which Harry and Ron worked best under. In your defense, you tried to talk them out of the prank, but the boys were determined to leave their mark. You suppose you could’ve told Hermione, but you didn’t want to interrupt her date with Draco. When it came to talking sense into their thick skulls, you were completely and utterly alone. 

After much argument, you finally accepted that you weren’t going to get anywhere with Harry and Ron. The only thing you could do was supervise their reckless pursuits and minimize the damage as much as possible. So here you were, sneaking into the dungeons under the cover of darkness. 

“This will be the best seventh year prank yet,” Ron whispered as he trailed close behind. “Fred and George are going to be so jealous.” 

“If we don’t die from the cold first,” Harry quipped sarcastically, slightly shivering underneath the invisibility cloak draped over the three of you. “The Slytherins really take the whole cold-blooded thing quite literally, don’t they?” 

You huffed in response, trying your best to muffle your steps. “Can we please focus on not getting caught? We need to be in and out of the dungeons before the prefects start their patrols.” 

The boys nodded as you inched further into the serpent’s nest. Luckily, the corridor that housed Professor Snape’s office was empty. You held your breath as you began to unravel the wards protecting the entrance. You had to give it to him, Snape was incredibly thorough when it came to his security measures. Good thing you were an expert on unlocking charms. 

With a final flick of your wand, the door gave way and creaked open. Ron and Harry wore matching grins as the three of you spilled into the office. Closing the door behind you, Harry’s green eyes crinkled with mischief. 

“Let’s get started.” 

Surprisingly, Harry and Ron’s half-arsed plan was actually coming together. The three of you worked in silence, the boys handing you paints and supplies at the snap of your fingers. After a few more strokes, you flicked your paintbrush over the wall and cocked your head to examine your work. Nearly every single surface of Professor Snape’s office was covered in your illustrations—technically vandalism according to wizarding law. 

The drawings, imbued with the same magic that powered the moving portraits, depicted caricatures of Professor Snape, all of which scurried like rats along the walls, hurtling globs of paint at one another. The head of Slytherin house was going to have a fit when he saw what you’d done to his office. You almost wished you could be there in the morning to witness the look on Snape’s face when he uncovered your masterpiece.

“Bloody brilliant!” Ron exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear as he packed up the paints and brushes. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Y/N.” 

Harry chuckled and nudged your shoulder. “See? You do have a taste for trouble, after all.” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Yeah, yeah. Now help me clean up so we can go.” 

As you carefully wiped the office of any trace of the three of you, Harry suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. You looked up, ready to scold him for idling, but fell silent when you saw the panicked expression on his face. 

“What is it?” you asked quietly. 

Harry held up his hand and slowly opened the door, peeking out into the darkness. A muffled clicking that sounded an awful lot like footsteps echoed from the corridor. “Do you hear that?” 

Ron cursed lowly. “The prefects must’ve started their rounds early.” 

You peered over Harry’s shoulder and felt the color drain from your face. “It’s not the prefects,” you said, swallowing thickly. “It’s the Head Boy.” 

Both the boys swore under their breaths. You steeled yourself, knowing that panic was not going to get you anywhere. As quietly as possible, you retrieved Harry’s cloak and beckoned the boys underneath it. 

“We’re so fucked,” Ron mumbled. 

“No, we’re not,” you chided sternly. “Get under the cloak and don’t make a sound.” 

Harry scooted in beside you, clutching the invisible fabric over his shoulders. “Do you have a plan?” 

You nodded. “Run like hell and don’t get caught.” 

“That’s a bloody terrible plan!” said Ron. 

With a glare, you tugged the redhead underneath the cloak. “Then please, let us hear your brilliant idea, Ronald.” Ron stayed quiet, his freckled face etched with fear. “That’s what I thought. Now stay close and for Merlin’s sake, try not to stomp around like a damned erumpent.”

Stupid. 

Idiotic. 

Terrible. 

Every ounce of apprehension you felt earlier that night came rushing back as the three of you cowered in the darkness. It was pitch-black in the corridor, but you didn’t dare cast lumos for fear of getting caught. Thankfully, a small light up ahead provided you with a vague sense of direction. You remembered passing the lit emerald sconce on the way down. All you had to do was get back to the entrance without running into the head boy. 

The glimmer of hope became clearer and clearer as you neared the stairs that would lead you out of the dungeons. You were so close. Barely a few metres away from freedom. 

Just as you thought you were safe, Ron knocked into a table, sending one of the snake sculptures guarding the alcove to the common room tumbling. The marble cracked against the concrete, breaking into a million pieces just like your hope of escaping. 

“Run!” you huffed, urging the boys to go on. 

A solid plan if you hadn’t been nearly blind in the dark. You could hear the shuffling of footsteps beside you. Three sets belonging to you, Harry, and Ron, while an unknown fourth inched closer and closer. Whoever it was wasn’t running, but they were definitely in pursuit. 

You stumbled through the dark, nearly tripping over your own feet. From up ahead, you could hear Harry and Ron urging you on. As you broke into a sprint, paints and brushes came spilling out of your satchel. Under any other circumstance, you would’ve abandoned your art supplies, but leaving them behind would fully incriminate the three of you. In the time it took to pick up the damning evidence, you stopped hearing your friend’s voices. 

It would’ve worried you, but in all honesty, you were relieved. If you could no longer hear the boys, then that meant they made it safely out of the serpent’s nest. A feat in itself given their track record. Those two couldn’t be inconspicuous if they tried. Without the need to worry for them, you were confident that you’d be able to slip out undetected. 

In hindsight, you were perhaps a tad bit overconfident. You were great at sneaking around, but apparently not good enough to slip the head boy’s notice. As soon as you started to creep past the dormitories, you ran into a wall that hadn’t been there before. 

Except it wasn’t a wall. 

It was a strong, firm chest. A chest that belonged to none other than Tom Riddle. 

Leave it to your terrible luck to run straight into the arms of the scariest boy in the castle. 

Determined not to cower, you lifted your chin defiantly and faced Tom head on. “Head Boy,” you greeted in acknowledgment. 

Emerald eyes unflinchingly surveyed you, that intense green stare sweeping from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet. Beneath the faint glow of the Black Lake pouring in through the stained glass windows, you could’ve easily mistaken Tom Riddle for an angel. He looked like an illustration straight out of the Sistine Chapel. Beautiful, intricate, perfect. 

Yet utterly terrifying. 

Danger prickled at your skin as Tom’s lips curved into a sinister smirk. “My, my, what do we have here? A little dove out of her cage.” 

You bristled as he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his voice a seductive caress. It was low, husky, and a little rough around the edges. Just like its speaker. Tom plucked a paintbrush out of your satchel and examined it between his fingers. “I saw what you did to Snape’s office. Quite artistic, aren’t you?” 

A part of you considered denying it, but it would’ve been a futile attempt. There was paint splattered all over your skirt and flecks of it were already drying on your skin. Tom had quite literally caught you red handed. The only thing you could do was to own up to it and face whatever consequences came as a result of your foolish actions. 

“Are you going to turn me in to the headmaster?” 

Tom shook his head, his brown wavy hair falling over one eye. “Not until I catch your two helpers.” 

Panic seized your body. It may be too late for you, but Tom hadn’t seen either Harry or Ron. There was a chance they could come out of this unscathed. 

“I was alone,” you declared with your chin held high. “There was no one else with me.” 

Anger contorted Tom’s handsome features. Those emerald eyes lit up in flames as he backed you into a wall, bracketing each side of your head with his arms as he leaned down. You tried not to cower under the intensity of his stare, but gods was it hard. Tom towered a good foot over you and as if that weren’t intimidating enough, he also blocked every possibility of escape with his body. 

“Don’t lie to me, little dove,” Tom growled, tilting your chin up with one hand. “I heard three sets of footsteps running through the corridor.” 

You swallowed thickly, praying to Merlin to grant you the ability to flawlessly lie your arse off. “I swear, it was just me. No one else. I did it all by myself.” 

Tom hummed as if unconvinced. “Well, you’re certainly on your own now. Your idiotic friends left you down in the dungeons all alone. Don’t you know that dangerous things lurk in the dark around here, Y/N?” 

“Like I said, I was alone.” 

“So it appears,” Tom said, flashing you a smile that told you he was the most dangerous thing lurking in the dungeons. “Poor little dove wandering the serpent’s nest all on her own. Hasn’t anyone told you that us Slytherins have teeth?” 

“Why?” In an idiotic surge of courage, the words slipped out of your mouth before you could pull them back in. “Do you plan on biting me, Tom?” 

Tom grabbed your jaw roughly, making you whimper in surprise. “Insolent girl. You’ll learn your lesson soon enough.” 

Without warning, he grabbed you by the elbow and started dragging you down the corridor. At first, you were certain that Tom was taking you to Dumbledore’s office, but as the minutes ticked by, you realized that you were going in the opposite direction. If anything, he was leading you right into the heart of the dungeons. 

Tom’s grip tightened to the point of pain as he guided you up a set of twin staircases, practically flying up the steps on the right side, which you assumed led to the dormitories. It had a similar layout to the Gryffindor common room, except instead of leading into the towers, the narrow hallway opened into an intricate maze in the lower levels of the castle. 

Nestled into the underbelly of Hogwarts was a large, dark room that was surrounded by more stained glass walls that looked out into the Black Lake. A school of fish swam by as Tom ushered you through the door, which he promptly locked behind him with a series of complicated spells you had no hope of deciphering. 

You were trapped. Alone in a room. With Tom Riddle.

Upon closer inspection, you surmised that this had to be his private suite. It was twice as large as your dorm back in the towers and extremely private. A luxury that only the Head Boy and Head Girl enjoyed. 

“You’ve been very bad, little dove,” Tom reprimanded. "You deserve to be punished, but I’ll tell you what. Give up the names of your accomplices and I might find it in my heart to go easy on you.” 

His drawling voice echoed in the bedroom as he leaned back against his desk, twirling his wand between his fingers. The look he leveled at you is enough to awaken your fear. Plus another emotion that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. 

Merlin, Tom was sizing you up like he was the lion and you were the helpless deer frolicking through the meadow. You steeled yourself and doubled down on your lies. 

“There was no one else, Tom.” 

He smirked as though you’d given him the answer he’d hoped to hear. Tom stopped twirling his wand, tucking it away in his back pocket as he stalked over to you. “Very well, then. I suppose you’ll just have to endure their punishments too.” 

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. It occurred to you that while you had your wand, you were completely and utterly defenseless against Tom. It should’ve scared you shitless, but instead you felt a strange sort of thrill as he came closer. “What…what sort of punishment?” 

A smirk curved at his lips as he fisted your hair between his fingers and tilted your head back to meet his gaze. “I think you know, babydoll.” 

Heat ignited in your veins as your tongue darted out to sweep across your bottom lip. “This is crazy,” you whispered. “Shouldn’t you be telling Dumbledore? Snape? Someone in charge?” 

“I’m the one in charge,” Tom growled as he shoved you against his bookshelf. Your back hit solid wood, disturbing the neatly organized tomes behind you. “You snuck into my dungeons, under my watch, and defaced my home. I will dole out your punishment as I see fit.” 

“And if I refuse?” You asked, hoping that you emulated the bravery that your house was infamous for.

Tom pressed his body against yours, leaving barely a hairsbreadth between you as he flashed you a feral smile. “It’s laughable that you still think you have a choice.” 

“I could scream bloody murder. Wake the entire castle up and alert everyone that you're holding a fellow student against her will."

“You could,” Tom mused as amusement flickered in his eyes. “But we both know you won’t.” 

“What makes you so sure?” 

“You’d never risk such a scandalous act to go on your record. First vandalizing Professor Snape’s office, then sneaking into the Head Boy’s dorm after curfew? You’re on a downward spiral, aren’t you, little dove?” 

“I didn’t sneak into your dorm. You dragged me in here.” 

“Please,” Tom said with a scoff. “Let’s not pretend that you don’t want to be here. I’ve been watching you, you know. The perfect little Gryffindor good girl. You think you have everyone fooled, but not me.” You groaned as he pinned your hips in place, sliding his thigh between your legs. 

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me in class? Bending over in that tiny little skirt of yours hoping I’ll glance your way? Leaving the buttons to your blouse undone so you can give me a view of that lacy red bra? Biting your lip when you’re thinking dirty thoughts about me in class?” 

You flushed at his spot on assessment. Tom might be right on the mark, but you weren’t about to admit that to him. Not when your pride was on the line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Dirty little liar.” Tom whispered against the shell of your ear. “You know, your mental shields are impressive, but it’s like you can’t help yourself when I’m around. You’re practically broadcasting your filthy fantasies every time we’re in the same room.” 

Fuck. 

This was bad. 

This was really fucking bad.

How many times had you sat in class staring at Tom while thinking the filthiest, dirtiest thoughts about him? Tom bending you over a desk. Tom slipping his fingers under your skirt. Tom making you scream with his head between your thighs.

All this time, he had complete access to those dirty daydreams.

“That’s right, doll. You may be a powerful occlumens, but you’re no match for my legilimency.” He chuckled darkly, caressing your jaw. 

A heavy pressure weighed down the constraints of your defenses as Tom poked around in your mind, teasing and taunting as a lover would. The act of him prodding around in your subconscious was oddly sensual, mixing pain and pleasure together as he waited for you to yield. 

There’s no use hiding now, Tom whispered into your subconscious. I’ve already seen inside your mind, doll. And your thoughts are just as fucking filthy as mine. 

Glimpses of your deepest, darkest fantasies flashed through your mind. The images were a never ending rolodex of filth and smut. Tom fucking you like his perfect little slut. Tom panting above you as he spread your legs. Tom working you with his fingers until you were a sobbing, whimpering mess. 

He was right. You were shameless. 

But so was he. A new image of you on your knees while Tom unbuckled his belt, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as you stared up expectantly took center stage. Since it was from his point of view, you could only assume that he was showing you one of his fantasies. It was oddly satisfying. Tom was basking in the depravity with you, sharing his equally fucked up thoughts. 

“Tom…” you breathed, leaning into his touch as he continued to pin you against the wooden bookshelf. 

“Not Tom,” he grunted gruffly. “You’ll address me properly from now on, little dove.” 

This was so fucked up and yet so hot at the same time. You were so turned on you could hardly speak. “Yes, sir.” 

“That’s better, doll.” Tom declared with a smirk. “Now that I’ve been inside of your head, I plan on being inside you in every other way as well. Starting with that pretty little mouth of yours. On your knees, little dove.” 

A strange sense of deja vu washed over you as you knelt onto the floor. The concrete nipped at your knees, but you welcomed the pain. It kept you centered as your body buzzed with anticipation. You watched as Tom unbuckled his belt, deft fingers slowly sliding his boxers down as he gripped himself with one hand. 

With a smirk, Tom brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, looking down at you with lust blown eyes. “Open wide, babydoll.” 

Tom pumped himself slowly. The sight of his cock made your mouth water, your head spinning and dizzy with desire as you tried to calculate how you were going to take all of him. The tip of his cock glistened with precum as he rubbed over it. Tom was thick, long, and absolutely delicious. You groaned as he rubbed his head over your lips, the salty taste of his arousal resting on your tongue. 

“I won’t ask again,” Tom warned. “Be a good girl and open your mouth. I’ll make you regret it if you don’t.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

A satisfied smile graced his handsome face before he shoved his way in. Your lips parted for him, opening your mouth wider as you accommodated his size. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

You nodded obediently, eyes filling with tears as you took Tom all the way back. He fisted your hair in one hand and rocked against your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. A garbled sound crawled out of your chest, but it was soon silenced with Tom’s impatient thrusts. 

“Fuck,” Tom cursed. “So wet and warm. Such a perfect little throat. What a pity that I’m about to ruin it.” 

Ruin was an understatement. Tom fucked your throat with precise thrusts, angling deeper and deeper and groaning as you gagged on his cock. He was so deep that you could feel him bruising your tonsils. The more he abused your throat, the wetter your pussy got. You were practically soaked as you moaned on his cock, sucking your cheeks in and bobbing your head up and down to take more of him. 

“Such pretty noises,” Tom said, his fingers curling through your hair to the point of pain. He tugged at your scalp, forcing you to meet his eyes as you sucked him off. “If your mouth feels this good around my cock, then I can’t even imagine what your cunt will feel like.” 

You groaned in pleasure, making Tom’s eye roll back from the vibrations. Controlled, compulsive, and perfectly composed Tom Riddle was fading before you, replaced by a man driven only by his base desires. He was an animal lost to lust and so were you. 

Tom squeezed your throat, groaning when he felt himself moving beneath his grip. “Your throat was made to be fucked, doll. You like that, don’t you? You love it when I’m rough.” 

You struggled to nod in acknowledgement, saliva sloppily collecting in the corner of your mouth as you continued to let him use you for his own pleasure. Tom chuckled at your pathetic attempt to respond. “Don’t bother answering, little dove. You won’t be able to speak when I’m done with you anyways.” 

The filth flowing effortlessly from his mouth made you clench your thighs together. Tom threw his head back, those pretty curls tousled and plastered against his sweat soaked skin. A moan tore through his chest as he got closer and closer, fucking into your mouth with reckless abandon. He chased after his orgasm, shuddering as he spurted hot ribbons down your throat. 

“Fuck. You see what you do to me? Swallow, doll. Every single fucking drop.” 

The fantasies that you’ve been harboring for the past few years finally came to fruition, but none of it came close to reality. Tom was a fucking god. A masterpiece coming undone above you. You’ve never seen such a beautiful sight. All the artwork in the world would’ve paled in comparison to witnessing Tom Riddle at his most vulnerable. 

In awe and wonder, you looked up at him with mascara streaked eyes, tears and saliva staining your face. Tom hauled you to your feet and claimed you with his mouth. The taste of him was still on your lips, but Tom didn’t seem to mind as he parted your lips with his tongue. The kiss was neither sweet nor innocent. It was dark and dangerous and there was an edge of possessiveness in the way he demanded your submission. Almost like he was marking his territory. 

Tongues, teeth, and lips met with a clash as Tom carried you over to his desk. His books and journals clattered to the ground as his teeth grazed the column of your throat. The taste of him was intoxicating and you licked, sucked, and nipped at every inch of skin he allowed access to. You gasped into his mouth as Tom parted your legs, not bothering to warn you as he palmed your soaked panties. 

Your core clenched as he slipped a finger inside of your pussy. A squelching sound filled the room as Tom added another digit, pumping you full and fucking you with his middle and pointer fingers as you begged for more. He knew exactly what he was doing. Tom studied you like one of his books, with meticulous precision and alarming intensity, pouring all of his efforts and attention into making your body sing. 

It wasn’t long before that familiar warmth singed your veins, your moans growing louder and more desperate as you clawed at Tom’s back. You were so, so close. You were practically riding his hand as he brought you closer to the precipice. Just when you were about to come, Tom pulled away and denied you the orgasm. 

“Don’t be mistaken, doll. This is still a punishment.” Tom said as you whined from the loss. He silenced your complaints by bending you over his desk. 

“Tom, please—“ You clawed at the wood as he lined up and filled you with one sharp thrust. “Oh my fucking gods.” 

Tom gripped your hips, the slap of his skin against yours echoing in the room as he fucked you from behind. He was relentless, thrusting in and out and arching your back while he railed the absolute life out of you. It wasn’t long before you were getting close again. The sharp angles of his thrusts had him hitting all the right spots, making your knees weak and your pussy sensitive from the roughness of his actions. Sensing that you were close, he rutted into you, letting that tension uncoil before ripping the orgasm away from you once more. You whined, fresh tears soaking your cheeks as you chased after that high. 

“Like I said, this is still a punishment,” Tom taunted, slowing his thrusts to a snail’s pace. “That’s two orgasms I’ve taken from you, which leaves you with two more. Four for every wall you defaced. It should be twelve, given that you had help, but I’m in a forgiving mood. I think I’ll just spank the other eight out of you instead.” 

With your head bowed, you wiped the tears off of your cheeks and braced yourself. You knew that he was telling the truth. To Tom, this was mercy. You should’ve found it sadistic, but you fucking loved it. Maybe you were a masochist. Whatever the case may be, it seemed like the two of you were a match made in heaven. 

“I’ll be good,” you whispered hoarsely. Your throat was still raw and sore from earlier. “I’ll happily take the punishment. I promise I’ll be good, sir.” 

Tom chuckled darkly, relishing in your submission. His hand came down with a hard smack against your right ass cheek, making you jolt from the contact. Before you could recover, he repeated the action on the left. 

“That’s two,” Tom said proudly. “Can you count out the rest, babydoll?” 

You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip every time his large hand came down on your ass. His rings bit into the soft flesh of your skin, but it was a delicious sort of pain. One that you could easily become addicted to. 

Three. Tom tugged at your hair. 

Four. Teeth nipped at your shoulder. 

Five. Fingers curled around your throat. 

Six. Hips slammed against you. 

Seven. Lips trailed down your spine.

Eight. Moans echoed in your ears. 

When Tom slipped his fingers down to your clit, your eyes rolled back so hard that you saw fucking heaven. “It’s not a punishment if you’re enjoying yourself so much, little dove. I can feel you creaming my cock. You look so innocent, but you’re just a filthy fucking slut for me, aren’t you?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“So. Fucking. Perfect.” 

Tom emphasized each word with a thrust and worked your clit faster and faster, bringing you to the edge. This time, he didn’t pull back. Tom let the orgasm build until it threatened to wipe you out entirely. White hot heat coursed through your veins as stars exploded behind your eyes. You whimpered through the intensity of the orgasm. After being denied four times, the pleasure ripped through your body so fiercely that you nearly blacked out. 

“Fuck, let me fill you up,” Tom growled. “Take it, doll. I want you dripping with my cum.” 

“Yes, yes, oh gods. Please cum inside of me, sir.” 

Tom released a guttural grunt, gripping your hips in place as he filled you to the brim. Nothing in the world compared to the sensation of Tom filling you with his warm, wet cum. You glanced behind you and found him staring intently as he slipped out of you, stuffing his cum back into your pussy as it dripped down your folds. You bit your lip, utterly aroused by how fucking sexy this man was. 

His gaze met yours, a proud smile curving against his lips as he swept you off your feet and into his arms. “I think I’ll keep you, little dove.” 

#i welcome him would open arms and open legs #tom riddle #tom riddle smut #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle fic

[thedreamlessnights]

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it. 

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing. 

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long. 

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path. 

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel. 

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face. 

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch. 

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war. 

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now. 

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

 “Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.” 

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same. 

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel. 

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best. 

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too. 

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees. 

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?” 

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.” 

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud. 

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything. 

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound. 

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood. 

“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?” 

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision. 

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue. 

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind. 

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething. 

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief. 

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps. 

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him. 

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck. 

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. 

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it. 

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand. 

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again. 

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot. 

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment. 

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements. 

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble. 

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire. 

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals. 

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

 You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion fic #astarion smut #bg3 x reader #mywriting

[cl-01-kestis]

Blood and Honey - Tom Riddle x Female Reader | nsfw

Summary: Your rivalry with Tom Riddle was widely known around Hogwarts, there’s no one you hate more than him. But through the mist of rage and competition, Tom finds himself tempted by a very odd scenario.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, public sex, blood kink, injury description, fingering, cunnilingus, Tom has a borderline fetish for blood consumption, (both of you are 18)

(Part 2 taglist)

If there was one single person, only one, who you could hate the rest of your brief existence, it would be Tom Riddle.

Your reasoning was endless, every interaction was poison. He made no attempt of hiding the fact he hated you either, yet neither of you tried to resolve it.

For 6 years, Tom had been the one person who always got under your skin. He had a habit of teasing your skill, even though it was near the best in each class you sat. You scored 80% and above in each exam you sat, yet he still managed to pluck out the detailed faulty of your knowledge. He was always better than you, he always had to be better than you. He made sure of it.

Sometimes you thought he was better just to grind your gears, all that studying he put in was possibly to aggravate you. You knew it gave him the mightiest pleasure to see you suffer at his hands, he would have it no other way.

Potions class today was no different. You brewed one of the most advanced potions and handed in your thesis to your professor, minding your own business and going your own way. But your chest tightened and your hands turned into fists when you heard his voice nearby, laughing wickedly with his friends who stood by the corridors. You held your books close to your chest, avoiding any eye contact with the group of brash boys.

Tom spotted you but he didn’t say anything, instead he glared at you with a sharp smirk on his pale face. Your eyes found him, but you wish they didn’t. Your jaw clenched and your eyes narrowed, your pace unconsciously speeding up.

He watched you with a malicious glint in his eyes, chuckling quietly to himself as you looked away and rushed off, your cloak floating softly behind you. His friends words became a hazy murmur, his mind drifting from their conversation to thoughts of you and your pitiful demeanour. He found himself pondering your flushed face and pretty frown, knowing he caused it the majority of the time.

Tom shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way to the library, hopeful to squeeze in some studying before dinner time. He wondered if you would be there, but his soft expression moulded into a scowl when he realised how intrusive his thoughts became about you. He licked his lips and entered the library, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

-

You sat silently in the medical ward, eyes full of tears and your hands shaking from pain. You were outside the school grounds for a while with the creatures of the school greenhouses, needing to clear your head, the next minute you were tripping over a flowerpot and cutting your thigh deeply with large gravel. The head healer spent an hour plucking bits of rock from your wound, giving you supplements of pain relief to get you through the process.

Now you sat in bed with your wound open, she claimed it needed to be aired so it healed quicker with the medicine she gave you. But you were still in pain and still somewhat bleeding.

You missed dinner, to your sadness, but the healers made sure to give you some snacks and chocolate frogs to appease the hunger you felt. But you missed the roast dinner and sweet pudding you received every night, your stomach craved it.

You laid back against the soft bed, keeping your injured leg bent so it didn’t rub against the sheets or your other leg. You held a charms book in your hands, shakily flipping the page as you continued reading in the quiet of the ward. You heard the distant footsteps of the head healer, her voice whispering to other students since other patients were sleeping. You tried to block out the noise and continued reading.

Until the door to the ward opened, and in walked none other than Tom Riddle. Immediately, you hid your face in your book and sneakily grabbed the cover a few feet away, tugging it towards you to hide yourself more. You weren’t in a mood to bang heads with him, or even interact with him. The fact he was even in the same room as you made you want to chuck your charms book at him.

He was visiting Avery, you heard him ask one of the healers where he was and she hastily lead him to his bed, which was right beside yours. You cursed Merlin, grateful for the cover blocking his vision from you. Especially because your skirt was hiked up and your tights were off, your bare skin showing. You sat up in your bed, careful not to make any noise possible as you pulled up the covers and laid them over your legs. You weren’t about to be humiliated by your bully, you might as well fling yourself off the astronomy tower.

You heard the both of them bicker, but none of their words registered in your head. Tom was irritated at something, you didn’t really care. Hearing him annoyed made you smirk behind your book, knowing you never heard it often. Tom was a secluded man, he never showed an ounce of anger or irritation towards you when you insulted and constantly one upped each other. He was stone cold, but sometimes he cracked.

You heard Tom scoff at something Avery had said, but you quickly zoned out and found yourself slipping into unconsciousness, too tired to care. One of the healers came over to your bedside and buffed the pillows for you, wishing you a goodnight and making sure you were comfortable before returning to her nightly duties. This caught Tom’s attention, soon he found himself peeking around the cover shielding you. His eyes widened and he missed what Avery had said, completely focused on your sleeping state and the charms book in your hands.

“Hey, did you even listen to what I just said?” Avery frowned, fussing over his broken finger which was healed without hassle over an hour ago. He was taking up the bed when he didn’t need to, and Tom was here to drag him out. But now Tom was dwindling on the thought of why you were here, if you were hurt or recovering from an injury. He found himself lingering on you with concern, but his attention begrudgingly turned back to Avery after he continued to whine.

“Abraxus is waiting for you in the common room, don’t make him wait any longer than necessary” Tom instructed with narrow eyes, similar to a snakes.

“Aren’t you coming?” Avery raised a brow, cradling his bandaged finger.

“No, I have other matters to attend to” Tom dismissed Avery, who nodded his head and made his way to the infirmary exit.

Tom waited for Avery to leave until turning his attention back to you. You were still sleeping, the covers hiked up to your waist as you slept. Tom pulled up a chair and sat down at the corner of your bed, taking the charms book from your hands to inspect it curiously. This caused you to shuffle and peek one eye open, dread filling your heart as you realised who sat at the end of your bed.

“Hey, give that back!” You sat up, trying to snatch the book back from toms hands, but the Slytherin smirked and leaned back in his seat.

“Not until you tell me why you’re here. Let me guess, you were clumsy as always and had an accident?” He cackled, a shit eating grin on his charming face as he put his arm up while still holding your book. You were unable to reach it now.

You sat back in your bed, crossing your arms and scowling at him as he placed the book back down into his lap and opened the pages.

“I don’t have time for your shit, Tom, and for the record I am not clumsy” You frowned deeply, moving your foot to kick him square in the knee, causing another laugh to escape his pale lips.

“You obviously are, you always have been” He shot back. “I bet you broke your leg, or maybe you sprained your ankle?” He continued to toy with you until your face was red with embarrassment.

“I cut my leg okay? Just leave me alone” You looked away, suddenly finding the bedside table very interesting. Toms grin didn’t disappear, but he was curious about how your leg looked.

“That’s it? Just a small cut?”

“It’s not small, the nurse spent an hour taking out rocks and little bits of gravel from my leg” You sit up, peeking under the covers and noticing you bled on the sheets. Cursing, you lifted up the covers a tiny bit, revealing the top of your thighs to Tom who quickly fell silent and looked down at your charms book. He didn’t like you, but he wasn’t a pervert. He wanted to at least respect your privacy.

You brought your legs out from the bed, grabbing bandages from the side of your bed and unravelling them to wrap around your leg. Tom watched quietly, noticing the trickle of blood trailing down your shin after you placed your feet on the ground.

“You’re bleeding” He stated.

“Yeah I can see that, idiot” You sneered, wiping the blood with your hands instinctively and cursing as you smeared the blood further. Tom rolled his eyes and stood up, dragging his seat with him as he quickly summoned a pack of towels with his wand. You fell silent as he sat in front of you, sighing loudly as he placed the towels down on the dresser and looked down at your bleeding leg.

His eyes widened almost immediately, a pang of shock flooding his system as he watched the crimson liquid seep from your deep wound. He didn’t expect it to be this bad, the blood was all over your hands and smeared over your thighs.

“You’ve made a mess” He grumbled, grabbing the towels and grabbing your ankle so he could set it on his leg. You shoved him off and glared at him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Your voice was wary, not matching the angry glare seeping into his skin. You sounded confused, not hostile.

“I’m trying to help you” He snapped back.

“But why? I didn’t ask for your help-“

“Just shut up and give me your leg” Tom raised his voice, his eyes flickering up to yours as a warning. Your jaw snapped shut, bottom lip poking out just a bit further as you gave in and raised your leg. Tom muttered a ‘stupid girl’ and pressed the towel to your leg. You looked away and screwed your eyes shut, hissing at the stinging pain as he delicately dabbed the towel onto your wound.

“Stay still, you’re moving too much” He muttered in frustration, his grip on your ankle intensifying as he turned the towel around to catch more blood. You looked down at your hands, just as you were about to wipe them on your skirt he stopped you.

“Are you stupid? Here, let me” He grabbed your hands, his touch oddly soft yet commanding. Toms hand pressed against yours, the blood transferring onto his skin and causing his fingers to get sticky. His motions slowed, his eyes stuck on your clasped hands as the blood seeped through the cracks of his fingerprint. His eyes darkened, his throat suddenly dry and his stomach tense.

Your blood was on his hands, he realised. You started to get anxious at his silence and stillness, ready to ask what was wrong. But the boy simply stared and turned your hand over, his thumb caressing your palm. Tom gulped, his tongue poking out to wet his lips as he let go of your hand and inspected his own bloodied one. Your blood started to dry on his skin, the smell of iron filling his senses. His mouth watered.

“Is everything okay?” You asked worriedly, leaning forward to your knees were touching. Tom nodded his head, his hands starting to tremble as he looked away from the blood and into your eyes. He swallowed again, his hand creeping back to hold your one as his eyes trailed to your lips. The feeling of blood between your palms was a strange sensation, you felt like you needed to wash your hands, but Toms skin felt like a dream against your own.

“Are you about to kiss me?” You whisper with a heavy breath, your heart beating erratically fast.

“If that’s what you want?” His voice sounded so soft, so vulnerable all of a sudden as his bloody hand cupped your cheek, his thumb skimming the skin of your cheek.

Without hesitation, you nodded, and Tom gently pulled you close and pressed his lips against yours. They were softer than you imagined, because admittedly, you thought of kissing him before. All that pent up frustration made you think of him differently overtime, no matter how much you hated him. You can’t deny you’ve pictured yourself in this situation many times.

Tom was so delicate with you as his other hand pressed against your unharmed leg, pulling you onto his lap as he leaned back into his chair. You straddled his waist, your lips departing momentarily as your breaths mingled together, right before he pulled you back in and kissed you fiercely. He cradled your body against his, bringing one of your hands up to his face before pulling away.

Tom took one of your bloody fingers into his mouth, licking the crimson substance off your skin which shot a shrill of excitement up your spine. Toms mouth was so hot and inviting, his tongue eager. You couldn’t help but whimper quietly as he bit one of your fingers, jutting his hips up into yours as you cupped his face with your free hand, getting blood on his jaw.

You kissed once again, his tongue entering your mouth, carrying the strong taste of iron. You tasted your blood before realising you were being pushed back onto the bed. Tom looked down at your thigh which was still wet with fresh blood and his eyes glistened with excitement, he crouched down so he was face to face with your uplifted skirt and revealed panties, but he didn’t look to them at the moment.

Toms tongue caught the stains of blood from your wound and lapped it up like a man deprived from water. Your hand flew to his hair, gripping it as you gasped at his surprising ministrations. Tom didn’t go near your wound in fear of infecting it, but he didn’t shy off the blood surrounding it.

“Oh Merlin… Tom, please” You cry silently, arching your back. Tom glanced up to your panties, noticing the obvious wet patch which grew bigger as time went on. He smirked against your skin, raising his arms and hooking his fingers underneath each hem of your panties.

The both of you were aware you were in a public area, so Tom quickly grabbed another cover from the ward beside you and shielded the both of you from anyone who might’ve come in at the wrong time. You sighed out in relief before Tom was back on you, his attention now on your skirt and underwear. He resumed removing your small garments that, really, left nothing to the imagination.

“Do you want me to continue?” He looked up at you with a soft gaze, noticing the nervous hints of your expression. You nodded your head eagerly, raising your hips so he could pull off your panties easier. Tom smiled and kissed you passionately as he put your underwear in his pocket, his hands slipping under your skirt and gripping your bare hips. You tried your best to keep quiet underneath him, but he was making it near impossible.

“How much do you need me?” Tom asked, trailing his lips down your neck and whispering against your pulse. You closed your eyes, using his shoulders as support as he grazed your tummy with his slender fingers.

“More than I can admit” You flush, leaning your head back to give him further access to your neck. Tom smirked against your skin and unzipped your skirt, pulling it off in one quick motion.

“You’re too full of pride to admit how much you crave me, I know you’ve thought about it, you’ve been anticipating this moment” He laid between your legs, his elbows stopping his body from fully leaning on you.

“I’ve been wanting this too, in class I’ve found myself picturing you bent over a desk, screaming my name” His hand found your exposed pussy, causing you to let out a choked moan. You felt like your skin was on fire, feeling too hot underneath your shirt and tie.

“Touch me, please” You gasp, Tom quickly covered your mouth with his free hand and leaned back so he sat back on his knees, positioning you so your head was against the pillow.

“We can’t be too loud now, darling, you need to stay quiet for me, okay?” He soothed your whines, kissing your forehead before focusing his attention below. His eyes shadowed over with desire, a smug smirk tugging at his lips.

His thumb pressed against your clit, massaging small circles against it which caused your legs to tense up. You closed your eyes and struggled against his hand, holding onto his wrist as he brought his other hand up and lathered it with spit. He inserted his finger inside you slowly, careful not to hurt you or make you uncomfortable as he leaned down and kissed your neck. You used your free hands to undo your tie and unbutton your shirt, exposing your bra to Tom’s greedy eyes. He made a pathway of bites and kisses down to your breasts, all whilst thrusting his finger inside of you. You watched as a loose curl dropped in front of his eyes, making a fairly disheveled appearance. He watched as he inserted a second finger, enamoured with the way you stretched.

You tilted your hips up and hummed against his palm, throwing your head back slightly when he started to curl those two fingers. You grabbed the wrist once more, your grip tight but not enough to distract Tom from his goal. He directed his fingers towards that special spongy place inside you, causing you to nearly curl up into a ball if it weren’t for him keeping your legs apart.

“You’re soaking for me, fuck” He cursed lowly, picking up his speed which made your eyes roll to the back of your head. You trembled against the mattress, cunt squeezing around his skilled fingers as he kept punching your g-spot.

You tapped his hand, signalling to take it off your mouth. Tom quickly removed his hand, pushing a few strands stuck to your sweaty skin away from your face. He noticed your puffy lips and glazed eyes, smiling fondly as he watched your expression contort with pleasure.

“Oh god” You whisper, reaching up to grab his shoulder.

“Say my name” He pleaded as quietly as he could, his thumb returning to your clit and circling it softly which caused another adoring reaction from you. Your grip tightened against the material of his prefect blazer, but Tom didn’t care about the crinkles you caused. He leaned down and pressed his body against yours, your mouth was just beside his ear.

“Tom- please… I need you so bad” You sobbed, voice muffled by his shoulder. Tom cradled your head as his fingers worked harder on your pussy, leading up to an almost life changing orgasm. You felt your body tense, goosebumps scattering quickly as you started to climb your high. Tom peppered kisses over your flushed cheeks and forehead, down to your jaw where he sucked a dark love bite, marking you as his.

“You gonna cum, darling? Do it, do it for me” Tom mumbled, his voice verging on a whine as he watched you unravel. You squeezed your eyes shut, body freezing completely as the feeling of sharp, hot white pleasure ripped through you. It was more than difficult trying to keep quiet, tears trailed down your temples as you suppressed a scream. Tom kept curling his fingers into you to help you ride out your orgasm, feeling a sense of pride as he watched you twist and turn with unbearable pleasure.

Your breaths were ragged, you sounded like you’d been through 10 rounds of Quidditch with no breaks. Your legs shook at either side of Riddle as he gently removed his fingers from you, coated with your slick honey. He placed his fingers in his mouth and hummed, his tongue licking up the goodness of your climax. You felt yourself become aroused once more just by watching him taste your cum, you needed him all over again.

But to both of your devastation, the infirmary doors opened and a couple of healers walked in with new patients, thankfully going to the opposite side of the ward and away from you and Tom. The Slytherin pressed a wet finger to his lips, smirking as he lifted up your skirt and bent down.

You held back the combination of a giggle and a moan as he went down for a full taste, his lips kissing your inner thighs and right above your clit.

The two of you heard the nurses converse about treatments and diagnostics, all whilst Tom slipped his tongue inside you and held both of your legs over his shoulders. You had to keep your eyes open, alert in case either of the nurses came and checked on you at the wrong time. But Tom was distracting you terribly, to the point you quivered and kept looking down at his mop of dark curly hair between your legs.

He was just as skilled with his tongue as he was with his fingers, which caused difficulty when it came to keeping silent. You threw your head back against the pillow, your fingers lacing with his hand and giving it a gentle tug as he devoured you. Tom groaned against you, hands on your hips and guiding you easier to his eager mouth.

You wanted to cry, everything felt so good. Too good. You couldn’t remember how you got here, but by Merlin you never wanted it to stop.

You already felt your second orgasm approaching, the muscles in your body tensing once more as another tear left your eye. Tom was relentless, cruel with the flicks of his tongue as he glanced up at you struggling to keep your composure.

The peak of your climax creeped up on you suddenly, making you grab the pillow underneath your head and use it as a muffler as you let out a pained groan, thankfully not loud enough for the nurses to hear. Tom suckled your clit as you fell off that beautiful drop in your stomach, hips stuttering against his jaw as he held them down and continued lapping at your arousal. You cried, eyes shut and teeth clamping on the pillow as you used every cell in your body not to scream.

Tom pulled back when he felt he was satisfied enough with your orgasm, using his fingers to catch the sticky substance near his mouth that he couldn’t quite reach with his tongue. You kept your face hidden under the pillow for a while, still too fucked from the wonderful feeling between your legs. Tom carefully slid himself away from your legs, planting soft kisses on each one before clambering off the bed and back into his own seat, right beside your head.

“Darling?” His voice was quiet, eyes glancing down at you with slight concern. He wondered if he went too far, if you couldn’t handle the torment he gave. But he saw your sly smile immediately after you removed the pillow from your red face, eyes glazed over with pure satisfaction as you looked up at him.

“You should’ve done this far before now” You chuckled softly, your hands still grasping the pillow tightly. Tom leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, brushing the hair off your face once more and finding himself enamoured by the sight in front of him.

For the first time, a moment of peace dispersed between you two. There was no bickering, no insults, no battling it out until the other proved them self to be better. There was blissful, adoring peace. Tom placed his hand over your one, noticing it was still shaking from earlier.

“How are you feeling? Do you need any water? Any sugar?” He asked, his eyes tracing the shape of your face whilst his thumb brushed the skin of your knuckles. Your smile grew wider, nodding your head as you gestured to the glass of water on your bedside table. Tom helped you sit up, buffing your pillows and handing the glass of water over to you. He pulled the covers over your bare legs, protecting whatever modesty you had left as he contained doting over your hair. You didn’t want to know how bad you looked right now, but you felt very spoiled with Tom’s attentive nature.

“I feel bad” You whispered.

“How come?” The Slytherin prefect asked curiously.

“You didn’t get to finish” You frown, looking at the obvious tent in his pants as he let out a brief scoff.

“Don’t think about it too much, you can repay me when you feel better” He winked, causing you to roll your eyes.

Tom made sure you looked presentable for the nurses before leaving, and it just so happened he timed it perfectly.

The head healer peeked through one of the covers shielding your privacy, asking if it was okay to come in after noticing Tom’s presence. The both of you nodded and Tom seemed to get the hint when she showed you a thick pack of bandages and more medicine.

“I think it’s best that you go back to your dorm, Mr Riddle, don’t want to be out past curfew now” The healer smiled fondly at the two of you, sensing something was going on but minding her business nonetheless.

“Of course, my apologies if I’ve outstayed my welcome” Tom stood up, but not before giving your knuckles a sweet kiss before making his way out. He bowed to the healer, then you. He wished the both of you a goodnight before vanishing into the shadows outside the covers. You immediately felt lonely without him, but the nurse seemed to dissipate your sudden separation anxiety. She sat down in the seat Tom did and asked for your leg.

“He’s a good boy that one, dear” The nurse grinned, sterilising your abrasion before wrapping it in bandages.

“Yeah… he certainly is” You chuckled.

#x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x reader #harry potter smut #tom riddle smut #Harry potter x reader

[ellecdc]

Come Back, Be Here (part 6)

p1 // p2 // p3 // p4 // p5 // p6 // p7 // p8

Sirius Black x fem!reader - First Wizarding War Order of the Phoenix - 5.1k

CW: mentions of past abuse/torture, amnesia, mention of Bellatrix's cursed knife (same injury Hermione received in canon), racism/bigotry, swearing x a million cuz it's Remus' POV, angst, hurt/comfort, use of Y/N

Synopsis: After sacrificing yourself to save your friend and Order partner James months before, you're found on the brink of death. How will Sirius react when he finally gets his love back, only to have you snatched out from under him again?

“Where the FUCK is she?”

The headmaster calmly placed his teacup back on its saucer as the two men came barging into his office.

“Ah, Mr. Black. Mr. Lupin. Please, take a seat.” 

So, Sirius did; he took the seat, and he threw it at the wall.

“I am not fucking around old man. Where. Is. She? Where is Y/N?” He barked.

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Sirius stopped in his pacing.

“You don’t know!?” Remus repeated incredulously.

Dumbledore nodded.

Sirius picked up a spinning orb from the headmaster’s desk and sent it careening to the window. The windows – the damned things – were charmed not to break, but the orb did. As pieces of crystal shattered and scattered onto the floor, many sleeping portraits of previous headmasters began waking. A few stayed behind to watch the spectacle, whilst many left to find other portraits to haunt for the time being. 

“That’s not good enough.” Sirius fumed.

With a casual flick of his wand, Dumbledore righted the chair Sirius had thrown. “Why don’t you have a seat, son?”

“I am not your fucking son!” He shouted back, kicking the seat over again.

“Mr. Lupin, why don’t you encourage your friend here to calm down?” The portrait of a previous headmistress asked condescendingly. 

“Get fucked, ma’am.” Was his muttered response.

With a huff, the headmistress decided to leave as well. 

“I am so sick of being played like some pawn in this gods-awful game of yours! We are children! You fucking groomed us as students and enlisted us right out of the gates, fattening us up like cattle for slaughter!”

“Now, Mr. Black-”

“I’M NOT DONE.” Sirius roared. 

Dumbledore shifted his eyes to Remus, who kept his gaze firmly on him.

“You – you’re supposed to be this powerful wizard with years of experience. You defeated that Grindel-fuck back in the sodding dark-ages or whenever, yet somehow, this is out of your wheelhouse!?”

“Mr. Black, everyone learned from the Global Wizarding World with Grindelwald; Tom Riddle how to cheat death, and myself to enlist the help of others.” Dumbledore said.

“But you didn’t get help! You got soldiers, and we’re the ones fighting this fucking war for you! You get to sit here in this bloody castle with powerful ancient wards protecting you, drinking your tea, wanking to the portraits of the other headmasters in your spare time, while the rest of us get their fucking heads blown off!

“We’re the ones being captured. We’re the ones being tortured. We’re the ones being killed. We’re the ones with blood on our hands fighting for our fucking lives, everyday! Bouncing from safe-house to safe-house whilst never being safe. And you know! You’ve known there was a spy, you’ve had contacts on the other side, but you give us nothing. You just send us off on these fucking missions, blind, and we all have to hope that that’s enough. That we’ll live to see another day. That we’ll make it home to our loved ones.”

Sirius paused to catch his breath. “You will not get away with using her like this, not anymore, not by me.”

Dumbledore’s crystal blue eyes bore into Sirius’ stormy grey ones. After a few moments, he offered him a subtle nod. 

“Where is she?” He repeated, quieter this time.

“Sirius, the truth is that I do not know.”

Sirius groaned. “How can you not know!? Fine, fine. Who is your contact? Apparently, someone who was in league with the Black’s for the stupid fucking house-elf to betray me like this. So, who is it? Narcissa? Finally tired of the bleach fumes from that husband of hers? It can’t be Bellatrix.” 

Dumbledore pursed his lips as he considered Sirius.

“It’s not Bellatrix, is it?” He asked in quiet disbelief. 

“No, son, it is not Bellatrix.”

“’Kay well, tell me who it is, then. Reg’s dead so you’re leaving me with dear old Cissy here.” 

Dumbledore leaned onto his forearms on his desk as he peered at Sirius over his half-moon spectacles. 

“A house-elf will always be the most loyal to the head of the house it serves.” 

Sirius scoffed. “Yeah, well my house-elf just up and fucked-off with the love of my life so I’d say his loyalty doesn’t exactly align with...me...” He trailed off as something seemed to dawn on him. 

“Unless I’m not the head of the house.” 

Remus’ neck snapped as he whipped his head to regard his friend. 

“The deed and the vault at Gringotts were all moved to you, Sirius, you’re the head of the house.” 

Sirius never pulled his gaze away from the headmaster. “Goblins can be tricked, and deeds can be forged.” He whispered. “But house-elf magic...” 

Dumbledore leaned back into his chair. 

“But Regulus is dead. He was pronounced dead – your mother offed herself because he was pronounced dead.” Remus argued. 

“He was assumed dead.” Dumbledore corrected.

“Holy fucking shit.” Sirius breathed. 

“Regulus has been in contact with me since this past spring. It appears that Miss. L/N was the turning point for him in this war.”

Sirius stared in bafflement. “What do you...” 

“You may, one day, need to discuss with your brother. However, what he explained to me,” Dumbledore started. “Is that he had discovered Riddle’s secret of the horcruxes after becoming increasingly disenchanted by his rhetoric. He was intent on defeating Riddle himself, but came to me when he found Y/N.” 

The colour drained from Remus’ face. “You knew? All this time.”

Dumbledore turned his gaze to the lycanthrope. 

“You knew!?” He repeated.

“You must understand, I could not remove her from Riddle’s ranks without rousing suspicion from the other Death Eaters who knew she was there. We were also becoming increasingly aware of a spy within our ranks and could not jeopardize the intel by alerting the Death Eaters of our own spy.” 

“I can’t fucking believe this.” Sirius cried out. “You let her suffer there so you could keep the upper hand!”

“It was for the greater good.”

“Fuck that!” Sirius barked. “Fuck that and fuck you!”

“You do not understand how differently this could have all played out without her, Sirius.” 

Remus scoffed. “Oh the ‘could’s’, professor, really? We can sit here until our dying breath discussing all of the fucking could’s that could have taken place from the beginning of fucking time itself and it would mean nothing.” 

“I don’t care what could have happened.” Sirius interjected. “You should have protected her. Protected all of us.” 

Dumbledore looked between his two former students as he seemed to come to some kind of decision. 

“The five horcruxes that Y/N brought us have been destroyed. I do not want to give Riddle time to realize that they are gone. I have discussed with our allies what will need to happen next.” Dumbledore stated.

“And what will need to happen next, professor?” Sirius sneered. 

“It appears that Mr. Pettigrew told Riddle he would be the secret keeper by their next meeting.” Dumbledore said as Sirius swallowed bile rising in his throat. “I believe it would be best to lure Riddle out when he does not feel the need for an army.” 

Remus leaned forward in his chair. “How do we do that?”

Dumbledore pursed his lips. “It would be best if Riddle remained unaware of our knowledge of Peter.”

“I think he’s going to figure it out when he misses their next club meeting.” Sirius scoffed. 

“Unless he goes.” Remus murmured. 

“Over my dead body do we release that rat bastard.” Sirius growled. 

“I agree, Mr. Black, I do not believe we should entrust Peter. However, there may be another way.”

Sirius looked at Dumbledore blankly. “Tell me, headmaster, do you plan on breaking out some unforgiveables? Because short of imperio, I’m not sure-”

“Polyjuice.” Remus blurted.

Sirius whipped his head to his friend in shock, whilst a twinkle of pride appeared in Dumbledore’s eye. 

“We could keep up the ruse.” Remus explained. 

“I’ll go.” Sirius claimed.

Remus groaned. “Pads, do you really think you’re the best person for this job?”

Sirius looked at Remus with a look of ill-hidden betrayal. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sirius, this is the most sensitive mission possibly anyone will ever have to take. You are passionate but you have a tendency to go in guns blazing and this is not the setting.” 

“I’ll be fine.” Sirius argued.

“You are going to hear and see things that will infuriate and you will not be able to react. You will have to put your morals aside.” 

“Rem, honestly, I grew up with the pureblood bullshit, I can handle it.” Sirius insisted.

“It nearly killed you, Pads. I was there when you showed up at the Potter’s.”

“Remus, I’m going.”

“Perhaps it should be me.” Remus stated as if Sirius hadn’t said anything at all.

“Are you insane?”

“Obviously the answer to that is yes but listen: no one would be able to use legillimency on me due to lunar magic, I stand a better chance at keeping a level head, and I’m perhaps just a touch less emotionally invested in this than you are.” Remus argued.

“Besides,” he continued, “I’ve spent my entire life pretending that I’m not a monster. I’m sure I can pretend to be one for a little bit.”

“You’re not a monster.” Sirius sighed.

Remus gave him a sad smile. “See? I’ve fooled you all.”

Dumbledore hummed. “I think Mr. Lupin may be right, Sirius. Perhaps you should trust him with this.”

“Of course I trust him, but-” Sirius started, turning to look at Remus. “I can’t lose you too.” He admitted quietly.

Though the sentiment caused a twinge of pain in Remus’ chest, he couldn’t waste an opportunity to razz his mate. “Awe, Pads. Don’t tell me you’re gonna miss me.” He cheeked as he pinched Sirius’ arm. 

“Oh, sod off you wanker.” Sirius muttered and crossed his arms. 

“I suppose it’s settled.” Dumbledore claimed. “Please await my correspondence with further instructions.”

October 29th

“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.” James could be heard muttering as he paced the family room of 12 Grimmauld Place. 

“Why isn’t Dumbledore doing this himself?” Lily muttered darkly. 

“I’m not leaving Y/N in his hands, not again.” Sirius murmured into his hand as he stared at the fire. “It should be me going. Remus, I should go.” 

With a sigh, Remus stood from the wingback chair. “No, Pads. It’s too late to change the plan now. It’s going to be fine.”

Sirius shook his head and looked at the ceiling. 

“She’s fucking strong, Sirius. And she’s got more people on her side this time. We’re gonna finish this.” Remus pressed.  

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed and everyone took a steadying breath. 

“Be careful, Rem.” Lily tearfully murmured as she gave him a hug. 

“I hate this.” James repeated just as quietly as he too hugged the lycanthrope. 

Remus smiled at them both before he moved to Sirius, who had shifted his gaze back to the fire. 

“We’re close, Pads.” He whispered.

Sirius nodded, keeping his gaze on the fire. “Thank you, Moony. For going after her.”

“She’s pack.” Remus said simply causing Sirius to let out a shuddering breath.

“Be careful.”

Remus nodded in agreement and took a swig from his pocket flask. He grunted slightly as he felt his body shifting and changing, but it was nothing close to the pain he experienced every full moon. 

Sirius, Lily, and James all looked in various levels of disgust as Remus – now in the form of Peter Pettigrew – stood to his full height. “How do I look?”

The three friends looked at each other awkwardly before turning back to Remus...Peter?

“Fuck, this is weird.” James muttered.

“Yeah, honestly mate, I think you should go.” Sirius agreed.

Remus rolled his eyes. “You know I’m not actually him, right?”

Lily grimaced. “Yeah, yeah Judas. Get going.” 

Sirius and James looked at her inquisitively, but Remus snorted a laugh offering everyone a wave as he stepped into the street. He walked a short distance to a hidden alleyway where he could apparate to the location of the Death Eater meeting. Remus sent one silent prayer to any god who’d listen. 

Please let this go smoothly. 

 Lestrange Manor loomed dauntingly in front of Remus as he tried to muster the courage to walk up the brick path leading to the door. Purebloods and their gaudy houses he mused silently.

“Petty-Pettigrew!” A voice sing-songed behind him, causing him to turn. 

Barty Crouch Jr skipped towards him merrily as if he were an alt-punk Dorothy on his way to Oz. He paused in front of Remus and tapped his cheek twice, slightly too hard to be considered just condescending and bordering on aggressive. “How’s our favourite little rat?”

Remus grimaced but tried to play it off as a smile. “Er, I’m-”

“Oh, Salazar. No, I don’t actually care.” Barty chuckled, looking back at his entourage like can you believe this guy? His friendly façade fell as he turned back to Remus. “Better have something for the Dark Lord today, otherwise we’ll find other uses for our little lab rat.” He finished with a slimy wink as he continued up the path to the manor. 

Well, Remus thought, welcome to Hell, I suppose. 

He followed Barty The Deranged and company up the walkway, fighting the urge to hum: We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz as he went.

If Remus thought the outside of Lestrange Manor was counteracting the anti-depressants coursing through his system, the inside of it made him want to grab the closest silver fork and end it all. He walked along what had to be a fourty-foot table trying to find the best seat before he realized that this was the wrong approach – every seat was terrible.

“Don’t be absurd, Pettigrew.” Mulciber sneered at Remus. “A lowly like you stands at the back.”

Remus fought the urge to roll his eyes and nodded, moving to stand near the wall by the door. At least I’ll be close if I need a quick exit. He also fought the biting urge to lunge at the sight of Fenrir Greyback. You’re here for a reason, Lupin.

Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Bellatrix Lestrange entered the...Remus didn’t know what the hell purebloods wont to call rooms like this...a grand room? A dining room? A reception hall? Whatever it was called, it fucking sucked, and it sucked worse when those three walked in. The brothers mostly regarded themselves with proper decorum, but Bellatrix and her certain flare seemed to suck the air out of the room causing everyone to stand a little more at attention. 

Bellatrix Lestrange walked like she was the Queen of Hearts attending her own coronation. She smiled wickedly at those seated around the table, pausing briefly to share terse words with Lucius Malfoy, before then double-cheek-kissing his wife and her sister, Narcissa. 

There seemed to be some sort of disagreement about who should sit in one of the two seats at the head of the table next to the Dark Lord’s seat (throne for all intents and purposes), but a silent conversation that passed between Bellatrix and her brother-in-law resulted in the latter finding another chair.  

Voldemort walked into the room and those who had been sitting stood suddenly, falling deathly silent as Voldemort moved to stand at the head of the table. The sickening smell of dark magic accosted Remus who felt his eyes water; he swallowed hard against his gag reflex as a giant python type snake slithered its way into the room.

If there was ever any speculation that Nagini was the sixth horcrux before, Remus now felt confident that he could confirm it.

“My Lord.” Rodolphus said reverently as he bowed his head. Remus watched as the rest of the room did the same, and quickly followed suit – he wanted to throw up. 

Remus’ plan of attack here was to be as non-descript as possible. He was here for one reason – tell Voldemort he was the secret keeper and plan a course of ‘attack’ on the Potter home in Godric’s Hollow – otherwise, he was to be invisible. He could not be invisible if he was angry, and if he listened too closely, he’d get angry, so...

He almost missed it when Voldemort addressed him.

“Now, I trust that you were successful in your task?” Voldemort’s voice echoed through the room, sounding more like an actor in a Greek tragedy than a tyrannical fascist leader addressing his followers.

A throat cleared before something hit Remus on the shin. He looked up and realised everyone’s eyes were on him. 

“Oh erm, uh yes. My apologies...my Lord...” He tried to regain his footing. “Uhm, I was successful. I am officially the Potter’s secret keeper.”

Bellatrix barely waited until the end of the sentence to stand and begin cackling maniacally. “We’re going to kill the child! We’re going to kill the child!” She sang as she jumped and clapped her hands. 

Voldemort hardly spared Bellatrix a sideways gaze as he lifted one hand – she fell silent and returned to her seat, continuing to smile and wiggle as if it were difficult to keep her obvious joy at bay. 

“Though I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he began, “I’d like to eliminate this specific threat myself.” 

By the end of the sentence, he was offering Remus a chilling smile. Remus worked to keep his breathing even as he tried to reciprocate it. 

“Where is this hide away located?” Voldemort asked.

“Erm, Godric’s Hollow, m’Lord.”

“You will take me to them. You shall meet me in the town square at eight in the evening the day after tomorrow. We shall eliminate this threat to me once and for all.” 

“Any threat to you is a threat to all of us, my Lord.” Alecto Carrow said severely which was met with a muttering of agreement from around the table.

“You will all be rewarded greatly for your dedication and loyalty to me.” Voldemort declared, and Bellatrix began a round of applause. 

The meeting carried on and Remus ensured to take two more swigs of the Polyjuice potion to avoid turning back into himself prematurely. 

A black cat had materialized beside Remus at some point throughout the meeting and appeared to make itself at home beside his left foot. The feline seemed to watch as Remus would lift the flask to his mouth, and he became increasingly paranoid that this cat somehow knew he was an imposter. Was this cat a spy? Was this a spy cat who somehow knew Peter was caught for being a spy for the Death Eaters and that I, as a spy, came to this meeting as Peter as a spy for the Order pretending to be Peter who was acting as a spy for the Death Eaters.

Fuck, Remus was losing it.

Get a grip you stupid bastard. He scolded himself. 

The meeting appeared to conclude as Voldemort stood, and everyone followed suit. A few higher pointing Death Eaters seemed to congregate at the head of the table – Malfoy, the Lestranges, Mulciber, Snape, Nott, Goyle, and the Carrows encircled Voldemort. 

Remus began looking for the door when he felt the cat brush up against his leg. He looked down to the black cat who was peering back up at him – the eyes were light, nearly blue but not quite – and they looked disturbingly familiar. The cat seemed to be cocking an eyebrow at him, if cats could do such a thing, as Remus considered it.

“What?” Remus whispered.

“Make a habit o’ talkin’ to rodents, do ye Pettigrew?” The sickening sound of Greyback’s voice permeated Remus' hearing – as well as his other senses. Suddenly, Remus was four years old again, waking to the sound of screaming that turned out the be his own as a wolf locked its jaw upon his chest. He ignored the stinging in his eyes as he thought of his mothers screams and sobs, begging the healers to do something – anything – to help her boy, whilst everyone murmured it’d be kindest to just ‘put the boy out of his misery’. 

“I do, actually,” Remus said, lacing his words with venom. “I’ve found they often make better company than a mangey wolf.” 

Greyback seemed taken aback as he considered Remus. 

“Why you little-”

“Ah, there you are, Splash.” A posh accent commented from Remus’ other side. He turned to see the form of Narcissa Malfoy bending to pick up the black cat. 

“Good work, Pettigrew.” She commented as Splash weaseled its way back out of Narcissa’s arms and took a few paces to the door. “Don’t let us keep you.” 

Remus nodded at Narcissa, feeling off kilter at her cordial behaviour; he couldn’t imagine Peter ever making friends with the likes of her. He moved toward the door and as he walked, he realized that the cat had paused and was watching Remus before carrying on ahead. 

Remus felt like he could finally take a deep breath once he stepped beyond the gated entrance of the manor. His peace didn’t last long when he realized the cat had paused again and was once again watching him.

“Seriously, what the hell do you want?” He muttered quietly.

The cat looked as though it rolled its eyes at him as he walked a few more feet ahead, turning back to Remus.

“Are you expecting me to follow you? I’m not as dumb as I look.” He commented again, though realizing too late that he may actually be as dumb as he looks, seeing as he was currently talking to a cat. 

He heard a low growl emanate from the cat’s chest before it turned and walked away without turning back this time to confirm Remus was following it. 

“It seems as though curiosity may kill the wolf today.” Remus muttered to himself as he begrudgingly followed the cat against every one of his instincts which were screaming at him to just get the fuck out of there.  

The cat stopped in a densely wooded area and seemed to scan the are before turning back to Remus, who in turn stood and stared at the cat dumbly. 

“I don’t see a pentagram anywhere, is this not where you plan to sacrifice me to the devil?” He asked as he too scanned the woods for potential threats.

“Salazar, you Gryffindor’s are bloody exhausting.” A voice rang through the woods. Remus whipped his head back towards the sound, and where the cat once stood was none other than Regulus Black.

“Holy fucking shit. You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Regulus rolled his eyes, “and so eloquent, as always.” He muttered.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You’re supposed to be dead.” Remus seethed.

“Disappointed, are you?”

Remus gritted his teeth. “Where’s Y/N?”

Regulus’ eyes softened considerably, though his posture remained stiff as he considered Remus.

“Safe. That is all you need to know.” 

“Fuck that, Black. Where is she?” 

Regulus sucked in a breath, appearing to attempt to steady himself at having to deal with the likes of Remus. 

“The Dark Lord’s followers became aware that she was not as dead as they had previously assumed. We could not risk them searching for her.” Regulus admitted.

“How could they have known she wasn’t dead? The only person who could have reported that to them is Peter and he’s a little tied up right now.” Remus said darkly.

“My cousin’s little art project on her arm was done with a cursed blade – the dark magic left a trace on her. When Yaxley tried to claim that she had died while trying to escape from his hold instead of admitting he let her get away, Bellatrix was quick to prove him wrong.”

“What?” Remus asked in shock.

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Good gods, which of you imbeciles did that old man send?” He asked before casting a quick finite over Remus. 

Remus felt the Polyjuice potion wash away from his form as he stretched out to his correct height. 

“Aren’t you wolves supposed to have superhuman hearing?” He asked condescendingly. 

“Fuck off.” Remus spat. 

“Now, now. There is no need for such language, Lupin; we are on the same side, after all.”

“Like fuck we are. You’re a marked Death Eater, and you abducted Y/N.” He spat. 

“I think it should be obvious by now that I have clearly defected here, Lupin.” Regulus responded.

“Why?”

This seemed to catch Regulus off guard. “Pardon?”

“Why defect?”

Remus watched as Regulus stared hard at him, when suddenly a filmy haze seemed to overtake Regulus’ grey eyes and his face grew hard. 

“I hardly think that is relevant.” 

The two men stared at each other sizing one another up. 

Remus felt conflicted. He knew Sirius hated his family, but Sirius never really could bring himself to hate Regulus – he was only a child, just like Sirius was. Regulus was a victim too. They were each dealt a shitty hand, but the way they played their cards were different. Regulus chose the path of least resistance by adapting and adhering to his parent’s wishes. Sirius rebelled, pushed back, and decided to fold, leaving the game altogether. 

Sirius wanted to hate Regulus; when he got his Dark Mark, and then again when he died. But he couldn’t bring himself to, because part of it felt like it was his fault; Regulus took the role that Sirius himself was born into – and in many ways, Sirius felt as though he forced his little brother into this. And in the end, it cost Regulus his life. 

But Remus, looking at Regulus now; having faked his own death, defected from not only his family’s legacy but also the reign of the 'Lord' that he had sworn himself to, all whilst helping the other side; how different were the two brothers, really? 

Twin Renegades. 

“Sirius is beside himself.” Remus admitted quietly. 

Regulus seemed pained by this admission.

“I wouldn’t have given her back yet if I knew it wasn’t safe.”

Remus’ heart stuttered. “Wait, you – you’re the one who brought her to Godric’s Hollow?”

He was responded with a single curt nod.

“But, but how? How did you know? The house is...”

“Y/N. She had described to me what she called ‘location seven’. I apparated her there.” 

Remus balked. Each Order team had several secret locations they would be able to travel to in case anything went sideways during a mission. Remus wasn’t as familiar, seeing as he was the only Order member who could attend his particular missions, but he had heard his friends discussing it before. Even Lily and Sirius didn’t know the areas of James and your secret locations; they were for your safety, and your safety only.

“Location seven was the cottage in Godric’s Hollow?”

“No, it was the wooded area behind it. I could feel the familiar sense of a fidelius charm nearby, so I brought her as close to it as I could before I ran, we...” Regulus heaved a sigh, “we had fought our way out, we’d barely made it.” 

“Where is she now?”

“She’s safe.”

“Regulus.”

“I’m sorry, Lupin. You may not believe me, but I am. I... I saved her because I could not watch the woman my brother loved die in front of me. I saved her for him, but the other’s discovered I had rescued her, and suddenly it became much bigger than him. I couldn’t just return her at the time.” Regulus admitted.

“The last time you saved her, she was hardly safe. How do we know she’s safe now?” Remus pleaded.

Regulus grimaced. “Again, the others had known I had rescued her last time. This time, they do not know she is here. They do not even know I am here.” 

“How is she safer with you than she is at home with Sirius? With us?”

“You moved five members of the Order plus an infant with a bounty on its head into one house. If they had gone searching for Y/N and found you, it would have been devastating for the cause.” He explained. “Listen; you will escort the Dark Lord to the Potter’s cottage in two days. He plans to attend with you as Peter Pettigrew, alone; he will show up unknowingly out numbered. He goes nowhere without Nagini, and we will be able to destroy the last horcrux before finally ending the Dark Lord’s reign of tyranny. She will be home to you soon.”

“What about you?” Remus asked.

Regulus’ eyebrows furrowed. “What about me?”

“When this is over, what about you?”

Regulus looked Remus up and down. “I hardly think it matters.”

“Of course it does; of course you matter.” 

Regulus’ eyes turned stormy. “Do not pretend to know anything about me, Lupin. I have never once mattered; not to my brother, hardly to my parents until I was the last one standing, never to Dumbledore, and rarely to the Dark Lord, lest my family’s money benefitted his cause.” 

“You matter to Sirius.”

“Enough!” Regulus shouted, seeming to forget himself. Remus was sure he’d never even heard of Regulus having ever raised his voice before. “Do not fuck this up, Lupin. We have one chance to end this.” 

And with a quick spin, Remus was left in the dense woods alone. He hadn’t noticed how late it was until now, the darkness seeping into his bones leaving him chilled in the late October evening. 

It didn’t exactly go well, but it sure could have gone a lot worse.

He walked towards where Regulus had been standing and noticed a small piece of parchment laying in the wet leaves. He picked it up and unfolded it. 

“Stay safe. 1, 2, 3. V.” 

It could have gone a lot worse.

October 30th

Regulus sighed – he felt exhausted from the meeting with Remus Lupin yesterday. He hated raising his temper, it made him feel like Sirius; it made him feel like a Gryffindor. 

Regulus’ cat form pushed past a vine covered gate and entered a grandiose stone outbuilding before shifting back to his human form.

“Can Kreacher get master a drink before Kreacher leaves?”

Regulus sighed. “You should not return until this is over, Kreacher. My brother is surely not happy with you.”

The house-elf scoffed. “Kreacher is not afraid of blood-traitors. Besides, Kreacher serves the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black; Kreacher belongs at Grimmauld Place.” 

“Underestimate my brother, Kreacher, and it will be your head on the wall.” Regulus muttered.

“Now cousin, do try to keep your patience.” Narcissa said as she opened the door to her hidden library located in a small building behind the gardens of Malfoy Manor. 

You sat on a Victorian style settee in Narcissa’s library with a babbling Draco on your knee as you cast colourful butterflies above him, causing the toddler to coo and clap. 

“We’re in.” Regulus announced, causing your head to snap forward and Draco to make grabby hands at him. “This ends tomorrow.”

Continue to part seven here.

#marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfiction #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black fic #marauders x reader #first wizarding war #first wizarding war fanfic #reader insert #escapism #self insert #canon divergence #hurt/comfort #sirius black hurt/comfort #sirius black one shot #sirius black blurb #sirius black ficlet #werewolf mcswearwolf #remus lupin swears a lot it's canon #regulus black #regulus makes his appearance #sirius is not well #thoughts and prayers

[xo-tins-xo]

Stiles x reader imagine

Summary: Just moving to town and finding sanctuary in a certain brunette.

Word count: 594

An: i really hope you guys like my first ever imagine, more to come soon❤️

Could you imagine just moving into Beacon Hills from a bustling city like Houston TX, or New York. The small , almost eerie , town is completely different than what you’re used to. Everyone knows each other, there's no large intricate highways, and theres like one fast food chain, and everywhere else is a mom and pop shop. You felt like an outsider, the energy was just so different from back home.

Can you imagine just moving in across the street from Sheriff stilinki's house because he and your dad used to be old drinking buddies.

Could you imagine unpacking all your Mr. Toad figurines and other useless trinkets when you catch two brown haired boys staring at you.

The taller one holding binoculars  in his right hand while his head was turned looking at the door, The other boy staring right at you as he keeps hitting his friend’s shoulder to get his attention. The taller boy, with the buzz cut, looks back with embarrassment. You mouth pervert to them and close your curtains to only find out they are still very sheer. Embarrassed by it you just turn away and continue packing.

Imagine stiles seeing the moving trucks up and down his street. He's curious, not many people move to beacon heels. He sees a black Chevrolet truck pull into the drive across the street. At first he's sees a man, but then you get out next. He's bewildered. Not only was there a new kid, but a hot new kid!? He needed a closer examination and of course he called scott for backup, there's no way you're this hot and not supernatural. Scott and Stiles were extremely embarrassed that they got caught for peeping, but it wasn't like that they swear!

Imagine going to your first day of school, You hoped and prayed to not run into those peeping toms, You hoped they went to some delinquent school miles away. You go your whole day without seeing either one of them, until you head to the office to drop off some paper you had your teachers sign. Just your luck, the guy right in front of you is the tall brunette. He turns around and shows this baffled look, his face calms and he starts nervously scratching his head. You give your paper to the front desk and try to go on about your day. Before you could reach the door you feel a warm and .....clammy hand around your wrist? "Can we talk?" he asks, "In private?" he says sparing a glance to the front desk lady who rapidly turned her head away when she realized we were looking at her.

Imagine heading to the library with stiles and him explaining that he wasn’t trying to peep on you, he was just curious about who was moving in. You taunt him a little but ultimately choose to forgive and forget.

You immediately click with stiles but not so much with his friends, They give you weird looks and lydia always has something backhanded to say which really pisses you off. Although you and stiles talk , y'all tend stay in your separate friend groups.

Imagine having stiles drive you around in his jeep to show you all the great food places to eat off campus.

Imagine talking to stiles through flashlight code at night since yalls windows are across from each other

Imagine taking walks late at night while holding each other to ward off the cold breeze as you try to get to the bottom of why you both can't sleep, could y'all be soulmates?

- i really hoped you guys liked reading this🙏🏼. im sorry if its super detailed i wrote this late at night🤸🏽‍♂️

#teen wolf x reader #stiles stilinksi x reader #teen wolf #stiles stilinski #imagine #teenwolf imagines

[levans44]

Apartment #3 - Chapter 3

pairing: steve rogers x undercover!reader

warnings: 18+ SMUT*, Neighbors to Friends to Lovers, lots of angst, heavy mutual pining, hurt/comfort, eventual smut/romance/fluff

summary: as an undercover agent at SHIELD, her newest assignment involves moving in across the hall from her target. she's strictly ordered to keep her distance—no personal contact besides the absolutely necessary. the only issue? her new target neighbor turns out to be Captain America.

excerpt:

Jessica Grace Parker December 4th, 1989 569 Leaman Place Apt. #3, Brooklyn, NY 11201 Registered Nurse NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital

It’s the undercover alias she’s been assigned as a member of SHIELD’s Special Operations unit. The mission objective was rather simple—monitor the target and report updates as necessary.

She’s gone undercover more than a dozen times, so it’s not the details of the assignment or the temporary relocation she’s concerned about.

It’s just that her target was well… more unusual than most.

author's note: an idea that's been living in my head ever since steve asked sharon for that cup of coffee in their apartment hallway. as a SHIELD agent, the reader's real name has been [REDACTED] to preserve anonymity.

masterlist

“So. You all moved in?”

She lets out a drawn-out sigh, leaning back in her office chair. 

“Yep. And the new apartment’s somehow smaller than the one I have now.”

“Smaller than a studio in Manhattan?” Thomas crinkles his nose, gaze fixed on his screen as he types off the rest of his latest mission report—a 0-8-4 mission to investigate some unregistered Asgardian technology that was detected on the Portuguese coast.

“Yeah, the whole building looks like it’s been there for at least a century. Wouldn’t be surprised if the plumbing’s gone to shit.”

“Damn.” Thomas tsks, muttering absentmindedly as he gathers the files on his desk, closing up the folder.  “…well, if it’s good enough for Cap…” He sighs, before his head raises slowly with a newfound interest.  

“speaking of whom…” 

Folding his fingers over the desk, he wiggles in his seat in anticipation, like a lion ready to strike its prey.

“Did you see him? How was he? Everything you dreamed of and more?”

She rolls her eyes, snorting.

“First of all, I barely met him.” 

Thomas gasps, practically jumping up in his chair.

“So you did see him!”

She shoots him a wide-eyed glare, giving the office a hurried scan.

“Barely, Tom. I just said hi.”

She tries to brush off her coworker’s overt interest, pretending to shift her attention to her monitor as she hits ‘refresh’ on her inbox. 

Thomas, of course, doesn’t let up.

He groans, practically climbing on top of his spinning chair in excitement as he leans in closer. 

“C’mon, girl, spill! I know there’s more than that.”

She purses her lips, glaring at the unread mail piled up in her spam box before swirling around in her seat, sighing in defeat.

“Fine, he just… he helped me with a couple boxes, and he uhm… hesawmykeychain.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest as she huffs out another breath.  

“That stupid keychain you got me, Thomas? He saw it.”

It takes what feels like a full hour for the realization to sink into Thomas’s face, and when it does, he’s a laughing mess over her desk, clutching onto his keyboard for support.

“H-holy shit, you’re kidding!” 

He gasps for air, banging on the table as she playfully shoves his hands away.

“Oh my god, girl, I’d say I’m sorry, but… I’m not.”

At the deadpanned expression on her face, he breaks into another bout of giggles. Just as she starts to seriously contemplate strangling her coworker, her phone buzzes on her desk:

Messages Grant Ward 1 Message ‘here.’

“Wait, so how did he rea… ugh, please don’t tell me that’s him again.” Thomas remarks with undisguised disgust, his mood making a remarkably quick 180.

“Yeah, we’re meeting for lunch today.” She mutters, slipping her phone and purse into her bag.

“What? What about our sushi date Friday?”

“Next week?” She stands up, shooting him an apologetic smile as she grabs her jacket from behind her chair.  

“Ugh, I hope he chokes on his food.” Thomas sings under his breath, swiveling back around in his chair as he rolls his eyes.

“Wait, so what are your thoughts on Grant again?” She smirks amusedly, hand on her hip, purse hanging from one arm.

“Oh, he’s just a sweetheart! So glad you guys are back together.” Thomas claps, blinking up at her with fake enthusiasm. 

She only rolls her eyes in response, no longer bothered about her friend’s open disapproval for her on-again off-again relationship with Grant. 

2 years she’s known Grant Ward, ever since they collaborated on a week-long asset extraction case in Marrakech. He was the confident, charming type from the get-go—a perfect foil to her more withdrawn attitude around new people—and for the first few months, it felt like a match made in heaven. Things started to get a little rocky around month 5, and though she understands the concerns her friends have voiced about the instability of their relationship, a part of her is determined to prove them wrong.

When she arrives at the first floor of their building, he’s waiting for her at the lobby cafe.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.” She huffs out a breath, sliding into the seat opposite of his.

“Hey, one sec” he mutters without glancing up, slumped backward in his seat. His gaze remains fixed on his phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen as he types out a long message. 

She lets out a quiet breath, glancing around at the crowded space as agents and other SHIELD employees walked in for coffee and some quick grab-and-go options: turkey sandwiches, salads, fruit cups. 

“I didn’t know this place served lunch.” 

“Hmm?” Grant hums after a long pause, eyes flit rapidly across the screen, head nodding though she doubts he’s heard her. “… yeah, just—“ Another ding sounds from his device and his brows perk up, eyes quickly scanning whatever message is lighting up his phone. 

She frowns, sitting up in her chair as she leans forward.

“Is that about work? Everything ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.” Grant licks his lips, sucking in a breath, and the divot between her brows deepens. 

“Listen, [REDACTED]….”

He slips his phone into his pocket, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward.

“…I need to talk to you about something.”

An invisible rope goes taut in the pit of her stomach.

“Okay.” She murmurs slowly, eyes flitting between the hard set line of his jaw and the serious lines under his eyes. 

“I’ve been thinking about us lately, and…”

The rope in her stomach stretches farther and farther, the pressure building up in her lungs.

“I think it’s best if we call this off.”

The rope snaps loose, and the blade of the guillotine swings down. 

She opens her mouth, but all the air’s been sucked out of her lungs and she’s left gaping like a fish out of water. 

“I… what?” She manages to choke out. 

From across the table, Grant heaves out a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s just with this relocation gig you’ve got going, I never see you anymore, and I just…. I think we drifted apart, that’s all.”

Her entire body immediately goes rigid at the mention of her new assignment—it was something that Grant had been opposed from the very start:

‘Brooklyn? Really? What the hell does Fury want you to do in that shithole?’ 

He had complained.

She had tried to convince herself that he was being protective, simply worried because she wasn’t allowed to let him in on any of the assignment details. But deep down, she always knew it was the green-eyed monster—at the onset of recruitment, he was disappointed to learn he wasn’t included in the short list of agents whom Fury considered for the assignment. 

She should have known better. About him. About all of it.

“Sorry, are you… are you dumping me right now?”

“No, listen, baby, I think you’re great—“

And the condescension in his voice as he croons ‘baby’ is the last straw that blows the whole fuse.

“—okay, you know what? First off, I am not your fucking baby.”

“…and second, don’t pretend like you haven’t been texting someone else these past few weeks.”

From the small glimpses of ‘miss you <3’ and ‘when are you getting back?’ on his phone, to the way he’d regularly blame overtime for last-minute date cancellations—everything was so obvious in retrospect.

He scoffs at her accusatory glare, as if the idea was unimaginable.

“I haven’t been texting anyon—”

She lets out a sharp laugh, head tilting back as her nose pricks, tears clouding the corner of her vision. 

Why had she given him the benefit of the doubt? Deep down, she had known all along. 

“—you know what, Grant? That’s great.” She stands up abruptly, chair dragging loudly against the floor as she snatches up her belongings off the table. “…but if you’re gonna cheat on me, at least have the fucking balls to admit that you’re the reason we’re not together. Not me or my fucking job.”

The rest of her work day is fueled with nothing but rage—she nearly breaks her keyboard trying to draft a simple email, accidentally stomping over an office plant on her way to the fax machine. Matters are only made worse when she’s called in to deal with a tense hostage situation that drags on for hours on end. 

By the time she gets back to her place in Brooklyn, it’s 8:21pm.

It’s 8:21 pm on a Friday night and her feet are aching, back tense from an afternoon of slumping over the mission control monitor.

It’s 8:21 pm on a Friday night and she’s just managed to climb up the last few stairs to her floor when her phone’s suddenly blowing up with text notifications from Thomas, Kristen from statistics, and a few other close friends from work:

‘OPEN THIS RIGHT NOW.'

‘What in the actual fuck? Did you know about this??’

‘Hey, I thought you should see this.’

Attached is a link to an Instagram story, uploaded by an account she recognizes as one of Grant’s buddies from work.

“What the fuck?” She mutters to herself, brows furrowing as she clicks on the video, squinting at the dimly lit but unmistakeable scene inside of a nightclub—Grant with another woman on his lap, drunk off his ass and laughing as if he hasn’t got a care in the world. The brunette in his lap reaches around, landing a deep kiss on Grant’s lips as his hands slide down her waist. The timestamp reads 10 minutes ago, confirming her biggest fear—not even 8 hours after they had broken up, and he’s parading around with a girl he’s probably been sleeping with for god knows how long.

It’s the third time the video’s playing back on loop when she realizes that angry, hot tears are dripping from her eyes, slowly making its way down to her jaw. She leans against the nearest wall, just outside her door, fingertips turning white at how harshly she was gripping her phone.

How could he do this, after two years of endless work and dedication?

Her knees can barely hold up her weight, stomach bubbling over with betrayal. Her eyes dart desperately across the screen, following their movements over and over and over—she doesn’t even hear the echo of the footsteps coming up the stairs behind her.

“Hey, you alright?” Her eyes snap up from her phone, but she doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is.

Great. Just fucking peachy.

She hastily turns off her phone and swipes at her cheeks, batting at the wet corners of her eyes before facing Steve. It doesn’t take a genius to notice she’d been crying, and his eyes immediately flit across her damp cheeks, the blurred mascara staining her lower lash line.

She fidgets with the rumpled edges of her blouse, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hey.” She mutters, glancing back down at her phone though the screen is blank.

“Hi.” He tries to give her a friendly smile, though the corners of his mouth are noticeably stiff, a small divot forming between his brows.

“Are you… locked out of your place?” He frowns worriedly, eyes darting between her and the door behind her as he steps forward, raising his arm to gesture toward her apartment door. The keys in his hand jingle with his movements, while the other hand is balancing a flat cardboard box, patterned with red and black checkerboards on top. As he shuffles forward, she gets a sudden whiff of… oh, jesus. 

Yeasty, cheesy, and the unmistakable aroma of fresh tomato sauce—all of which can only mean one thing. 

She licks her lips, eyes flickering to the box in his hand before she clears her throat. She glances back toward her door, shaking her head.

“Oh, no, I just…”

Nope, just crying in the hallway cause I got dumped on by a guy who’s been cheating on me for weeks. How’s your night, Cap?

“… no, I’m not locked out.” She ends up muttering, though her feet stay rooted to her spot on the carpet, barely a few feet away from her door.

“Oh.” Steve nods slowly, pursing his lips. 

“…right. Well, I’ll, I’ll see you around.”

Hesitantly, he continues forward, moving down the hallway. Now with her back turned to him, she only hears the soft jingle of his keys and his door creak open. And, yet, she doesn’t hear him step inside. 

“Hey, Jess?” 

Wincing, she turns around reluctantly, annoyance creeping up at Steve’s friendly gaze. He’s standing at his doorway, keys perched on top of the pizza box, his other hand resting on the doorframe. 

Raising his brows, he quirks his head to one side and poses a question that throws her off guard. 

“Have you had dinner yet?”

She blinks, and manages to shake her head.

He purses his lips, stepping forward, away from his dim apartment and back under the hallway lights. 

“Well, if you…” He huffs out a breath, eyes flitting downwards then back up.

“… if you haven’t eaten yet, would you want to share this with me? Don’t think I can finish it on my own.”

He smiles, brows raised invitingly. Her eyes dart between the pizza box and the unassuming expression on his face, and she sucks in a quiet breath.

“I…” She’s dumbfounded, the second time she’s at a loss for words that night, feeling the whiplash of being dumped a minute ago and now being offered pizza by Captain America.

“…are you inviting me inside your apartment?”

It takes a moment for the implication behind her question to sink in, and when it does, Steve’s face is as red as the squares on the box he’s holding.

He perks up, noticeably stiffening. The tips of his ears are the first to turn scarlet, and soon he’s blushing a deep crimson all the way from his cheeks down to his neck. 

He sighs, ducking his head, brows pinched together in distress.

“No, that’s… I’m sorry, that’s not what I me—”

And, despite everything that’s happened, she finds herself trying to bite back a smile.

“—hey, I’m kidding.”

His eyes snap up, eyes scanning her expression before he lets out a breath, letting out a sheepish smile. 

“I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean for that to come off as creepy.”

And after a while of trying to refrain from smiling, her mouth finally breaks open, and she lets out a quiet laugh.

“It didn’t. You’re okay.”

He seems a little reassured by her laugh, and remains standing in his doorway, door opened only a fraction of the way, and starts to bounce on the balls of his feet.

“Right, so…”

Despite the temporary escape she found in making Steve’s blush, she’s never seriously considered taking Steve’s suggestion. It would be insane, to break Fury’s direct order to maintain ‘no more contact than absolutely necessary’ in the first week she’d been assigned to the mission.

It was still a nice gesture, though. Nice to see that there’s more to Captain America than a friendly smile and a firm handshake. 

“Uhm, t-that’s a really nice offer, but… I’m not really hung—”

And what she had planned on saying was: I’m not really hungry, enjoy your pizza. 

What comes out, though, is a loud rumbling much further down south, just above her belly button.

She turns rigid, head snapping down to the traitor in her belly. And now, it’s her own face that’s as red as a slice of pepperoni. 

It’s only then she realizes that she hasn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, on account of what happened at lunch with Grant.

From the way Steve’s brows perk up in newfound interest, she’s sure he’s heard the noise, and braces herself for whatever embarrassment would follow getting caught in the world’s most pathetic lie by Captain America.

Instead, America’s hero wordlessly steps back out into the hallway, letting his door close behind him with a soft ‘click.’ Finding a spot in the hallway, opposite her door, he plops straight down, laying the pizza down in his lap and stretching his legs across the expanse of the hallway. 

She watches, wide-eyed and dumbfounded—it’s almost comical, how he has to cram his long legs into the narrow space between his side of the wall and hers. Bent at the knees, yet the soles of his feet still press against the other side. 

She glances down at his sneakers, perched up against the wall—a pair of old-fashioned trainers, navy blue and white, with soles tattered and grey from what seems like years of use.

Her eyes trail up a pair of worn 501 Levis, and a navy blue henley that displays an ungodly amount of muscle even under the dull lighting of the hallway. 

“You’re welcome to join me.” Steve grins nonchalantly as he pops open the top of the box, peering up at her under a set of friendly brows, almost as if challenging her to resist. 

A tentative whiff as the smell of pizza drifts right up under her nose, and she lets out a loud sigh, dropping her shoulders.

The next moment, she’s turning on her heels. She heads straight for her apartment door and walks through, the door slamming shut behind her.

Not even a minute later, she’s back outside, holding up two ice cold beers by the neck. Hair thrown up in a loosely tied knot above her head, the top two button of her blouse undone.

Steve’s worried head snaps up at the sound of her door, the lines between his brows dissipating in relief. He smirks, sinking back into his seat on the carpet.

She plops down against the wall facing him, handing him a bottle before taking a swig from her own.

“Thanks.”

With a curious gaze, he slowly takes the bottle from her fingers, eyes following her as she tips her head back for a large swig. From across the hall, Steve rotates the box in his lap, offering her the first slice. 

As her eyes flit over his order, she can’t help the smile that immediately tugs on her lips  

“Good choice.” She murmurs amusedly, reaching for a slice to find it still warm. 

“Yeah, figured it’s a classic.” He picks up a slice himself, the one next to the one she’s chosen, and sets the box down on the scraggly carpet. 

She nods in agreement, practically drooling at the slice of heaven in her hand.

“Clean. No bullshit.” 

A large cheese pizza, classic NY style.

Thin crust, decent char on the bottom though not too burnt. A generous layer of melty cheese and tangy red sauce. 

“… wish life was more like that. No bullshit.” She mutters nonchalantly, more to herself than anything. He chuckles in response, the sound echoing down the hallway as he lifts his slice in the air.

“I’ll cheers to that.”

She laughs alongside him, surprised by how much easier it feels to smile all of a sudden. 

“Cheers.”

One bite of the crispy, chewy, cheesy goodness, and all her troubles start to melt away. 

“Mmm.” She lets out a low moan, eyes fluttering shut as her head bumps against the wall with a soft ‘thunk.’ 

“…fuck, that’s good.”

“Glad you like it.” Steve responds amusedly, smirking at her from over the rim of his beer. He’s got one arm resting over his knee, leg propped up against his chest while the other remains on the floor. The muscles in his forearms flex as he raises his bottle up to his lips, tipping the drink back. 

Before her eyes can wander further, she clears her throat, glancing back down to the pizza in her hand. A second bite shoved hastily into her mouth before she can even swallow the first and good lord, did pizza always taste this good?

“Where’s this from?” She chews, lifting the top of the box off of the carpet to peer at the logo.

Before she can get the top more than an inch off the floor, however, Steve stops her with a quick hand, the width of his palm almost covering half of the box. Her eyes snap up to meet his smirk, brows raised and uncharacteristically mischievous. 

“I’m afraid that’s top secret.” He tsks, and she gasps in response, feigning shock with a hand over her chest.

“Wow. Gatekeeping your pizza place? After I offered you my beer? That’s cold, neighbor.”

As soon as the last word escapes her lips, she perks up with a start, biting her tongue at the realization that she’d just used a goddamn nickname to refer to Captain America.

Her gaze snaps up at Steve, fear brewing in her chest to find that he was… laughing.

A good, hearty chuckle, head tipped back and all. Leaning back against the wall, holding his pizza in one hand, clutching his stomach with the other.

From this close a distance, she can spot every detail—like the tiny scar that hides between the small wrinkles on his forehead when he raises his brows. Or the small crows feet tugging at the corners of his eyes. The ridiculously long eyelashes that flutter every time he blinks, casting shadows over the tops of his cheeks. The small ridge in the bridge of his nose that’s slightly off-center. His plump bottom lip, stretching around a set of pearly-whites as he smiles, proposing a question:

“So how long have you been living in the city?”

“Hm?”

She freezes, eyes snapping up to meet his curious smile.

“You mentioned you moved here from Manhattan. How long have you been living there?”

And the sudden segue into this new inquiry intrigues her, more than anything. Because whatever the variation of the question—‘how long have you been coming here?’ or ‘how long have you known so-and-so?’ or, of course, the age-old ‘you come here often?’—they all usually come across as unwarranted and creepy, a half-assed attempt at a pick-up line at best. 

Yet, from Steve, it only reads as part of a friendly, neighborly conversation. Open and honest, no ulterior motives. No bullshit. 

It’s refreshing, to say the least. 

“Not… not too long. Moved here for work.”

She mutters quickly, taking another swig of her beer, and licks her lips as a raw memory edges into her mind at the thought of work, more bitter than the beer that hits her tongue. 

“…what about you?” She murmurs, watching a moment of conflict cross his face. 

He recovers quickly, smoothing over it with a smile:

“Moved around a couple times, but… Brooklyn’s always been home.”

The bitter bite in her mouth softens a little at the nostalgic note in Steve’s gaze, her eyes tracing the soft creases in his shirt as she recalls his backstory:

Born and raised in Brooklyn, with a WW1 veteran dad who passed early and a mom who worked as a nurse. Not enough money to pursue art school, got caught a handful times getting into alleyway fights. Then tried to enlist on five different occasions, got rejected the first four times. Aside from the basics, though, there was little official documentation on Steve Rogers’ earlier days in Brooklyn. 

Her thoughts are suddenly broken by her phone buzzing loudly in her pocket—just by the ringtone, she knows whose calling her.

She freezes, momentarily paralyzed as her phone continues to go off loudly. Steve’s eyes flit over to the source of the sound but remains quiet. After a few more rings, the phone goes silent, before starting up again with another call.

At that, she lets out an exasperated sigh, digging into her pocket before aggressively sliding the mute button on her phone. She tosses the phone on the carpet with a harsh ‘thud,’ hand reaching up to rub at her temple.

“Those are some persistent spam calls.”

Steve murmurs quietly.

She snorts, her rage temporarily dissolving into a dumfounded laugh that leaves her chest aching.

“That would be an insult to scammers everywhere.”

“You avoiding someone?” It’s obvious from his careful gaze that he doesn’t want to pry.

“You could say that.” She murmurs, eyes still lowered to the ground. Then, after a small pause:

“…it’s my boyfriend. Ex, actually.” She quickly corrects herself, scrunching her nose as the word leaves a sour note on her tongue.   

Out of the corner of her eye, Steve opens then closes his mouth, giving her a small nod in understanding.

“I’m sorry.” 

And, all of a sudden, she feels tears cloud her vision at the first words of consolation, his deep and warm timbre unlocking something fastened inside her.

Fuck, fuck.

“No, don’t be.” She chokes out a laugh as she blinks rapidly, feeling her nose prick with tears. Before she can stop herself, the next words are already tumbling out of her mouth:

“He broke up with me at lunch today. Turns out he’d been fucking this other girl for over a month.”

And it had to be the fatigue, the beer, or some combination of both that was loosening up her lips right now, because there was no way her lucid self could be consulting Captain America about her goddamnlove life.  

“…and he had the audacity to break up with me. Can you believe that?”

Steve stays silent for a while, and she doesn’t have the courage to look up. Then, out of the blue:

“He sounds like a real asshole.”

Her eyes snap up as she lets out an incredulous breath, smiling.

“You’re damn right.”

Two more slices of pizza and a couple beers later, the weight on her chest feels noticeably lighter. 

“Thanks for the pizza, my treat next time.”

An empty promise, she knows. 

There can’t be a next time.

Steve nods, smiling.

“Anytime.”

He takes a small pause, pursing his lips as he casts a quick glance down at the carpet near her feet.

“…shame you got rid of it.” He murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“Your keychain.”

He points at the the set of keys resting on the floor between them, which had fallen out of her pocket sometime during the night. Upon realizing that he was referring to the absence of the red, white, and blue shield—she had made sure to remove it after the embarrassing encounter earlier that week—her confusion quickly turns into red hot embarrassment.

So he had noticed.

“Uhm, yeah, it was uh…” She clears her throat, bending down to snatch it off the floor.

“…getting a little bulky.”

“Bulky, huh?” He quirks his head, raising his brows, and the tip of his nose catches the lighting in the hallway. 

“….so you’re not a fan?”

Eyebrows raised incredulously, she turns to him, eyes carefully surveying the unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m sorry?”

“Of Captain America? I noticed your keychain was his shield.”

She knew this man was good, but surely he couldn’t be that good? 

It had been less than a week since the start of her mission. If he had already caught onto her identity, she would surely be saying goodbye to her steady 7-year-career at SHIELD. Upon a second glance, however, she realizes that the teasing glint in his eyes is a little less strategic and a little more… demure.

Could Steve Rogers poking fun at her keychain because of some other reason?

Her cheeks grow pink at the thought, but she pushes the thought elsewhere. 

And because he thinks that she’s the clueless one in this conversation, she decides to play along, lips curling up in a coy smile.

“I don’t know… I always thought he was kinda overrated.” She pouts, fighting to suppress a smile.“

“…Captain America. Even the name sounds kinda douchey, don’t ya think?”

Contrary to her expectation, he lets out a loud laugh, head almost knocking against the drywall behind him. He glances down at her, hands on his hips, giving her a curious smile. 

In this light, she thinks, he almost looks like the Captain America from the WW2 recruitment posters in the 30s—the fresh-faced, doe-eyed version of him untouched by decades of war. 

“You know, I’ve always wondered who came up with that name.”

That night, as she waves goodbye to Steve and retreats into apartment #3, Fury’s voice bounces around in her head: ‘…primary directive is to maintain minimal contact with him. Nothing over what’s absolutely necessary.’ 

Yet, in the solitude of her bed, all she can think about is Steve—the soft peaks of his hair under the dim lighting of the hallway, the concerned divot between his brows when she had teased him. How he had leaned into their conversation so that he could hear her better, as if Captain American didn’t have better things to do than to listen to her tragic little love tales. That boyishly charming smile he had on his face when he offered her pizza, and again when he asked coyly about her keychain—so much of that innocent warmth she thought he’d lost.

Reminiscing the nostalgic light in Steve's eyes when he'd told her that Brookyln’s always been home, she begins to wonder just how deep the blue runs.

Apartment #3 Masterlist

#captain america #steve rogers #mcu #mcu marvel #the avengers #marvel #mcu fic #marvel fic #steve rogers fic #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers x you #captain america smut #captain america fic #captain america x reader #reader insert #angst #light angst #hurt/comf #hurt/angst #hurt/comfort #eventual smut #eventual romance #friends to lovers #strangers to lovers #neighbors au #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers au

[marrziy]

Rafe Cameron x Male Reader

Entre Tapas, Ciúmes e Fodas (1/3)

• Série: Outer Banks.

• Personagem: Rafe Cameron.

•‼️Relacionamento conturbado (lê-se nada saudável), briga, discussão e violência. Os dois protagonistas sendo inconsequentes e, como diria Arthur Aguiar, "fora da casinha, fora da casinhaaa..."‼️

• P.S: O capítulo intercala entre a contextualização do presente e do tempo presente em si. Separei e destaquei esses momentos, creio que não esteja confuso. Basicamente, há trechos no meio do enredo que fogem da trama principal para dar contexto e conduzir o background da história.

• Sinopse: M/n e Rafe estão numa relação confusa. Os dois rapazes supostamente têm algo exclusivo, mas nenhuma confirmação ou pedido foi feito desde que iniciaram essa espécie de vínculo. Em uma festa na mansão Cameron, M/n propositalmente dá moral para JJ Maybank. M/n quer que Rafe sinta o mesmo que ele sentiu quando o flagrou com uma garota na fogueira anual, mas um Rafe irritado ocasiona em um M/n irritado, e a soma final resulta em caos.

Palavras: aproximadamente 3,1k

• Narrador: 1° pessoa (M/n) - presente/passado.

[• • •]

Os Cameron e a minha família estão em uma união estável de anos, duas linhagens de kooks conectadas pela parceria de empresas e laços fortes. Conheço Rafe e Sarah desde a infância, vi Wheezie crescer e modéstia à parte, sou como um quarto filho para o senhor Cameron. Meu pai é o sócio mais valioso de Ward e minha mãe, de acordo com Rose, era a companhia perfeita para fofocar e discutir frustrações.

Como filho único, eu me sentia sozinho em casa. Meus pais só eram presentes quando necessário ou quando o filhinho supostamente perfeito deles fugia da curva pré-destinada de um kook que faz jus ao status de mauricinho entojado.

Eu e meus velhos temos percepções diferentes sobre quem eu deveria ser, e por muito tempo, eu segui o modelo, mas conforme crescia, fui aflorando a certeza de que eu não queria traçar o mesmo rumo que eles, não queria ser um cara desesperado por jantar pontos sociais, fingir simpatia com gente mesquinha e muito menos lamber as bolas de um velho jurássico para fechar algum negócio.

A mansão Cameron sempre foi a minha primeira casa. Os momentos mais memoráveis da minha infância ocorreram no enorme jardim daquela residência. Rose, a tal madrasta má, título dado por Sarah na plenitude de seus cinco anos, independente de me encarar como "o filho da minha amiga" e ter esse como seu único motivo para ser tão hospitaleira, fazia o meu eu de seis anos se sentir acolhido.

Ward Cameron, sendo a figura ocupada que impõe respeito aos demais detentores da metade Kook de Outer Banks, nas raras vezes em que participava das aventuras junto a mim, Rafe e Sarah, tornava a brincadeira mais especial, me dando o gostinho do que seria ter um pai que verdadeiramente exerce a paternidade.

[• • •]

Eu não queria estar aqui, pois sei que ele marcaria presença. Óbvio... o maldito mora nessa casa, seria inocência da minha parte pensar que eu não toparia com sua figura indesejada.

Assim como o Jerry foge da porra do Tom, nos últimos dias eu tento escapar de Rafe até no pensamento.

Infelizmente falhei na parte em que tento não pensar no desgraçado, o filho da puta não sai da minha cabeça e é o motivo do meu tormento diário.

Tem a tal da abstinência, a parte que eu sinto falta, mas essa é ofuscada pelo meu desejo de socar aquele rostinho lindo. A raiva e a mágoa pulsam no meu peito desde aquele dia infeliz na fogueira. Devia ser um fim de semana incrível, era um puta festão com música alta, bebidas e gente para um santo caralho.

Aí eu vi Rafe.

O cara que agia e expressava em palavras o quanto eu era único, que fazia melaço do meu coração e que mesmo não assumindo um namoro comigo, me tratava como seu e eu retribuía, o tratando como meu.

Aos amassos com uma garota.

Rafe usava a boca que tanto me beijou no pescoço de outro alguém. Com a língua, ele trilhava o mesmo percurso que já trilhou para decorar cada cantinho do meu corpo. As mãos do arrombado apertavam a cintura daquela mulher com a mesma posse que ele costumava depositar em mim.

Não foi traição, não estamos namorando, mas tínhamos algo em construção... alguma coisa estava sendo moldada.

Até tudo desmoronar.

No último vislumbre que tive do cafajeste, ele estava calculando a minha presença, me encarando fixamente antes de esboçar... espanto? Não sei, não fiquei lá para ter certeza.

Qual era o plano? Uma rapidinha enquanto eu não chegava? Ele fingiria normalidade depois? Iria esconder essa merda de mim?

Fiquei até grato por presenciar aquilo, pelo menos eu não seria trouxa sem consciência. Consegui ir embora antes que Rafe me abordasse com suas falácias, evitando uma discussão ao redor daquele mar de gente. Conhecendo a nossa natureza instável, nós dois acabaríamos como símbolos daquela noite.

Sarah é a única a saber com amplitude sobre o nosso... lance. Ela é minha melhor amiga e irmã do vacilão, uma hora ou outra ela descobriria que há algo além do carnal nessa história. Pessoas próximas apenas desconfiam sobre rolar algo entre quatro paredes. Os amigos de Rafe, por exemplo, categorizam como brotheragem.

E quem me dera se essa pataquada se resumisse a dois caras com tesão.

Ignorei as ligações e mensagens do loiro. Me poupei de excluir seu número, já que eu o tinha decorado. Cheguei a me privar de sair, tamanha falta de vontade para lidar com esse porre.

Rafe me procurou em casa, e como o babaca é visto com bons olhos pelos meus pais, sua visita seria facilmente concedida. Felizmente os patrões mal param em casa e eu consegui passar aos empregados a informação de que Rafe não é bem vindo.

Uma reação exagerada? Sei lá.

Mas eu não protegi meu coração insistente, doeu demais senti-lo ser esmagado por um desgraçado indeciso.

Passei o resto daquela fatídica noite me sentindo um caco, completamente frágil. Em casa, chorei, me acabei no meu quarto. Na manhã seguinte, a realidade bateu forte. Eu nunca havia me sentido tão patético.

Eu me martirizei por me permitir chegar a tal ponto, mas pelo menos me divertia pensar no quão clichê era a minha sofrência. Poderia facilmente vender as minhas tragédias para a Netflix, renderia um bom drama com jovens-tcholas-trouxas-apaixonados.

Eu sabia que precisava superar, mas quando o problema batia de frente, eu não conseguia encará-lo.

A primeira metade da semana pós-desgraça foi soturna. Eu passei a refletir sobre os porquês de Rafe estar com outra pessoa, comecei a procurar falhas em mim que pudessem ter o levado a fazer o que fez, ponderando o mofo alheio como se fosse meu.

Apesar do formato da nossa relação não ser oficial, eu me sentia traído. A sensação de ilusão que fica, é péssima. O mínimo retrogosto de sinceridade se dilui na alma e mesmo que eu não tenha feito nada, me sentia insuficiente, como se o que levou Rafe a me "trair" fosse algo que faltasse em mim, algo que ele procurou e encontrou naquela garota.

Sarah me ajudou a sair dessa fossa. A teimosia da loira serviu de algo, afinal. É tradição da Cameron do meio planejar uma festa bombástica sempre que seus responsáveis estivessem fora, e hoje é o dia. Ela não queria que eu perdesse, e percebendo minha ausência nos últimos dias, ela moldou sua rotina inteirinha ao meu redor, decidida a me animar.

Uma amiga foda, no mínimo.

Eu esqueci dessa lição de me tratar com mais amor e Sarah me relembrou de praticá-la. O sentido da vida é para frente, e eu não devia permitir que um cara de juras falsas me arraste para a direção contrária.

Mesmo que essa situação ainda machuque, eu decidi fazer algo a respeito, e nessa noite de sexta, eu me empenhei em me sentir gostoso.

Às dez da noite eu compareço a residência dos Cameron. De longe é possível ouvir a música alta e ter certo vislumbre da iluminação neon que foge dos limites impostos pelas paredes e janelas da bela moradia. A festa se estende de dentro para fora, com várias pessoas no jardim e muitas outras curtindo o som enervante na mansão. Alguns olhares desejosos são direcionados a mim e eu anoto cada um deles, fazendo uma listinha mental com quem eu vou foder hoje à noite.

Já tenho nove rostinhos decorados, mas tem um em específico que eu venho pensando desde que saí de casa...

[• • •]

Sarah e eu somos bem parecidos. Algo que se destaca em nós dois e que se difere da maioria dos Kooks, é o asco que sentimos pelo que envolve ser um kook.

É sufocante estar rodeado de tanta mesquice. Nascemos em berço de ouro e realmente é bom ter o melhor que o dinheiro pode comprar, mas a grana não arca com a paciência necessária para lidar com tanta gente que tem a moeda americana reluzindo no lugar do cérebro.

O nível da falta de classe entre os da classe alta chega a ser vergonhoso.

O dinheiro cega muitos por aqui. Tem quem chegue ao ponto de definir todos os pogues como maus-caracteres, ladrões e oportunistas, resumindo o lado menos rico da ilha com base em puro preconceito e no raciocínio do "tirei do meu cu".

O lado que sustenta o outro, é desvalorizado e visto como inferior. É revoltante ver esse pensamento ser passado adiante, com filhos aprendendo com os pais a arte da filha-da-putisse.

Eu e Sarah já fizemos parte disso. Quando mais jovens, considerávamos os pogues má influência e costumávamos evitar qualquer tipo de interação com eles. Com o tempo, seja através de festas ou com as nossas escapulidas para o lado pogue da ilha, conforme conviviamos com a outra metade de Outer Banks, de realidade tão distinta, acabamos por encontrar um refúgio. Fundamos amizades, Sarah construiu algo a mais com um garoto de lá e, obviamente, o nosso pensamento sobre aquele lugar e as pessoas que ali vivem, foi totalmente remoldado.

Nossa aproximação com os pogues rendeu burburinho. Um ato tão singelo foi considerado rebelde, nossos nomes passaram a ser trocados por apelidos e comentários como "decidiu virar pogue agora?", "o lado morto de fome é mais animado?" e até "sentar pra vagabundo é mais gostoso?" se tornaram frequentes.

Para Sarah, a resposta para todos esses questionamentos seria um simples "sim", mas quem perguntava não precisava saber. Ignorar sempre foi a via mais segura.

Eu queria poder afirmar o mesmo sobre mim, mas infelizmente tinha um kook que me prendia na redoma voraz ao seu redor.

[• • •]

Apesar da rixa entre pogues e kooks, e as discussões e brigas serem mais que esperadas quando os dois grupos dividem o mesmo espaço, sabemos aproveitar uma festa independente disso. Há duas opções caso algum babaca eleve o nível ao ponto de sair distribuindo socos: separamos a briga ou fazemos dela o entretenimento da noite.

Mesmo com os conflitos de lei, geral costuma esquecer dessa merda de rivalidade quando estão com álcool e droga vazando de seus respectivos rabos.

É até engraçado ver um kook de nariz empinado pegando um pogue marrento em festas assim, sendo que ambos juram ódio recíproco quando não estão altos.

A hipocrisia da galera é ressaltada quando o grave inebriante da canção contagia do corpo mais imóvel ao mais agitado, vagando entre as pessoas misturadas que dançam, bebem, beijam e interagem entre si com o filtro social desligado.

No meio de tantos corpos banhados ao neon da iluminação piscante, de cores vibrantes do azul e vermelho ao roxo, eu finalmente encontro o loiro que eu quero.

JJ está de costas para mim, se servindo com as bebidas disponíveis em uma mesa, misturando as opções em uma espécie de salada alcoólica.

Meus passos animados em direção ao Maybank se tornam vagarosos conforme meus olhos capturam Rafe.

Os móveis que não foram retirados para ampliar o espaço, estão escorados nas paredes, e em um sofá afastado, rodeado por seus amigos e algumas pessoas desconhecidas por mim, Rafe ri de, imagino eu, alguma besteira qualquer dita por Topper.

Fico feliz que ele não me percebeu ali. No fundo, sua atenção é algo que eu quero, mas não é algo que eu preciso, então sufoco a vontade de desviar minha rota e sigo reto até JJ.

Estou disposto a retribuir as investidas do Maybank. Tenho as respostas perfeitas para as cantadas do loiro e não pretendo desviar de nenhuma proposta que ele possa me apresentar.

Já recusei uma foda com esse gostoso por estar em um relacionamento que só existia na minha cabeça. Esses com certeza estão no meu top dez arrependimentos da vida, tanto me relacionar com Rafe quanto não ter topado transar com JJ.

Me aproximo discretamente, elevando meus braços até cobrir os mirantes do Maybank. Ele logo saca, rindo baixinho enquanto tateia as costas das minhas mãos. Sou interrompido por sua voz quando eu estava prestes a soltar o clássico "adivinha quem é".

— Cala a boca! – o loiro profere, afobado. Eu decapitei minha fala no mesmo instante, sorrindo enquanto minha testa franze, curioso quanto a forma que JJ reagiu. — Opa... Foi mal! Se eu pareci bravo, juro que foi sem querer. – ele ri meio sem graça e eu mordo meu lábio inferior, contendo uma risada. — Mas eu meio que quis mandar você calar a boca mesmo. Eu devia ter sido mais mansinho, mas já foi, então foda-se. – ele fala e eu o ouço com atenção.

Estou bem próximo de JJ e luto contra a vontade de colar meu corpo ao dele.

— Mas me deixe adivinhar! Se você falar alguma coisa, eu vou saber quem é logo de cara, aí não vai ter graça. – o loiro conclui, me arremessando ao estupefato.

Minha mente explode. Porra, isso faz muito sentido. Permaneço calado enquanto devaneio sobre eu não ter raciocinado sobre isso, me sentindo meio tapado no processo.

— Ok, vejamos... – JJ leva a mão direita para trás, encontrando meu corpo enquanto ainda usa a esquerda para tatear minhas mãos em seus olhos. — Eu sei que é um cara... – ele relata sua constatação com os dedos trilhando do meu quadril a minha cintura, apertando minhas curvas com pressão. — Chega mais perto, tá meio difícil dizer quem é. – eu consigo imaginar perfeitamente o sorriso desse filho da puta no momento em que ele desce a palma até a minha bunda, afundando os dedos ali ao passo que me guia para si, até ter meu peitoral tocando suas costas.

Aproveito da aproximidade para sussurrar em seu ouvido — Ah, para. Cê acha que me engana? Eu sei que você já sabe que sou eu. – tiro minhas mãos do rosto do Maybank e tomo distância. O loiro se vira, me encarando dos pés a cabeça, exibindo o maldito sorriso cafajeste que me faria abrir as pernas instantaneamente se não estivéssemos rodeados por gente. O desgraçado sabe que é charmoso e usa isso a seu favor.

— Me pegou. – ele gesticula, erguendo as mãos em rendimento. JJ fixa seu olhar no meu corpo. — Você sempre tá bonito, mas não é meio criminoso andar tão gostoso por aí? - um atacante nato, JJ não perde uma.

— Vou me privar de te elogiar, você já é muito convencido. – eu me recosto na mesa de bebidas, vidrado nos olhos brilhantes do loiro certo. — Senti sua falta, do seu jeitinho...

— Você andou sumido nesses últimos dias. O que aconteceu com meu kook preferido?

Antes que eu possa responder, minha atenção é fisgada pelo Cameron atrás de JJ. Rafe, ainda no sofá do outro lado da sala, se encontra no mesmo cenário de antes, rodeado por pessoas seguindo a lógica de uma festa, ou seja, estão dançando, rindo por pouco, se pegando ou ficando embriagadas. Mas Rafe foge dessa órbita, adaptando para si apenas a parte de se embebedar, já que com um copo vermelho, ele vira a bebida com os olhos focados em mim, ignorando as pessoas ao seu redor e me encarando com seu semblante vazio, que não dizia nada, mas por ser direcionado a mim, me faz somar um mais um.

Ele está incomodado com minha interação com JJ.

Meus olhos encontram os dele e no mesmo instante eu desvio minha atenção, empurrando Rafe para o baú, decidido a ignorá-lo em prol do meu querer esquecer e medo de lidar.

Essa pequena alteração de foco e silêncio repentino fez JJ virar para onde eu estava mirando. Ele busca se situar sobre minha reação, mas eu o impeço, agarrando suas bochechas e o trazendo de volta para mim antes que seu olhar encontre o problema.

— Não foi nada demais, só peguei um resfriado. Me isolei em casa até passar, mas já tô melhor. Gentileza sua perguntar, valeu! – minto, me recusando a tocar no assunto quando eu devia estar me divertindo.

É nítido que minha resposta não colou. É difícil enganar o enganador. — Fico feliz que você esteja bem. – mas JJ respeita minha decisão de omissão e não toca mais no assunto. — Ah, eu tenho uma coisa pra você!

O Maybank enfia a mão no bolso esquerdo de sua bermuda, revirando a palma nos limites de pano, tirando de lá um emaranhado de linha, que revela-se um colar no processo em que JJ desembaraça a peça e a estende para mim. Eu a pego, observando cada detalhe, desde o nó que une as pontas da linha preta até as pedras coloridas de confecção que decoram a extensão da linha rumo a conchinha branca no centro.

— Feliz aniversário! Eu sei que foi sexta passada, mas só topei com você agora e eu não queria deixar passar. A Kie me ajudou a fazer. Não é grande coisa, mas espero que você goste. Eu passei por uma loja e vi um parecido, na hora pensei em você, mas aquela porra custava os olhos da cara, então fiz a minha versão capenga e-

Eu pulo com os braços abertos em JJ, abraçando seu pescoço, cortando seu discurso apressado e distribuindo beijos avulsos por sua face. Ele retribui, rodeando minha cintura com seus braços fortes. — Meu Deus, você é tão... perfeito! – após nos separamos, assim como o loiro tenta disfarçar sua timidez rara, eu tento disfarçar a minha emoção. Eu coloco o colar, segurando a concha na palma da mão, admirando o presente genuíno. — Eu amei! Porra, eu não mereço você!

— Para, vai... Assim eu fico sem graça! Tenho que manter a minha pose de bad boy. – JJ se direciona até a mesa, pegando duas garrafas de cerveja e alguns copos. — Vem comigo! Eu tô lá fora com a galera. Kiara deve tá puta com a minha demora, levar você vai fazer ela esquecer de brigar comigo. Bora?

— Vai na frente. Eu apareço lá, só vou dar uma passadinha no banheiro. – JJ me dá um beijo na testa antes de se virar e eu desconto sua mão boba de mais cedo, dando um tapa carregado em sua bunda antes que ele suma de vista.

— Eu vou devolver isso mais tarde, só que você vai estar sem roupas! Me aguarde! – posso ouvir JJ, suas palavras diluídas na canção alta que ronda por toda a casa. "Mal posso esperar" é a frase que ecoa pela minha cabeça.

O plano era me olhar no espelho, só para ter certeza se meu cabelo se rebelou ou não contra mim nesse meio tempo, mas eu não contava com a porra do demônio sussurrando nas minhas costas.

— Está se divertindo? – a voz de Rafe soa atrás de mim, próxima até demais.

Continua na parte 2...

#fanboy #imagine #imagines #leitor masculino #male reader #male!reader #x male reader #toxic relationship #rafe cameron #dark rafe cameron #rafe cameron x male reader #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x you #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #outer banks #outerbanks x male reader #jj maybank #obx #obx x male reader #obx fic #toxic love

[c0la-queen]

You | Tord x Reader

Here we go! I'm sorry if this isn't my normal quality, I wrote it while fighting off a headache... but also, I wanted to be a little silly! Because these are silly guys! I hope you enjoy the slight cliffhanger I left it on, hehe! Mwah, mwah!

Warnings: Tord is a bit of a weirdo, stalking behavior, obsession, Tord is 100% making assumptions about you and your personality, love this little freak <3

Words: 1.5k

---

Being a quiet person is not always an easy thing.

Some people would think it was. You never have to worry about saying the wrong thing. There were less chances of you offending anyone from your words.

Or, some people think the opposite. "I could never handle being so quiet" they say. It must be a headache to be around so much noise.

And… they were right, in Tord's opinion. It was nice to not have to get stuck in awkward conversations. He had the added bonus of being intimidating, so people eventually got the hint and stopped trying to talk to him. However, he also had to keep enough Advil on hand to tranquilize a small horse, considering he decided to live with the three loudest motherfuckers on the planet. Pros and cons, and such.

There were times when it proved to be nice, though.

Like right now.

The odd occasions where he had the day to himself. Tom and Matt were at work, Edd was visiting his parents, so that left Tord to his lonesome. What a great day.

As much as he would have liked to spend the whole day in the house, he couldn't. He needed to go grocery shopping - the fridge looked abysmal. At least it was warm and sunny outside. Still, he dragged his feet. He really didn't want to go to the store.

Ugh.

He was the son of the Red Leader. He had seen much worse shit. He had killed men in cold blood without batting an eye. He was not going to be bested by the looming possibility of social interaction.

…maybe he needed therapy?

…

Nah.

--

If Tord ever managed to invent a time machine, the first thing he was going to do was find the person who developed wireless earbuds and give them a kiss.

Being an intimidating looking person was a great way to ward off unwanted conversations. But there were always people who had no sense of self preservation and chose to try and talk to him anyway. Wearing earbuds while he was out helped with that. Nobody was stupid enough to try and deliberately get him to take his earbuds off. (Except Edd and Matt, but they know that they'll get away with it.)

The basket handle on his arm was starting to dig into his arm as he stood in front of the pasta aisle, watching his pet idiots (roommates) argue on the group chat over what type of noodles to get. Edd wanted Ziti, Tom wanted Angel Hair, and Matt wanted Bowtie… for some reason.

Tord was busy calculating the risk vs. reward of banging his head against the shelf until he bled out of his ears when it happened.

You happened.

Through his music, he heard the sound of laughing and giggling. He glanced to the side, expecting a gaggle of obnoxious, immature 20-something year olds with the sole purpose of ruining everyone else's relaxing shopping experience. And that's mostly what it was. But, standing in the middle of them was you.

Hello, you.

You were laughing, just like the others. But not the fake laughter of conformity - no, it was real, genuine laughter. Tord didn't think he had heard anything so beautiful. He even paused his music just so he could hear it in its pure form.

The more he looked, the more he saw of you. You were like the sun, so golden and bright compared to these others you were standing with. He could tell you weren't like them, he could tell you weren't using some made up personality to try and fit in.

What the hell were you doing with people like that?

Then, you were moving. Your little group had apparently decided the joke wasn't funny anymore, so you were moving on. Disappearing into the next aisle. Disappearing from his life.

Tord threw a couple boxes of noodles into the basket without even looking at it, shoving his phone back in his hoodie pocket and moving on to the next aisle. He pretended to deliberate over what brand of laundry detergent to get as he subtly watched your group at the other end of the aisle. He was able to get a better look at you.

You were wearing a brightly colored cardigan, wool by the looks of it, that perfectly matched the colors of your earrings and purse. You liked to coordinate your outfits. You had on a little skirt that teased just enough of your thighs to draw attention without being slutty, but you also had black tights on. You liked to look attractive while still feeling like you were being modest. Your earrings and the clip in your hair looked like they had been bought from the girls' department store in the mall right across from Matt's store, that was always playing mind numbing pop songs and had unicorns everywhere. You liked cutesy, almost juvenile things.

Tord wanted to know more. He wanted to know everything about you.

--

A peaceful day all to his lonesome where he would force himself to get groceries before wasting the day away on the couch quickly shifted - now, he was spending the rest of the afternoon with you.

Well, almost.

You and your friends were walking around town, enjoying the warmth and dipping into any stores that caught your attention. Tord was also walking around town, a good distance behind your group, enjoying your warmth and drinking in every detail he could get.

And he had learned plenty.

He had no idea why you were friends with these people. From what he could tell, you were stifled in this group. They would talk over you, ignore things that you pointed out, refuse to go to stores that you wanted to go to, tease and taunt you, and walk ahead of you. Despite it all, you always kept a smile. You kept shining, kept illuminating the area around you.

They don't deserve your light.

Oh, but you knew that, didn't you? You knew, but you were so sweet and gracious that you gave it to them anyway. Maybe if you shone bright enough, warmed their skin enough, they would finally give you attention.

Tord would give you that attention. He already was, and you weren't even giving him your sunlight.

And he never would ask you to.

No, your sunlight was going to be a gift that he had to earn. It would be a blessing that he was going to work hard to have bestowed upon him.

He would never exploit you.

Like they did.

--

Tord slipped into the coffee shop, running a hand through his hair. The warm weather was causing a light amount of sweat to gather on his skin.

He pretended to look across the overfilled menu, taking in the names of all the absurd drinks available. He already knew what he was going to get.

"Hi, welcome in! What can I get started for you today, sir?"

The barista was smiling at him too much. Her eyes drifted down his chest, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. Her pupils her dilated. She was checking him out.

Not that he cared. On an objective standard, she was pretty. But she didn't shine. She wasn't sunlight. She didn't brighten up the entire room just with her smile. She didn't make the birds sing by just looking in his direction.

She wasn't you.

"Iced Americano."

"Will that be all for you? We have a whole menu of signature flavors. I'd recommend-"

"Just an Americano."

The barista blinked in surprise when he cut her off. Typical. A pretty person with a shallow mind that couldn't comprehend the idea of a person not being interested in them. She huffed softly before ringing him up and telling him his total.

He paid, then turned to go sit and wait for his order to be made. He didn't get very far, though, before he almost ran into someone.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry! I totally wasn't looking where I was going!"

It was you.

You were talking to him.

You were looking at him.

You were so warm.

"It's fine."

As Tord fled like a fucking coward, you gave him a sweet smile. You smiled at him. And he just walked away. Asgardians above, his father would have been so disappointed in him.

His phone buzzed in his pocket as he sat at a window table, watching your friends snicker at the coffee shop mascot.

"Mate, you've been out shopping for like 4 hours. Where are you?"

Edd's voice drifted out from his phone speaker as Tord pressed the screen to his cheek.

"Something came up."

"Did you get the bowtie noodles? Did you? Tord?"

There was a muffled 'Matt, get off me' and some shuffling fabric before Edd's voice returned.

"The fuck do you mean something came up?"

Tord glared at the boy you were talking to, watching you give him an adorable pout. Oh, the things Tord would do to you.

"I found the perfect girl for us."

#eddsworld #eddsworld x reader #eddsworld tord #eddsworld tord x reader

[fireflowersandblood]

Letters From Home - Preview

i promised a preview so. here it is. or maybe. a first chapter. maybe. i'm not promising anything.

Pairing: Tom Bennett x f!reader

WC: 800-ish words

TWs/Warnings: strong language, adult themes

Summary: Knitting for Victory has never been bigger and Tom gets a nice, cozy package from home.

“Hey, look at this, lads!”

Tom’s head snaps up. Immediately, his lips curl into a smirk. One of the men has jumped up on a box of supplies, holding a paper in his left hand. With his right, he’s trying to ward off the poor sod who has just lost his picture. Tom can’t see what it is with all the waving about, but he’s almost entirely sure it’s a lady, maybe even a lady with very little clothing. Little else gets the men this worked up.

“Bennett, for you.”

Before he can react, a paper wrapped package has been placed in his lap. It looks almost like a wrapped Christmas gift, with the string that ties it together, and is no bigger than the Encyclopedias that Lois collected when she was younger. 

“What’s this?” Tom glances down at the package and frowns at the handwriting. It’s nothing he recognizes and he can’t think of anyone who would want to send him something. Maybe his dad, but even that seems unlikely. 

“Red Cross”, his superior explains. “Knitted socks and the like. You’re not the only one.”

Tom gives an appreciative hum and glances back down on the box. The handwriting is neat, neater than anything he could manage, and spells out his full name. To his own surprise, he runs his fingers across the letters, before he takes care to open it.

The box is filled to the brim. He finds not one, but two, pairs of navy blue socks. A matching pullover and hat, as well as a small box of hard candies in all sorts of colors. It feels strange to hold something so normal in his hands, and it reminds him of when he was smaller. His mother used to have them, he remembers, in a small tin box by the radio. She’d always give him and Lois one each, and let them pick between the fruit shaped ones.

“You got socks”, someone next to him complains, and the sigh is nothing if not envious. It makes Tom feel just a tad superior, and he immediately kicks his boots off, tears the old socks from his feet, and pulls the new pair on with a self-satisfied grin. 

“I did”, he boasts. It’s all in good fun; now that the first few months have passed, there’s not as much fighting. Everyone has seen battle one too many times to spend any time asking for trouble, even Tom. “And they’re cozy.”

Everyone close enough to have heard laughs, and Tom takes the opportunity to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. He would hate to leave another tin of candies for the rats. 

Tucked away in a corner of the box, he finds a letter. Again, with a handwriting he doesn’t recognize. Not the same as on the wrapper around the box, but something a little smaller and cleaner. He tears the envelope and is met by a sweet, light scent. It takes a moment too long to realize it must be perfume. It reminds him of the one Lois wears, and the thought makes his nose scrunch up. To take his mind off the rather unpleasant thought, he unfolds the letter.

Dear soldier,

When I’m writing this, I have no idea who you are. I might never know who you are. You, however, will know a little something about me when you’ve read this letter.

I’m the person who has made you the socks and the sweater. I hope you’ll find them useful and warm. The rationing has made it difficult to get a hold of yarn and I decided to unwind an old sweater of my father’s. I know he would much rather it be used by you.

I know our Navy must need as much as our Army, but if you have no use for two pairs of socks, perhaps you can give the second pair to a friend. I know the endless walking that the Army does tears the garments rather quickly, but two pairs might have been too much. I couldn’t help myself, when they said that the packages will be delivered to people who rarely, if ever, receive mail. I wanted you to know that there are people who think of you back home. 

The candies are made in London and remind me of my childhood. I hope it brings back pleasant memories for you, as well. 

I don’t know if people actually spray their letters with perfume, but I read it in a book once, and I thought it might lift your spirits. Pass it along and let the boys sniff it like a pair of used knickers, for all I care. 

Write, if it would please you. I would love to hear if the clothes have come to use, and make sure that you’re safe. I will pray for your safe return and a quick end to the war. 

Most love.

Tom flips the letter to find a name and an address.

“Mate, you got paper and a pen?”

#world on fire #world on fire bbc #wof bbc #tom bennett #tom bennett x reader #letters from home

[abnerkrill]

Nik! Did you watch Rebel Moon? How was it?

Yes hello this is my 4 star review of rebel moon on letterboxd.

But first: a professional, somewhat critical review of rebel moon that engages with the film well, especially regarding anti-colonial themes, and isn't just knee-jerk regurgitated Snyder haterism:

And now more of my thoughts: [edit: Oh No, He Went And Talked For 3 Hours About It, Thanks For Coming To My TedTalk:)

No one has a better knack at putting together a cast list SO ATTRACTIVE TO THE BISEXUALS. read it and weep, boys. (Jena Malone is there too but really just for 1 set piece)

...Jena Malone's one (1) scene set piece features her as an alien spider woman with legitimate grievances against the Empire who now wants to kill kids because all her kids were killed. Like, so valid, girl. Also, did I say Jena Malone as an alien spider-woman? And this is just one scene.

Look, if that pitch doesn't hook you, this film may not be for you, and that's okay, but by GOD my people are the people who hear "Jena Malone alien spider woman" and perk up. I love you, freaks.

The cinematography is ace and always will be under Snyder's direction. music by Tom Holkenborg SLAPS. Costuming and design overall is super super strong. (People on this hellsite are always complaining about inadequate, boring as hell sci-fi design and you get RM and you don't appreciate it for what it is. WAKE UP.)

Costume showcase! Second from the right in this photo showing off those sweet sweet sci-fi costume designs is my beloved non-binary they/them revolutionary Milius. CANONICALLY non-binary, let me add. Imagine SW doing that lmaoooooooooooo D*ve Filoni would fuckin keel over and die

Kora! Our tragic female protagonist of color who's over 40, with a dark edgy sexy background. [KIDNAPPED AS A CHILD!! DEAD FAMILY!!! DEAD LOVER!!!!!!! SHE FAILED TO PROTECT HER WARD FROM ASSASSINATION!!!!! SHE IS THE MOST WANTED WOMAN IN THE UNIVERSE!!]

Bitches on tumblr LOVE taking failmen with sad backstories from media and blorbifying them, but the second it's a woman? please. If this was a man people would be writing the filthiest x reader smut you've seen since Mandalorian S1 came out. If this was a man you'd already have seen 20,000 fan drawings of her with her muscles and tits OUT. God where's my Kora fanart.

I personally have no problems with the plot of this movie (part 1 of 2) being "we must collect warriors to fight the evil empire." That's kinda fantasy story 101 and I still love new, varied interpretations of that plot.

If there's not much interconnecting plot because Kora's just gathering fighters, it's kinda like... that's the point, babes, they'll actually get to it in part 2. We're just at the "forming the team" stage. I revel in that part of a fantasy film and I always want it to be longer, so this film is like catnip to me.

Uh, yeah, this is getting long. More under the cut.

Entertainment professional nitpick time! I've seen someone say RM would be better as a TV show to introduce a new character each episode. And I truly don't think that fixes any of the problems this person has with the film, while introducing way more problems. (Who the fuck would go in on an original concept TV show where each episode introduces a new hero. You could not sell that pitch to a studio, ever, and viewers would instantly check out if they didn't like the introduced character of the week, and the same complaints would be made: it’s just a new character intro blah blah blah. This wouldn’t fix anything! It would very much make it worse!)

Me, like every day, through gritted teeth: that's... not... how... tv... works...

Like be realistic for a hot second with me. Television is not "long movie"—it is a different medium with different rules. Yes, the past decade has blurred many lines between TV and film, but they're still different mediums, and when people blur them ("it's a 10-hour movie!") the results often suck ass, because you either lack episodic structure or you lack feature structure. Snyder is a feature filmmaker who has never worked in TV. Whenever features people jump into TV, it's a whole other learning curve! They're usually terrible at it! You want Snyder to have to learn a new medium? You want him to learn 5/6-act TV structure from scratch? You want him to (horrified gasp) lead a writers room? Those are not his strengths, baby. Let him play in his space opera sandbox.

And I'm not done! You want the casting team to have to deal with the headache of getting feature film actors to star in a TV show? (Pay cuts! Longer commitments! TV production timelines!) You want to do that to me, personally, and fuck up the TV landscape some more by going, "Oh, we can basically just make a Longer Feature Film in TV"? Fuck off with that. TV has different production realities and different basic story structures. A [long] film [with two parts] is still a film, in structure and production practicalities.

Truly, Tumblr media studies brains (derogatory) at it again.

To each their own, but again, I think RM's structure is fun because it gives me more of the goodies (badass, varied character intros) for the price of one (2-hour film.) Like... that's the good stuff, that's often the most exhilarating part of a film for me. And contrary to popular belief, it's not intro to intro without rising tension or stakes. It builds tension as it goes because new facets of resistance against the Motherworld are explored in each character's intro scene. New ways they fight back, new worlds on which they fight back. And a ticking time bomb of the King's Gaze (king's gays lol) catching up.

Here, have a trailer bc Tumblr's mad at me for too much text in one block.

...I like the RM characters. I want to spend time with them and see what other zany shenanigans Snyder will have them do. (Alien bar fights! Taming a space gryphon! Lightsaber battle!) I like the side-quest-y, exploratory, space opera sandbox playground nature. It's fun, and like, again, if you don't perk up at the concept of collecting cool characters like action figures, this film may just not be for you.

To me it's a polycule. Like, the most messed up polycule in the whole galaxy, but it's a polycule.

Speaking of: THE CHARACTERS ROCK. Yeah, we're missing some significant character development because Netflix truncated Snyder's 4-hr, R-rated film into a 2-hr PG-13 version (likely to be able to release the 4-hr cut later, drum up new press, and get more eyeballs on the movie in total in a few months.) That's... not really Snyder's fault [even though he claims he's in on the plan... some part of me thinks it was Netflix's idea and not his. Stinks of studio meddling.] And it's not indicative of the quality of the actual film, which I currently see as more of an abridged version of the R-rated film that's gonna come out and fill up some of these story holes.

If people are judging the film for not being the 4-hour version, and then decide not to see the 4-hour version, that's their call, but it's kinda shitty to act like the 2-hr version is all there is. Like it probably wasn't Snyder's call to do a 2-hr cut! He's said that the 4-hr one is a whole different movie. I betcha the common criticisms (not enough character development, just jumps from character intro to character intro without interconnection, lack of structure) will be helped, if not outright solved, by the longer cut.

I think people are also happy to take a Part 1 of a movie if it's, say, Dune, and the source material has another part, so Part 1 is allowed to be fucking boring, whereas people don't give that kind of allowance to original sci-fi movies, WHICH IS A REASON WE DON'T GET ORIGINAL SCI-FI. If you're painting with as huge and cosmic a palette as space opera Rebel Moon, the 4-8 hours total across the 2 four-hour parts is kinda bare minimum for an epic. So... patience is a virtue? Let part 1 have elements of IT'S KIND OF A PROLOGUE?

What's that saying? If you want the rewards of space opera worldbuilding with an ensemble cast, you must submit to the mortifying ordeal of 2 hours of setup. Geez. Enjoy the wacky exposition or get out of the space opera genre.

Yeah, that leads me to the point of people who don't enjoy space opera are getting mad at RM for fulfilling the promises of the genre. You might truly be happier elsewhere. The whole thing is over-the-top, huge-scale MELODRAMA and I thrive on melodrama. If it's too cheesy for you, don't come to space operas!!!!!!!

On that note, people have said RM is too tropey and too Star Wars-y. But like I said. If you don't love the tropes get out of the genre!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! If you aren't here for bloodier/hornier Star Wars get out of RM!!!!

Another big idea I would be remiss to skip over. RM is an explicitly, deliberately anti-colonial, anti-imperial text—far, far more so than any other mainstream sci-fi currently being released. Well-intentioned liberals love to tout Star Trek/Star Wars as progressive media but they really hedge and defang all their political commentary, especially in their 21st century franchise form—think the SW sequels/shows straight up woobifying K*lo Ren in realtime and the Trek shows that (while fun!) are really often just nostalgia bait.

RM is pretty fucking radical. Its theme basically is Kill Nazis—or in expanded form, something along the lines of "The empire will eat up everything of value in the universe unless it is met with unified armed resistance built on solidarity."

And just look at RM's casting. We're not colorblind here; we're very color-conscious. (That's a rant for another day, but I've really started to despise colorblind casting for its extremely well-intentioned-liberal "we're all the same" mentality. It just winds up erasing.) Anyway: RM features the explicitly American-English-Afrikaans empire vs. the Algerian Amazigh protagonist, Black freedom fighters, Japanese revolutionary... and like. Snyder's always gonna be into Vikings so obviously we have Space Vikings too, whatever. Look at me, I can criticize Snyder too! The Poor Sad Space Vikings are not the strongest part of the film!

...Anyway of course the empire vs. revolution is absolutely kind of Star Wars-y since RM is highkey Snyder's Star Wars, but it goes so much further than SW dreamed (or, perhaps, nightmared). SW's rebels/resistance continually get defanged because they're kind of foundationally space magic/singular hero's quest deals, and modern SW with the exception of Rogue One/Andor is just politically, socially stupid. In contrast, RM is about forming a coalition, without something like the Force to help you out. I could write an essay on the ways RM starts in the same place Star Wars starts but takes its politics so much more seriously, so much further.

While I'd argue "good politics" and "artistic quality" rarely correlate, RM is explicitly and doggedly a text about the colonial empire that exploits, enslaves, abuses, and seeks to utterly control marginalized people groups in its quest for domination—and god, I would LOVE to see a resurgence in very fanged, very angry political sci-fi.

One more aside. Snyder has been rightfully criticized for his earlier works basking in fascist-adjacent, hypermasculine aesthetics; 300 is notably super duper racist in how it depicts savage/monstrous Persians vs. Beautifully Good White Spartans Defending Their Culture. (more on "300 Bad" stored up in my brain if anyone wants THAT rant.) To Snyder's credit, none of his films since 300 have really done that—parts of Batman v Superman and his cut of Justice League purposefully poke fun at it. The hypermasculinity is kinda still there, but it's subsumed in the service of melodrama and mythic-flavored cinema, and it's kinda a staple of the action genre anyway, and if you're gonna criticize Snyder without criticizing EVERY ACTION MOVIE EVER, that's just more regurgitated Snyder haterism.

No one is doing mythic action like Snyder these days. No one has the balls and the command of melodrama & operatic visuals. And it comes clearly from Snyder's background in art & art history because all his shots are jam-packed with symbolism and meaning and allusion. So criticize the film for its weaknesses if you like but geez, if I see another post railing about the lack of CRAFT in RM, I will start biting. ALMOST NO BLOCKBUSTER HAS THIS LEVEL OF CRAFT. It's okay that you don't understand visual storytelling, babygirl, but please don't accuse Snyder of lacking craft.

Sorry, you've triggered Cinema Defense Mechanisms in me, I'm gonna have to sit down for a while after this.

I have more takes. Takes hot enough to fuel the King's Gaze (king's gays lol.) But I'll end with a funny observation: I transed my gender (cheers, shouts, hoorays) just about the time I was getting ready to watch Rebel Moon, and in one shocking, epiphanic moment I turned to my partner and went "Of COURSE I'm a man. I like Zack Snyder." So........... do with that what you will.

#rebel moon #dragoninthelibrary #rebel moon spoilers #long post

[thinkingaboutbetterdays]

risking it all.  ( tom branson x reader )

gif belongs to me

The party was lively when you sneaked out, your shoulders slouching in relaxation a little as you slipped off your heels, making your way quietly to the front door. After stepping into your heels, you headed to the garage where you found Tom polishing the car. Your father and his associate would be travelling to town in the morning, and Tom always went over the car with the utmost precision and care.

You tapped your knuckles on the wooden door and he looked over his shoulder, lips parting when he saw you standing in your formal dress. You smiled softly at his reaction as he placed the cloth on the hood of the car as he approached you.

“Shouldn’t you be upstairs?”

“They will not miss me.” You assured him.

“How could they not?” His eyes wandered briefly before meeting your gaze, wondering for the hundredth time how a woman like you fell for a man like him. Yet he felt lucky you had done so as the past month had been wild, passionate and exhilarating as you sneaked around the manor to spend time alone even if it was only for two minutes.

You approached the radio that was playing. “I wanted to dance with the man I love. And if they will not allow us to do so upstairs, well,” You turned the dial to increase the volume and turned to Tom whose eyes were soft, yearning for the freedom to grant you your wish, but you both knew your family and their friends wouldn’t approve. So for now, you would have a moment alone, which is how you preferred it as you could be as free as you wanted with him.

A smile tugged on his lips as he stepped forward, bowing slightly, “May I have this dance, My lady?” He held his hand out and you smiled as you slipped your hand into his.

“You may.” You giggled when he pulled you to his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck as he began to sway to the music.

“How did I get so lucky?” He asked quietly.

“You gave me your coat when it was pouring down with rain.” You smiled at the memory of you both running into the manor, his coat over your shoulders to keep you warm and your dress dry. He rubbed your arms to keep you warm, and you stared up at him, seeing the raindrops falling down his hair onto his forehead. It felt like less than a second, the time between you reaching up to comb his hair away from his eyes, and your lips meeting, the feelings that had been buried for so long, boiling over.

Tom mirrored your smile as he recalled the night he had driven you to a friend’s birthday celebration and you had left early, bored of the high society for the night. The car was parked far from the house and he put his coat over your shoulders to keep you warm and dry from the rain that pounded the ground.

“Sometimes I wish I told you to take me away.” You sighed softly, resting your head on his chest. “Far away from this place.”

Tom noticed that you were different from your sisters. Mary for example was perfect at social gatherings aiming to gain influence by making friends with those in high places. While you long for a peaceful life, free from all expectations, refusing to play the game. Lately, however, your yearning had grown and it wasn’t uncommon for you to mention running away.

He had considered it before, of course. Wanting a place where you could be together without scrutiny, wishing everyone thought as you did, but not everyone shared your values nor your respect for the working class.

“Where would we go?” He asked, raising his hand to play with the waves in your hair.

“Somewhere far away. A cottage probably. With a sign warding people away.”

Tom chuckled, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Am I to pay heed to the sign’s warnings?”

“No,” You lifted your head with a teasing smile on your lips. “I would need you to drive me, of course.”

“Of course.”

You sighed as you held his gaze. “I want to run away and never look back.”

“Do you think you could?” He asked.

“I know it would upset my mother and anger my father, but...I do not wish to live this life any longer. I would leave tonight but I have too many dresses.” Tom smiled as he placed a hand on your cheek, fond of your humour and wit. “Would you leave with me?”

“I could not in good conscience allow you to drive yourself.” He replied, referring to the time he had tried to teach you to drive and you had almost crashed the car. You smiled, closing your eyes when he leaned in to kiss you. “But yes.” He continued when he pulled away moments later. “If it meant being with you, then yes.”

You opened your mouth to speak but Tom wasn’t finished.

“But I couldn’t provide for you the way you are accustomed to.”

“I don’t want what I have.” You took hold of his hands, “I want you. As long as I have you the rest doesn’t matter.”

Tom stared at you for a moment realising you were serious. “You really want to leave?”

You nodded, biting your lower lip. “I can’t do it anymore. Please, Tom.”

He slowly nodded his head, eyes widening slightly as his mind raced, starting to piece together a plan. “Alright. I’ll make arrangements -”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him passionately and he placed his hands on your waist as he reciprocated. You backed against the hood of the car, and Tom warned that your dress would be marked, but you tugged on his jacket, smiling as you pecked his lips.

“I don’t care.” You murmured between kisses, and Tom placed a hand on your cheek, smiling as he returned the kiss.

The next day, in the early hours of the afternoon you had written letters to your family explaining your reasons for leaving. You knew there would be a sense of betrayal, however, you hoped that, even if it was years from now, they would learn to understand that you had to do this.

Tom approached you in the evening and told you the arrangements he had made, finding a hotel you could stay in for a night before moving into permanent accommodation and as he explained the plan your fears left you, excitement taking over as you stared at the man who would do anything you asked him to. A man who loved you unconditionally.

“- and then we will -”

“I love you.” You declared softly.

Tom stammered briefly, closing his mouth as he held your gaze which displayed the level of your love for him - something he never thought he would see from a woman of your class. But here you were, risking everything to build a life together.

“I love you too.”

You placed a hand on his cheek and kissed him tenderly. You didn’t care if you slept in a barn for a night if it meant having Tom by your side. And you would do anything to spend the rest of your life with him, as he would you, believing there could be nothing and knowing there is no one better to spend it with.

#tom branson #tom branson x reader #downton abbey

[weaponizedvirtue]

Close Contact {Peaky Blinders}

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader (gender-fluid former soldier from "The Face I Hide Behind")

Summary: Travelling on your own, it was inevitable that you'd eventually meet trouble. But this was more than you bargained for; you go to an old friend for help.

Notes/Triggers: First chapter is more of a teaser. Triggers are kind of heavy in this one: sexual assault, violence, transphobia, murder

Tagged: @everythingelseisextra, @ce1iat, @morrigan-crowmwell, @running-outof-time, @straight-outta-kirkwall

*

The phone rings. And rings and rings and rings. For a beat, your heart sits in the back of your throat.

There isn't anyone else to call.

Then the voice you were waiting for, deep and husky with sleep, stutters through and the anchor in your chest drops into your stomach.

"Shelby."

You grasp for words for a moment, panic and fatigue weighing down on you. You would have been fine on your own. You shouldn't have called. There are no sirens yet, no cries of murder on the street, it's late and quiet and empty-

"Hello?"

Annoyance weaves into Thomas's voice and you can imagine his hand hovering over the receiver to hang up the phone. It's now or never.

"Tom. Wait, it's me."

There's a pause, the rustle of someone shifting into motion, and Thomas's frustration bleeds into concern as he speaks again.

"Marie.” More shifting and a soft click, mechanically dull somewhere in the background. A lamp most likely. Guilt churns in your stomach again; he sleeps little enough as it is, even when you’re not calling at the bloody witching hour. “Are you alright?"

“Uh-”

There’s part of you that wants to say yes, that just needed to hear his voice, growling at your demons until they receded back into the shadows. But what sits on your chest now is tougher than that, a beast of bad choices and consequences and it digs sharpened fangs into your skin. You’d summoned it yourself, a desperate act but yours nonetheless, and it tears at your arms and your legs and your head just to remind you.

You did this. You called me out, it says. 

You thought it best to call someone who knew monsters. Tom dealt in them daily and really, there was no other person you wanted to speak to after-.

"No. I’m not. I was attacked."

The words come slow, slicking your teeth with oil then crowding back into your mouth to block the rest. The sound on the other end of the line ceases and you’re not sure if Tom simply stopped moving or if your ears have just stopped working. Your chest aches and your hands dive beneath your shirt. There should be an extra band there, a stiff bit of cotton you’d fashioned together to feel a little more like you, look a little more like you. But it’s long gone and the new scar angling across your collarbone and down over your left breast stings as your hand brushes across it instead.

You bite down on your tongue to stifle a yelp of surprise and you step back against the glass of the phone booth. It’s too small, too tight a space, and shadows shift down the street at the edge of your vision. You suck in a breath of air, pinching the bridge of your nose right between your eyes.

“Marie?”

Tom’s voice cuts through for a moment, nothing but static and the hum of something resembling words, and you drag yourself back. Focus focus focus. Your dime will run out fast at this rate.

“I’m okay. Drunk followed me out and I wasn’t paying attention.” Should have been paying attention. You should have been paying attention. Rookie move.

For a moment, you don’t want to explain anymore. You just want to listen to Thomas Shelby’s voice and tie yourself to the solid human being that he pretends so well to be. You just want him there, holding up the glass and warding off the monsters.

“Marie, tell me where you are.”

It’s an order, a blissfully easy-to-answer order and you nod as if he’s there, pressing your hand flat against the door.

“I’m in Bedworth. Look, it was stupid, I know, and I didn’t… He tried to- things got out of hand.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.” 

He’s being Tom, strategic and level-headed Tom, but you’re not done. You’d called Tom because he knew how to bury beasts. The one that you silenced alone lies out in the alleyway, its eyes wide and blind, its throat bloodied and torn. The one you’d hoped to have left in the trenches, unneeded and far too angry, far too much to tuck into one person, settles into the pit of your chest and rakes invisible claws across your bruised insides.

“I killed him, Thomas.”

The words in your ear cut off abruptly, the directions Tom had been giving you dropping off to silence as he drank in the new information. You swallow and drag a hand across your face to wipe at your eyes.

“I’ll take care of it, Marie. The White Lion, one hour.”

#peaky blinders #thomas shelby x reader #writing #fanfiction

[bluebirdsboi]

MCU Masterlist | Last Updated: 8/13/23

Key

Fluff = 🥰 | Angst = 😢 | Smut = 🥵 | Hurt Comfort = 🩹 Platonic = 🤝 Headcanons = 📝 | ABC Headcanons = 👩‍🏫 | Oneshot = 📘 | Series = 📚 AU = 🌎 | Songfic = 🎵 Male Reader = 💙 | Gender Neutral Reader = 💜 | Female x Female = 💖 Story on hold = ✋| Character on hold = 🔒 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Augustus “Pug” Pugliese (Josh Segarra)

Coming soon... 

Bucky Barnes (Sebastian Stan)

Coming soon...

Clint Barton (Jeremy Renner)

The New Guy 🥰(🥵) | 📘 | 💙

Dane Whitman (Kit Harington)

Coming soon...

Daniel Sousa (Enver Gjokaj)

Coming soon...

Druig (Barry Keoghan)

Coming soon...

Frank Castel (Jon Bernthal) | 🔒

Coming soon...

Grant Ward (Brett Dalton)

Coming soon...

Helmut Zemo (Daniel Brühl)

Coming soon..

Howard Stark (Dominic Cooper)

Coming soon...

Ikaris (Richard Madden)

Coming soon...

Jack Russell (Gael García Bernal)

Coming soon...

Joaquín Torres (Danny Ramirez)

Coming soon...

Kingo (Kumail Nanjiani)

Coming soon...

Leo Fitz (Iain De Caestecker)

Coming soon...

Marc Spector (Oscar Isaac)

He Won’t Have You 🥵🩹 | 📘 | 💙

Solace 🩹 | 📘 | 💙

Matt Murdock (Charlie Cox) | 🔒

Coming soon...

Namor (Tenoch Huerta Mejía)

Coming soon...

N’Jadaka (Killmonger) (Michael B. Jordan)

Coming soon...

Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire | Andrew Garfield | Tom Holland)

Coming soon...

Peter Quill (Chris Pratt)

Coming soon...

Pietro Maximoff (Aaron Taylor-Johnson)

Coming soon...

Quentin Beck (Jake Gyllenhaal)

Coming soon...

Sam Wilson (Anthony Mackie)

Coming soon...

Scott Lang (Paul Rudd)

Coming soon...

Stephen Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch)

Coming soon...

Steve Rogers (Chris Evans)

Coming soon...

Steven Grant (Oscar Isaac)

Coming soon...

T’Challa (Chadwick Boseman)

Coming soon...

Thor Odinson (Chris Hemsworth)

Coming soon...

Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.)

Coming soon...

Xu Shang-Chi (Simu Liu)

Coming soon...

#marvel #MCU #masterlist

[kieranwritess]

fandoms n stuff

all hidden BTC but have more Keanu for your troubles; a strikethrough means I'm not writing for that fandom atm

Agent Carter - Peggy Carter, Daniel Sousa, Jack Thompson x reader, peggysous

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. - Daisy Johnson, Daniel Sousa, pre-tws/framework!Grant Ward x reader, philinda, Elena/Mack, platonic!Coulson

COD: MW (reboot) - 141, Alejandro, Graves, Valeria, König x reader

Cyberpunk 2077 - Judy/fem!V, River/V, Panam/V, Saul/fem!V, platonic!Vik

Detroit: Become Human - deviant!Connor, North x reader, platonic!Hank

Main MCU - Bucky Barnes, Kate Bishop, Tom Holland!Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff x reader, platonic!Kamala Khan

Red Dead Redemption 2 - Sadie Adler, Javier Escuella, Arthur Morgan x reader

VALORANT - Brim, Cypher, Harbor, KJ, Neon, Skye, Sova x reader, nanobomb

#kieran's navigation #cod x reader #cod mw2 x reader #valorant x reader #rdr2 x reader #rdr x reader #cyberpunk 2077 fanfic #cp77 fanfic #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #valeria garza x reader #phillip graves x reader #graves x reader #cypher x reader #sova x reader #harbor x reader #killjoy x reader #neon x reader #arthur morgan x reader #sadie adler x reader #javier escuella x reader #daisy johnson x reader #daniel sousa x reader #grant ward x reader #könig x reader #I FUCKING FORGOT KÖNIG

[toomanyfandomsimfanvergent]

Characters I write for and Request details

I am also taking requests!

I write for all of the people either romantically or platonically, so if requesting for someone you could ask for someone to be their sibling (Like Eddie Munson x Henderson Reader) when requesting these the sibling and romantic partner must be from the same fandom

Side Blogs: @manyfandomsfanvergentreblogs

Throne of Glass

Dorian Havilliard

Chaol Westfall

Rowan Whitehorn

The Rookie

Tim Bradford

Lucy Chen

911

Evan "Buck" Buckley

Eddie Diaz

Stranger Things

Steve Harrington

Billy hargrove

Jonathan Byers

Mike Wheeler

Robin Buckley

Max Mayfield

Outer Banks

Rafe Cameron

JJ Maybank

Scythe

Rowan Damisch

The Inheritance Games Jennifer Lynn Barnes

Grayson Hawthorne

Jameson Hawthorne

Nash Hawthorne

MCU

Peter parker (Tom Holland)

Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield)

Peter Quill

Yelena Belova

Kate Bishop

Matt Murdock

Lance Hunter

Bobbi Morse

Grant Ward

Leo Fitz

Lincoln Campbell

Deke Shaw

Daniel Sousa

The Hunger Games

Peeta Mellark

Finnick Odair

Johanna Mason

The Naturals - Jennifer Lynn Barnes

Dean Redding

Michael Townsend

Divergent

Tobias/Four Eaton

Peter Hayes

Eric coulter

NCIS

Tony Dinozzo

Top Gun: Maverick

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw

Non Specific

Nonspecific Female

Nonspecific Male

For the nonspecific ones, you can either choose a name or I will do one! It helps the writing flow. Also, for reader types, you can choose GN! Or Fem!

Please include what type of fic you want, angst or fluff.

Any side characters to make appearances?

And any type of prompt

I won't write for; Rape, smut, cheating, incest, pregnancy, children, SA, or anything else like that.

I will write for anxiety, ADHD, ocd, etc. Along with eating disorders and self harm.

#eddie munson masterlist #peter parker fluff #peter parker roleplay #peter parker smut #peter parker #peter parker angst #peter x stark!reader #peter quill x reader #peter parker x reader #peter pan #peter tork #tasm! peter parker x reader #peter parker x stark!reader #peter quill #peeta x reader #peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark angst #finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick x reader #bucky fanfic #dean redding #billy hargrove x sister!reader #tobias eaton #tobias x reader #tobias eaton x reader #tobias reuter #tobias eaton headcanon #tobias eaton smut #stranger things fanfiction

[lambtotheslaughterr]

500 FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION

✨REQUESTS OPEN✨

rules & requirements below:

i know, or at least i think, most people celebrate at 1000 followers but considering i've had this blog for nearly two years 500 followers is a big deal to me. SO to celebrate i am opening my requests. now, before you go shooting me a request please read & acknowledge the following.

RULES:

must be following me. that’s a no brainer.

first come first served basis.

i will make an announcement after i have received 10 requests that requests are closed. please DO NOT make any requests after i have closed them. they will be dismissed/deleted. so just save your request for the next celebration. AGAIN those who request off anon will be priority.

because i don't want those whose requests don't get picked or didn't make it into the 10 qualifying spots to miss out on their request i will be saving requests to roll-over into the next celebration post (which will be at 1000 followers) so don't fret! however, a REMINDER that if you make a request AFTER i closed the requests those ones will be deleted.

you may only request oneshots. i will not be accepting any series or mini series requests. however, your oneshot requests can include requesting a sequel to any standing series or oneshots i have already written. for example, 'may i request a 'where are they now' oneshot for reader & rafe in 'always you''. or 'may i request a sequel oneshot to your ransom drysdale 'leatherbound' oneshot'. but of course, feel free to request something totally new!

no naming the reader. these requests are 'reader x whoever character you request'.

also! this is a dark!fic noncon!fic account. keep in mind that when making your request that you know exactly what you're requesting & from who. no fluff, no cutesy romantic stuff (unless it goes dark), etc.

i will include a list of characters below that i will write for that you can choose from, so please pick from there. if there is someone else you have in mind that isn't on the list DM ME first to ask.

along with a list of characters, i will also list the kinks/themes i WILL NOT write about. so be extra sure to go over those because any requests that include anything from my 'will not write about' list, will be dismissed.

lastly, after i recieve 10 requests, my other series i'm currenty writing on here (Rise & I Burn) will be on a momentary pause until i complete all requests. so to my dedicated readers for those two series, i do apologize in advance, but please be patient. they will be returned to.

that's all, folks! make sure you make your request via dropping an ask (i will not accept requests via dm (dm is only if you're asking clarifying questions about characters or boundaries)). be sure to REREAD my rules, too. it doesn't hurt to double check.

happy requesting! muah😘

beau<3

CHARACTERS by fandom: those in CAPS are who i really want to write for

MARVEL: Steve Rogers | BUCKY BARNES | Loki | Thor | Erik Killmonger | Aged Up Peter Parker | Talos (a.k.a spacedaddy from Captain Marvel) | Billy Russo (The Punisher) | Deacon Frost (Blade) |

CHRIS EVANS CHARACTERS: Ransom Drysdale | Andy Barber | CURTIS EVERETT | Lloyd Hansen |

OUTER BANKS: Rafe Cameron | Daddy Cameron (a.k.a Ward Cameron) |

DC: Clark Kent | Joker (Heath Ledger's joker) | KGBEAST

PEAKY BLINDERS: Thomas fucking Shelby (or any of the Shelby's) | Michael Gray |

THE BOYS: Billy Butcher | HOMELANDER | Black Noir

CALL OF DUTY: Konig | SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY

DEAD BY DAYLIGHT: Frank Morrison ('The Legion' ) | The Trapper | GhostFace | Michael Myers

THE VAMPIRE DIARIES: Stefan Salvatore | Kai Parker | Klaus Mikaelson |

DIVERGENT: ERIC | Four |

STAR WARS: Darth Maul | Darth Vader/Anakin Skywalker | Kylo Ren/Ben Solo |

VIKINGS: Rollo | RAGNAR | Hvitserk | Ubbe | Ivar | Bjorn |

HARRY POTTER: Aged Up Draco Malfoy | Aged Up Tom Riddle (don't you dare request that noseless snake version of him) | Young Sirius Black

AMERICAN ASSASSIN: Mitch Rapp | Ghost

THE WALKING DEAD: Negan | Nick Clark

MISC: Aged Up Billy Hargrove | Adrian Griffen (The Invisible Man) | Coriolanus Snow (young, not the old one, blegh) | CHASE ANDREWS | JACKSON RIPPNER | Aged Up JOSEPH DESCAMPS (Mixte) | Elwood Dalton (RoadHouse) | Aged Up Henry Bowers (IT) | Rio (Good Girls) | Roman Godfrey (Hemlock Grove) | Boys from 'The Covenant' (aged up, ofc) | Jax Teller (Sons of Anarchy) | Ajax (The Warriors, bless you if you know who this is. he is my ride or die.) | Walter Deville | Ash (No Exit) | Brahms (The Boy) | Masked Man (Hush) | The Gentleman (The Purge) | AURELIANO (Subburia) | Aged Up Nate Jacobs | The Predator | Reggie Kray (Legend) |

WILL NOT WRITE ABOUT: these either weird me out or bore me & for me to produce my best work for you i ask that you not request any of the below

a/b/o themes | lactation kinks | dd/lg kinks | real life celebrities | monster fucking (does not include aliens or vampies) | ghost/demon fucking | race play | dp kinks | anal play (generic anal is fine, but anything more is a no from me) | cum eating | basement wife themes | sexual slavery themes | convenience noncon (this is specific to me so you deffo won't know what that is so if you're curious, please ask) | breeding kinks | pregnancy non con | bimbo reader | underage reader/characters | sex pollen themes | blood-related incestual themes | cuckholding kinks |

SPOTS:

1. alt!reader x rafe cameron one shot

2. virgin!reader x rafe cameron one shot (best friends)

3. reader x rafe cameron one shot (best friends boyfriend/roommate)

4. 'the night shift' reader x stefan salvatore sequel one shot

5. romani!reader x soft!roman godfrey one shot

6. ‘always you’ reader x rafe cameron sequel one shot

7. ex!reader x rafe cameron one shot (on the run w kid)

8.

9.

10.

#dark!fic #non con fic #500 followers celebration #requests open #get in while you can