#Fire regs? No thanks!

[noodyl-blasstal]

okay perhaps: build a bear receipt, Mortified, perhaps to literal death, annnnnnd Barry :3

Did this get slightly out of hand? Who could say (me, it did.)

From this prompt list.

-

Barry knew what Build a Bear was, well, conceptually. You went in, you spent an obscene amount of money, you came out with a creature - possibly one wearing sunglasses and a tutu. It hadn’t been a thing when Barry was a kid, not one his Mum could afford anyway. But now he was stood in one, overwhelmed, confused, and being pressured to make decisions quickly.

The type was easy, Beary Bluejeans had to be a bear. Tick tick, done. Or, it should have been done, but there were 18 different kinds of bear to choose from and no clear parameters for selection. Every single one of them was a sad deflated puddle of fluff, and sure, Barry could relate, but he also knew there had to be a right answer. Gifts were a test. Probably. Well, Barry thought they were a test, and he had never met a test he couldn’t worry extensively about. Lup probably wouldn’t mind, this was just a small gesture, a little joke between friends. She called him Bear, he was going to get her a bear with his signature jeans. Casual, fun, no one’s harbouring any massive crushes and may or may not be in love with anyone else. Lup saw him as a friend and that was fine. All good! What was not all good, was the crowd of children building up around him. He was finding this hard enough without kids bashing into his legs, all sharp elbows and whirling rucksack attacks. 

After intense deliberation he decided on a soft medium-brown teddy the shelf proclaimed was ‘vintage.’ Barry could relate, he was vintage too. The modern bears had intensely large eyes or fur that didn’t feel as nice under his fingers - this guy though, this little soft puddle could be him, could be Lup’s, he could be Lup’s… Another kid slammed their elbow into his knee and Barry staggered. How much did he actually need to be here? He could leave, he could put Beary down and go, Lup would never know, no one would know, he didn’t make any promises about doing this. ‘Man Incapable of Purchasing Bear’ would only be a headline in his brain. It might be nice to have a fun new failure to torture himself about at 2am when he couldn’t sleep? Something funky fresh to add to the flagellation rotation. Even as he entertained the thought he knew he wouldn’t do it. The gesture was good, the joke was good, it would make Lup laugh, he loved to make Lup laugh, it was worth some bruising. 

Barry finally escaped from the scrum round the toy pelts? Skins? It all sounded bad. He needed to stop thinking about it in taxidermy terms, but this sure was a skin without the meat. Build a Bear was taxidermy for babies and no one could tell him any different. At least he knew the next step, they probably weren’t working with armature, so it’d be stuffing. He had definitely walked past some kind of woolly slushy machine on the way in so he tried to retrace his steps. Did the shop actually need to be this big and this full of people? Maybe they should do adult-only hours where everyone could just pick their bears in silence and form orderly queues and not run into anyone else actually.

“Excuse me!” Someone tapped lightly on his shoulder.

“Sorry, was I supposed to pay over there? I didn’t realise, I thought I did it at the end.” He couldn’t call Lup to bail him out if he got arrested. He couldn’t ruin the surprise… also she’d want pictures, his mug shot would be on t-shirts, mugs, pyjama sets, pillows, he’d never ever live it down. “I’ll pay now here, let me just grab...” Barry nearly dropped Beary as he fumbled for his wallet, but he couldn’t afford to get arrested right now. The stakes were high.

“Oh, you’re not in any trouble Sir! You forgot to get a sound and you can’t forget your new friend’s heart!” She smiled so big that Barry didn’t dare ask what most of the words meant. 

“Ah, uh, okay… uh, where do I…?”

“I’ll show you, come with me! I’m Lydia.” Barry tried not to acknowledge the look on her face which clearly telegraphed This Idiot Can’t Bear.

“It’s fine, you can just, uh, point me in the right direction, I just need the stuffing and I should, ah, be fine.” Barry was going to expire on the spot and emerge a terrifying spectre, no one could grab him and make him keep doing bears if he was incorporeal. Lup probably wouldn’t mind, she’d probably think it was rad to be friends with a death spectre… in fact, Barry was fairly sure he remembered her saying something about it being cool to bang a ghost… huh… nope! He couldn’t follow that thought anywhere right now, because apparently he had to think about what sound Beary was going to make and also there was a heart and fuck fuck fuck. Lydia had definitely been explaining. Barry nodded enthusiastically, not wanting her to realise he’d been ignoring her, this wasn’t her fault and she had a job to do.

“Great, it’s 20 seconds. If you head to the bathroom it’ll be a bit quieter.” She shoved a contraption and Barry and nodded encouragingly. “Just speak clearly into it, and remember, 20 seconds. Once you’re done, come back and we’ll start the ceremony.” 

“Ceremony? I… wh…” She cut Barry off with a gentle shove towards the bathrooms. There probably wasn’t any point in arguing, he’d already agreed so apparently he was recording a message… a message for Lup. That was fine. He could do that.

Barry couldn’t do that.

Barry was seven practice recordings deep.

Barry was never going to leave the bathroom, he lived here now. If he didn’t record the message then it couldn’t be bad, that was just science. Flawless hypothesis.

He’d already tried something casual. “Hey Lup, it’s me, Beary. I think you’re Beary wonderful.” Bad. Awful. Terrible. D-, she’s never speaking to him again. Funny: “Bear with me, voice message loading…” also bad. Heartfelt… he couldn’t even think about what he’d said, he’d been rambling long after the 20 seconds were done. The bear noises had been fun, roaring in a toilet was a strange experience and Barry usually loved strange experiences, but this was absolutely not it. “Will you Beary me?” was great on the pun front, terrible on the we’re-just-friends-I’m-definitely-not-in-love-with-you side of things. Ghost noises almost won the day until he considered her accidentally rolling on it in the night and waking up spooked. The time he dropped the recorder and swore a lot while trying to pick it up was probably the best of the bunch.

Eventually he settled on Arrane Ben-Vlieaun, or, “the magic cow song” as Lup insisted. He found a corner next to the sink which seemed to have relatively reasonable acoustics and rumbled the first bit out “Cur dty vainney, cur dty vainney, choud's mish ta goaill arrane. Lhig yn curn nish goll harrish, lesh dty vainney my vooaveen.” There. That was probably fine. Lup sometimes got him to sing it when she was struggling to sleep, it made sense to pre-load it in Beary. He definitely didn’t have time for any more attempts, he was surprised Lydia hadn’t already burst through the wall like a terrifyingly peppy terminator.

She zeroed in on him when he emerged. “There you are! I thought you’d gotten lost, are you ready?” 

Barry hesitated, maybe he could try one more time… he pulled his hand back as Lydia reached out for the device. No, eight was enough, it had to be enough. The cow song was fine. He nodded and handed over the recording majigger. Lydia smiled even wider, Barry debated counting her teeth, she definitely had too many.

“Fantastic!” Lydia said, then set off towards the fluff box. Barry followed, there was no way off the ride at this point, he may as well keep his arms and legs inside the car. “Okay, so this is very important, we’re going to perform the heart ceremony.” 

Barry is fairly sure this is going to be different to the type of heart ceremonies in his books at home… probably? There definitely weren’t any ceremonial knives on display. “Okay?”

“You’re going to develop your special bond with your new friend…?” Lydia paused and looked at Barry expectantly.

“Beary.” 

“Beary. Huh…”

“He’s called Beary Bluejeans.” Barry added, thinking that might make her stop doing the squinchy face at him. It didn’t.

“That’s… super!” She said after a long pause. “So, we’re going to make sure you and Beary build a special bond and you always look after him and love him forever and ever.”

“It’s okay, we can just do the stuffing, that’s fine, I uh, I don’t need to, you know, do the uh, the bonding thing.” 

Lydia gave him a hard look. “We don’t send the bears home with just anyone, we need to know you’re going to look after Beary Bluejeans.”

Barry wasn’t sure he’d felt fear like this before… did he actually like Lup enough to go through with this? Was he scared enough of Lydia to do whatever she said? “What do I have to do?” He’d die for Lup, multiple times if necessary, and he was fairly sure Lydia would put him in the ground without a second thought - still smiling - if she felt he wouldn’t be a competent guardian for Beary.

Lydia solemnly handed him a small plastic heart. “This is Beary Bluejeans’ heart. We’re going to establish your bond now. Are you ready?”

Barry waited for further instruction.

“Are. You. Ready?” He wasn’t sure a polite tone had ever felt so much like knives.

“Yeah, uh, yes Lydia.”

Her smile was back. “Fantastic, take Beary’s heart and rub it on your toes so he’s totally awesome.” 

“I’m… what?”

“Rub it on your toes so he’s totally awesome.” Lydia repeated, then mimed the action. Barry looked longingly towards the exit, it wasn’t that far, he could probably just drop Beary’s floppy corpse and run. “Sir, on your toes, so he’s toe-tally awesome.” 

Barry bent over and ignored the rice crispies and milk noises his back made in protest. He swiped the plastic across his shoe.

“Now rub it on your cheeks so Beary gives warm smiles.” Barry didn’t think it was particularly hygienic to rub something on his toes and then his face, but who was he to fly in the face of the experts? He rubbed the heart quickly on his cheek.

“Rub it on your hip so he’s hip and cool.”

Barry was at least 90% Lydia was messing with him by this point. Barry wasn’t hip, he wasn’t cool, and he certainly wasn’t funky fresh. If Taako was here Barry could probably scoop up some of his vibes, but Barry certainly wasn’t a reliable coolness supply. Beary was going to get Barry’s clicky hip, lose all the street cred he’d earned in his short life, and say goodbye to his fuzzy charisma.

“Nearly there! Rub it on your arms so Beary always gives good hugs.”

Barry promised himself he was never going to return to Build a Bear, this was hell, Lydia was the devil. He swished the heart near his arm.

“Like you mean it, Sir. You want him to give good hugs don’t you?” Lydia sing songed, loudly enough for the line behind him to hear.

Barry quickly rubbed the heart more forcefully across both arms.

“Now spin around to make him magical!” Barry was not going to spin around, he was going to think heavy thoughts and let himself sink into the floor. He wouldn’t have to exist in this room or any room ever again, he wouldn’t have to spin around with a stupid anatomically inaccurate heart, or deal with the line of children who were probably staring and laughing at him right now. Floor Barry, Flarry, he’d never have let this happen. “Don’t you want Beary to be magical, Barry?” No. He wanted Beary to be finished so he could leave. But Lup, Lup would probably want Beary to be magical… fine. Fine! Barry was going to spin around. He shuffled in a begrudging circle.

“And lastly, make a big wish!”

Barry wished this was over. That he was at home. That he hadn’t decided to get Lup this stupid bear. He wished he was brave enough to tell her he’d been in love with her for the last 8 years and probably would be for the rest of his life. But none of these wishes seemed like something he should wrap up in Beary. Barry considered for a moment, then wished, and wished hard that Lup would like him. Beary… obviously. The wish would know who he meant, it didn’t matter how he phrased it.

“So lastly, I need you to promise to always care for Beary, and seal the magic promise with a kiss.” Lydia was dead behind the eyes, Barry could tell, no one could be this chipper, not for the 6 years her badge said she’d worked there.

“Okay.” Said Barry. There was an excruciating pause. Lydia looked at him expectantly. Was he supposed to say more? Were there proper words? “I promise to, uh, to, take care of you Beary?” 

“Are you asking, or telling?” Lydia said sweetly.

“I promise to always take care of you Beary.” Please let this be over.

“Now kiss his heart.”

This definitely wasn’t hygienic, not with all the rubbing and spinning. Barry decided to keep those concerns to himself. Lydia finally seemed satisfied, and instructed him on the foot pedal that would help him add the fluff to Beary.

They stuffed, fluffed, stopped for hug tests, and decided on the appropriate firmness. Barry could feel the heat in his face, but at least no one he knew was here to see it. Taako would never let him life this down. But it was fine, he was a 50 year old guy cuddle testing a bear which occasionally sang about milk at him in his own gravelly hum when he pressed the voice chip by accident and that was fine. Twenty entire seconds of excruciating singing while he waited for it to shut up and Lydia pretended not to be laughing about it. He was totally fine. 

Lydia deftly stitched up the hole in Beary and handed him back. “Now I’m going to shoo you off to the grooming station so you can get Beary all fluffed and puffed and ready for snuggles. Have a wonderful day now!” Her relief was palpable.

Barry fled as soon as Lydia dismissed him, maybe he could skip the grooming, he didn’t really need to do that, surely? Beary seemed fine.

“Over here Sir! I’m Edward and I’m here to help you get your new friend looking their very best.”

Barry couldn’t outrun him, Edward was at least 30 years younger than him and looked like he’d be able to tackle Barry before he could make it three steps. “Okay.” His voice cracked. Maybe this was hell? Barry couldn’t leave, there would always be another step and another smiling assistant to help him.

Edward pointed at a large fake bath which swarmed with children. “You can give your new friend a bath and then we’ll dry them off and get them combed nicely for you.”

“Jeans!” Barry refused, he absolutely refused to pretend to bathe Beary surrounded by children who were no doubt just as sharp of elbow as the first group.

“I’m… I’m sorry Sir?” Edward looked nonplussed, but Barry refused to get suckered into this one. Next they’d tell him he could get custom smells.

“I.. uh, thanks Edward, but Beary’s good, he doesn’t need a bath, see! Super soft. He just needs some jeans please, then I’d like to check out. Thank you very much for your help.” There, he was doing it, Barry was a guy who could say what he wanted.

“Oh, sure, no problem, the clothes are over here!” Edward grinned easily and indicated a towering wall of options. “Have a great day, you can register Beary there when you’re done.” He pointed at a large bank of computer terminals. Of course, of course there were more steps.

“Then I can leave?”

Edward frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“I can pay and go, when I’ve done the computers bit?”

“Yeah?” Edward raised an eyebrow at Barry as if he was being insane, then remembered he wasn’t allowed to do that. “I mean, yes Sir, of course, the tills are just on the other side of the computer terminals.”

Barry grabbed the first denim he saw, shoved Beary into them at speed, tapped Captain Professor Dr. Beary Bluejeans esq.’s details into the computer terminals and finally, finally, smelled freedom. Beary was safely ensconced in his ‘house’ (which Barry was apparently allowed to colour in), Barry was handed a birth certificate, rinsed for more money than he anticipated, and finally allowed to leave. He blinked groggily as he emerged into the daylight. Barry was never ever ever returning to that cursed shop. Even for Lup. He could have sworn he’d lost years of his life wandering around that maze and trying to complete all the stupid tasks.

_________

Barry left the box on the doorstep, rang the bell, and fled. This was how friends delivered gifts, it was fine, in fact, Lup didn’t even have to know it was from him. His phone rang, Lup’s ringtone dragged his hand to his pocket before he’d even thought about it. 

“Hey Barold, what’s in the goth box? I love the paint job, flame decal door is going right onto my Lup’s Dreamhouse wishlist.”

“I… uh.” Said Barry, intelligently.

“I can see you fleeing down the street, wanna turn round, Bluejeans? Not that the view is bad from here. Wink.”

Barry wheezed down the phone, turned, turned back, and debated throwing himself into a bush. If she couldn’t see him she couldn’t tease him, right?

“Okay… You continue rotating, my guy. Lup’s cracking into goth house of wonder to see what you got me.”

“I… I, well, you see… It’s… er.”

“Barold… Barry…” Lup gasped for breath. “Barry, why… why is this bear wearing hot pants?”

“Yes.” Said Barry. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe if he explained? She didn’t understand how much he needed to escape by the trouser selection stage.

“The bear is wearing denim hotpants.”

“They’re blue jeans.”

“My guy, they are blue jorts.”

“He’s called Beary.”

“Beary Bluejorts?” Lup cackled so hard he had to move the phone away from his ear. He moved it back just in time to hear “I love him.”

#Barry's Lup ringtone is Short Skirt Long Jacket by CAKE because she likes the bit about cutting through red tape #Fire regs? No thanks! #TAZ Fic #Prompt game #The Adventure Zone #Blupjeans #Barry Bluejeans #Lup #Lup Tacco #Did the customer service crew start life as the wonder twins? No. But they were terrible and then I what iffed #Noodyl Writes

[katiexpunk]

Sex On Fire, Part 1 | Pairing Firefighter!Joel Miller X Fem!Reader

Series Summary: You're a country girl in the big city, thanks to your generous aunt. You expected to have adventures your first year in New York, but what you didn't expect was for your hot, firefighter neighbor, Joel, to be part of them. Part 1 Summary: You move to New York, after a little coaxing from your aunt. You meet your new neighbor, Joel, and quickly learn he's a Captain with the NYFD and good with his hands. Rating: 18+ Minors DNI Word Count: ~6.7K Warnings: Sexual tension, sexual tension, sexual tension. This one is dripping in it. No age gap specified. No explicit smut (yet, there's uh...gonna be a lot in part 2), but a nice lead up to it in the end that will probably blue ball you. Groping. Alcohol. Hardcore flirting. Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, and Kings of Leon song references. Uniform kink. Joel has a hard on for seeing reader in his shirt. Reader's mom has passed. Texas/small town vibes. New York City. There are no specific descriptors for reader, except that she has hair. Ya'll, these two are just down for each other so fucking bad it's not even funny. Authors Note: This one is for my darling moot @darkheartgatita. Pia, thanks for putting Firefighter!Joel into my brain. I hope you enjoy. As always, thank you to my Slutty, Smutty, Sister @sydneyinacoma who inspires me every day and shares her filthy thoughts on the reg. And to everyone who gives my little blog love -- I fucking love you all so much. Part 2, Fall and Winter, will drop next Saturday.

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications

Part 2 | Part 3 Preview | Part 3

S P R I N G  Spring blooms, bringing with it a new beginning for you. Of all the places you’d thought you would be, New York was not one of them. 

Life back in Texas wasn't terrible, a bit dull sometimes, but not awful. 

Yet, in the mundane moments, your mind often drifted to daydreams – visions of swapping your Levi's for a sleek black dress and trading quiet farmland for the lively hum of city bars. You’d think of Samantha from Sex and the City sitting on your porch at sunset, drinking Bud Light, wishing your fairy godmother would appear and magically turn it into a dry Martini.

That was until three weeks ago, when your rich aunt, visiting from New York, decided to sprinkle a bit of magic into your life. 

“I’m gonna move to Italy for a while,” she casually said over family dinner as if she was just announcing that she was going to the store for milk. You should have been surprised, but she’s always been the kind to never stick around for too long. Single and child-free, she’s spent her adult life dancing to her free-spirited rhythm, bouncing around from one place to the next. Not because she had to, but because she could. You, on the other hand, were the total opposite.  After your mom passed away, leaving the cocoon of the familiar felt like too much. Despite your aunt's protests and encouragement to just go, you resisted, not wanting to leave behind your dad and the comfortable life you'd known. But if there's one thing you've learned about your aunt, it's that she's relentless – and yanking you out of your comfort zone was precisely what she wanted, and she had just the plan to do it. 

She handed you the keys to her Lower East Side apartment, turning your once silly little daydreams into a reality. “Sweetie, you need this – you’re meant for so much more, your dad will be fine. Please go,” she encouraged. 

Despite your initial reluctance, you caved, and before you knew it, you were on a plane bound for JFK. 

++++ You feel like a small fish in a big pond as you navigate the city. Trying to figure out the subway turns into a whole saga of you getting lost more than once. You eventually find the right borough, but not without a fair share of unhelpful people brushing you off along the way. Yep, you're definitely not in Texas anymore. 

While walking through the city, it hits you that a new pair of shoes is in order; something made clear to you by the little blister on the back of your heel that’s screaming at you. Despite the annoyance, you’re enjoying the walk to the apartment, your new home. The city's buzzing with life, and even the faint smell of urine in the air doesn't bother you. It's a wild, trippy feeling to be in the city, to feel like the main character of your own story. 

You grab your phone, itching to double-check the building your aunt texted and ensure you have the right address. Remembering her advice about the unassuming exterior but spectacular view, you get ready for the big reveal. The key affixed to a keychain with a little apple on it meets the lock, and as you turn it, the door swings open, revealing a spacious wooden staircase.

As you step inside, you notice there's a bit of mail scattered on the slightly dusty floor. You collect the envelopes and magazines with your aunt's name on them and neatly stack the other pieces for Joel Miller into a pile on the bottom step.

After climbing the – Jesus, really fucking narrow – stairs, you're faced with doors opposite each other. While a brief doubt nudges you to recheck the apartment number, your gut tells you that the door with the welcome mat showing lemons and a pot of fake flowers is the one — a stark difference from its neighbor with a simple grey mat and no decor. Trusting your instincts, you decide that the lively entrance is the one. 

As you step inside, you're greeted by a cozy space that, despite its age, radiates warmth and character. The walls are adorned with paintings that seem to tell stories of bygone eras, while rays of sunlight filter through the window, revealing glimpses of the bustling cityscape below. 

Though small, the apartment is meticulously decorated, each corner telling a tale of adventures and cultural escapades. Remnants of your aunt’s travels, collected with care, add a touch of global flair to the modest space. Posters from Broadway plays hang proudly on the walls, as do family pictures. It’s lived-in; the kind of lived-in that feels comfy and embraces you like a warm hug. 

You look at the frames on the wall and pause when you see one of your favorites – a photo of you as a little girl, smushed between your mom and your aunt, a cake three sizes bigger than your tiny head lit up with birthday candles in front of you. You can't help but trace the edges of the frame with your fingertips, connecting with the warmth radiating from your mother's beaming smile. Miss you, mom escapes your lips as your eyes linger on the photograph for a heartbeat longer before the rest of the room demands your attention.

In the compact kitchen, a handwritten note from your aunt beckons, strategically placed beside a bottle of wine on top of a stack of takeout menus. Her words resonate with warmth and encouragement. "Welcome to your new home! I am so proud of you for taking me up on my offer. Disregard the bedroom chaos—I started painting the walls but didn't quite finish before taking off. Feel free to pick up where I left off if the mood strikes. And if you ever need a hand with anything, Joel Miller across the way is a nice guy. I've already told him that you’ll be staying for a while, or who knows, maybe forever. Love you!" The paper carries the unmistakable fragrance of her perfume, and a smile graces your face after you finish reading it. 

Setting the heartfelt note aside, your attention shifts to the menu for Sang Garden, a vibrant pink post-it exclaiming, "Right down the street! Super yummy!" Hunger gnaws at your stomach; the last meal was a distant memory from this morning, and you're ravenous. Without hesitation, you dial the number on the menu, your choice a steadfast favorite: orange chicken. “10 minutes,” the older lady on the phone tells you, not bothering to say goodbye before hanging up. Huh, efficient, you think. 

As the aroma of anticipation fills the air, you finish unpacking your suitcase and weave through your new space until your food is ready. Only having to go down a flight of stairs and less than a block down the street to pick it up is a new feeling for you. If you wanted something like this at home you’d have to drive at least 20 minutes to pick it up. 

You finish the entirety of the meal within minutes curled up on the couch, Sex and the City on the T.V.. Your aunt was right, it’s good. Probably the best orange chicken you’ve ever had in your entire life; just the right amount of zest and sweetness. You can already tell you’ll be a regular. Everyone always talks about the pizza in New York, but nobody bothered to tell you about the Chinese. You can tell you’ll probably have a lot of moments like that, discovering new things for yourself instead of hearing about it from magazines or seeing the photos on Instagram. 

With your belly now full of the sticky goodness, you settle into bed for the night. You stare at the ceiling, paying no mind to the smile that’s been plastered on your face for the past three hours. You feel giddy, like a little girl seeing the stars for the first time. You’re doing it. You’re really doing it. 

The city is still thrumming to life, but the distant sound of sirens and honks eventually turns to white noise as you drift off to sleep. 

++++

The next morning, you rise with purpose; new life breathed into you. You brew a cup of coffee and decide to savor it on the fire escape, enjoying the not-yet-thick spring, and still slightly chilly, spring air. As the city stirs awake beneath you, you’re determined to craft an agenda for the day. With another few days to spare before your new job starts, your thoughts drift to the bedroom, where the abandoned paint cans await. 

It's been a while since you've had the chance to dive into something genuinely productive, or creative for that matter, and you decide that this is the perfect opportunity. Your aunt chose a deep, rich shade of green, one that harmonizes seamlessly with the space; not too dark, but not puke or pea green, either. It’s pretty. She always has had good taste. 

And while you like the color, it’s not particularly one you’d like to see splattered all over your clothing, having only brought what you could fit into a small suitcase. Your aunt must have something, you think. The woman has more clothes than a department store and there is no way she could have brought them all to Italy, although you don’t put it past her to try. 

You make your way to the guest bedroom and rummage through the dresser located there. The top drawer is full of nothing but scrapbooks, the middle drawer has only sweaters, but luck strikes in the bottom drawer, where you locate a handful of old shirts. 

You pull out a dark blue, oversized “New York Fire Department” cotton t-shirt; the front of it has an emblem, and the back says “Rescue 1 FDNY” in faded blocky white letters, obviously well-loved. This will do, you tell yourself, quickly exchanging your tiny crop top for the large shirt. It hangs over your body, the bottom nearly hitting your knees. Why your aunt has such a large shirt in her collection you’ll never know, but you wager it’s probably from one of her many “friends” over the years.  

++++

The sounds of Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours" fill the room, you stand in the center of the bedroom, paintbrush in hand, ready to transform the space. The nostalgic chords of Stevie Nicks' voice in Dreams infuse the air, blending with the scent of fresh paint as you dip the brush into the can, and begin. “Like a heartbeat drives you mad,” you sing, slightly off-key, but no one is around to listen and you don’t mind. “Thunder only happens when it’s rainingggggg,” you belt, using the paintbrush as a microphone. 

While most of the paint makes it on the walls, you have to admit that painting isn’t your strong suit and a fair amount of it has splashed back onto your face, shirt, and even your hair. You’re having fun, more fun than you’ve had in a while, even if you make a mess while doing it. Not like you’re gonna see anyone today anyway.

“Players only love you when they’re plaaaaaying…” doing your best Stevie twirl. 

More and more green covers the walls, but as you’re about to get started on the final white wall, you’re interrupted by a loud steady stream of knocks at your door. 

You hit pause on the music, and make your way to the door, unsure of who would possibly be knocking. You peer through the peephole to take a look, but you can only see the back of a man in a simple white shirt, his back turned to face away from the door. You undo the chain lock and swing the door open. 

As the man pivots to meet your gaze, his presence sweeps over you, an unexpected force that leaves you momentarily disarmed. He’s handsome in a way that unmoors you; a mass of a man with broad shoulders, sun-kissed skin, and sculpted biceps that redefine your sense of composure. Whoa.

“Hi,” you murmur, your eyes conveying a blend of softness and curiosity, "Can I help you?"

The man looks at you, and you feel yourself heat under the attention of his gaze. His eyes gently caress your frame; lingering a little too long on the emblem sewn into the fabric, just above your breast. 

"Uh," he clears his throat, his hand rising to his face, fingers subtly grazing the beard hair on his cheek, as if grappling for words. "Yeah, well – no, uh," he stumbles, the words caught in a momentary struggle. "Hi, ‘m Joel Miller, I live across the way," he greets, angling his body to signal to the door directly across the foyer. “Oh right, my aunt told me about you you,” you say, introducing yourself, voice smooth like honey. “She mentioned you were a nice guy and to call you if I ever needed anything,” you say, taking up space in front of him by leaning into the door.  “Just stopping by to say hi, then? Or do you need a cup of sugar or something like that?” you ask with a playful tone. 

Suddenly, the last thing he wants to do is admit that there's something you could help him with—like turning down your music. He likes Fleetwood Mac as much as the next guy, but the last three days on shift have left him craving peace, not a soundtrack reverberating through the thin walls.

Plus, he wasn’t expecting you to be so damn attractive. 

And he definitely wasn’t expecting to be wearing his shirt when you answered the door. 

“Ha, no, don’t need any sugar,” he chuckles, “just thought I’d make myself known.” He pauses, eyes locked onto yours. You notice the subtle flecks of amber in his deep brown eyes and the furrow of his brow. He’s painfully handsome. Just as you’re about to say something, he breaks the silence first, “But I'll let you get back to whatever it is you’re doin’...you look busy,” he tilts his chin to the paint that’s splotched over your bare legs. You can tell he’s looking for the story behind the mess. 

His left hand leaves his pocket and he places it on the doorframe. He leans into it, and your eyes catch the firmness of his bicep flexing under the strain of his lean before meeting his face once more. 

“Cute shirt, by the way” he says, his voice low and even. 

“Oh thanks, you like it?” you ask, pulling the fabric out in a tent from the center, noticing the little splatters of paint as you do. “It’s my aunt’s, I just borrowed it while I finish up some painting.”

“Yeah, I have the same one,” he adds, “looks a helluva lot better on you than it does me, though,” a little laugh leaves his chest and his cheeks flush, a little embarrassed that he just said that. Fuck, it’s been so long since he’s tried to flirt with a woman. 

Your skin prickles with heat, and you’re suddenly very self-aware of what a wreck you must look like, but you decide to be bold anyway. “Maybe we’ll have to compare sometime,” you playfully retort.

“Yeah, maybe we will,” he responds, looking you up and down, hoping the meaning behind his words isn’t too obvious. 

“Well if ya ever need anything, ‘m just across the way,” he says, dropping his hand from the doorframe, hitting his thigh with a slight sound of a pat. “Nice to meet ya, Darlin’,” he says. You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker down to your chest once more, your stiff nipples now peeking through the fabric. He turns on his heels and turns his back to walk back to his apartment. 

“Nice to meet you, Joel,” you purr. His head peers over his shoulder back at you, and the corners of his lips turn up in a little smirk. 

Oh god. 

You’re so fucked.

++++

Later that night, you text your aunt that you just met Joel Miller. You curse her for not telling you how incredibly hot he is.  You also tell her that you decided to finish the painting, sending a selfie of you in front of the freshly updated walls with the message. You also add that you borrowed one of her shirts and that you’ll do your best to get the paint out of it. 

Her response causes your breath to hitch in your throat, and your stomach swirls into a tight knot. 

“The walls look amazing! Oh and by the way, that’s not my shirt, it’s Joel’s. I must have forgotten to give it back to him; the shared laundry downstairs sometimes causes mix-ups. Be a doll and give it back to him, will ya? Oh and quarters for the machines are in the clay pot next to the door.” 

Fuck. Of course you would answer the door to your incredibly hot neighbor, covered in paint, in his shirt. You shake your head in embarrassment.

You look down at the shirt and notice just how much paint is all over it. You strip it from your body, bring it over to the sink, and begin to scrub the paint out of it with dish soap. As you watch the paint fade into the warm water, you notice the tag on the inside of the shirt and the rank inscribed in permanent marker on it. 

Your fingers prune in the water, but you eventually get all of the paint out of the fabric. Satisfied with your cleaning job, you hang it up to dry and scribble out a note. 

The following morning, on your way out to explore the city, you leave it neatly folded on Joel’s doorstep. You don’t bother to knock, you’re certain you might combust from embarrassment if you did. 

Shortly after, on his way to work, Joel opens the door and notices the shirt by his boot, a little envelope placed on top of it. 

“You could have told me it was your shirt, Captain Miller.” 

Joel smirks. The cat’s out of the bag on that little secret then. He places it inside and lets out a little sigh. The image of your perky nipples, exposed legs, and messy paint-riddled hair flashes in his brain. 

God, he wishes you would have kept it. 

S U M M E R

As spring transitions into summer, the city experiences a gradual warming trend. Cherry blossoms and tulips from spring slowly give way to vibrant green foliage. Parks become lively with people enjoying the pleasant weather, and outdoor events become more frequent. The temperature rises, and there's a noticeable shift towards a warmer atmosphere with longer days. 

It’s a shift you also feel in yourself, having found your niche, carving out your place in the ecosystem of the city. You’ve gradually adjusted, figured out how to successfully navigate the complexities of the subway system, and are starting to rely less and less on Google Maps to get around. You frequent a bodega around the corner from you, know where to find a decent bagel, and are a recognizable regular at Sang Garden. 

Your new job keeps you busy. It’s tough work being a bartender in the city, but it’s granted you more than one opportunity to meet people from all walks of life, people you’d never get the opportunity to meet back in your hometown. 

People like the gregarious and charismatic trader, who’s more than happy to make it clear he works in the financial district, even when nobody asks. People like the countless young professionals unwinding after a long day with their colleagues; some with sexual tension so obvious you can taste it. Designers. Architects. Engineers. Writers. Musicians. Actors. You don’t like them all, but you don’t have to, you’ll never see most of them more than once anyway. 

You quickly learn the art of making a good martini, one you think would make Samantha proud. It’s all so posh. So far from your usual. But the money is good, and without having to pay rent – a luxury you now realize; having almost fainted when your coworker told you how much he pays in rent – it allows you to pocket most of it. 

Your first few months in New York have been good, although a tad lonely. Making friends was never really a strong suit of yours, and you’re finding the city to be a particularly hard place to get to know people in any real way. Most of your free time is spent curled up with a good book or watching Friends for the millionth time, wishing Central Perk was a real place. 

You see Joel in passing now and then, the in-between times when he’s coming home from work, and you’re just leaving for yours. Sometimes you pass each other on the stairs, and you have to angle your bodies side-to-side just to fit on the narrow stairs as you navigate around one another. You sometimes have to collect your composure when you leave for work and notice the faint smell of his cologne still in the hallway, it smells so good it makes you dizzy. 

You find excuses to talk to him every now and then – a squeaky fire detector, to hand him his mail, or even for a stupid cup of sugar. Every time you find yourself knocking on his door, the butterflies congregate in masses as if preparing to migrate. You feel like a school girl with a crush for the first time, but as far as you can tell, Joel doesn’t feel the same, and you’re okay with that. At least that’s what you try to tell yourself. 

The exchanges are always short; little blips in the grand scene of time, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling like you might faint under the intensity of his scorching gaze. Which doesn’t help, considering it’s already sweltering outside. 

You severely underestimated how hot summer would be. Of course, you’re used to the oppressive Texas sun, but something about the way the buildings and concrete reflect the rays makes it feel like New York is at least 10x hotter. 

The temperature in your apartment isn’t much better than outside. The air hangs heavy inside as you lay on your mattress, clad in only a bra and underwear, on crisp white sheets, attempting to cool yourself with a damp towel on your forehead. You listen to the feeble hum of the wall crying out for help. 

As luck would have it, the overworked unit decides to give in to the heat. Beads of sweat form on your forehead as you attempt to fix it, but it’s pointless. You stare at the lifeless unit, realizing that the city’s relentless heat has claimed it as a victim. Time for a new one. 

Once the sun dips past the skyline, you venture out to your local hardware store to grab a new one. You wish you would have had some forethought to bring a cart or something, not thinking about the fact that you were going to have to carry the heavy unit eight city blocks. Coulda, shoulda, woulda, you think to yourself. Once back to your apartment, you balance the quirky box on your hip, holding it steady with one arm as you fumble to grab the key from your purse outside the entrance of the building. Your cheeks are warm, you’re drenched in sweat even at this hour, and your hair is starting to stick to the nape of your neck. You manage to grab it, but inadvertently drop it, your fingers clammy. 

“Shit,” you mutter, frustrated and hot. 

“Need some help there, Darlin’?” Joel asks, making his way up the stoop. You turn to face him and oh. 

Of all the times you’ve seen Joel, you’ve never seen him in uniform. The sight catches you off guard. His crisp, navy blue uniform emphasizes his broad shoulders and neatly tucked shirt, the shiny FDNY badge on his chest. He flashes a charming smile, revealing a hint of dimples, as he picks up your fallen key with ease. You’re not sure how he always manages to look so put together, a stark contrast to the way you always seem to look in front of him. 

"Rough day?" he asks, unlocking the door, and for a moment, you forget the oppressive heat, captivated by his charm. “Here, lemme take that for you,” he offers, and you kindly accept. You shift the box out of your arms into his, and your stomach swoops when you watch the way his biceps flex as he grabs the unit with ease. 

Grateful for the assistance, you offer a sheepish smile, “Yeah, you could say that” you reply, opening the door, holding it open for him. He begins to ascend the staircase ahead of you, giving you a full view of his ass in his uniform pants; it’s toned, and his thick thighs match. You walk behind him, trying to ignore the stickiness that’s beginning to pool in your underwear. You allow yourself to perv out for a moment, at least while his back is to you. He’s just helping you out, stop being weird.

Joel waits at the top of the steps for you to open your door. Once unlocked, you enter and he follows behind you. “Oh shit, it’s hotter than hell in here,” he says once inside, the irony is not lost on you that a literal man who fights fires for a living thinks it’s hotter than hell. He bends to place the box down near the front door and rises to full height, bringing both hands to his hips. You notice the little sheen of sweat that has now collected on his thick neck, fighting the impulse to lap up the perspiration. “You’re telling me, I’m rendering lard,” you say, letting your Southern roots shine through. You cringe a little at yourself, watering your accent down to not stick out as much, but you’re reminded of the age-old saying you can take the girl out of the country… 

You wipe the back of your hand on your forehead to push away the sweat that’s been collecting there all day and look at him. “Thanks for the help carrying it up,” you say, offering him a kind smile. 

“No problem at all, need some help installing it? These units can be tricky,” he asks, trying his best to ignore the fact that your white shirt has gone see-through from your sweat, allowing him a perfect view of your breasts. No bra again, he notes. He shifts his stance a little, trying to prevent his cock from hardening at the sight. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, a little unsure, but deep down you know you need the help. As much as you’d like to think of yourself as an independent and capable woman, you’ve never been one to be good with anything mechanical, and the heat has left your brain feeling like the static of a T.V. channel with no reception. 

“Course. I’m a servant to public safety. Can’t have you accidentally pushing it out the window and crushing a person below, it’d be a lot of paperwork” he chuckles and takes out a knife from his pocket to undo the tape on the box.  It’s an ordinary act, yet somehow you’re mesmerized by his dexterity and competency. 

Midway through the process, Joel pauses, feeling the heat, and glances at you with a lighthearted grin. “Mind if I take this off?” he asks, tugging at the collar of the uniform shirt. You nod, suddenly feeling warmer than before. “Sure, go ahead.” 

His large fingers fumble with the buttons on the shirt, eventually revealing a white tank top underneath. The fabric clings to him, highlighting his defined chest, and a little bit of belly. You practically drool at the sight, once again resisting an impulse to want to sink your flesh into the softness above his belt. 

He has an awful farmer's tan, but he wears it well; his forearms are a nice shade of golden and his shoulders are pale. You see from the lack of collar on the tank that he has a bare chest. He throws the uniform shirt onto a nearby chair and goes back to work installing the unit. You watch as he works to position it in the window, stealing glances at his glistening skin as he does. You think you’re being sly about it, but Joel can tell, he can feel your eyes heavy like bowling balls on him. 

“So, how long have you been a firefighter?” you ask.

“About 15 years,” he responds. “Sorta always knew I wanted to do it, I was a contractor for a while, but wasn’t my thing.”

“Oh no? You seem like you’re pretty good with your hands,” you reply, your words suggestive. 

“Never said I wasn’t, Darlin,’” he replies, shooting you a wink. 

He plugs the unit in, and the screen comes to life. He sets the temperature as low as it will go, and the fan on high; the unit is about to put in overtime to make the air tolerable again. 

“Well, that should do it,” straightening back up from his bent-over position, clapping his hands together as if to dust the task off. “Probably gonna take a while for it to cool down in here. You’re uh, more than welcome to hang out at mine for the time being. Don’t need you overheating on me,” trying to mask his excitement at you being in his space by carding his fingers through his salt and pepper curls. 

You glance at the unit, and you can tell he’s right. “Alright, why not,” you say, offering him a smile. “Just gonna use the restroom fast,” you say, looking for an excuse to make yourself at least somewhat presentable and confirm that you don’t smell like a sweaty subway car. 

Inspecting yourself in the harsh, exposing light of the bathroom, you grimace at your appearance. Not that you’d been expecting to look your best, but still. You pat the extra moisture off your skin with a clean towel, when you notice that nipples are straining against the fabric of your wet t-shirt, leaving nothing to the imagination. You briefly consider changing shirts, but the cheeky side of you decides to leave it be. You give yourself a quick smile and internal encouragement in the mirror and you step out of the bathroom. 

Joel waits in the foyer by the door for you, taking the opportunity to learn a little more about you, drinking in the details of your space for any glimmers of insight it might give him about your life. 

He’s been in the space before, but it’s different this time – updated. It still has many of the same things your aunt had put up, but you’ve added new additions to the walls; photos of you with friends, and family, and vinyl covers in frames. His eyes gravitate to a photo of you at your college graduation; your smile ear to ear, a bottle of champagne in your hands. You always seem happy. He likes that about you. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t look for a photo of you with another guy, a hint that you might already be taken, but he’s relieved when he doesn’t find one. 

The bathroom door opens with a soft creak, and you stroll out, shooting him a casual but confident smile. As you do, you casually tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, giving off an easygoing vibe. It's a simple move, but there's a certain charm to it that doesn't go unnoticed by Joel.

“Ready?” you ask, and he clears his throat, trying to hide his pleasure that you opted not to change your still slightly transparent shirt. “Let’s get outta here,” he says, yanking on the handle, the door groans and opens with a loud creak. “Don’t wanna hit traffic.” Oh god, that’s a dad joke if you’ve ever heard one. You try to hide the stupid smile that graces your face, but Joel sees it, and matches it. Your shoulder brushes against his chest as you walk through the door, and Joel straightens in response, a little tingle shooting up his spine from the brief touch. Get a fucking grip, Miller, he thinks to himself, pulling the door closed behind him. 

++++

Once inside his apartment, you gasp. It’s not at all what you expected. 

If his front doorstep was any indication, you expected his apartment to be full of Ikea furniture, bare walls, and maybe a fake plant in the corner somewhere. You’re pleasantly surprised when you find that it’s the exact opposite; you feel like you’ve just wanted into some swanky bar. The air smells like palo santo, but above all, it’s cool. You let out a sigh of relief. 

“Can I get you a beer” he asks, and you nod your head in response. He walks into the kitchen, and you’re mesmerized by his space. It’s a similar layout to your apartment, but somehow it feels bigger, even a tad cozier, plus he has exposed brick, a detail you wish your apartment had. 

“Your apartment is amazing,” you tell him, spinning around to get a full 360 view of the space. You hear him yell something like thanks from the kitchen. 

You find your seat on the cognac-colored couch and run your hand up and down the texture of it. The leather is cool on your skin, and your body temperature slowly begins to return to normal.

Joel returns from the kitchen, and hands you a Bud Light. And for once, you don’t wish for it to turn into a martini. Now having spent a few months in the city, you’re starting to realize that you’re more of a bud girl than a cocktail girl, and that fairy godmothers are a tad overrated. 

You’re not sure when he did it, but your ear tunes to the classic sound of Beast of Burden by the Rolling Stones playing in the background at a low volume, adding a funk you adore to the moment. 

He finds a seat on the couch next to you and throws his arm behind you on the ledge. He crosses his legs over one another, and you squirm, not out of discomfort, but nerves. 

“I am impressed with your apartment, it’s well decorated,” you compliment him, bringing the bottle of beer to your lips. 

“Had a bit of help, ‘f I’m being honest,” he replies. Your stomach flips. 

“Oh?” you say, a bit breathless, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Of course, he would have a girlfriend. You see it plain as day now, the feminine touches built into the apartment, hanging on the walls in plain sight, taunting you with the obvious. He even has like ten live plants for fucks sake. Joel Miller is taken. 

“My daughter, Sarah,” he replies, bringing the beer to his mouth for another swig. You try not to make your sigh of relief too obvious. “Oh!” you squeak and turn your body to face him. You don’t know if you’ve scooted closer or if he did, but your thighs are now touching. 

“She’s studying interior design. Begged me this past year to let her fix up my apartment, and well…I didn’t have the heart ta say no,” he replies. “Said my apartment resembled a frat boys bachelor pad,” he lets out a gruff little chuckle and you smile at him. 

His arm drifts close to you, his hand nearly touching your shoulder. It’s not quite there, but you can feel the heat, the electricity, his fingertips shoot to your skin. So much for cooling down.

“Well, if you didn’t decorate the space, what’s your favorite part about it then?” you ask, taking another swig at the bottle. Joel stares at your lips as they latch around the glass, admiring how plush and warm they look. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t wonder what they might look like around his cock.

“Ah, good question,” he says, bringing his hand to cover his crotch with the bottle, all while subtly trying to adjust himself from his previous thought. He’s surprised he even heard your question at all. “Probably the table over there,” he says, nodding his head back to signal to the dining room. 

“Made it myself,” he says, a bit of pride in his voice. 

You crane your neck to look, but can’t get a good view with how plush the cushions are. You slightly angle your body upwards, coming onto your knee on the couch to look, bringing your chest closer to Joel’s face.

“Well I’ll be damned, you really must be good with your hands,” you playfully tease, letting your body sink by his side once more, feeling the warmth he exudes. Your words cause his gaze to go dark. “Mhmm,” he murmurs, taking another sip of his beer, sure if he said any more he might regret it. 

You notice the music switches to Kings of Leon, a favorite tune of yours echoing through the air. “Oh shit, I love this song,” you exclaim, barely able to contain your excitement, much to Joel’s delight. 

“Yeaaaaaah, your sex is on fireeeee,” you belt, and you inadvertently tilt your beer bottle a little too far down in the process of your solo, and a splash of beer pours out onto Joel’s lap. The action abruptly causes you to stop. 

“Ah, I’m so sorry,” you apologize profusely, setting the nearly empty bottle on the coffee table in front of you, noticing the box of tissues as you do.

“Don’t worry about it, Darlin’,” he says, voice mellow, placing his beer on the table, too.

You frantically grab a handful of tissues and bring them over to the wet spot pooling on Joel’s crotch. “Here, let me,” you say, dabbing at the liquid, the realization not fully hitting you that your hands are literally on his crotch until – oh.

Joel’s been walking the fine line of a stiff one all night, and your simple gesture throws him over the edge, the dabbing causing blood to rush to his cock. 

You continue to blot at the liquid and notice him stiffening underneath you. A heavy rush of arousal courses through you, and heats your core. Joel’s hand darts to grab your wrist, the size of it completely swallowing up your entirety of it, his fingers wrapped around it, and you’re certain he feels your pulse quicken under his touch.

You look up at him with big doe eyes, only to find his own pupils are blown open wide with lust, his jaw tense. His other hand finds the side of your face, and he holds you up to look at him. You both pause there, letting the tension of the moment swallow you whole. He looks at you like you're a juicy summer peach, ripe for the picking.

His grip on your wrist softens, and you flatten your hand to palm at his growing bulge. Joel lets out a deep groan in response to the full contact. “Shit darlin’,” he says, voice wrecked. His hand drifts to the column of your neck, and he begins to pull you up so you’re face-to-face with him. 

The anticipation builds, and just as your lips are about to meet, a sudden shrill sound shatters the moment – the fire alarm. 

“Fuck.” Joel groans.

TO BE CONTINUED - READ PART 2

Tagging moots and those who I think might like this: @endlessthxxghts @theoasisofthings @bastardmandennis @untamedheart81@lavema @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @dugiioh @nervoushottee @milly-louise @ghostwritesthings@josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @peachmy @survivingandenduring@darkheartgatita @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @dins-riduur-anthe @ohheypedrito @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro As always, feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list, or removed (even if we're moots, no hard feelings). Might transition to a notifs blog soon.xx

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x you #joel miller fluff #joel miller #pedro pascal character #pedrohub #pedro pascal #new york #firefighter smut #pedro stories

[my-castles-crumbling]

Dimple - @jegulus-microfic - word count: 173 - NSFW and explicit, minors DNI

It took him a while to realize they were there. 

It wasn’t even the first time they had sex that he realized. He was…rather distracted, thank you very much.

But a few weeks later, he saw them for the first time. As he slowly, deliciously, slid into Regulus, making both of them release twin moans that caused a vibration up James’s spine. He spied both dimples on Regulus’s back, the divots in his skin making James almost come right there as he imagined leaning down and biting them.

“Fuck, Reg,” he groaned, sliding his hands over Regulus’s waist and to his hips, until each of his thumbs were pressed into one of the small craters, applying enough pressure to bruise.

But Regulus, who was on his elbows and knees, only keened, pushing even more into James’s rough embrace. “Harder, James,” he moaned, his heat swallowing James’s cock so completely that the older boy’s entire body was on fire with pleasure.

“Anything, baby,” he whispered, beginning to pound into him with earnest, his fingers pressing into the dimples in his back, his heart singing.

#marauders #marauders era #harry potter #fanfic #marauders fandom #harry potter marauders #the marauders #the maruaders #the marauders fandom #the marauders era #james #james fleamont potter #james potter #james x regulus #james and regulus #james potter/regulus black #james potter x regulus black #regulus black #regulus arcturus black #james loves regulus #regulus deserved better #jegulus #jegulus microfic #jegulus fanfiction #starchaser #sunseeker

[villain-crown]

forbid | @jegulus-microfic | words: 657

critical care, part 3 (part 1, part 2, part 4, part 5, part 6)

a Jegulus nurse!AU

The thing about calling a code blue was that it could quickly turn into social hour if you weren’t careful. Mates that you hadn’t seen in awhile came out of the woodwork from all over the hospital to get in on the action, leading to a sort of impromptu reunion over the patient you were working to snatch from the claws of death.

“Lily! Oh my god, I haven’t seen you in ages—“

“Dorcas! What unit are you on these days?”

“Oi, Barty, I thought they fired you!”

Like now, apparently, as every person James had ever fucking met decided to grab a front row seat to spectate as he tried to make small talk with Regulus Black.

“It was a lovely day yesterday,” James began when they’d finished delivering a second shock to their patient. “The sun was out. Do you get out much, Regulus?”

James could feel Sirius’s suspicious gaze as Regulus glanced incredulously away from the new rhythm tracing itself on the cardiac monitor.

Still v. fib.

“…No. Sirius locks me in my bedroom and just lets me out four days a week when it’s time for me to be here—what the fuck kind of question is that, Potter!?”

Bloody hell, but Dorcas had clearly lied to Marlene about Regulus’s personality.

Sweet, Dorcas had called him.

No. This was a feral devil cat with a mouth full of knives and Merlin save him but James was so fucking into it.

“I wouldn’t rule that out,” Barty Crouch Jr. butted in unnecessary, watching Regulus’s vitriol land with an entertained expression. “One time I asked Reg if he wanted to check out my new apartment and Black threatened to peel my face off and put it on the CPR mannequin. I still haven’t gotten a proper answer.”

“There’s no need for him to go anywhere with you unsupervised, Crouch,” Sirius scowled, turning up the energy level of the defibrillator for their next attempt. “Just describe it to him.”

“Describe it? Well, okay. Picture it, Reg. You and Evan, in my bed—“

“Stop messing with him, idiot,” Regulus rolled his eyes, finally shoving Crouch’s arm off his delicate shoulders as Sirius picked up a spare saline flush and squirted it right in the blond’s face. To Sirius, he added, “he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, you know.”

“I’m calling HR you fucking asshole!”

“Fine, if you want to play that game. I’m sure they’d love to hear about you taking it from Lupin in the supply room last month.”

“Reggie! You can’t say dirty things like that! I forbid it!”

“I say a lot worse under the right circumstances, Sirius.”

James felt a flash of lightning race down his spine as Regulus maintained unwavering eye contact with him as he said so, ignoring Sirius’s outraged sputtering.

“I told you not to let Sirius catch you looking at his baby brother,” Marlene pointed out in an undertone, sidling up to James in the already crowded room.

“He’s bloody perfect.” James replied, unrepentant. “I’m going to marry him.”

“Dorcas called him sweet. I’m not getting that vibe.”

“Maybe he just needs a little… persuading.”

Marlene rolled her eyes, opening the airway drawer of the crash cart at Dorcas’s behest. “He’s mean, James.”

“He’s pretty, Marlene.”

“…You aren’t going to see reason, are you?”

“Absolutely not. Regulus Black is going to have my children.”

She looked back at the petite man with obvious misgivings. “If he doesn’t kill you first.”

“He could carve his initials into me with a scalpel and I’d thank him.”

“…You’re fucking crazy.”

#regulus black #james potter #jegulus #sirius black #starchaser #sirius and regulus #james loves regulus #jegulus microfic #protective sirius black

[spinderella-umbrella]

@jegulus-microfic | 27-03; Birthday | 373 words

“Happy birthday Reg,”

James has followed him through the library, coming up behind him and whispering in his ear. He wasn’t sneaky, and Regulus shuddered uncomfortably at the breath on his neck.

Regulus slams the tome he was flicking through closed and replaces it into the shelf, unimpressed at both the nickname and the public familiarity. He whirls around to see James with a stupid smile on his face and his hand behind his back.

“What do you want?” Regulus snaps, raising his chin so he could peer down his nose at James.

He didn’t need to look around to see if anyone could see them. He’s led James here intentionally— but even if someone happens upon them, it will look like what it is. An altercation. Because if James has the gall to have a gift behind his back, Regulus is going to kill him.

“I got you something.” James says the dreaded words.

He feels the fire of frustration burning behind his eyes, and he’s sure if anyone other than James freakin Potter was in front of him, they’d cower.

James just pulls his hand from behind his back and holds up a leather bound journal.

“I noticed you were near the end of yours, so it’s practical, and, you would have had to get a new one anyway, and well, I liked picking it out for you.” He rambles, and Regulus surprises himself by reaching out and taking it, turning it over in his hands.

It’s nice. Really nice. The binding looks hand done, the leather work is precise and shows skill. He unwinds the tie, opening the book to feel the pages— textured hand made paper cut so precisely that there was a clean edge on the pages, just like Regulus liked.

He… loves it. Dammit.

Regulus glances up at James, who is turning red from holding his breath. Why does he even like this moron?

“Breathe, idiot.” Regulus says, rolling his eyes.

James lets out a breath and grins, and okay. That smile might have a little bit to do with it.

“Thank you.” He says quietly, genuinely, before nodding goodbye and walking away. He’ll thank him properly the next time he gets him in a broom closet.

#marauders #maraudersfanfiction #Jegulus #marauders era #regulus black #marauders fanfiction #James potter #yes I’m aware it’s James’ birthday today #but this is what came out of my tired brain sooooo

[rotten1angel]

war is over / r. black

regulus black x fem!muggleborn!reader

word count — 0.6k

summary: regulus and you escape grimmauld place to the potters

authors note & warnings: walburga and orion, from my old account, so the writings a bit eh

—

you knew it was a bad idea staying at the black house for winter break.

walburga and orion weren’t supposed to come home–but of course they had to come back from france a week early.

you hid in regulus’s wardrobe as you heard screaming downstairs — mostly from walburga and regulus. you clutched your knees to your chest as your hands covered your ears. tears streamed down your cheeks as you heard spells being cast. you heard pounding footsteps as regulus burst into the room and ripped open the wardrobe doors.

“reg–” you sobbed.

“come on.” regulus grabbed one of your hands and pulled you up and out of the wardrobe. holding on tight to your hand you felt him and yourself apparate.

you tried to piece together where he was going but you couldn’t–all you could do was hang onto him.

you had stopped moving — you and regulus stood in front of a warm, lit-up house.

“regulus..?” he ignored you as he — still holding your hand — walked up to the door and knocked. you two stood in silence as you heard a warm, motherly voice yell ‘coming!’

it was around 9 at night — freezing cold, and once the door opened you felt a fire’s warmth bleeding out into the frozen air.

“hello dears — i’m so sorry, who— who are you?” no malice was behind the voice, only concern as to why two teenagers were standing outside this woman's doorstep.

“regulus black, ma’am, and this is (y/n).” regulus’s voice cracked slightly as he looked at the woman. “ah.. yes darling — please, both of you, come in.”

you two had been seated on a red couch by the fire — hot cocoa in both of your hands. regulus had explained that they were at the potters to you — where sirius had stayed for the past few years.

“what are you doing here, sweetheart?” mrs. potter had asked regulus has she sat down in a chair across from him.

“my parents — they found out (y/n) was a muggleborn and threatened to kill her..” regulus told the woman–not looking at you–as if he was ashamed and it was his fault.

you wrapped your hand around his and leaned your face into the crevice of his neck.

“well.. you can stay as long as you need, love —we’ll need to get a room prepared, i’ll go up and do that now.” the woman smiled at the two of you and left the room.

you kissed regulus’s neck–knowing it calmed him. he turned his head and kissed the crown of your head.

you heard stumbling coming from the stairs and then you felt regulus’s body tighten — you peered up to see sirius and james staring at you two — mouths gaping.

“sirius— i—“

“what did they do to you?” anger and concern filled sirius’s voice. sirius walked over to the two of you and crouched down— hugging regulus’s shoulders, one hand cradling his head.

you had backed away from regulus and looked over to james — who gave a small, awkward wave which you returned.

euphemia came back downstairs–smiling at the two brothers. she went over — rubbing sirius’s back.

“alright, sirius, im sure regulus and (y/n) are exhausted. i’ve set up a room for the two of you — james can show you, it's just the spare bedroom down the hall from yours, james.”

james nodded — sirius let go of his brother and the three of you got up and followed james. you hung on to regulus’s arm as he followed the two older boys.

once you got to the room james stopped and turned. regulus nodded in thanks and went in, shutting the door behind you two.

once he did he turned to face you. he held your head in his hands and kissed your forehead.

“i’m sorry, my love, we shouldn’t have gone to my house for break — i should have listened to you.” his voice broke as one of your hands went over his.

“reg.. its alright.” you kissed his cheek and he sighed. you two changed into some pajamas euphemia had put out on the dresser and got into the warm bed. the two of you tangled in each other.

—

taglist — @wildieflower @diqldrunk @masivechaos @imabee-oralizard @garfieldsladybird

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #regulus black x female reader #regulus black x fem!reader

[y0url0verb0y]

Okay buy likeeeeee Occult au???? Monster High au type shit????? PLEASE IM BEGGING

I need Werebeasts James and Remus Immediately.

Vampire Sirius and Reg please and thank you.

Siren/Merfolk Evan and Pandora cause obviously

boogeyman Barty, idk man like it kinda is js him, that or a grim reaper I suppose like idek WAIT WAIT NO, ONE OF THOSE OR A FIRE ELEMENTAL LIKE HOLT WITHOUT THE HYBRID.

Zombie Peter cause like it kinda fits and I think he'd be the Ghoulia of the friend group

Forest Nymph Lily cause fucking duh

Saltwater monster Marlene cause she kinda reminds me of lagoona (that or she's a gargoyle)

Genie Dorcas cause it fits her vibe so well imo

Mummy Mary cause she is so Cleo De Nile fight me

lemme know if I'm missing anyone or if you want me to do more, or go into more detail <3

#marauders #marauders harry potter #jegulus #james potter #rosekiller #regulus black #evan rosier #barty crouch jr #sirius black #wolfstar #remus lupin #lily evans #pandora rosier #pandalily #marylily #mary macdonald #dorlene #dorcas meadowes #marlene mckinnon #peter pettigrew #i need this #occult au #monster high #i want it so bad #I've been sitting on this for a while now #headcanons #Reese Rambles

[regulus-blacks-lover]

Hi it's me again

72 with regulus💚

I have a story idea, if you don't like it, you don't have to answer

Sooo you are kinda innocent, like you had sex before but unspecial without feelings. And regulus founds out you are reading smut books and want to give you the special spice experience you deserve. Maybe you are reading and he starts eating you out

Lot of love to you💓

Sorry it's taken me literal ages to write this! I hope u like it!

1,329 words

#72: “there is no way anyone is that innocent”

"What's up, little dove?" Regulus asked, plopping down onto the common room couch next to you.

You glanced up from your History of Magic textbook just long enough to shoot him an annoyed look. "I've got so much to do Reg. Gotta read this whole section of the book and write two essays by tomorrow."

He leaned his head on your shoulder to look at the chapter you'd already turned back to. "Oh the magical transparency uprisings of 1754," he said. You bit back your annoyance. Regulus was so good at history, thanks to the years of private tutoring his parents had supplied him for his entire childhood.

"I've been reading this page for twenty minutes," you groaned. "It's not sinking in. I'm doomed!"

Your best friend pulled your legs into his lap. "I'll help you." he said, positioning the textbook in your lap so you could both see it. You watched Regulus skim the page before he began summarizing the entire chapter like he'd been preparing a presentation on it. As he spoke, he traced lazy lines up your calves.

You relaxed into his touch and slowly began to understand what the dry words in your textbook had been trying to say.

It was always like this, Regulus coming to your rescue. Your best friend. Never anything more than kind words and casual, platonic contact. Sometimes you thought you caught him looking at you with something beyond just friendship in his gaze, but you always told yourself you were making it up.

You made it through another finals week, thanks to Regulus. The weather outside began warming as spring approached. You'd planned to stay at the school for the short spring break with a group of friends, but several of them had gotten into relationships during the term and had abandoned those plans in favor of spending the spring outside in their lovers arms. You couldn't fault them, but you also couldn't help the bitter jealousy that burned in your chest when you thought of how lonely you were.

You'd had a few relationships, of course, each as unfulfilling and short lived as the last. You'd never felt a spark with any of your partners, never cared for them the way you wanted to. And in return, you hadn't been properly cared for.

With the castle nearly empty, you ventured into the library, ending up in the small romance section. You rifled through a few books before finding one that was properly steamy. You tucked it under your arm and made your way back to the common room.

You find a decently private corner and begin reading, crossing your legs in search of friction as you reach the first sex scene in the book.

"He was consuming her like fire, his tongue stroking in long, slow licks, curling–"

"Hello little dove," a voice says, sitting down next to you. You start, instinctively angling your book away from view. You'd been so focused on the book that you hadn't even heard Regulus come in. Glancing around, you noticed that it was just the two of you in the room. "Please tell me you aren't studying during the break? That's so sad," he said, offering you a mock-pout.

"I'm not studying." You replied, trying to move the book further out of view.

Regulus cocked an eyebrow. He knew you too well, damn him. Before you could react, he snatched the book from your grasp, flipping it back open. You could only watch as his eyes scanned the pages, taking in the smut you'd been reading.

"I knew it. I knew there was absolutely no way anyone could be that innocent." He said, turning to smirk at you.

"What?" You asked, too embarrassed to think of anything else.

Regulus placed a hand on your knee, eyes momentarily lingering on your still crossed legs before he raised his gaze to yours again. "I thought maybe you were just so innocent, the way I touched you never felt like anything beyond just friendly touches." He said quietly. "I never let it go beyond that. I always wanted... I always wanted to make you feel good, I just thought you weren't... into that kind of thing."

Your gaze darted to his hand on your knee. As you watched, he slid his hand upward, just high enough that his thumb vanished below the hem of your skirt. Out of sight, he traced a gentle line against your thigh.

He leaned into you. "Do you want me to touch you?" He purred into your ear. His warm breath fanned across your neck.

Your voice was breathy when you replied, "Yes."

He pressed a kiss against your shoulder and asked, "Do you want me to touch you in all of those filthy ways you read about?"

You felt like you couldn't breathe. "Please." You said, all bust gasping the word out.

"Good." He said, but then he pulled his warm hand out from where it had been making its way underneath your skirt.

"Regulus, what-" you began, but he cut you off by grabbing your hips to pull you to the edge of the small couch you'd been perched on.

He knelt before you, leaning forward to kiss you. His hands were back on you, one on each thigh, trailing impossibly upward until your skirt was pushed all the way up around your waist and one of his thumbs began drawing torturously slow circles over your underwear.

You ran your fingers through his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss. For all the times you'd wondered what it would be like to kiss him, the real thing was so much better than you'd even imagined.

You began rocking your hips ever so slightly upwards, trying to create more pressure as he touched you so gently. You felt Regulus smile into the kiss before he pulled away.

"Lean back for me, my dove." He said, gently pushing your shoulders back so you were half lying against the back of the couch.

You watched him sink down in front of you, his hands pulling your legs apart. He hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties and you lifted your hips to allow him room to shimmy the fabric down your legs. Your face flushed slightly, suddenly feeling bare and vulnerable. Regulus began to kiss his way up your legs, starting at your knees and making his way upward to your core, where his thumb was already rubbing slow circles against your clit, spreading your wetness around.

You inhaled sharply as he sucked the tender flesh of your inner thigh into his mouth, sure to leave a mark behind. His gaze flicked up to you, full of desire. "Do you want me to keep going?" He asked, waiting for you to pant out a 'yes' before continuing. He replaced his thumb with his mouth and you swore you'd never felt anything so good.

A small whimper left your mouth as he pushed a finger into your entrance, keeping his mouth locked on your clit, sucking it harshly before releasing it to lick it gently over and over.

He began to increase his pace, flicking his tongue over your core faster and faster until you were shaking under his touch. Meanwhile, he added a second finger to your pussy, curling them up into your center, hitting that sweet spot and making you cry out again.

Your hands were tangled in his hair and you bucked your hips up into his mouth, meeting his every thrust with one of your own.

"Regulus," you gasped, "Regulus, 'm gonna come."

He was unrelenting, continuing to lick and kiss and suck at you until your orgasm washed over you, more powerful than any pleasure you'd ever felt before.

When at last Regulus pulled away, you were a mess before him. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to taste you." He whispered, looking up at you from his position between your thighs.

#my writing #reg fic mine #regulus black x you #regulus black x reader #regulus black smut #regulus black fic #regulus black #blondbadbitchp

[heaven4lostgirls]

Can you do one where Sirius’ parents are called to school by Dumbledore after a massive prank and he’s freaking out about it but the reader helps him out and is there for him? Thank you

Never alone

sirius black x reader

word count: 884

a/n: i’m back!! i’m sorry it took so long for me to get this out but here it is x

“You realise we have to call your parents in because of this prank boys?” McGonagall’s soft-spoken tone broke the silence in Dumbledore’s office. All the marauders nodded except for Sirius as he closed his eyes tightly already cussing himself out in his head for the stupidity of the prank, they had pulled against the Slytherins.

He felt James’ hand land on his shoulder and squeeze in comfort as if he were able to hear his inner thoughts. He almost felt guilty for wanting to push his hand away, but he knew his best friend was just looking out for him. After the meeting they made their way out and towards the Gryffindor common room.

He saw your anxious form waiting for the boys on the couches in front of the crackling fire in the Gryffindor common room and just as you two made eye contact you had already made your way towards the portrait hole and pulled him into a hug with a sigh of relief. “I was so worried about you, I though McGonagall was going to hex you all, I’m so glad you’re okay.” Sirius breathes in your comforting scent and pulls you into him tighter and before he can fight it, the urge to cry overwhelms him and you feel the dampness grow on your shoulder. The anxiety hits you like a whirlwind and you try and nudge him away from your shoulder to check if he has been hurt somehow but with surprising strength for someone being mid breakdown he resists.

You are forced to look over his shoulder to the other three boys who have too walked in side by side with solemn looks on their faces. With your eyes you ask them silently why your normally happy and dramatic boyfriend is sobbing into your shoulder with simply no explanation. They all look at him in sympathy and in passing James whispers into your ear “McGonagall told us she had to notify our parents because the prank was serious.” Normally you would have laughed at the pun that James had unknowingly said however with the state of your boyfriend currently you simply widen your eyes and hug Sirius even tighter.

“Let’s go to my dorm okay love?” you murmur into his ear whilst his body shaking sobs have dulled to simple sniffles and heavy breathing. Once you feel him nod softly into your shoulder you usher him to your dorm room and when passing lily, you softly ask her if she can keep everyone out for a while and with a concerned look to your boyfriend she nods and smiles sympathetically to you. Once you reach your dorm and lay on your bed with Sirius, he still refuses to meet your eyes. You’re not entirely sure how to approach this situation, Sirius has been open with you ever since you started dating and being friends as well as partners meant that you knew next to everything that happened to him at home.

“I won’t push you to tell me what’s worrying you Pads but I need you to calm down for me, okay? Can we do some breathing exercises together?” you see him nod and you grasp his shaking hands in yours and together you do some breathing exercises together and once he has calmed down enough you give him the chance to talk about what’s worrying him.

“I should have never done the prank, I knew it was too soon after the last prank but James was so excited and I just couldn’t let him down and now...now they’re going to- “he cuts himself off as abrupt sobs shake his body again. You pull him closer and rub his back trying to help him. “They can’t hurt you Sirius, Effie and Monty are still trying to get you and Reg under their custody, okay? This is only a formality Siri, you know that.”

He nods as he sniffles and tries to wipe his nose with his sleeve to which you wrinkle your nose at. “I’m worried they don’t get custody and Reg and I are going to be forced back into that house, I- I can’t go back there, I wont.” You nod your head at his words, you knew just how badly injured Regulus and Sirius had shown up to James’ house, they had floo called you at 4am and you had rushed there without even a second thought about it.

He nods and seems to have calmed down significantly from what he was like in the common room, he moves to lay on top of you, but you tut and grasp his chin to make him look into your eyes. He whines in disagreement, but you continue until he finally relents. You softly brush his lower eyelashes that are still lined with tears and peck his nose. “Do you need me to tell Reg your parents are coming so he knows where to avoid on that day?” he smiles softly before shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure James will have told him already “and you nod softly before he moves to lay on your chest again.

“Tired?” you question, and he nods already halfway asleep, you hum and place your hands into his hair and softly play with his hair which softly lulls him to sleep.

#juliwrites #harry potter #marauders #james potter #remus lupin #sirius black #marauders angst #sirius black x reader #sirius black angst #sirius black fluff #sirius black hurt/comfort

[fromagony]

Alpha barty and James helping omega reg through his heat

ohhhhh i like this but i raise u w dp too bcuz why not?

regulus' is always struggling w his heats so he doesn't need an alpha but two to get thru his heat. barty and james are so careful w him, giving him everything he want. and he is thankful for them.

regulus is on their laps, bouncing and moaning loudly while they both fucking his wet and tight hole, regulus isn't a virgin by any chance bcuz this isn't the first time both of them fucking him thru his heat but james is obsessed w tightness of regulus' hole. doesn't matter they're using the same hole, it's stretches and clenches around their thick cocks, swallowing them and coating them w his wetness, he is slick and leaking slowly. the sounds gets him there perfectly and it's almost as he is on clouds. barty is behind him, biting and fucking him deep until his balls meets w james's and the friction turns on three of them. james isn't any different then barty, regulus is looking like a sex god he would worship until the end of his years without a doubt. while barty grabbing regulus' wrists behind him james is playing w regulus' considerably tiny dick, marking and biting his translucent skin until it's marked by him, barty keeps biting him until his skin breaks and blood starts to run out from his teeth marked skin and james starts sucking regulus' blood while fucking him in the same rhythm as barty. they are taking care of their dear regulus like he deserves, they are worshipping him, fucking and decorating his body w their marks and cums. regulus is begging, his eyes are closed and his grip on james' shoulders are firm and his nails digging into james' skin too and he is delighted w the two cocks in his ass, grinding and fucking him at the same time. his skin is on fire and he fucking wants more, he begs for their pups, he wants to get pregnant by both of his alpha's babies. he wants their cums filling his hole and their knot so they can breed him good. please, please, please, harder, faster, hurt me, put your babies in me, i won't your knots, use me until i pass out and even then keep fucking me until i'm stuffed w your cums flowing seep inside me and

#agon answers #jegulus #bartylus #jartylus #regulus black #barty crouch jr #james potter #alpha james x omega regulus x alpha barty #omegaverse #jartylus brainrot

[skellymom]

“Who Delt It?” 

The THIRD Bad Batch Comedy One Shot in the ONE SHIT SERIES!

To read #2 in the series:

https://www.tumblr.com/skellymom/740278235151106049/bombs-away?source=share

Background: Five people on a small ship with one bathroom. Need I say more?

Word count: 392 words

Warning: Farts, stinky humor, pretty tame stuff for Tumblr

“Well, I’m ready for a nap!” Echo leaned back in the co-pilot's seat and closed his eyes. 

“Likewise. Unfortunately, the Marauder won’t fly herself.” Tech sipped his caf enthusiastically, firing up the ship to take off. 

The Batch had just finished a mission on an Outer Rim planet and made friends with the locals there. The locals insisted they share a huge cauldron of stew the community ate together... 

...unfortunately, it ran through EVERYONE in the squad by varying degrees and resulted in some...flatulence. 

“OOF! WHAT THE KRIFF??? WRECKER!!!” Echo screwed up his face in utter disgust. 

“HEEYY, it wasn’t ME!”  

“You ALWAYS state that Wrecker. Whomever smelt it is NOT definitive proof of whomever delt it.” Tech pinched his nose while speaking, his voice sounding comical with a partially obstructed airway. 

Echo frantically waved the offending vapors away, “BLEH!” More dramatic facial expressions. 

Wrecker sat angrily, arms crossed, sulking he had been wrongly blamed. 

At that moment Hunter emerged from the fresher, clearly not “privy” to the current conversation, “You know lads, I...” He stopped DEAD, sniffed, coughed, choked, eyes starting to water. “WHAT THE SUN BAKED BANTHA TURD IS THAT???” 

“Wrecker farted!” Echo fanned his face and grimaced. 

“No... cough...can’t be...cough. Doesn’t have the same smell. Undertones are ALL wrong.” Hunter now had his “Tracker Face” on trying to discern the source of the stench. 

“What! You can IDENTIFY people’s farts by their SMELL???” Echo was incredulous. 

Tech interjected “Of course. Hunter IS known for his enhanced sense of smell. That is how Crosshair became LEGENDARY for his flatulence. He earned the ‘Silent But Deadly” moniker. No matter what mission we were on, or who we served with: The 212th, 501st, Coruscant Guard, or any other. Hunter never failed to pick out Crosshair with a shipload of Republic ration eating clones.” 

Hunter chuckled, “Got to be a game for Crosshair after awhile. Silently drop one and watch all the Regs get mad at each other for stinking the place up. He was proud of it really...but Crosshair ain’t here.” Hunter turned to look at the offending party. 

Everyone else turned to face Omega, silently sitting next to Wrecker hand over her nose and mouth. 

“SORRY!” She yelled embarrassingly, jumped off the chair, ran to the refresher, and slammed the door. 

Wrecker threw up his hands, “GEEZ! I CAN’T CATCH A BREAK WITH YOU GUYS!!!” 

PLEASE like, comment, and/or REBLOG!

(Please let me know if you want ON or OFF the taglist. Thanks!)

#star wars #the bad batch #tbb #bad batch #clone force 99 #hunter #tbb hunter #tech #tbb tech #echo #tbb echo #wrecker #tbb wrecker #omega #tbb omega #crosshair #tbb crosshair #skellymom #tbb fan fic #tbb fan fiction #the bad batch fan fic #the bad batch fan fiction #tbb one shot #the bad batch one shot #who delt it #crosshair has been dethroned

[lulublack90]

Prompt 29 - Address

@jegulus-microfic February 29 Word count 918

Previous part First part

The meeting was in an hour, and still, Kreacher hadn’t returned. Regulus was getting worried that the house elf never would. 

“Regulus, it is time for us to be leaving.” Walburga was suddenly in front of him. He’d been so lost in his thoughts he hadn’t even heard her approaching. That had been dangerous and foolish. 

“Yes, Maman, I’m coming.” Walburga grasped his arm with her claw-like fingers, digging the nails in more than was necessary. 

They apparated outside the gates of Malfoy Manor. Regulus followed Walburga, who swept into the grounds as if she owned the place. 

“My dear Lady Black,” Voldemort swooped over to address her as soon as she’d entered the drawing room. She held out her hand, and Voldemort lowered his lipless mouth to it, kissing her knuckles. Regulus had to hide his sudden nausea. 

“I hope Kreacher is serving you well, My Lord.”

“Yes, though I am afraid the elf blundered at the last moment and didn’t survive the task given to it.” Regulus gulped. Kreacher couldn’t be dead! 

“I apologise profusely, My Lord. Kreacher has always been a loyal, diligent servant.” Even Regulus caught the slight tang of fear in his mother’s words. Voldemort peered at Walburga before his strange smile crossed his face. 

“I do not blame you, Lady Black. It is hardly your fault that the elf was unable to perform the task I asked of it.” Regulus spotted Evan and Barty and took a step towards them. “Regulus, do not stray. We must greet your cousins.” Walburga hissed at him before he could go any further. Reluctantly, Regulus followed his mother around the room, making small talk with the country’s worst, the entire time worrying about Kreacher.

Once he’d been around the entire congregation, Walburga allowed him to greet his friends while she took part in a side meeting with Lucius and Narcissa.  

“Fucking hell Reg, you look like shit.” Barty greeted him. 

“Thank you, Bartemius, for your kind words.” He looked around to make sure they weren’t being watched. “Prick,” He smirked at his friend. 

“So why’s Lady Twat still here?” Evan asked, keeping his voice low. 

“The Dark Lord asked for Kreacher to help with something. He’s dead.” He swallowed, biting back the swell of emotions, fighting to get out. 

The meeting took forever to get through. Regulus made careful notes in his mind of the new attacks and raids Voldemort had planned to write in his notebook. 

Walburga escorted him home after the meeting ended. 

“Well, I suppose I shall have to procure a new servant.” She said, making it seem like an inconvenience. “Shame, Kreacher was useful.” She continued on as if he meant nothing to her, which Regulus supposed was probably true as Walburga Black cared for no one but herself. “I shall be leaving for the country estate in the morning. I expect you to be up and dressed to bid me farewell.”

“Yes, Maman.”

“Goodnight,”

“Goodnight, Maman.” 

Regulus waited until he heard her bedroom door close, then raced to his own room. “Kreacher!” He called in his most demanding voice. “Kreacher, come here!” He called, and he called. “Kreacher, I demand that you return to this house!” A sharp crack made him jump as the shivering form of his house elf appeared on the carpet before him. 

He gathered the elf into his arms and let the tears drip onto his limp form. He was freezing cold. Regulus grabbed a blanket from his bed, wrapped it around the elf and placed him in front of the fire to warm.

He must have fallen asleep at some point because he woke to his mother screaming his name. He quickly smoothed his robes and hurried to the stairs. 

“Finally! Well goodbye. I do not know when I shall return next. I shall send word when I am.” And that was that, no heartfelt words. Regulus was just left alone in that gloomy house. 

Kreacher was alert when Regulus returned to his room. 

“Sorry, Master Regulus, Kreacher just needs a moment, and he’ll get your breakfast ready.” The elf croaked, followed by a hacking cough. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Kreacher. The only thing I need from you is to tell me where he took you.” The elf started shaking as he turned his huge, round eyes to stare hauntedly at Regulus. 

“The Dark Lord took Kreacher to a cave, Master Regulus.” Regulus inhaled. The cave!

He got Kreacher to tell him everything he could, and then he got him to repeat it all again. 

He wrapped the elf more firmly in the blankets and told him he was to stay there and recover, and he was to talk to no one and never repeat what they had just discussed. He pulled out his mirror and opened it. 

“James! James!” A bleary-eyed James Potter appeared. Squinting into the mirror. “James the cave. He took Kreacher to the cave. I think he hid a Horcrux there. James, I need your help.” He blurted out at high speed. James carefully placed his glasses on his face and blinked the sleep from his eyes. 

“Okay, where should I meet you?”

***

They stood beside each other on the rocks, staring into the blackness of the cave entrance on the side of the cliffs. James took his hand as they prepared to enter.

“Ready, love?” Regulus looked up into James’s warm hazel eyes and felt a bravery he’d never felt before as he turned back to the cave. 

“Yes.”   

To be continued…

Next part

#february 29 #jegulus #jegulus microfic #jegulus fic #jegulus fanfiction #regulus black #james potter #regulus arcturus black #james fleamont potter #walburga black #lord voldemort #evan rosier #barty crouch jr #kreacher #dead gay wizards #james x regulus #regulus x james #regulus and james #james and regulus #james potter x regulus black #the cave #address

[oh-three]

TBB S3E7:

TBB S3E7:

There's the Teth trailer shot.

Ahhh, Mr. Assassin's looking a bit worse for wear.

Ayyy, escape route!

Lmaooo, Rex relying on Echo for backup, as if our guy's not booked on getting Gregor. Really does have a full schedule, doesn't he?

Glad to see that Wolffe's still in there. And being his usual self.

Ooh, the assassin's got no comms.

LMAO, the assassin just fucking jumped down there, like, "hey, I'm not letting you finish what I was told to do."

Rex, your flashlight 😭

SMART MOVE, CROSS.

They're gonna get shot down, aren't they.

"Don't worry, she only bites half of the time." 🤣

Yepppppp, and there's that. Saw that one coming. No way it was that easy.

Me trying to decide if it's Rex or the Batch that has a habit of crashing, or whether it's just them being together:

Wolffe really does hate the assassin right about now. Which, fair, he's literally doing things the exact opposite of them. That would be annoying for anybody.

"You're as bad as Hunter." / "Oh, I'm much worse." LMAO. Cross is in full dad mode and fully aware of it, and now he's turned it into a whole thing. I love him. These boys can't not compete about anything.

Howzer reluctantly admitting that this Crosshair is different from the Crosshair that he blames for getting his squad killed. 👏

"The operative's gone rogue." Saw that coming, too. I want to say it's further confirmation toward it being Tech, but that voice was definitely a modulated reg's.

Wolffe, your team sucks.

Nemeccccc 😭

"I'll draw his fire. Get to the rendezvous." Brainwashed sniper vs malfunctioning sniper 😬

WHOA, WHAT THE HELL.

LOOK, I KNEW THIS SEEMED LIKE A BIT OF A SACRIFICE PLAY, BUT I WAS NOT EXPECTING HIM TO THROW THEM INTO THE FUCKING WATERFALL.

Oh, thank god, he survived that. We're still short a couple of Cross trailer shots.

Howzer saving Cross from going over the second waterfall and actually drowning (holy fuck, a drowning attempt in Star Wars) despite his reservations toward him. 😭

"Wolffe?" / "Rex?" Ayyy, mutual shock.

Wolffe just putting his blasters away and going, "I thought you were dead." 😭

WOLFFE, FAIR TRIALS DON'T EXIST FOR CLONES IN THE EMPIRE.

"As your brother, I'm asking you to do the right thing." 😭

TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH, ECHO.

Ayyy, Wolffe telling the men to stand down because he can see the truth in Rex's words, and he can't keep going forward without at least looking into it.

"But, sir, they're traitors." / "Perhaps. But they're clones. We owe them that." The way they all just accept to respect their fellow clones despite the sides of the newfound war they're in 😭

THE ASSASSIN LIVED. HE'S GOT PLOT ARMOR. TECH, IS THAT YOU.

"Rex, you can't win this fight. The Empire is too strong." 😭

Dark-toned Omega theme.

Fuckkk, I want to watch another episode. Is it next week yet.

#bad batch spoilers #tbb spoilers #bad batch #the bad batch #tbb #star wars

[cressthebest]

Art Heist, Baby! thoughts pt. 7

chapter 19:

1. already crying. james is guard dogging remus after the previous chapters incident. he’s keeping watch by remus’ bed. my babies

2. wolfstar, please work out please please please

3. SIRIUS SAID THAT HE LOVES REMUS DURING THEIR FIGHT GOD DAMN

4. “Remus had already forgiven him for anything he could possibly do the second they first kissed in that museum” THIS GOT ME SO BAD

5. NOOOOO SIRIUS IS WORRIED THAT THE LAST TIME HE KISSED REMUS WOULD BE THE LAST TIME EVER NOO

6. sobbing fr over how regulus is genuinely surprised that james came back

7. sobbing HARDER NOW. james is telling reg to get his gun and shoot him cause that’s the price of love. sobbvijgn wait sobbing cryih fhsjhdksjkakjajsk

8. 😳 this james is also a kinky mf. i wasn’t gonna say anything about him definitely being turned on with a gun to his head, but this chapter confirmed my inside thoughts.

9. regulus using remus as collateral is the ahb universe jegulus version of the 5th year wolfstar prank in canon.

10. JAMES AND SIRIUS! JAMES AND SIRIUS! JAMES AND SIRIUS! THEYRE HANGING OUT! FUCK YEAH

chapter 20:

1. JAMES AND SIRIUS GETTING ON LIKE FIRE FUCK YEAH

2. james still comes back to regulus’ door and it HURTS

3. sirius getting jealous of barty, evan, and reg’s brotherhood is both satisfying and oh so angering

4. dorcas dresses the best, confirmed

5. the black brothers and back and bonding babey!!!

chapter 21:

1. shit, reg and siri are fighting about remus and it’s getting dirty. verbal punches are being THROWN

2. WAIT HOLY SHIT THE BLACK BROTHERS ARE H U G G I N G. GODDAMN

3. this will be reg’s last heist. thank fucking god. if they all get out of this alive, then they can all be happy ever after. (feed into my delusions pls)

4. i too am part of the “having complicated emotions about regulus black club”

5. 😧 shocked speechless. remus joked about marrying sirius

6. james crying at weddings is so canon

#jegulus #marauders #james potter #mwpp #mwpp era #regulus black #art heist baby #ao3 #fanfic #sirius black #remus lupin #cress' ahb reviews #dorcas meadowes #wolfstar #noble house of black #sobbing crying throwing up

[blorbocedes]

Hi there, I might be kind of obsessed with the idea of rbr charles or rbr lestappen so I need to hear the thoughts of some people who might not be in the "lestappen gate 2023" bubble as I am :)) Do you think this can actually happen and become reality? (After all Charles is better of with rbr than ferrari, that's for sure.)

And please be honest. Thank you!

in my opinion, it's not happening babes x

redbull have never had 1-2 teammate finish before this year. ever. it doesn't make sense to fire the driver who finished 2nd in the championship which is exactly where you want him. if checo's lawyers were worth any salt im sure he had a stipulation like you can't fire me for this unless you're willing to PAY pay. checo has a contract til 2024 which redbull is willing to play out. if you've heard newey, he said next year's car is supposed to be even better 🤞 somehow

if checo completely forgets how to drive next year and the grid is super competitive, I can see him being midway switched into the season which redbull is known to do -- but they would do it with someone internally, like they did with kyvat and max, or alex and pierre. as in, they'd be looking at daniel or yuki, since liam lawson is already waiting in the wings.

now 2025 is the Great Unknown, many contracts are expiring apart from max's. here's why it doesn't make sense for charl to go to redbull in 2025: regulations change in 2026. presumably redbull is gonna be fucked by it, like they were fucked by 2013 reg change or merc was fucked by 2022. both maxywaxy and horner have raised some concerns about the reg change. they're getting Ford as their new engine partner, with no clue how that's gonna effect the car -- cause the current Honda is what they're winning the championships with. we can expect redbull domination until 2025, but after that it's anyone's game. so if charles is signing with redbull in 2025, he's coming into a very strong car and a team that's been centred around 1 driver for 9 years at that point. and that's his one chance for sure to fight for the championship. he doesn't even get 1 season's grace period of acclimatising as max's teammate because he doesn't know what 2026 regs will do to the car, if he has another shot. that's a lot of pressure, where even p2 is seen as a failure.

one of the reasons charles is so highly rated is because he puts up a fight against max, like the first half of last year when the Ferrari was faster, or this year when the redbull is slow on certain tracks. if charles moves to redbull, p2 is the MINIMUM of what he's expected. look at how fans do not rate any of max's teammates, cause unless you beaten him it doesn't count. everything chal does in redbull will be held with max's yardstick measure, a team where max has been longer, the only car max has had to drive while charles needs to adjust to it.

I don't think anyone is unbeatable, lewis wasn't, max isn't. but max is the best driver in that redbull.

redbull doesn't want or need 2 drivers fighting for the championship. they need a competent second driver. the valtteri or mark webber buffer. charles is very much the face of ferrari and regarded as the better driver, why would he go to redbull to play max's second fiddle? charles has world champion ambitions, redbull already has a world champion they're happy with -- why invest in another very expensive driver? when they can get a more willing team player, or even look for a younger talent they can move to the seat for 2028? redbulls favouritism predicates on performance, so if charles outperforms max you can expect redbull to be in "let them race" mode, like they did when rookie max outperformed daniel. but that means charles only has 2025, his very first year in redbull, to not only adjust as max's teammate but also beat him.

finally, we don't know if charles wants to move to redbull. we know he loves ferrari, for better or for worse. before max's extension to 2028, charles got the longest ever f1 contract extension with ferrari -- and that's before charles had anything to his name beyond being called predestined.

you've seen how the mclaren went from p19 p20 earlier this season to genuine podium contenders. this is the kind of magic turnaround every team is hoping for. if mclaren are championship contenders next year, every team will know you can change shit up in only 1 year. that's sunk cost fallacy if charles makes a high risk little reward move to redbull and suddenly the ferrari is a championship contender.

the tifosi love him, he wants to win a championship with ferrari, he already got a taste of what it feels like by winning Monza and the first half of 2022 season. I truly think as long as ferrari will have him, and as long as charles can endure, they're in this marriage of misplaced devotion. because the love and childhood dream is so strong for him. seb didn't leave the team until they fired him, you think he wouldn't waste another decade in the ferrari if they'd have him? and that was a 4x wdc.

If you enjoy lestappengate, if you want to speculate on it -- go forth and find your peace and joy. that's none of my business. it doesn't make sense to me, but that doesn't mean it can't make sense to you.

#IS Charles better with redbull than Ferrari? do you know what redbull famously does to their non golden boy drivers? #rbr!lestappen #the other side of things #once again: my opinion and take on things. if you enjoy your perspective on things then continue! #blorbocedes ask

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Wrapped Up in You - Echo x reader

Clone Life Day Fic Exchange 2023

Summary: You invite the Batch to spend Life Day with you, and Echo is grateful for the opportunity. Prompt: "Would it be alright if I borrowed your sweater? It smells like you."

Warnings: This work is SFW but my blog is 18+. fluff fluff fluff, TBB!Echo, pining, friends to lovers (implied), Crosshair being Crosshair, mentions of Fives.

Word Count: 3.1k

This fic is a Life Day gift for @ladysongmaster! I hope you enjoy! <3 Much thanks to @cloneficgiftexchange for hosting this event! Shout out to @stars-n-spice & @dystopicjumpsuit for the banners <3

Echo sighs, cradling the warm cup of spiced hot chocolate to his chest. It’s not often that the squad gets shore leave, let alone during the holiday season, so he’s determined to enjoy this particular leave as much as possible. Leaning against the wall in your small apartment, Echo silently surveys the scene before him, the ghost of a smile touching his features. 

As soon as you’d found out your favorite squad would be on shore leave for Life Day, you made them promise to spend at least a few hours with you to celebrate. Echo’s heart swells at the memory of that holocall, the way you’d put your hands on your hips, head cocked to the side with that determined look in your eyes that could cow even Marshall Commander Cody. Of course the Batch had said yes, we’ll be there; of course Echo was the first to agree. 

And he was glad for the chance to spend some time with you, even in a group setting. You’d decorated your entire apartment: scented pinecones hanging from festive ribbon, garland of popped corn, gently twinkling string lights arched over windows and doorways. In the corner of the room, dominating the scene, a fresh fir sits wrapped in warm yellow lights and golden bows, bedecked with shiny baubles of varying designs. A few presents sit wrapped neatly beneath the trees lowest boughs. Crooning softly over the radio, instrumental music lilts through the air. Cooking meat and baked goods fill his nostrils. 

Tying it all together, though, is you. Dressed in an overly large knit sweater as red as the Batch’s armor, you’re a vision. Echo’s mouth runs dry when you glance across the room, your smile brightening when your gazes meet. Whatever Hunter’s saying to you seems to go in one ear and out the other as the two of you stare. 

And then the moment shatters as the oven beeps. Breaking away from both Echo’s gaze and Hunter’s conversation, you hurry to the kitchen, disappearing from view. 

“Stare any harder, and she just might catch fire, reg.” Crosshair’s voice is thick with sarcasm, the once-derogatory nickname now familiar and familial. He perches on the edge of the armchair nearby. 

Echo rolls his eyes, taking a sip of hot chocolate to compose his thoughts. He’s relatively certain all his squad knows about his feelings, but Crosshair is the only one who’s broached the subject with him before. 

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Echo finally grumbles. 

Crosshair scoffs. “You really are a di’kut, you know that?” 

“Be that as it may.” With a pointed glare at his squadmate, Echo jabs his scomp in Crosshair’s direction. “I know that look, Crosshair. Don’t even think about it.” 

Raising one thin eyebrow, Crosshair merely regards Echo with a faint smirk, gnawing on an ever-present toothpick. “Just saying, reg.” 

“Just saying what?” you chime in. 

Echo glances up, startled. Your eyes sparkle with curiosity as you approach, having caught the tail end of their conversation. Tucked under one of your arms are oven mitts, decorated with little boughs of holly, and in your other hand you cradle a tray of cookies, crescent moons of dough filled with fruit jam. 

“How good you look in that sweater, dollface,” Crosshair drawls, smirk widening as Echo’s scomp whirs, his agitation bleeding into his neural interface. 

Your teeth catch your bottom lip as you duck your head. “I’ve had it for ages. One of my favorites.” 

“Well,” Cross says, standing to his full height, tugging the sleeves of his black turtleneck down, “it suits you. Isn’t that right, Ech’ika?” 

Emotions clash and war within Echo. Irritation flares hot and angry at Crosshair’s goading—but it is immediately soothed by the balm of curiosity and wonder as you turn your gaze on Echo, eyes wide and...hopeful? What irks him even more is that Cross isn’t wrong: the sweater may be oversized, but it still drapes over your form in a flattering way, the knit fabric soft and cozy. 

“Y-Yeah,” he says. Di’kut, he kicks himself mentally. “Uh, brings out your eyes.” 

“Thanks,” you say. Then, as if suddenly remembering you’re carrying a platter of baked goods, you hold out the tray. “Oh, um, cookie? This is my grandmother’s recipe. I’ve got apricot, cherry, and blueberry ones.” 

Crosshair plucks a blueberry crescent cookie from the tray, popping it in his mouth before slinking off, an entirely too smug look plastered to his face. Echo glances around for somewhere to set his mug; he’s shattered ceramic on his scomp arm before, the durasteel casing a smidge stronger than most mugs, and he doesn’t care to make too much of a fool of himself in front of you tonight. 

“Oh, here,” you mumble. Balancing the cookie tray on one hand, you hold out your other for the mug. 

With a small smile, Echo hands it over. He’s not sure he’s ever had apricot, but he knows he likes cherries, so he selects one of the morsels with dark red filling. He tries not to be self-conscious about the way you watch him expectantly, eyes trained on the movement of his hand as he brings the cookie to his mouth. The dough is surprisingly flaky, just sweet enough to really accentuate the deeper, woodier flavor of the cherry. Humming in delight, Echo smiles at you around his full mouth. 

“You like it?” you ask, smiling in return. 

He nods. Once his mouth is clear, he says, “Very good. Family recipe, you said?” 

Ducking your head again, you nod. “Yeah, my gramma. She, uh, made these every year for Life Day. I still haven’t quite mastered her chocolate chip recipe yet, though.” 

“I’m sure you’ll get it,” he says. “And I’m always happy to try out the experiments.” 

“Is that right?” you ask. 

A small quirk of your lips draws his eyes down to them for a fleeting heartbeat. He quickly looks away, catching sight of Tech building an accurate-to-scale gingerbread model of the Jedi Temple and Wrecker painting a new decal on his armor. Swallowing thickly, Echo takes a steadying breath. Maker, he went through ARC training; he can hold a conversation with his crush. Right? 

“If you want me to, that is,” he says quickly. 

Your gentle laugh stirs his heart, affection and cuteness aggression pulsing in him. “In that case,” you say, “I’ll be sure to hang on to some whenever you’re on leave.” 

“Good,” he says, then clears his throat. “I mean, right, thank you. I can take that back now.” 

With a smile you hand back his mug, the ceramic warm from more than just the liquid contents now. Echo forces himself to take several deep breaths, the comforting scents of cinnamon, fruit, and something else, something...sweeter, filling him and easing his embarrassment. 

“Dinner’ll be done soon,” you say as you scoot past the armchair towards the others. 

After dinner, Echo helps you clean up, though you insist on doing it all yourself. Not that you put up much resistance, not with how Wrecker praises your excellent cooking skills and even Tech is admiring the different flavor combinations, cataloging the recipes in his datapad. Hunter gives a knowing look as Echo scoops up what dishes he can; Echo studiously ignores his sergeant. 

“You can put those on the counter there,” you say as you point to an empty space next to you. “Thank the Maker for dishwashers, because if there’s one thing I loathe about cooking, it’s the dishes.” 

“And yet you wanted to do this on your own,” Echo teases. His belly is full, fuller than it’s been in a long time, and he feels warm. Fuzzy. Sated. Well, for the most part. 

“Force of habit,” you muse. 

He lingers in the kitchen, trying to fool himself into believing it’s so he can be nearby to help more, but in reality, he doesn’t want to leave your presence yet. Watching you bustle around the small kitchen, humming to yourself, entranced by the way the red sweater bunches at your elbows, Echo sighs. The war has been so far from his mind tonight, a fact he’s grateful for; but with the night’s activities beginning to wind down, his thoughts return to the incessant rhythm of hyperspace, fight droids, restock, hyperspace, fight droids...

“Echo?” Your soft voice startles him out of his reverie. 

“Sorry, what?” 

You gesture with wide arms at the now (mostly) clean kitchen. “We can go back to the others now.” 

“Oh, right.” He follows you out of the kitchen, back to the living room. Wrecker has Crosshair in a headlock, while Hunter looks on in silent amusement. Tech still sits at the dining table, typing away on his ’pad. 

When Hunter notices you return, he sits up straighter, clearing his throat. “Wrecker. Drop him.” 

“Aw, alright.” Releasing Crosshair, Wrecker shoves him to the edge of the couch, then beams up at you. “This has been a great Life Day, thank you so much.” 

“You’re most welcome,” you say with a warm smile. “I couldn’t not spoil my boys on a holiday like this.” 

Something stirs in Echo’s chest at the way you refer to them as your boys. Kriff, would you be willing to have him be yours, truly yours? 

“Speaking of spoiling!” You clap your hands together. “I have some gifts for you all.” 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Hunter says. 

“I wanted to,” you say simply. 

As you rifle through the wrapped presents beneath the decorated tree, Echo ushers Tech over to the couch, ignoring the man’s protests about needing to finish his notes. Gently pushing Tech down into the empty cushion between Wrecker and Crosshair, Echo remains standing near the arm of the couch. 

You pass out small boxes to each of them. “It’s not much, but...” 

Echo almost regrets that he has to rip through the paper to get to the gift inside, because you clearly took your time wrapping these, the folds crisp and precise, the black and red plaid design seeming to repeat seamlessly to infinity with how neatly you’d cut it. He savors the feel of the paper in his hand for a moment, and, out of curiosity, flips over the gift tag on top. 

His heart skips a beat. In your handwriting, the tag simply reads: “To Echo. From, your favorite nat-born ♥️”. A quick glance over his brothers’ shoulders reveals none of theirs have a heart drawn next to your signature. 

Carefully avoiding your gaze, he finally tears the paper off, then slips the lid off the box. Inside, nestled amongst tissue paper, rests a small charm: a domino. More than that, he realizes: five dark impressions mark the charm. Echo’s breath catches. 

“It’s...” He can’t find the words, or even the thoughts, to express the overwhelming rush of emotions crashing through him. Melancholy, affection, reminiscence, appreciation: it all blends together. When he looks up and meets your gaze, he finds your brow pinched in worry. 

“Do you like it?” you ask. 

He can only nod. 

“Oh! A li’l bomb!” Wrecker’s laugh booms through your small apartment. “This one’s goin’ on my blaster.” 

“Great idea, Wreck,” Hunter says, holding up a tiny skull charm, a genuine smile on his face. “Might attach this to my knife.” 

Tech has already secured his charm—a tiny datapad—to his actual datapad. “This is remarkably thoughtful. Thank you.” 

“I made them myself,” you admit. 

Even Crosshair’s eyebrows shoot up at that, and Echo watches as the prickly sniper carefully lifts the small bullseye charm to eye level. 

“Good work,” Crosshair says. 

Echo sighs. It’s as close to a ‘thank you’ as Crosshair can manage without combusting, he supposes. 

“What’s yours, Echo?” Hunter asks. 

“It’s a, uh, domino,” he says. He leaves it in the box; this is his gift, and he doesn’t want to share it just yet. “For my twin.” 

Hunter’s eyes soften in understanding before he looks back to you. “You really outdid yourself, meshl’a. I’m just sorry we didn’t bring anything for you.” 

You hum, finally looking away from Echo. “Spending time with you has been a gift enough.” 

He silently excuses himself to the ’fresher, head still swimming with emotions. Ensuring the door locks, he flips the light on, chuckling to himself at the Life Day tree soap dispenser you’ve invested in for the small space. Splashing some water onto his face, the cold shocks his brain into resetting. Emotions subsiding, Echo pats his face dry, then, meeting his reflection’s gaze, gives himself a silent nod of encouragement. 

The apartment is strangely quiet when he emerges. Peering around the corner into the living room, Echo is surprised to find it empty save for you. You’re curled up on the couch, cradling a mug between both hands, gazing at the tree. 

“Where’d the others go?” he asks. 

Your gaze flits to him without startling, a smile touching your features. “Back to the barracks.” 

“Without me,” he says, voice monotone. 

Humming noncommittally, you shrug with one shoulder. “Do you need to go, too?” 

“I...” He hesitates. Technically, being on leave, he doesn’t have to report in for another two standard rotations. He doesn’t want to intrude on your space any longer than he already has, but stars, you look so beautiful like this, calm, relaxed, comfortable. He can’t resist the desire to stay. “No.” 

“Good, because I have one more thing I want to give you,” you say. Setting your mug on the coffee table, you step around it with practiced ease, your gaze never leaving his. Echo can’t help the way his lips part in surprise as you wrap your arms around him. Your body heat seeps through the thin material of his shirt to envelope him like a blanket. For a moment, he stiffens, and you almost pull away. 

But his brain catches up with his body before you can. Arm sliding around your shoulders, he tugs you firmly against himself. You’re soft against his body, not to mention the sweater, and he sighs, eyes sliding shut. He buries his face into the crook of your neck. Inhaling your scent, he finally identifies what he’s been smelling whenever you’re near: spiced vanilla. Heady and warm, the scent fills his entire being, carrying him up into the stratosphere, floating on clouds. 

“Where’d this come from?” he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin.

“Maybe this is my selfish gift to myself,” you say with a light chuckle. “Realized I—we—haven’t hugged despite being friends for so long. And I suddenly couldn’t go another day without doing this.” 

Heart hammering in his ribcage, Echo gently pulls back to meet your gaze. Biting your lower lip, your eyelids flutter as you peer up at him. Stars, he could count your eyelashes from this proximity, get lost in the texture of your irises, marooned in the harbor of your sweet scent. When his eyes drop to your lips, a glint of gold catches his attention. Further down, around your throat on a delicate golden chain, a second domino tile rests just below the dip of your collarbone, resting on the scoop of the sweater’s neckline. A double blank domino. 

“I hope it’s okay,” you breathe. 

“Beautiful,” Echo murmurs. “Just like you.” 

You capture his lips in a soft, tentative kiss. Fingers trembling where he brushes them over your cheekbone, Echo meets your desire, your passion, with equal fervor. His heart plummets and soars simultaneously, every nerve alight. 

In the morning, after stretching out his muscles and eating a simple but delicious breakfast, he drops a kiss to the crown of your head. You recline on the armchair, holonovel in one hand, looking so at peace that he wishes he could stay. But Tech had comm’d him at first light, requesting his assistance with the ship, so he had to get back. 

“Will you come back before you ship out again?” you ask, standing to follow him to the door. 

He gives you a shy smile. “Only if you come see us off.” 

“Am I even allowed on base?” you ask, surprise in your voice. 

“Probably not,” he shrugs. “But we don’t exactly follow rules. I think an exception can be made this one time.” 

His stomach thrills with butterflies at the soft, pleasant sound of your laugh. Pressing his lips to yours once more, he reaches blindly for the coat rack he knows resides by the front door, where he stashed his jacket last night after arriving. 

His fingers close around empty air. 

With a frown, he pulls back, and sure enough, the coat rack is completely empty. Eyes narrowing in suspicion, he takes a deep, steadying breath and counts to five before turning back to you. Confusion paints your expression. 

“Didn’t you—”

“Yes.” He grinds his teeth. “Crosshair.” 

One hand pressing to your mouth, you stifle a smile but can’t keep it from scrunching your eyes. “It’s too cold for you to walk back without a jacket.” 

A thought occurs to him, and the words leave his mouth before he even has time to process them. “Would it be alright if I borrowed your sweater?” 

The look of surprise that overtakes your features is adorable, which makes the burning embarrassment that settles in his stomach worthwhile. All he can do is watch as you rush back to your bedroom, and return a moment later carrying the thick, oversized sweater you wore last night. Eyes sparkling, you silently help Echo into the comfortable garment, making sure his scomp doesn’t pierce through the woven fabric. 

Looking down at himself, Echo finds that he quite likes the way that the sweater, so large and cozy-looking on you, fits him so perfectly. And, as he inhales to calm himself down fully, he’s greeted by the wonderful scent you wore last night. 

He hums. “It smells like you.” 

You duck your head, shuffling your feet, an abashed grin on your face. “Something to remember me by, then.” 

“Like I could forget you.” 

“You can’t say things like that when you have to leave,” you say with a teasing smile. Resting one hand on his chest, you lean up and kiss him sweetly. “Go, before I change my mind and keep you here.” 

Echo hums. “Oh no, what a threat.” 

“Go.” You gently push on him. “I expect that sweater back before you leave.” 

“Of course, cyar’ika.” He opens the door, giving you one last fond look. “See you soon.” 

And if, when Echo returns to the Marauder, he “accidentally” misplaces Crosshair’s pack of toothpicks, well, that’s his own business.

#tbb echo x reader #echo x reader #echo x f!reader #cloneficgiftexchange #the bad batch x reader #wrapped up in you #tbb x reader #rhiwrites