#Got to pull out some of my favourites. I would have made this really car-centric if that wasn't blatantly self-indulgent on my part. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

liliaeth · 3 years

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Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!) See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favourite authors!

Well the one pattern I can see is that I have way too many wips, damn my flighty muse

I’m tagging anyone willing to do this one

1. The Weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh (Nicolò di Genova/Yusuf al Kaysani, The Old Guard

Yusuf wasn’t even sure what he was doing, taking the invader with him. He should have left the man behind after the Franks took the city, but when he’d seen the look on the Christian’s face, that thousand mile stare in the other’s eyes, he’d been unable to do so. There had been a plea in the way he knelt there, not even reaching for a weapon, though he and Yusuf had killed each other dozens of times by now. Almost as if he wanted Yusuf to kill him. That might have been why he stayed his blade at first, that notion that he couldn’t give the other what he wanted, not after what the Franks had done. But then he’d seen the man’s eyes and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from feeling pity for him.

2. The Body Remembers (Scott McCall/Theo Raeken, Teen Wolf

He had flinched.

3. We come from Warriors (gen fic, with some Nicky/Joe , The Old Guard)

Solomon hesitated as he reached the door. He didn't want to go in. Not now, not when Mom would have prettied up the room, trying to achieve holiday cheer, desperate to pretend things were normal, that there wasn't another empty chair at the table. He was about ready to just turn around, to take his gifts back to the car and leave, go to a bar, and drink soda after soda, until he got on too much of a high and had to head out in his car, driving till the carbohydrate high was out of his system.

4.Artefacts of history (Nicky/Joe, Andy/Quynh, Nile, The Old Guard)

His first thought was ‘another one’.

5. Sinking Down (Gen, Andy and Booker, The Old Guard)

Booker wasn’t even sure why he was in this damn room, with these people, none of whom had a clue who he was, or what he’d done. They all had their issues of course, and he wasn’t stupid enough to assume that anything he went through was worse than what they went through.

6. Tomatoes, lettuce and a burger (Gen, Dean and Sam Winchester, Supernatural)

Dean wasn’t sure what it was that made it feel like his heart was torn to pieces. Sam was sitting right there, mere inches away from him. Reading, writing, Dean wasn’t sure what his brother was doing as Dean himself was cooking.

7. A Soldier goes marching on (gen, Nile Freeman, and Jay, The Old Guard)

Jay stared at he empty bunk. Dizzy wouldn’t even look at her. Jay would have screamed at her, but she knew it wasn’t fair, since her anger was aimed as much at herself as it was at Dizzy. And neither would do any good.

8. New Wolf in the Old Guard (Teen Wolf/The Old Guard crossover, Scott centric)

Scott woke up gasping for air. It was the third time this week that he had the dream of drowning. The other dreams were weird, and scary, but he’d have any of them over the ones where he drowned.

9. Good Little Milker (Dean Winchester, Supernatural a/b/o au)

Dean was still sulking. Sam could see it in the poor Omega cow's eyes, the way he glared at the both of them, when he thought Sam or Dad weren't looking. Oh sure, he was playing nice after the rough spanking Dad had given him. Dad had had no choice after Dean's initial tantrum when John had mentioned what was going to happen. It hadn't really been a surprise to anyone but Dean himself, when Sam's younger brother had presented as an Omega. Even during the first signs of his first heat, the boy had still been hoping to present at least as a beta if not an Alpha. But both Sam and John had known better. Dean was a brat, but he'd always been at his happiest when Dad or Sam told him what to do.

10. Clean (JDM/Jensen Ackles, spn rps, non-con)

Jeff couldn't believe his luck. The notion that this perfect piece of slave flesh had never once been fucked was probably the biggest waste of a slave's body he'd ever seen in his life.

11. Light in the Basement (Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, spn rps, non-con)

Jensen wasn't even sure what had happened as he slowly woke up face down on a dusty floor. He stared up at the room he was in. It was dark, stuffy, like there was something in his throat making it hard to breathe. There was a pervading smell of shit and mold hanging around the place, like he was in a badly cleaned toilet in one of the factories he'd been working at over the past few months. He crawled up into the dark

12. The Treaty (Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, spn rps, a/b/o, dub-con)

Peace. After ten years of war, it was long awaited, and even from the throne room, Jared could hear the celebrations spreading across the capitol city. Jared wished he could join the people, spend time with his loved ones and hold his mother, but all he could think of was his father's face as he'd died in Jared's arms.

13. the Wolf who Ran with Hunters (gen Teen Wolf/Supernatural, Scott-centric)

Scott shivered as he woke up. He didn’t want to open his eyes, because once he did, he’d have to accept that he was all alone in some crappy motel room. Outside the window, he could see the dusty town in Oklahoma which he didn’t even know the name of.

14. Covered in Bandaids (Scott McCall/Isaac Lahey, Teen Wolf)

Isaac wasn’t quite sure what he was doing at the field. He shouldn’t even care about lacrosse any more. He was strong now, and lacrosse had been something he’d done because his father wanted him to be more like Camden.

15. Breaking Point (Scott McCall/Theo Raeken, Teen Wolf)

The place was cold. Even with the increased body heat of a werewolf Scott shivered in the corner of the cell. He wished he’d been wearing more than a tank top and his jeans when the cops had burst into his room. They hadn’t told him what he was being arrested for, or what they wanted, which as far as he knew, was not the norm.

16. Kindness for the Devil (Lucifer Morningstar/Scott McCall, Lucifer/Teen Wolf)

It was a night like any other. Things were a bit too quiet over at Lux, but then it was early, and it seemed to make Linda happy, making her more likely to stay instead of having her take Charlie and leaving.

17.Can’t Always hold him back (Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale, Teen Wolf)

Scott looked down at Stiles, carefully listening to his friend’s heartbeat, pushing out the distraction of outside noise. Nurses and visitors talking in the hall outside, the beeping of the machine monitoring Stiles. He desperately tried to follow the pattern. It scared him, how hard his friend’s heart was working just to keep going, how difficult Stiles’ breathing went even with the oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. Scott had finally managed to get the sheriff to go downstairs to have something to eat, maybe even take a shower if Mom could slip him into the staff showers. They all knew that their stay here could end up being a marathon that might last days more than it already had.

18. Beloved (Btvs/Angel, co written with @spikesheart)

Sitting at one end of a fully laden table, Buffy looked at the appetizers piled on the finest bone china sitting atop platinum charger plates, studied her matching platinum silverware, and wrangled with the finely woven silver linen napkin in her lap – patently avoiding her lover’s gaze as he sat at the other end. Only the best of everything life had to offer was laid out before her. A wide variety of catered pasta, meat and vegetable dishes filled every square inch of space in between them, yet nothing caught her fancy.

19. Parent Wolf (Teen Wolf, the parents)

She woke up in an endless white room, found her head leaning against the bark of an old tree trunk, staring up and noticing several other men and women waking up alongside her.

20. Missed Shot (gen, teen wolf, Scott-centric)

Scott stared up at the men coming closer and at the man who had just shot him with an arrow. Derek Hale, the creepy guy who’d lured him here in the first place, tried to grab him and pull him loose, but seconds later he was down on the ground as well with arrows in his leg and back. Scott stared around in fear, pulling at the arrow, too scared to think of breaking it free.

#Teen Wolf #the old guard #supernatural #supernatural rps #fanfic meme

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angelicthor · 5 years

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billion dollar man - part 11

pairing: tony stark x reader

summary: after mounting bills and debt cause you to look at alternative means of making money, you’re thrown into a whole different kind of life when one of the most famous billionaires on the block offers to be your sugar daddy, of course in exchange for a different from of payment. non-superhero au.

warnings/genre: +18 only, sugarbaby/daddy relationship, slightly nat-centric chapter, FLUFF

masterlist | billion dollar man masterlist

a/n: this is the last of the reuploads! the next chapter is gonna be brand spanking new (and its super long oops), as always please let me know what you think!

Staying up with Tony in his lab become routine for you after that night, whether it be going down with him knowing he couldn’t sleep or waking up to an empty bed and seeking him out, Tony’s lab soon became a familiar place to you. Sometimes Tony would work and talk to you as he did and others you simply went down there to sleep, curling up with a blanket on an empty workbench wanting him to know that he wasn’t alone, and you were happy to see that little by little Tony was indeed joining you to sleep more and more.

He still didn’t sleep enough but it was a start and one you would happily take.

Nat’s birthday was fast approaching, and you had helped everywhere you could with the planning, the moulin rouge themed party bigger than anything you had ever seen before in your life. Nat sure as hell had gone the full mile for this and nearly everything was ready, the both of you were shopping for your outfits today but there was one thing you had yet to do: get her a birthday present.

I mean, what do you buy for someone who has everything?

You had racked your brain for days and the closer her birthday got the more you began to panic. You were meeting up with Nat later and you wanted to have some sort of idea before you did so you could drop some subtle hints and test for a reaction before you actually bought anything.

The paper with ‘Nat’s present ideas’ scribbled at the top was void of any other writing – the same as it had been for the past 5 days – and with a huff you jumped from the couch, dropping the pen you were twiddling in your hands as you went off in search of Tony.

Tony was sitting in his office, eyes mulling over the papers in front of him when you sat yourself on his lap, arms wrapping around his neck as you nuzzled into his neck. Although his eyes never left the papers on the desk, a ghost of a smile played at his lips at the feeling of you pressed tightly against him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be meeting Nat soon?” Tony murmured, pressing a kiss against your forehead as his hand gripped your waist keeping you close to him.

“I am but I have a problem.”

Tony’s eyes snapped up to yours, worry filling them instantly at your words as his gaze washed over you, searching for any signs of injury or distress. Unable to find any, Tony quirked a brow at you, leaning back in his chair as he gave you his full attention, “What’s wrong?”

“I have zero ideas on what to get Nat for her birthday and I don’t have long left! What if I can’t find anything in time and then I’m the only one that hasn’t got her anything and then I’ve hurt her-”

“Wait, wait; that’s what’s bothering you?” Tony asked you incredulously, staring at you with a slack jaw before he started to chuckle at your expense, “Y/N, baby, you don’t have to worry about that. Presents aren’t really a thing in this world, presents are pre-bought and delivered to parties by the host. It’s a little redundant to ask people to get you stuff when you already know exactly what you want and can afford it easily, this way there’s no disappointment or drama of ‘oh they never bought me anything’, you know?”

“Wait so no one gets anyone any presents? Ever? That seems really… cold. I mean, for me, presents were never about how much money someone spent or if it was something I really wanted, the best presents were those personal things that only that person could have thought to have got you. You know, the inside jokes and the special memories that only you have together.”

Tony watched you with a fond expression as your teeth worried at your bottom lip, troubled that gift giving simply wasn’t a custom here, one side of his mouth curling in an adoring smirk. “You’re something else, you know that?” He murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, finger grazing your cheek before he gently pulled you into a sweet kiss, “Don’t worry about Nat beautiful, she’s just happy to have you as a friend, trust me there’s not much out there that she doesn’t already own anyway.”

The sound of your ringtone cut through the room, Tony pressing one final lingering kiss to your lips before he let you go, watching as you pulled the phone from your pocket and saw the photo of you and Nat lighting up the screen. You smiled at the picture before you swiped to answer it, leaving Tony’s office as you headed to fetch your jacket, the phone pressed to your ear as you listened to Nat eagerly tell you how excited she was.

“Anyway, I’m sitting outside waiting for you to make an appearance so hurry the fuck up!” Nat cut the phone off without so much as letting you say ‘bye’ and you could only chuckle at her impatience.

You stared at the photo of the two of you once more before it faded from the screen, the cogs in your brain starting to slowly turn as an idea began to form for her present. Clicking on your photos you scrolled through the many pictures you had stored there of you, Nat, and the rest of the gang – the silly selfies and off-guard shots brought a smile to your face and you remember the look Nat had when she saw your first photo together, the naturalness of it was something she was unfamiliar with, telling you that the only real photos she had where from professional photographers or paparazzi and she had practically begged you to send it to her.

That’s when it hit you like a tonne of bricks, the perfect present for Nat; a photo album filled with personal photos of her and Sam and her friends. Grinning to yourself, you pocketed the phone and dashed out the front door to meet with Nat, practically flinging yourself into her car as she laughed at your enthusiasm.

“Wow Y/N, keep this up and people might thing you actually missed me,” Nat teased as the car pulled off towards the designer stores Nat had requested you go to.

Given that Nat was throwing a Moulin Rouge themed party, it was no surprise she was requesting that people dress appropriately and when Natasha Romanoff requested something only a fool would say no. She had asked you to come shopping with her for her outfit, wanting your opinion before she purchased something and giving you the opportunity to get yours as well.

Entering the store, you were blown away by the various outfits on display; beautiful corsets embedded with diamonds on mannequins in the window whilst luxurious feather fans and headdresses lined the shelves. One thing you did notice however, was that the store was near empty, the only other people in it bar you and Nat seemed to work there but before you could question it, one of the women were approaching you with a wide grin.

“Miss Romanoff! We’re so glad to see you; per your request this is completely private so feel free to browse at your leisure and myself and Mary-Anne are here to help you with anything you need,” The woman - who’s name tag read Julianne - informed you, holding her arms out wide to gesture to the empty store.

You arched a brow at Nat in disbelief and she only gave you a sly smirk in response before dragging you over to look through everything in the store. Mary-Anne brought you both a glass of champagne as you surveyed everything in the store, Nat holding things against her body for some idea of how it would look, adding the one’s she liked to her every growing pile to try on later.

Nat also forced you to pick out the ones you liked, adding them to your own pile but you were far more reluctant than her, the idea of wearing something so form-fitting and revealing in front of so many people making you apprehensive.

Heading to the back where the changing rooms were you both tried outfits on for the other, leaving your favourites until last of course, and giving each other opinions on what looked good and what you could pair it with.

Whilst you changed into your final outfits, you called out to Nat through the wall of the dressing room; “Hey Nat, once we’re done here do you want to get a massage? My back is killing me.”

“Yeah of course, what did you do?”

Unable to think of an excuse you tried to brush of Nat’s concern, but you should have known by now that it wouldn’t have been that easy, “Oh, it’s nothing, just a little stiff is all.”

“Y/N.”

You could hear the warning tone in Nat’s voice as you finished adjusting your corset, cringing before you slowly opened the door and saw her standing there with her arms crossed and brow raised like a disappointed mother.

Glancing behind you at Julianne and Mary-Anne you made sure they were occupied and not eavesdropping, grabbing Nat’s arm and moving her further away from the two just to be safe before you told her the truth.

“It’s just, Tony’s being doing really well with therapy and he is sleeping more but he still spends a lot of time in the lab, so I started going down there with him; sometimes I can stay awake but sometimes I sleep on one of the work benches down there and it’s not exactly been great for my back.”

Nat’s expression morphed into one of concern, moving closer to reassuringly grip your forearms, “Why are you sleeping in the lab, why are you even down there to begin with when Tony has a perfectly good mattress to sleep on upstairs? Is he making you do this because I-”

“No! Nat, god no he doesn’t ask me to do it it’s just – I just don’t want him to feel alone you know? I think that’s always been part of the problem for him,” You mused, Nat nodding her head slowly in understanding, “Please don’t tell Tony Nat, he’ll only feel guilty and it’s not his fault I promise, besides it’s nothing a little massage therapy won’t fix.”

“Hey, you never have to worry about me telling anybody anything ok? You’re my best friend, your trust means everything to me, I’ll take it to the grave I promise but I do have one question; are you sure that what you feel for Tony is just ‘friendship’ or whatever bullshit you said this arrangement is?”

You froze at Nat’s question; you knew that you were worried about Tony, who wouldn’t be? And you’d do anything to help him. But you’d do the same for any of your friends. Wouldn’t you?

You did have to admit that whatever lines you did have were beginning to become blurred but whether it was extending past platonic at this point you couldn’t decipher and you knew it was dangerous territory to try to at this point.

Swallowing against the dryness in your throat, you shook your head of the dazed feeling that had come over you, giving Nat a soft smile in reassurance. “We’re just friends Nat, I promise.”

Nat hesitated for a moment and you panicked thinking she was going to question you more but to your relief she simply grinned and took your hand in hers, leading you to the huge mirror so you could appreciate what you and she were wearing.

“Wow, you look good,” You complimented, eyes wandering over her very eye-catching outfit. Nat’s outfit consisted of a corseted bodysuit and was completely embellished in tiny silver diamonds with black diamond detailing that caught every ounce of light, making her shimmer with every slight movement. The outfit was finished off with fishnet tights that had diamonds sown into them and black silk gloves that ended at her wrists, a black top hat with a diamond completed the ensemble and if you didn’t know any better you would think she was off to perform any second now.

Nat could sure as hell rock this look that was for sure.

“Correction; WE look fucking amazing,” Nat said with a pointed look, linking her arm through yours as you smiled at her reflection.

You did have to admit that you liked what you saw, the idea of wearing to Nat’s birthday party seemed less daunting then it did half an hour ago and you sure as hell couldn’t wait for a certain billionaire philanthropist to see you in it.

Unlike Nat’s outfit, yours came in two separate pieces, a blush pink satin corset and a matching pair of panties, the corset had minor diamond detailing on it - compared to Nat’s which was covered completely in them - but it did have a diamond fringe that followed the along the bottom of the corset, creating a V shape on your front and behind. There was a diamond embellished garter strap that came down from the corset and attached to the matching pink hold-ups you were wearing. Your white silk gloves reached your elbow and you had a white and pink feather piece clipped into your hair.

You both admired each other in the mirror some more before your eyes met Nat’s in the reflection, smiling at her as you linked your hands together, “You’re my best friend too ya know, well, you and Wanda.”

Much to your surprise Nat pulled you into a bone-crushing hug and you froze at the unexpected gesture before you melted into her touch, wrapping your arms firmly around her as you returned the embrace.

The two of you were pulled apart when Julianne asked if everything was ok or if there was anything else that you needed.

“Everything’s great: we’re definitely gonna be taking these.” Nat answered, the both of you heading back into the dressing rooms to quickly change back into your clothes.

Nat finished everything with the order and even paid for your outfit even though you told her not to and Mary-Anne arranged the delivery to be sent to Tony’s apartment given that you would be getting ready there. You didn’t understand why you couldn’t just take the one you had tried on home, but Nat explained that they were only for show, not for sale, the ones you both would be wearing would be made to order and delivered to you.

After a successful day of shopping together, you went out for lunch at Nat’s favourite bistro chatting more about her upcoming party and what she had planned, both of you laughing over the boys’ latest shenanigans before she asked you if she could meet Wanda. The request took you by surprise but what shocked you more was the fact that the Natasha Romanoff looked nervous, your wide eyes and slack jaw morphed into a warm smile as you reached across the table and took her hand in yours, telling her that you’d love for her to get to know Wanda at which a relieved smile played at her lips.

The conversation soon returned to the usual and you and Nat headed off to get massages, having the kinks and knots in your back worked out felt heavenly and the day you two had spent together had put you in amazing spirits so much so that as soon as Nat had dropped you back off at Tony’s you had headed back out to gather everything you needed to make Nat’s birthday present.

And that’s how Tony found you, sitting on the floor of his living room, an open scrap book in front of you and a stack of photos to your left, scissors, glitter, glue, and stickers surrounding you as you decorated the pages surrounding the photos you had glued to the center.

Tony simply allowed himself to watch you unnoticed for a minute longer, allowing himself to take in the enthusiasm you crafted the book together with, the sparkle in your eyes and pleased grin on your lips causing him to smile too, your happiness far too contagious to be ignored.

He couldn’t quite place what it was about you that made you so damn special; your kind heart, your selflessness, your loyalty and dedication, the fact that you could – not matter the situation – get him to laugh, the way you had taken every single one of his problems in your stride, he honestly didn’t know. Tony was beginning to suspect that he would never understand how anyone could be so astounding without even realising but as he watched you carefully add glitter to the page you were working on, tongue poking slightly out as you concentrated on your design, he knew that he had never made a greater choice then when he chose you.

a/n: i don’t have a tag list but if you want alerts please follow @angelicthorwrites and turn on notifications

#tony stark x reader #tony x reader #tony stark x you #tony x you #tony stark series #angelicthorwrites

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elixir448 · 4 years

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This past week: A summary

1. We have had an influx of promos over the past few days, mainly compiled of footage from seasons 1 and 2 with some additional unseen footage from season 3 that the fandom has been alternately salivating and freaking out over.

• We have another shot of what the fandom is 100% sure is Rio’s hand, placing a gun (notably not his infamous golden gun) in front of a computer. (https://www.instagram.com/p/B8bs4_9JzuS/?igshid=7jx2mam2rss7).

The majority of the voiceover from Beth is from quotes in seasons 1 and 2, although she does state “This person that you knew, they’re just gone”, potentially in the same scene as in the promo below with the customer.

• Beth is clearly struggling with the guilt and trauma of shooting Rio in another promo (https://ggfanatic0.tumblr.com/post/190764519813/new-teaser), wondering in front of a perturbed customer “It’s a shock when someone dies. The lights go out. One last breath. It’s so weird. Cause like did you ever know him at all?”

• Another promo (https://twitter.com/NBCGoodGirls/status/1225926582839074818) with a voiceover from Rio sent the fandom into a frenzy, as we all attempted to discern what he was saying. Our collective efforts have unveiled:

“She tried to put me away.

But she didn’t think things through.

You wanna be the king you gotta kill the king (1x10)

I know her entire bag of tricks

She’s no good / she’s my girl (You guessed it, we are freaked. It most likely is she’s no good)

But we both know how this ends.”

Could he be speaking to Turner? Or another character?

• A Ruby and Stan centric promo was also released, compiled of footage from seasons 1 and 2 (https://twitter.com/NBCGoodGirls/status/1225926715966255104). While there was season 3 footage of Ruby involved with making counterfeit cash and the girls entering a graveyard with spades, there was no new footage.

• We got our first look at JT in season 3, with the girls standing in front of him at the Qwik Cash counter and him saying “you just levelled up” and the girls laughing and smiling. (https://hereliesbethboland.tumblr.com/post/190709556247/came-across-this-its-not-really-new-hahah)

2. A video where members of the cast (Retta, Christina Hendricks, Mae Whitman, Reno Wilson and Matthew Lillard) answered questions regarding season 3 became available.

• Interestingly, certain segments of this video have the voices of the cast blanked out, potentially due to spoilers.

• A huge emphasis has been placed on the efforts the girls will exert in making their counterfeit cash appear legit.

• It has been confirmed that Ruby works in the nail salon for access to chemicals, Beth in the paper store for access to printers and Annie’s valet job was chosen as she would be in receipt of many $1 bills.

• Reno dropped something interesting when asked why people should watch season 3, stating that “extraneous family members get pulled in”. Could we be meeting the extended Hill family or new family members of other characters? Could this refer to the kids being drawn into what their parents are trying to protect them from?

• Matthew Lillard gushed over Manny Montana. He also enjoyed teasing fans by saying that he knows what happened to Rio’s characters after 2x13, that Beth are Dean’s relationship is “ever growing” and Beansie is sexier than Brio. Lol.

• Mae implied that Annie may be slightly less impulsive and more well-rounded, while retaining the qualities that we love!

• Christina and Mae touched on the topic of when the girls should stop, whether they want to stop and their changing reasons for being involved with crime, with Christina stating that their reasons may be more selfish.

3. According to IMDB, Rob Heaps will play Dr Josh Cohen from 3x02 to 3x11. Whose doctor could he be? Or do the girls rope him into their business?

4. A promotional video titled Rinse and Repeat: Get the Dirt on Good Girls was released, featuring 2 ladies in a laundromat discussing and gushing over the last two seasons of the show, with some additional comments from other viewers in the laundromat.

5. The second episode of The Influence of Good Girls, featuring Manny Montana, and aptly named The Crime King was released.

• Manny said that he likes when Beth “gets the jump on Rio”.

• He views Beth and Rio’s motives as being no different, as he has a son and a family as well. He also feels that just as Beth is enamoured with the world that Rio exists in, Rio is also enamoured by the world she occupies.

• He addressed the car scene between Beth and Rio in 2x12, stating that he thinks Rio both does and does not view Beth as work; he viewed her as work from day 1 but he slipped at some point.

• He discussed with Jenna Bans how Rio could ever work with and trust Beth after the events of 2x13, stating that “the way they wrote it, it just made perfect, perfect, perfect sense” and “it’s so good”.

• He feels that season 3 is on a different level, with everybody going through something different and doing their own thing. This may imply that Rio has a few more scenes outwith the girls?

• His favourite storyline this season is Stan’s and we are now terrified for our favourite cinnamon roll.

• He admires Beth for having the balls to take on Rio and try to take over. “It’s a scary world she’s in.”

6. The third episode of The Influence of Good Girls, titled The Perfect Heist, was released.

7. NBC continues to shock, by acknowledging that Good Girls exists and ramping up their promotional efforts, with billboards, posters and by mentioning the show on their official twitter.

Thank you to everyone who originally posted links to the above information or promo! Also, let me know if I’ve missed anything out!

#nbc good girls #another summary #these are fun to write and i get pretty shocked by how much stuff has been released #bulletpoints and list always help

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fuckinsteverogers · 6 years

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All These Broken Rules: Part 1

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader : Chris Evans x Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Rating: 18++++ SERIES

Warnings: Nothing.

Synopsis: You and Chris Evans have been best friends since high school and when he becomes a part of the Marvel family and makes some new, very attractive friends, some ground rules need to be set… But rules are made to be broken… right?

Author’s Note: Wow, this is the most I’ve written in months. Wtf is happening. I am so not happy with how this is going so far. I am trying to get my creative juices flowing and getting this thing going, but it’s sorta boring atm. I promise shit is going to get better as it goes.

When I said this was based on ‘The Kissing Booth’, I meant loosely, like very loosely. I am basically just using the rules part and best friends angle, but less teenager centric and less ‘I won’t talk to you ever again’ vibes (Chris is too mature for that), plus Chris x Reader is always a good angle... right?

You wipe your sweaty hands on your scrubs and move towards the receptionist desk in the hospital.

“Already leaving?” Hannah, the receptionist, asks. She looks just as tired as you feel. You nod, smiling at her tiredly.

“Yes, thank God. If they didn’t let me leave, I’d have had to find a spare bed,” You joke, watching her hand over your booklet, to write your hours in for the day. Your hospital had yet to upgrade to a booking system, another thing on the to-do list.

“Going home to that handsome boyfriend of yours?” Hannah smiles and you furrow your brows at her, confused as to if she’s mistaking you for another female doctor in your large hospital.

“Boyfriend?” You question, signing the paperwork and handing it back to her.

“Chris Evans, right? I see you guys all over the internet. He’s so dreamy,” Hannah quirks up, the comment almost makes your stomach churn but who are you kidding? You’d be lucky to have a guy as great as Chris even glance at you.

You begin to laugh, hunching over the desk.

“No, no, no. He and I...” You stop for a moment and regard her expression, she’s looking up at you with the same look every girl gives you when you tell them Chris is single. “We are best friends, have been since high school.”

“Better secure him soon, honey. He has definitely got his options,” The comment sounds so sweet coming out of her mouth, which is why you’re confused when it stings.

“Thanks, Hannah. See you tomorrow, yeah?” She nods and you leave, nursing the sore she just created.

Surely, you have options too right? You’re a doctor. A doctor in Los Angeles. You’re best friends with Captain freaking America. You live in a big house, drive a nice car. You’re sweet, compassionate, selfless. Fuck, any guy would be lucky to have you... At least that’s what you tell yourself.

You push the self-doubt to the back of your head and drive in the direction of Chris’ home, looking forward to a nice, hot shower and some good ole leftovers, maybe a beer to go along with it.

“Honey, I’m home,” You yell out as you shut the front door. You hear the vague sound of voices from what seems to be the living room, but with how damn big your millionaire friends house is, you can’t really tell.

“In the living room, darling,” Chris’ voice echos back, and you smile to yourself at the pet name, something you and Chris embraced from a young age.

So many people in high school, from classmates to teacher told you both that you were destined to be together, which eventually evolved into pet names that only served to stir the pot, but didn’t actually mean anything.

“Did you order food? I’m starving,” You note aloud when entering the living room, chucking your handbag onto the floor and moving towards Chris, only to notice the two other men seated in the living room. “Oh, I didn’t know you had company.”

You stop and regard the two ridiculously attractive men looking directly at you.

“You’re still going to stay, right?” Chris raises an eyebrow at you and a smile spreads across your face.

“Yeah, but I should probably shower and change,” You reply, looking down at your blood splattered scrubs.

“Surgery?” Anthony asks, looking down to where you’ve got blood dried into the fabric. You nod, wiping your sweaty hands onto your thighs; your eyes momentarily shifting towards the dark-haired Romanian man that has his eyes boring into you.

“Open heart. Patient forgot to mention he was a haemophilia sufferer, so it wasn’t the cleanest.” You watch Mackie’s face twist into disgust and a smile tugs on your lips.

“Couldn’t do what you do, doll,” Sebastian perks up, leaning back and taking a swig of the stella he’s nursing in his hands.

“My little worker bee,” Chris contributes, which only serves to drag your eyes away from Sebastian’s fucking ridiculously handsome face and grin at your best friend.

“My little performer bee,” You add, quickly making your way over to him. You wrap your hands around his shoulders and nuzzle your face into his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of home.

“Okay, now get away from me, you smell like death,” Chris chuckles, painting a peck onto your cheek and pushing you off of him. You laugh and throw your hands up, moving for your handbag.

“Did you wash my clothes?” You ask, picking your handbag up and moving for the stairs.

“Yeah, I left them on my bed,” Chris replies, and with one final glance at the three men, you climb the stairs to where your relaxing, hot shower awaits.

The boys have fresh beers and are watching football when you return in sweats and a t-shirt, hair wet and smelling like roses. Chris greets you with open arms and an already opened beer, tugging your body into his as you settle beside him to watch the Patriots.

Though, your attention is almost non-existent on the television when Sebastian’s movements catch your eye. He sweeps his long, tanned fingers through his dark hair and shifts to cross his legs, his thighs thicker than the last time you saw him, probably due to the men just having finished filming their latest Marvel movie.

The sight sends heat throughout your body, it’s unnerving how attracted to him you are. The thought of Rule #2 sends you slamming back to Earth. Sebastian is off-limits, you know that you’ve known that since the moment Chris pulled you aside, you’ve known it since the moment you knew you were attracted to him, but there’s this pull, this unmistakable need for him that won’t leave you alone.

Attempting to forget about the thoughts rushing through your head, you lean back against Chris’ chest and press the empty bottle of Stella between your thighs, shutting your eyes as he wraps his arm around your chest.

You listen to the shouts from the men, vibrations travelling through you when Chris perks up, and slowly fall into a deep sleep after the gruelling 16-hour shift.

“Sweetheart,” Is what you wake to, the sound of velvet in your ears. Humming, you roll over, towards the sound, seeking the comfort of the soft voice, you reach your hand out, only to come in contact with rough stubble on top of soft skin and you keep your hand there, just feeling. “Food’s here, sweetheart.”

The voice is so soft, yet rugged and you can’t help but hum, still too groggy to open your eyes, you do notice that you’re no longer propped against Chris’ chest, but laid on the couch with no heat of a man’s body to protect you from the coldness of the room.

“Is she okay?” You hear another voice, deep and manly, and almost makes your chest vibrate with how low the octaves are.

“Yeah, but I think she thinks I’m you,” The velvety voice says, and it makes you wake up a tiny bit. Who are you touching? Please don’t be a stranger, oh god.

When you crack your eyes open, your hand still encasing a sharp jawline and rough stubble, you see the gorgeous sight beside you.

“There she is,” Sebastian says, his hand coming up to yours that is laid on his cheek and bringing it to be encased between his hands, the warmth against the cold makes you shiver.

“I got your favourite, honey,” Chris talks, and you shift your gaze from the brunette beauty to your best friend who is standing tall in the doorway.

“Just give me a moment,” You say, lightly tugging your hand from within Sebastian’s grasp, feeling mildly guilty for liking the feeling of his soft, warm skin against yours.

You take a moment to lift yourself from the couch, your body aching from the long day and lift your eyes back to the brunette beauty who moves to let you get up.

“Okay, doll?” He asks, a bright smile lifting up onto his face. You feel your cheeks heat up, and hope he doesn’t notice the way you quickly duck your head and shuffle past him; avoiding the burning stare of such an attractive man.

“I’m all good,” You reply, rolling your shoulders to relieve the tension.

Chris smiles as you walk towards him, draping his arm across his shoulder, pressing a tight kiss into your temple as he does.

“So what favourite did you get me?” You ask, tipping your head back slightly to look at the taller man. His eyes gleam as he looks down at you. Twenty years of friendship meant that Chris and you knew basically every food, every snack, every drink that you both preferred and Chris made a habit of always providing, not even giving you a chance to step up your friendship game.

“Seb, why don’t you go start without us? I just want to talk to Y/N for a second,” Chris says, disregarding your question, and you don’t have to look at Sebastian to know he’s confused. You are confused too, furrowing your eyebrows up at Chris, who just smiles lightly at you and pulls you towards the stairs.

“You like him, don’t you?” He asks when you make it into the bedroom.

You pull yourself from under his arm and look at him, because fuck are you really that obvious, but is it really a like situation?

“Are you accusing me of breaking the rules?” You demand playfully, not wanting this to end in a fight, because you know if you admit to anything, then Chris will not take kindly. Chris smiles at your tone and moves to sit on the bed, stretching his long, long legs out in front of him.

“I know you haven’t slept with him. I’m just asking,” He admits, looking tentatively at you. The look in his eyes tells you he’s panicking. You know why he set the rules, you feel guilty for indulging in your emotions openly enough to harm your best friend.

“Chris,” You murmur, padding towards him slowly.

You plaster your front to his and stand between his stretched legs, hugging his body into yours. Chris lays his head gently into your chest and his hot breath hits your skin, sending automatic shivers across your skin. He wraps his arms around your waist and you feel the tension soak from him to you.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” You say honestly, and this only proves to make his shoulders tense up.

“Then tell me the truth,” He replies. Like it’s that easy.

You huff out a breath, tilting your head down and leaning your head against the top of his, just feeling the soft hair against your face.

This situation shouldn’t be as difficult as it is, but you know that losing you and Sebastian is a constant threat to him.

As you pucker your lips and press a kiss to his head, in what would seem intimite from an outside perspective but from inside, you know it’s just best friends showing affection; you hear Sebastian’s loud laugh from downstairs and you breathe in slowly, calming your heart rate.

What are you meant to say without breaking your best friends heart? Maybe, that should be rule #3: A little white lie to avoid hurting your bestie is acceptable.

But how little is this white lie?

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#sebastian stan #chris evans #avengers #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan fluff #sebastian stan angst #chris evans smut #chris evans fluff #chris evans angst #avengers iw #sebastian stan x reader #chris evans x reader #avengers fic

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a-little-international · 6 years

Text

Stable

Summary: Even Tom knows it’s a cliché for the stable hand to fall in love with the star rider.

Pairing: Tom Holland/OC

Warnings: nothing but a bit of pining, really

Words: 3339

A/N: this is me being self-indulgent and craving all the equestrian-centric fics lmao

The Series: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Chapter 1

Tom glanced down at the watch on his wrist for the third time within five minutes. He rubbed at the saddle leather with his rag, hardly paying any attention to what he was doing, his ears fixed on the sounds of the driveway outside. Any second now he should be hearing the tyres of her mum’s car crunching over the gravel. Every time she walked through the barn doors, the sunlight streaming in from behind her like in some biblical painting, it was another image added to the mental library of his life’s highlights reel.

One of the horses out on the fields whinnied in the distance and Tom kept cleaning the tack absentmindedly. He probably could be doing other, more pressing things, like checking the fence on the far end of the property near the tree line or refilling the water trough in the West Field because it had a small leak, but he didn’t want to miss her big entrance. The tack room was just off to the right of the main barn doors, and over the years Tom had made it part of his routine to stand exactly where he was stood in that moment, polishing the silver bits and precious dark leather at exactly ten o’clock in the morning every Saturday and Sunday just to watch her walk in with her shoulders back, hair flowing and smiling brightly. She always met his eyes, knew he was always going to be there to greet her with a wave of his rag and a beating in his chest he was convinced she was able to hear.

He ran his rag over the metal plaque on the saddle, polishing over the horse’s name for what felt like the hundredth time and he knew she was running a bit late without having to check his watch again. He wondered if something had happened or if it was something as arbitrary as having had an extra cup of tea before leaving the house that was causing her delay. Tom shrugged his shoulders to shake off some of the anticipatory, nervous tension that was building up in him, his thick jacket ruffling loudly as he moved. And then he heard it: the somehow unmistakable sound of her mother’s Land Rover slowly rolling around the driveway and coming to a halt. He could almost set a timer to the rhythm at which she opened the door, the sound of her boots hitting the ground, the pause as she said her goodbyes, and the final slam of the car door. He knew she’d be walking into the stable in around five seconds, and he looked down at the saddle below his hands hastily, not wanting her to catch on that he was expecting her.

As if on cue, in she walked with a power and grace that always rendered his breathing useless. Tom looked up to admire her slender silhouette, backlit against the open doors, and he had to remind himself to smile and blink and raise his rag in his routine salute.

“Morning Tom!” She grinned, walking up to him and leaning against the tack room’s door frame, crossing her arms.

Tom licked his lips, his mouth running dry at the sight of her, “Morning Ren.” He wanted to ask why she was six minutes late, but he didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

“How’s your day been? Have I missed much?”

Tom nodded, eyes flicking between her and the saddle, trying not to stare, “Pretty good, yeah, quiet. Not much going on. Cisco’s still turned out if you want to come with me to get him?” he asked, looking up at her from under his lashes.

She nodded, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, “Yeah of course, let me just check in with the others – you’ll come get me when you’re ready to go?”

Tom smiled at her and nodded, watching as she turned on her heel to head towards the stables that held her other horses. He couldn’t seem to look away from the way her dark hair swished like a gently cascading waterfall against her back, coming to a stop just above her ass. It took all his decency and might not to let his eyes trail down any further and admire how her suede -lined jodhpurs accentuated her curves.

He looked around the tack room, trying to find something else to kill time with. He couldn’t let her know he’d been waiting around for her to arrive, that he wasn’t actually busy with anything in that moment other than running through thoughts of her in his mind. He pulled the stack of spare saddle pads from their rack started replacing them in order of colour. It was a simple task that left his hands feeling dusty and grimy, but it did the trick and bought him enough time to seem like he was doing his job.

Rubbing his hands on his pants to clean them up just a little, he stepped out into the barn and walked over to where she was standing against Cricket’s stable door, her massive head cradled against her chest.

Hearing him approach, she looked over and grinned at him and Tom swore his heart jumped into his throat. “Look Cricket,” she said, patting the side of the horse’s face gently, “It’s Tom, our favourite.”

“Hey girl,” Tom chuckled gently, reaching up to rub Cricket’s nose as he tried to ignore the way his diaphragm was pushing almost painfully into his chest. He had certainly not missed how she’d casually thrown out the phrase ‘our favourite’ when referring to him. He knew she probably didn’t mean anything by it, but it was hard for his brain not to run itself into the ground by reading into it just a smidge. “You were a bit cheeky this morning, weren’t you?” he cooed at the horse.

“Oh really?” Ren asked, raising her eyebrows accusingly at Cricket.

“Mmm,” he nodded, his cheeks flushing slightly, “nipped me right in the bum as I tried to muck out around her.”

Tom heard Ren suck in a little air as she raised her finger and tapped Cricket on the nose, her brows knotted in faux-disappointment. “Naughty girl, you need to learn some manners young lady.”

He could stare at the stern wrinkle on her forehead and the way her thick lashes curled up against her browbone and the faint splatter of freckles on her olive skin all day, but he was worried she would catch him. “Ready to head?” He asked, nodding in the general direction of outside.

“Yeah let’s go,” she replied, zipping up her jacket a bit more as she started towards the back exit to the fields, “How was your week?” she asked, turning a bit to look at him as he followed her, “Get up to anything exciting?”

Tom ran a hand through his hair and gave the back of his neck a rub. He didn’t know what to tell her, certain that his life was exponentially more boring than hers. “Just school, you know, and work,” he shrugged, “I went bowling with my friend Jacob on Monday night,” he added, to make himself sound a little less lame.

“Oh, Jacob! He’s the one who plays piano, right? Wants to get into music school?” Ren enquired.

All Tom could do was nod, a bit shocked that she even remembered that. He was certain he’d told her about that months ago, when Jacob first started looking at music programs.

“How’s that going for him?” she pressed on as they approached the gate to the first field.

“Yeah, good,” Tom swallowed, reaching to unlatch the gate, “he’s hoping to get into Bristol, apparently they’re pretty good for music.”

Ren ignored his efforts to open the gate, and heaved herself up and over it, landing on the other side with her boots splashing against the soft, slightly muddy grass. “Well I’ll keep my fingers crossed for him,”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate that,” Tom said, finally getting the latch to slip over the wooden post and swinging the gate open, making sure to close it again behind him. “How’s school been?”

“Annoying,” Ren said rolling her eyes, “I’d much rather be here all the time like you.”

“I’m not here all the time,” Tom laughed as they crossed the field, heading for the far one, “I go to school too, you know.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean,” she shrugged back as they approached the next gate, “sometimes I just feel like I’m missing out on so much being away all the time.”

Tom nodded, leaning up against the fence as they reached it. He remembered when she’d first started boarding school, when they were eleven, and how he’d found her crying amongst the haybales the weekend before she left. He’d sat beside her and stroked her hair and they had never said a word about it. “I know you love it though,” he finally replied as he watched the horses grazing in the field, and he knew he was right: he could tell by the way she talked about school and her friends and her teachers that she had grown to love it and think of it as a home.

“Oh yeah,” Ren said quickly, mirroring his stance against the fence, one leg hitched up against a slat, “don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t change being at Saints for the world, but I miss being here every day and getting to see the horses and train and hang out with you.”

Tom turned his head to look at her, his heart fluttering at her words. Sure, they were friends, but they weren’t friends-friends. They’d grown up together; running around the grounds of Ashstead, Tom shadowing his dad and Ren with her ponies and he’d loved her since day one, but he never thought that he was anything more than just part of the stable environment to her. “Well, Half-Term’s just around the corner and then you can spend as much time here as you want,” Tom suggested, watching as the wind picked up strands of her hair and made them dance around her face.

Her eyes flicked to his and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, “Yeah, that’s the plan. Just got to get through another four weeks of school and then: freedom.”

“And before you know it it’ll be the summer holidays,” Tom shot back with a wide smile. The summer holidays were always his favourite and it definitely had a direct correlation with how much time Ren spent at the stables during them. Some days she’d even come in at the crack of dawn to help him muck out and would stay all the way past sunset to help him close up.

“And then maybe-probably Uni,” she sighed, looking back out over the field before moving to jump over the fence again.

Tom quickly opened the gate – this one being distinctly more cooperative – and passing into the field next to her, “Oh, so you think you’re going to go after all?” he asked, following her as she marched towards the horses.

She shrugged, not bothering to look back at him as she headed straight for Cisco, “Not sure, I’ve applied to a bunch, but I want to give riding full-time a shot. The parental unit’s not too sure about it though.”

“Well either way you’d do brilliantly,” Tom said quietly, flushing as he complimented her. He didn’t dare look at her to see her reaction, and he certainly didn’t want her to see exactly how much adoration and admiration was undoubtedly plastered all over his face at the thought of her succeeding.

They’d reached the small group of horses grazing on the damp grass and Tom walked over to Cisco, her relatively new Hanoverian gelding, who was meant to carry her through the season and hopefully, if everything went well, into the professional career she’d dreamed about for as long as he’d known her. “Hey pal,” he greeted, wrapping his fingers around Cisco’s headcollar as he reached up with his other hand to grab the lead rope he always had swinging around his neck, clipping the end to the metal loop. “You want to take him?” Tom asked, offering the rope to Ren, who gladly took it as they started walking back towards the stables in comfortable silence.

“What are you up to now?” Ren asked, breaking the quiet between them as they finally walked back through the barn doors, Cisco’s hooves clopping loudly against the cobblestone.

Tom pulled a face, “Dad wants me to polish the trophies, but if you have something better for me to do I’ll gladly take that instead.”

Ren laughed as she tied Cisco to one of the rings on the wall, giving his thick neck a hearty scratch, “Want to help me groom and tack up?”

Tom couldn’t have said no to her if she’d asked him to trek to London and back with three sacks of flour on his back, especially not with the way the dimple in her left cheek appeared when she smiled at him and how the tip of her nose was pink from the fresh air outside.

As much as Tom loved watching Ren from afar – watching how she’d order and re-order her monogrammed tack box from where he’d be sweeping up some loose straw, watching her concentration as she came up to a jump and her elation as she cleared it as he gazed out of the office window, watching as she struggled to free a strand of hair caught in her helmet as he walked through the yard with a wheelbarrow – this was his favourite way to watch her: all up close and personal.

He was in the middle of moving the rubber grooming brush in tight circles against Cisco’s haunches, but his eyes were trained on how her tongue poked out lightly as she tried detangling his tail.

When she bent over to clean out his hooves, Tom couldn’t help but glance down at her ass, his eyes flicking back up whatever it was his hands were doing for fear of being caught out. He watched, totally transfixed, from over Cisco’s back as she tied her long hair up into a neat ponytail, her head tilted back, and eyes closed.

“Do you mind finishing up the wraps?” Ren asked, getting up from where she was crouched next to Cisco’s front legs. When he shook his head in response, she handed him the remaining protective bandages and moved towards the tack room.

Tom was just about finishing up the first wrap when she returned with Cisco’s saddle held confidently in her arms, his bridle swung over her shoulder. As Tom started on the second wrap, Ren gently placed the saddle on the floor, making sure to keep the saddle pad under it to keep the leather from scratching, and swiftly moved to bring the bridle over the horse’s head, slipping the silver bit in without any issues.

Finishing the last wrap, Tom stood up and moved around to help adjust the saddle pad, now placed on Cisco’s back, as she went to lift the saddle up.

“Florence!” exclaimed a familiar voice causing her to spin on her heels, saddle still clutched in her hands.

Harrison Osterfield was strutting down the length of the barn towards them, the soles of his finely polished boots snapping against the hard ground.

Tom would be lying if he said his heart didn’t feel a slight twinge in response to the wide grin that broke out across her face at the sight of the handsome boy with the bright blue eyes and crisp white shirt.

“Harrison!” she exclaimed, handing Tom the saddle without looking at him, “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked as Harrison curled his arm around her neck to pull her in for a hug. Tom noted how her arms wrapped around his waist and he quickly looked away, suddenly feeling like he was intruding.

“Do you want me to leave?” Harrison joked, looking down at her as he slowly let her go, keeping his hand loosely placed on her shoulder.

“No!” Ren laughed back, shoving him lightly, “but I thought you were staying at school over the weekend?”

Harrison shrugged, putting both of his hands in his pockets – a vision of careless confidence that Tom could only dream about having, “Got permission to leave for a few hours so I thought I’d pop in to say hi. Holland,” he greeted Tom finally, almost as an afterthought, nodding at him in acknowledgement.

Tom smiled back politely, stepping back from the pair to finish tacking up Cisco.

“You going to train or…?” Tom heard her ask Harrison as he adjusted the placement of the saddle, tugging at it until it sat correctly.

Harrison Osterfield played Number One – the main offensive position – on Ashstead’s Under 21s Polo team and somehow managed to take it both incredibly seriously and incredibly not, having the most relaxed attitude to training Tom had ever seen from a competitive athlete. Tom pulled the girth down and let it dangle for a second as he waited to hear Harrison’s reply.

“Well,” Harrison started, and Tom swore he could hear him smirking, “I was actually thinking we could go on a hack together, you and me.”

Tom clenched his teeth as he moved around the horse and pulled the girth up on the other side, beginning to fasten the leather to the buckle.

“Oh,” Ren’s voice dropped, “I was actually going to train,” she said, turning to look at Cisco, “the first county fair is in two weeks.”

Tom took that as his queue to smirk; he was looking forward to watching her jump around the outside arena from where he’d undoubtedly find himself spending his afternoon polishing the trophies in the office.

“Come on, you’re so good already and we haven’t ridden out since before Christmas. One afternoon isn’t going to hurt your chances and you know it,” Harrison pleaded, and Tom couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder at them. Harrison was pouting at her, and Tom turned back to adjusting the girth.

Ren sighed, “But Cisco’s already all tacked up and you know I can’t take him out, what if he gets injured?”

Tom carried on, letting down the stirrup and making sure it was at her preferred length, as he restrained himself from nodding along to her very valid argument.

“It’ll only take like ten minutes to tack up Cricket, and Holland can just sort Cisco out for you, couldn’t you, Holland?” Harrison nodded at Tom, whose hands were still against the saddle.

Tom looked at Ren, who looked back at him pleadingly, “Would you mind, Tom?” her response made his heart sink just a little, but, as always, he couldn’t say no to her.

“Yeah no worries,” he said back, trying to make his voice sound bright and helpful and unbothered as he pulled up to undo the girth buckle he’d just fastened. “I can go get Sam and Harry, I think they’re in the loft sorting out the hay, and they can help you with Cricket and Skylark, no problem,” he added, shrugging his shoulders like they didn’t feel weighed down by an upheaval of disappointment and an annoying twinge of jealousy.

Harrison shot him a bright smile and slapped him on the shoulder, “Brilliant, mate,” he said, “If we go around Pearman’s Farm, I think I saw lambs in the fields on my drive up,” he added, looking down at Ren.

Tom couldn’t help but notice how her face lit up at that; her eyes shining and dimple popping and cheeks flushed; and in that moment, he couldn’t stop himself from wishing his name was Harrison Osterfield, and that he was the one making her smile like that, and that he had all the time in the day to take her to go look at the lambs.

TAGLIST (let me know if you want to be added!)

@crownedbyluke @sweetcherrycal @frecklesholland @vnv21

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bevioletskies · 7 years

Text

20 questions [8/20]

characters: peter/gamora, guardians-centric

fandom: avengers academy/marvel cinematic universe

summary: wasp has a new competition in store for the students of avengers academy, and there’s money involved. so obviously, peter and gamora have to pretend to be a couple in order to win. wait, what?

chapter preview: peter and gamora argue and make up (aka the usual), gamora has a bit of an epiphany, and someone goes missing.

word count: 4804 | total word count: 118k

a/n: the ending of this one makes me happysad every time i read it over, tbh

ao3 | previously | next | masterpost

Janet van Dyne, as the hundreds of students, SHIELD agents, and faculty had learned (sometimes the hard way), was not a girl to be messed with. She wasn’t the strongest, the fastest, or the most skilled of students on campus, but God help you should you get in her way, or even worse, mess with any of her friends.

It had started off as a perfectly normal Sunday morning, of course. She woke up feeling peppy as always, and made her way into the dorm cafeteria/lounge, where Clint and Kate were hovering over the coffee machine, looking desperate, but otherwise dead to the world. She pulled out her green juice from the communal fridge, cracked open the lid with a satisfying pop, and then took a swig, right as she opened Twitter. She then promptly spat it out at the first trending topic she saw, nearly spraying Cosmo and Lucky in the process, who were just innocently sitting on the floor at the Hawkeyes’ feet.

“KAMALA!” she hollered, causing the Hawkeyes to jump. “WE HAVE A SOCIAL MEDIA EMERGENCY!”

Ms. Marvel came dashing in, sliding across the linoleum on her socks, precariously tipping over in the process and nearly braining herself on the doorframe. “What is it, Jan?”

“Why am I seeing this weird, tell-all Twitlonger from some SHIELD agent being DMed to me by hundreds of people?” She stuck her phone in Kamala’s face. “Who is this guy, and why is he saying mean things about Peter?”

“Let me see, girls,” Peggy Carter said, strolling briskly into the kitchen with the no-nonsense attitude that every girl in the Academy revered. She took the phone from Janet and scrolled through the article, frowning. “I can’t say he stands out to me, I wouldn’t remember his face even if I’d met him. He’s rather generically good-looking, wouldn’t you say?”

“He said something about Peter punching him in the face for looking at Gamora,” Janet said. “That doesn’t sound like something he’d do.”

“What’s this about Quill and Gamora?” Natasha sauntered over from the fruit salad station, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. After Peggy showed her the post, her mouth twisted unpleasantly, considering. She wouldn’t put it past Quill and the other Guardians to attempt a long-con to make money, even if it meant a little bad publicity to get into the news. She reasoned that Gamora was the one with a strong moral compass, someone who understood the need to save lives the most after taking so many, and she wouldn’t have taken Natasha’s money regardless. Still, it didn’t clear the suspicions she’d had from the beginning. Maybe this wasn’t the most important secret she had to sniff out on the entirety of the Academy campus (the timefog was definitely a more pressing matter), but it was something Natasha knew she had to look into further.

______

Waking up next to Gamora a second time was decidedly less pleasant than the first, as Peter had been unceremoniously kicked in the gut. With a rather comical shout, he went tumbling out the bed and landed elbow-first on the floor.

Her head popped up over the side of the bed a moment later. “You okay, Quill?” she said, concerned.

“Never better,” Peter groaned, stumbling to his feet. “What happened?”

Her eyes flickered away from him a moment, guilty. “Nightmare,” she murmured. “It won’t happen again.”

He decided not to push it - it was definitely not a topic to be discussed in their game or any context, really, unless she was ready - instead electing to mumble about needing to pee and walking to the bathroom to give her space. When he got back, she was already dressed, her hair braided, face composed once again. She was on her phone, presumably checking her messages and making sure the Guardians hadn’t killed anyone - or each other - in their absence.

“Mantis says there are lots of photos and videos of us online,” Gamora said, turning to face the wall as Peter began stripping down. “They’re referring to us as the ‘hottest new superhero couple’.”

“Alright, I like it,” Peter said as he buttoned up his shirt. “We could definitely be the most attractive superhero couple ever.”

“Always so modest,” she commented dryly, turning back around as he finished adjusting his belt buckle. As she moved to get up, her phone went off with a text notification. “Wait, Janet says there’s a weird Twitter post about us.”

He sat down to do up his shoelaces, distracted by the need to finish dressing. “Yeah, yeah, read it.”

“It says, ‘Star-Lord is a possessive psychopath. He and his girlfriend came to my workplace for some Guardians business, and when I checked them in, I apparently took too long looking over her ID and he lost it. He grabbed me, pulled me out from behind my desk, and punched me in the face repeatedly. It took two security guards to pull him off me, and he kept yelling at me about trying to steal his girlfriend.’” Gamora blinked. “What the hell,” she said flatly.

“It’s that damn Number Five,” Peter said, fists clenched. “My nickname for him,” he added at Gamora’s confused expression. “He’s probably mad he got called out for being a creep, even though I was super non-confrontational about it.”

“And now he’s making people think you’re an over-possessive, violent boyfriend, how is that okay?” she exclaimed. “An untrue slight against you, you’re just going to let that go?”

“If it becomes a problem, we’ll deal with it,” he shrugged, and there was that nonchalant quality of Peter’s that frustrated Gamora so often. It wasn’t just in situations like this, it was on missions, on jobs, where he told everyone he would “figure it out when we get there”, or “wait until we know more”.

“Your talent for improvisation will only take you so far,” she informed him, getting to her feet. “We might need to make a counter statement when we get back. I’ll text Pepper.”

“You do that,” Peter sighed, frustrated. This day was already starting out on a sour note compared to the near-perfect time they had yesterday. He hoped it could only go up from here.

______

Breakfast downstairs was an...interesting affair. The elderly couple from yesterday was there once again, having a petty argument about using the wrong kind of knife for jam, when they spotted Gamora and gestured for her and Peter to join them. They shared stories of their favourite dates and anniversaries, which made the two smile, until they asked how long Peter and Gamora had been together.

“We’ve known each other for a couple years, but we’ve only been dating about four months, almost five,” Peter said, glancing over at a slightly defensive-looking Gamora. The couple motioned for him to elaborate. “I don’t know if civilians heard about the fight us Guardians had back at that time, but my father turned out to be pretty evil and we had to take him out. It was in that moment that I realized I had a giant crush on Gamora, and I didn’t want to lose out on telling her before some other crazy bad guy took us down.”

It still made her uneasy to hear or tell this story, no matter how many times it was spoken aloud. A lie rooted a little too deeply into truth, and Gamora could almost forget that it didn’t actually happen.

After Peter continued to make up stories during the duration of breakfast, the pair headed out to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a place that Mantis had listed and Pepper had recommended. “There’s lots of amazing stuff in there, but I think Gamora would especially love the Arms and Armor section,” she had said, handing them a stack of brochures.

The car ride was uneasy, to say the least. Gamora wasn’t sure why she was so annoyed this time, in all honesty. It wasn’t like this was the most stubborn either of them had been, nor the most dire issue they’d ever gotten into an argument over. And yet, it bothered her that Peter wasn’t planning on doing anything about this. For a guy who cares so much about being called Star-Lord, he doesn’t seem worried about being seen as a violent boyfriend, she thought, glancing over at him. He was humming mindlessly along with the radio, some pop song that played on rotation every two hours. She was uncertain about why he hadn’t switched to an oldies station, but the atmosphere felt too tense for her to ask.

The moment they got out of the car, it was like a switch had flipped. Peter took her hand and guided them to the museum entrance, where they were taken to the front of the queue and let in almost immediately the moment they showed their Academy passes. “Perks of being a hero,” Peter said to her in a sotto voice, slightly concerned that the civilians would overhear and complain. “Where should we start?”

Once they got going, it seemed as if things were back to normal. Gamora found that she was enjoying herself, not just in the Arms and Armor exhibit (though it was definitely her favourite), but in observing the art and furniture of the other exhibits that taught her a great deal of Terran history that she’d been unaware of until now. Peter also seemed to have relaxed a little bit, offering colourful commentary, joking around with her, his hand warm in hers. They seemed so used to it now that she felt as if they would continue to accidentally hold hands after the ruse was up. Or maybe it was just her, unused to the sort of intimacy Peter probably received in spades.

Brave individuals approached them and asked for a photo or for a moment to simply thank them, while the shyer members of the public stared at them from afar, attempting to be discreet in taking videos or photos, only to quickly turn away when eye contact was made. Even one woman blurted out that she thought they looked good together, before turning red in the face and dashing away, clutching at her companion and muttering about how embarrassing she was.

They took a break for lunch when both Peter and his stomach began to complain, tucking themselves away into the American Wing Café for a quick bite. “You alright?” Peter said cautiously, moments after they’d settled in.

“Are you asking after something specific?” Gamora said, tilting her head as she observed Peter practically inhaling his sandwich. “Because if you think I’m still irritated, you’d be correct.”

“I’m just surprised it bothers you so much,” Peter said, frowning. The effect was ruined by bits of lettuce falling out of his mouth. “I get you being worried about Thanos coming to kill me, like, me specifically, but this is just one post making up stories that barely anyone’s listening to. What’s the big deal?”

“You put stock into your reputation but this doesn’t worry you at all. Why?” she countered, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. “I understand fighting for people to call you Star-Lord, since it holds both notoriety and sentiment, but what about fighting against being seen as a possessive, unreasonable lover?”

“The public have already gotten over it five minutes after it was posted, and I’m pretty sure any girls I’d be interested in from this point on would be smart enough to know it isn’t true,” Peter shrugged, licking his fingers. “Like, you know I’m not that guy. And hell, you were more physically threatening to him than me, we both know it, so who cares?”

Gamora exhaled slowly. “I guess it bothers me,” she admitted. “Not because you aren’t doing anything about it - I’ve come to expect little effort from you on things like this - but because...I don’t like the idea of people seeing you in a negative light.”

Peter smiled softly, reaching across the table to put his hand over hers. She saw a camera phone flash out of the corner of her eye, but instead of turning towards the culprit, her eyes fixated on Peter’s face instead, the signature warmth in his eyes a comforting sight. “That’s awesome of you - no, really - but that kind of stuff doesn’t really get to me. I care more about what you guys think of me than some random people from the public. And I know what kind of guy I am. So that’s all that matters.”

Smiling back, she felt the tension in her muscles dissipate. Contrary to popular belief, she did not enjoy fighting with Peter. “We should get going,” she said. “I want to look at the swords again.”

______

“I am Groot.”

“I know you’re bored, hold on a second - ”

“I AM GROOT!”

“Hey, now, don’t talk to me like that, watch your d’ast language, kid.” Rocket climbed out from underneath the table, where he had accidentally dropped his wrench. He was working on some weaponry that wasn’t all too critical, but since Peter and Gamora were taking their sweet time bringing supplies back in favour of a “romantic” weekend trip, he didn’t have what he needed to continue doing repairs on the Milano. It also meant he was looking after Groot even more than usual, as the other two would usually take him while Rocket was working. “Now, whaddaya want?”

“I am Groot.” His little wooden fingers pointed in the direction of the sleeping quarters.

“I don’t think she’s even on the ship, Groot. Haven’t seen her since dinner last night.” Rocket rummaged through the mess of wires he’d uncovered from one of the cooling units. It was a miracle the thing hadn’t blown to bits with the way they were tangled up.

“I am Groot.”

“Why would I be worried? Nebula’s probably just skulking in a corner somewhere and hissing at anyone who gets too close.”

“I am Groot!”

“What? How did you even get into my communicator, it’s password-protected.” Rocket leapt over to the coffee table, where his holo-tab was sitting, unlocked. He scrolled through his messages for a moment before looking back over at Groot. “Shit, you’re right. We gotta tell the others.”

“Wha’s going on, rat?” Yondu emerged from his room, looking around blearily. He got a suspiciously high amount of naps in for a guy who was supposedly failing a decent amount of his classes and needed to catch up. Then again, the naps were probably what kept him away from homework in the first place.

“Nebula’s somehow off-planet, she’s been spotted on some cluster near the Kyln,” Rocket said, shoving all of his work onto the floor in favour of his tablet, now projecting a map of Nebula’s rumoured location onto its surface. “We should tell Gamora, we aren’t equipped to handle this without her.”

“Shit,” Yondu yawned, scratching himself. “We really gonna interrupt her and Quill’s date night? They should be on their way to that light thing that bug-girl picked for ‘em.”

“There’s more pressing matters than Quill and Gamora getting all kissy-faced, alright? D’you have any idea how much trouble we’re gonna be in if Patch Man finds out we somehow lost Nebula? How did she even find a spaceship - Milano’s busted, quinjets ain’t built for space travel - ” Rocket started mumbling absent-mindedly to himself as his claws flew over the keyboard, attempting to plot a course for Nebula’s location.

Groot went running down the hall of the Milano, extending his arms to knock on Drax’s and Mantis’s doors. “I am Groot, I am Groot!”

Drax came out first, daggers in hand, ready for a fight. “What is it, small Groot?”

Mantis poked her head out from behind her door. She had earbuds in, listening to a playlist Peter had made for her, and spoke even louder than usual. “What has happened?!”

“We gotta cut in on Quill and Gamora’s love trip - Nebula’s missing,” Rocket called from the kitchen, where he was inexplicably rummaging for cutlery. “Can someone contact them already? Don’t have all day, it’s already getting dark out!”

“Rocket, while I understand the need to recover Nebula, what are we supposed to do about it? There are no functioning spaceships on this base,” Drax said patiently, lowering his daggers slowly in mild disappointment.

“We’ll figure it out,” Rocket snarled. “Now get to it!”

______

“Is it bad I kinda just want to spend the rest of the day in here?” Peter asked, flopping down on the bed. He rolled around to cocoon himself in the thick duvet. “I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been kinda tired this whole trip. Not in a bad way, just like a ‘I’m-letting-myself-get-tired’ kinda way.”

“We don’t get much rest at the Academy, so being off-campus probably helps your body relax,” Gamora suggested. “We don’t have to go, then. We can just...stay in. Order more pizza, watch the lights from here.”

“You secretly like pizza, don’t you,” he teased, turning over to look at her.

“Didn’t think it was much of a secret,” she replied, smiling as she set down her bag and her phone. “I adhere to a strict diet to maintain my physicality, but I enjoy indulging every once in awhile.”

“Pizza it is,” he cheered, reaching for his phone. To his surprise, less than a minute later, Gamora crawled in next to him, having apparently already changed into her pajamas in record time. She’d taken out her braids, leaving her hair slightly crinkled and messy, looking more unkempt than he’d ever seen her, but just as pretty as ever. It was good to see her so at ease.

“And maybe a movie?” she suggested, almost shyly.

He nodded more vigorously than he meant to. Gamora’s large chocolate brown eyes were kind of mesmerizing up close. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

______

Despite still being grounded, the Milano had delved into chaos, what with Rocket leaping about as quickly as he could to gather parts, Mantis and Drax attempting to flesh out Rocket’s flight path plan, Groot bouncing up and down on the kitchen counter in anticipation, and...well, Yondu was sitting on the couch, observing.

He was in charge of contacting Peter, though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to do it just yet. Not because of him being away with Gamora, though that did play a minor role, but because...was it really so crucial to get Nebula back? She left for a reason, a reason that everyone suspected but couldn’t confirm - Thanos. Going after Nebula likely meant confronting Thanos, and Yondu wasn’t in the mood for dying, not today.

Watching the others scramble around like their feet were on fire, you could never tell that Nebula constantly antagonized all of them, only being marginally nice to Gamora when it suited her. Gamora had insisted her sister wasn’t a lost cause, not yet, but it was telling when Nebula bolted the moment Gamora was gone as well. And they weren’t saying it out loud, but the way they were eyeing him? Yondu could tell the others were surprised he was still here when Peter wasn’t, either.

“We really that scared of Fury findin’ out?” Yondu called, tucking the holo-tab away, as if he’d done what he’d been instructed to do. “Maybe he’ll like it better now that she’s gone.”

“It’s not just Fury I’m worried about, you idiot. You wanna face Gamora when she gets back and finds out we didn’t tell her that her sister somehow disappeared off-planet to fight their evil daddy?!” A clang. “Ow.”

“I am Groot?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, thanks. So are you helpin’ or are you hinderin’? ‘Cause if you’re not helping, we could use some extra space.” Rocket’s arms were folded, his chin tipped upwards. Yondu supposed it would be more intimidating if Rocket wasn’t a mere 3 feet tall.

“Pretty sure Quill put Drax in charge, not you,” Yondu drawled, moving closer to stare him down.

“It would be wise of you to assist us, Yondu, unless you would like to have your toes removed.” Drax’s voice, usually jovial at best and monotonous at worst, was dangerously low, his blue eyes like ice.

“Yessir,” Yondu said sarcastically, though he moved over to the table to help. He wasn’t that much of an idiot.

______

“Just once, I’d like to watch a movie with no singing or dancing in it whatsoever,” Gamora sighed as the movie ended, her head moving to rest next to Peter’s shoulder. “I think you’re skewing my perception of Terran culture.”

“Twist and Shout is so good,” Peter said enthusiastically, turning to look at her. They were nearly nose-to-nose (well, Peter’s-nose-to-Gamora’s-forehead. She was uncharacteristically slouched over, her entire upper body pressed up against his). “I could totally be Ferris Bueller, right?”

“As long as you’re not expecting me to be Sloane,” Gamora said, patting his leg.

“I think you’re more like Jeanie,” he countered, leaning closer. “Did you see the way she took out the principal?”

She laughed softly, her hand coming to a stop on his knee. “Alright then, that helped me think of my next question. The Guardians, we think of each other like family. We fight, we argue, but we do it for each other. Do you see Nebula and I as your sisters?”

“No offense to Nebula, but she’s not exactly on the ‘ride-or-die’ level for me yet,” Peter chuckled, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. They were nearly cuddling at this point, body heat radiating off both of them at every spot they were touching. It made him vaguely wonder if there had been something in the pizza that had made Gamora unusually pliant, but even stranger, it wasn’t as odd to him as he thought. She was so comfortable around him now that it made him secretly feel pleased. He couldn’t imagine Gamora being able to snuggle up to anyone since she was a young, innocent girl, and now her arm was slung across his lap like it was nothing, his breath rustling her hair.

“And me?” There was a half-smile on her face, almost flirtatious. It reminded him of when they had stopped over on Knowhere, where Rocket, Drax, and Groot had gotten drunk, and he and Gamora had a moment that he held on to with a surprising fierceness.

“I, uh...I don’t think, that, uh, I think of you as my sister. First of all, it would make this whole fake relationship situation really weird,” he elaborated at her slightly baffled expression. “And you have some...qualities, that I like in girls.” He cursed inwardly at himself the moment the words left his mouth. What was he, some inexperienced ten-year old trying to flirt with his schoolyard crush? This was Gamora, someone that he’d been opening up to in the past few weeks in ways he’d never anticipated.

Thankfully, she didn’t prod further. “But I don’t dance, or quote movies you like, or find you funny,” Gamora said, teasing.

“Oh, you definitely dance.” Peter got to his feet, weaving their fingers together and pulling her up as well. “I think you’ve danced with me enough times to establish that you’re totally a dancer.”

He moved to press play on his Walkman, smiling as the gentle sounds of a chorus and strings flooded the room. Despite having the latest technology available to him soon after they’d landed on Terra, Peter had asked for songs he had discovered later on and truly loved to be put on tape. He liked the idea of continuing his mother’s Awesome Mixes, as if it was his way of responding to hers.

They slowly moved around the room, Gamora sighing as she always did but following his lead. She was slightly on her toes, as her feet were bare, taking away the height advantage her thick-heeled combat boots usually afforded her. Her face was closer than it usually was, and despite the fact they’d kissed just yesterday (was it really yesterday? It felt like decades ago), there was an intimacy present that she was unused to, the feeling of Peter’s breath against her nose that wasn’t too unpleasant.

He then ducked his head slightly, his mouth now practically in her hair, nestled comfortably against her ear. “You give your hand to me, and then you say hello,” he sang, his voice so soft that she nearly missed it. As they turned slowly around the generously-sized living room, she could see the lights from the show flickering in and out of view, bathing them in a warm glow. “And I can hardly speak, my heart is beating so…”

Peter opted to hum for the next few lines, but Gamora felt her face begin to warm. Their perceptions of music were so different. Gamora enjoyed her punk-rock, with lyrics about fighting against the establishment and navigating the hardships of life and death, but there was something so endearing and innocent about Peter’s connection to older songs. He was a modern man in many ways - his somewhat arrogant personality in contrast to his gentle, all-loving nature - but his heart beat in time to older music and movies that celebrated love and life.

She dared herself to look up at him, and there was that softness that she liked so much, a stark contrast from the steely-eyed confrontation they had earlier today and many times before. Their eyes locked as Peter picked up again. “...and longs to kiss your lips, and longs to hold you tight...to you, I’m just a friend...that’s all I’ve ever been…” He broke off to chuckle. “It’s weird, ‘cause this song is pretty slow, but they dance so quickly in the movie. I always thought it was perfect for just kind of...two-stepping...like this.”

Gamora let out a soft breath, unsure of what to say. A breeze whistled by from the open balcony door, disturbing her hair, but all she could see was how it made one of Peter’s curls flop over his forehead. She reached up to push it out of the way. “Do you have a question for me?” She wasn’t sure why she was whispering, or why her thumb lingered on his cheek longer than she’d meant to.

“Sure,” Peter smiled. “You know what I look for in a significant other. What do you look for in a guy?”

“Physically fit,” she said immediately. That was an easy one, she needed someone to keep up with her in training, combat, and...other things. “Disciplined, intelligent, level-headed.”

He chuckled softly. “You describing a life partner or a business partner?” His large hand pressed slightly closer on the small of her back, though the pads of his fingers were still gentle. “Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by, a chance that you might love me too…”

“Then I guess you could say I look for a person who could be by my side in all aspects of my life,” Gamora countered, though her voice remained quiet and even. “Someone to be on equal footing with.”

“Like someone who leads a team with you?” Peter asked, and her eyes widened in realization. Maybe…

“Maybe, exactly, like that,” Gamora breathed, her chin tipping upwards.

It was an unconscious choice by them both, an instinct, really, as they moved together. Gamora’s hands were now cupped in Peter’s, held delicately between their chests. Their bare feet, taking tiny, careful steps, now coming to a stop. Peter’s nose met the side of hers first, and it was so slow compared to the rushed kiss of yesterday, like they had all the time in the world…

“GAMORA! Gamora, are you there?!”

She jumped backwards, nearly stumbling over her own feet. Peter watched her, astonished. He’d never seen Gamora trip before, not without some sort of catalyst. Without giving him a second glance, she turned and walked into the bedroom, snatching up her tablet. “I’m here, Rocket, what’s wrong?” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Yondu was s’pposed to contact Quill but he decided to be a big blue idiot and do nothin’ - your sister, she’s gone! Off-planet, gone to hang out near the Kyln!”

“What?” Peter exclaimed, hurrying over immediately to stand near Gamora. “How’d she get off Earth? Does SHIELD - or Stark - have some space travel technology we don’t know about?”

“Can’t be too naive, Quill, their secrets got secrets. You guys gotta get back here immediately, ‘cause Fury doesn’t know yet and this ain’t something I wanna tell him!”

“We’ll leave right now,” Gamora promised, her voice level, though her mind was racing. “Don’t do anything rash until we’re back.”

She disappeared into the bathroom to start packing and get changed into her combat gear, leaving Peter to stand there, dumbly staring after her, the spell broken.

Oh, you’ll never know the one who loved you so.

a/n: i know i know, i did the cliché thing, though this whole fic is an excuse for me to deconstruct tropes and clichés so shh

the song they’re slow-dancing to can be found here, in reference to this scene from groundhog day.

#starmora #peter quill #gamora #avengers academy #gotg #myfic #myfic: 20q #my tags continue to be inconsistent it's fine

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phantaire · 7 years

Text

This time two days ago I’d just got out of the Eugene O'Neill Theatre having seen The Book of Mormon on Broadway (with @slightlytookish!) I am now back in the UK, and timezones are mysterious and cruel things and so I have inflicted my jetlag on everyone’s favourite Elder Price. Wikipedia states that jetlag can have “cognitive effects include poorer performance on mental tasks and concentration, increased fatigue, headaches, and irritability” so I thought I’d be mean. (Once I’ve got over my jetlag and had this beta’d I’ll AO3 it.)

Plus Nine Kevin Price centric. (McKinley/Price pre-relationship if you squint/want) Canon compliant.

Sleep came easily to Kevin Price, it always had. His bedtime routine had been set in stone since he’d been a young boy; he would say goodnight to his mom and dad, he and his brothers would brush their teeth huddled around the bathroom sink – Lucas helping Ethan, Jack elbowing Michael, and Sarah using their parents en-suite rather than sharing with the boys - and then Kevin would say his prayers, lay down in bed and think of Planet Orlando until those thoughts turned into dreams. Almost always of Planet Orlando.

And, apart from the one time that he snuck out of bed, and the consequences and dreams which followed, that had been Kevin’s night-time routine for nineteen years. He got into bed, he slept, he dreamt and then he woke up. He didn’t oversleep or complain about having to get up in the mornings, always getting at least eight hours, if not nine. He’d make his best crisply first thing in the morning after he work up, and plumped his cushions ready for the night ahead.

Sleep had come easily at the Missionary Training Center too. The days had been full of work, rewarding and sometimes repetitive, but not hard, and Kevin had always been ready to learn. He couldn’t be the best if he didn’t know more than everybody else, so he applied himself and at night dreamt of the Epcot Center and having his photograph taken with Mickey Mouse. The framed picture of Kevin, all teeth and sunburn with Mickey’s hand on his shoulder - taken when Kevin was nine and learning the wonders of Orlando for the first time – had the rest of his siblings in too, and Kevin didn’t think that it was too selfish to want a picture that was just for him.

He’d never flown internationally before. Kevin had slept all the way to Orlando, and it had appeared out the plane window like a dream in his childhood, and there was part of Kevin, that part that was still a child and not a man grown and about to go and spread the word. There was a part of Kevin that expected his mission to start in the same way, a fresh slate. Scene change and suddenly, Uganda.

That wasn’t, it turned out, how international travel worked. It had seemed very civilised for their flight time to be at 4:26, they could sleep on the plane and wake up fresh faced and ready to start the most important two years of their lives. It was Wednesday afternoon when they left Salt Lake City, and Friday evening when they arrived in Kitguli. Flight delays, nearly missed connections and two plane transfers not to mention the late bus meant that they had been travelling for nearly 42 hours, and his new companion had been talking almost non-stop. When Elder Cunningham hadn’t been talking, or filming – “Elder, what do you think about the fact that we might miss our next flight?” “Elder Price, look they’ve got Star Trek on the inflight entertainment system, we should totally watch it together!” “Best friend! Can I have your snacks?” – he had been snoring. Loudly. But Kevin couldn’t sleep, they had been forever chasing sunrises but he couldn’t afford not to be present, this was where Heavenly Father said that he should be, and Heavenly Father wasn’t wrong. There had to be a reason for this, and that reason would be found in Uganda.

Kevin is tired down to the very bones of himself, but, this – men with guns rifling through their cases and stealing their belongings, a blasphemous deprived people who have dismissed the presence of the Latter Day Saints in their village for months - somehow is what Heavenly Father wants of him so that he can get everything that he’s always wanted. And so he has to work for it – if it were easy then it wouldn’t be incredible? Right?

It’s overwhelming and loud, and the village is bustling and bright even at this hour, and for a moment Kevin imagines that the Mission Hut is going to be an oasis of calm, they are Mormons after all. The Elders should be settling down to get ready for sleep, the District Leader, McKinley, should meet them, shake their hands and give them a gentle introduction to progress in the village. And then Kevin can sleep. Once he’s slept, then he can start again. He doesn’t know what day it is.

He finds himself dancing. He wonders, briefly, whether this is twisted take on a Hell Dream. Could this be his punishment for contemplating the complimentary coffee on the plane? Or for judging his new companion? Elder Cunningham isn’t really that bad, and Kevin is tired, and confused. But no, he is unfortunately awake and the dancing is really happening. At least his District Leader appears to be pleased by it. It must be hard to be having gay thoughts, Kevin admires him. He also wishes that he would be quiet.

The bedroom issued to Elder Cunningham and himself is cramped, pokey and dark. It blessedly has two uncomfortable looking single beds, he imagines that Elder Cunningham will want the bed nearest the window – and at this moment Kevin could care less, as long as he can sleep. His prayers are silent, conducted as he undresses, surely Heavenly Father can’t begrudge him for that, and he’s almost settled into blissful silence, when Elder Cunningham starts talking. And Kevin is tired, and exhausted, and starting to run out of patience with his companion, but he can’t not acknowledge Elder Cunningham’s uncertainty. Elder Cunningham has tried to bolster his emotions, not that he needs it, but he’s reminded Kevin that he can do something incredible, and Elder Cunningham’s father should be proud of his son, Cunningham isn’t a bad person, just… intense. He hopes that Cunningham calms down in the morning, that a night’s sleep will be good for both of them and that the world will align itself properly tomorrow.

It doesn’t.

Kevin wakes up tired with a faint headache pounding at his temple, and the day doesn’t get better from there. He should be snappier with his answers, he’s practiced and learnt and he knows these stories and the best ways to introduce people into the Church. But he stumbles when Dr Gotswana starts talking about maggots in unsavoury places, taking longer than he should to pull his concentration back.

Cunningham isn’t helping, and that isn’t fair and he knows it because he can see how much Elder Cunningham is trying to help, but Kevin is light headed and tired. The noise of a gunshot is enough to startle him into semi-consciousness. The sensation of blood is a strange one, warm and tacky. When he yawns he gets blood on his palm. He was standing in front of Elder Cunningham when the General shot the village’s butcher in the face – Kevin can’t remember his name, and he wants to cry and he’s never been an expressively emotional person, at least, not for negative emotions, he should always wear a smile, but he just can’t at the moment, it is too much here – so he is drenched and tired and shocked, while Elder Cunningham is dry, and alert and why had Elder Cunningham’s prayer been answered?

It shouldn’t have been so hard to work out what the right thing to do was, granted, these circumstances were exceptional but there were rules and Kevin had always followed them. But those rules had led him here. They should have led him to Orlando. His incredible journey should have led him there.

And then, it did.

A Hell Dream isn’t restful at the best of times, and these are the worst of times. The dream is vivid, and bright, feathered and sequined, and horrific. It seems to last and lifetime, at least ten hours of his life has been lost to the redness. He’s almost euphoric when he awakens; fear, adrenaline and righteousness pounding through him.

The village is going to be saved, and Kevin is the one who is going to do it. Up until Kevin needs to be saved, and it turns out that it is the village who does it. The village and Nabulungi, and the pageant, and Arnold Cunningham, his best friend.

The days between the events of the General, and the hospital and the baptisms and the Mission President’s visit blur into one. Kevin can’t rest, and when he finds himself stopping then he can’t bear to stop. It’s too much to try and think, it feels as though he hasn’t slept in weeks, and that he hasn’t felt peace in far longer. None of what has passed makes any sense, his head pounds, his body aches he feels violated and confused and - “of course you woke up, you drank twelve cups of coffee!”

But he hasn’t slept.

When they were seven years old Jack had stayed up all night. He’d tried to make Kevin stay up too, saying that it would be fun that they could tell scary stories and sneak around the house, maybe watch some TV or play games while the rest of the house was sleeping. But Kevin had said his prayers and tucked himself into his neatly made bed. The next day Jack was giddy with lack of sleep, he’d rocked on his hands and giggled into his cereal and he’d been sent to bed early without any dessert the next day. Kevin felt like that, watching the car-crash of the pageant unfold in front of him he could barely contain his giddy joy at the misfortune they found themselves in. As though it was happening to somebody else, as though other people were going to suffer for this, as though there were no consequences for them.

And then, at McKinley’s and Cunningham’s and Nabulungi’s faces he felt the true magnitude of the action rock into him like the swell hitting the bow of a boat. Understanding, actual understanding, like Joseph Smith at the moment of his death, you have to believe the words because of what they can do for you, and not just what they say or who said them. Arnold Cunningham had created an Orlando, it had never been about getting Planet Orlando, but about making that within yourself.

Kevin smiled, delirious.

When Kevin woke up he was twisted onto the couch in the living quarters of the Mission Hut, a grown man curled up under a soft pink blanket that wasn’t his. Kinks in his back and a crick in his neck, eyelids still heavy with sleep, a dry mouth, a rested body and a ready soul. It was time to wake up, something unexpected and incredible was about to begin.

#The Book of Mormon #fanfic #Elder Price #canon #Plus Nine

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therealjammy · 7 years

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I Said I’d Wait For You (Fic)

Notes: This is the actual fic that I’m posting on here, for the Tumblr crowd. It’s close to 9k so that’s why there’s a read more. (This was a Valentine’s present for Marina!)

Summary: Shaw thinks on past friendships and current ones.

Content warnings: Sexual content (light bondage, breathplay), angst, Shaw-centric

Shaw remembered, very clearly, sitting at this very same bar with Carter. Instead of rain it had been clear that night, a glorious, late summer night that she revelled in because of getting off early. They’d talked until 11 about the various goings-on in their lives, the conversation stemming mostly from Carter’s end and Shaw gladly lending an ear.

If she were still alive Shaw was certain she’d ask Carter out for a drink and tell her the long-awaited conversation about Root. About their unlikely friendship. Maybe mention that they were a little more than co-workers and two people who shared a bed for several hours before falling asleep together and apart.

“Well,” Carter said, in that certain way that Shaw knew she meant business if Root ever crossed a line, “as long as you’ve got someone who can handle you, I see no problems. Has she changed as much as you’ve said?”

“Yes, but some things still remain the same.”

“Tasers and two guns.”

Shaw smirked. “That won’t change anytime soon.”

They toasted on their last glass of whiskey and downed them in sync. The bar emptied out, patrons retiring for the night and going home. Shaw wished the moment would continue for just a little longer, because she liked Carter and admired her; she was hard-working and a person who was almost always on the right side of the law.

Shaw leaned her head on the back of her seat, closing her eyes briefly. “Maybe you would’ve liked Root,” she said softly, “despite how crazy she sometimes is.” She sat up, resting her hands on the steering wheel of the car. The inside was warm from the heaters while outside was bitterly cold. There was slush on the ground, turned black and brown from tires and dirt. The sky was clear and blue, with little wisps of cloud hanging over the tops of buildings, moving in the cold wind from the north. Shaw wanted a coffee. Maybe she could ask Root if she could splash a little whiskey into it if she got the chance.

Shaw shifted in the leather seat, running her hands over the steering wheel again. This car was hers. As thrilling as breaking into other people’s nice sports cars was, she figured she had the funds for a decent car. Root teased her only mildly, “Turning over a new leaf.” Though perhaps she was right. They’d started over and the last year and a half was nothing if not a sort of searching adventure, finding themselves again in the rubble Samaritan’s destruction had left behind.

The passenger side door opened, bringing with it a blast of cold air and a rush of sweet perfume. Root slammed it shut with a sigh and handed Shaw her coffee. The tip of her nose was red and her cheeks were pink from the bitter wind. Root rubbed her hands together in front of the vent, then attempted to get some feeling back into her face. She said, “I managed a little bit of whiskey in that. Should perk you right up.” She leaned back in the seat when she was sufficiently warm. “She tells me this bar holds a certain significance to you.” Root’s eyes bored into the side of Shaw’s head but she didn’t bristle. She wrapped her hands around the hot cup, savouring the taste of honey whiskey still on her tongue.

“I used to come here with a friend, after her hours. We’d sit and talk for a while over drinks and then go our separate ways. Until the next time.” Another sip of coffee. The whiskey was settling in her belly, creating a warm glow. “I think you know who I’m talking about.”

Root nodded. “Carter.” She reached for Shaw’s cup, stealing a small sip. “She’s told me about her, of course. Sometimes I wish I would’ve met her but I don’t think she would’ve liked me too much.”

“She would’ve warmed up to you.”

“Well.” Root brushed slush from her boots. “I did kidnap Harry, after all. And escaped a psych ward.”

“You’ve changed since then, Root,” Shaw told her softly. “She could see the good in people. She would see it in you and I think she’d be glad you’re my… friend. Despite your prophet tendencies.”

Root smiled, almost shy at the compliment. “Thank you.”

Shaw finished off her cup of coffee and put the car into gear. “Anywhere in particular?” She pulled away from the curb, sparing a last glance at the bar before it was nothing but a small building in the rear view mirror.

“I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“Diner it is.”

The weekend brought them time off. Number duties were handed down to newer assets. While Root was in the shower Shaw was packing a bag, stuffing warm clothes into it and weather-appropriate shoes that had somehow arrived by mail just an hour before. Root had explained as she’d gathered clothes that there was a cabin up in Vermont the Machine had purchased a long time ago as a safe house but it hadn’t been used in years, save for the occasional comings and goings of other assets. They weren’t needed up there, necessarily, but Shaw thought it would be good to get out of the city for a few days. Refresh themselves in the wilderness and let Root have some much-needed downtime.

Before they left the city they stopped at a grocery store to purchase necessary supplies. Root emerged with an armful of favourite foods, including ice cream. Sometimes she would eat it by the pint while working on code, Shaw knew, even in winter when she complained about the cold the most.

Back in the car, Root wrapped herself in a blanket, put on a soft CD, and went to sleep. Shaw was left with open road, music she’d never heard before, and the soft static coming from someone’s phone that meant the Machine was listening, watching out for them even though there really was no danger. By now Shaw had become used to the Machine’s watchful eyes and ears, though it was still strange—whenever she had an earwig in her ear and the Machine allowed her to be in God Mode—to have scores of information flooding her brain. She wondered how Root could take it, the near-constant chatter. Did she not ever tire of it?

Shaw’s free hand rested first on the CD compartment between the seats, then it made its way to Root’s knee. It stayed there for a while, moving whenever Root moved.

“What’s so special about this Root person anyway?” Cole would’ve asked. “I thought you said she was batshit crazy.”

“Was?”

“Is.”

“She’s a friend,” Shaw told him.

“That you’ve been sleeping with for well over three years.”

Shaw punched him in the arm.

She looked at Root’s sleeping figure, curled up and peaceful even if the position wasn’t all that comfortable. Her hand still rested on Root’s knee. What was special about Root? Besides the fact that she was a talented hacker, a woman who was hot and good with guns and even more excellent in bed? Root understood her. Carter and Cole did too but there was a certain, deeper level of understanding when it came to Root. She could read body language and read the sounds that escaped Shaw’s mouth, understand when she wanted intimacy and when she wanted space.

“Not thinking of me, are you?” Root asked, voice rough with sleep and bringing Shaw back to the present.

Shaw put her hand back on the steering wheel. Root yawned widely and reached over to turn the CD off. She switched the seat warmer on instead. Shaw said, “I was.”

“What about me?”

“Just wondering what my old friends would think of you.” She left off and dead, knowing perfectly well Root would be able to connect the dots. Root’s face was a mix of emotion, bittersweet. Happy that Shaw was thinking of her, sad that those dead friends that meant so much to her wouldn’t get the chance to meet another important person in her life. Maybe something else too, perhaps thinking that they knew of her reputation and of the incident with kidnapping Finch and dragging him across the country. But many leaves have been turned over since then, and Root was not the same. The woman credited it to the Machine, calling it “rewiring” and “reprogramming.” “She reprogrammed me to care, though it only applied to nine people.” Those nine being the Machine, Shaw, Finch, John, Lionel, Daizo, Jason, Daniel, and Cyrus. Plus Bear. Other people she cared less about, but there were traces of the Machine’s influence when Root’s eyes turned soft with sympathy for the father who hugged his children after returning home safely, or the mother who survived in the hospital and got to hold her son—their number’s—hand and tell him she’d be okay. Shaw supposed it took a benevolent AI to create a benevolent woman.

Snow was beginning to fall from the sky, the flakes fat and soft. The sky was a grey-orange with the sunset, painting the barren, naked wilderness around the cabin an eerie orange with dramatic shadows. It was silent up here, in the middle of nowhere, the only thing breaking it the sound of Shaw’s axe chopping through firewood and the pieces colliding with each other when she tossed them onto a steadily growing pile. Faraway sounds travelled in the soft ambience of the snow-covered world: the gurgling of a frozen stream, the crack of branches when the snow upon them became too great a weight to bear, the sounds of various forest animals retreating into dens for the night.

One last piece of wood came onto the chopping block before Shaw set the axe aside, piled the wood up, and carried it into the warmth of the cabin. Her cheeks and nose and fingers tingled at the sudden rush of heat and she found herself sighing in relief. The wood was stacked neatly by the fireplace. Shaw took the poker and blew on parts of the dying fire to make the flames come back to life. They sputtered for a moment and then slowly returned, glowing red-orange.

The back door was shut and sealed, cutting off the connection to the outside world. Shaw took off her coat and beanie and stood against the island, watching Root stick a toothpick into the dessert cake to be sure that it was done. The ribs were already out and cooling on the small kitchen table nestled against a large square window. It was close enough to the parlour that Shaw felt the heat from the fireplace. She settled in one comfortable wooden chair, staring out into the trees at what light was left shining on them. Soon it would be dark, and when she and Root lay beside each other in bed that night they would hear night time sounds.

“It’s quiet out here,” Root commented around the last dregs of her soup. Shaw was on her second bowl; Root wasn’t so terrible a cook as she made herself out to be.

“It’s a nice change.” The ambience was different and unlike the sounds of the city it was something different. A different setting on the white noise machine. “You’ll be able to see the stars in a little while.” And when they did it reminded Shaw of those nights in the desert, the endless sand and the endless expanse of sky with billions of stars glowing white and blue and red above their heads. Their breaths steamed in the cold air and the snow underneath their bodies was a soft cushion.

“I never could see these so clearly,” Root said softly, her tone the one she used when talking to both Shaw and the Machine. “I’d be too buried in big cities to even notice the skies.” She exhaled a long breath, looking like cigarette smoke. “It’s hard to believe there’s so many. Do you ever think that we’re not alone? That we’re not the only source of life?”

Shaw pondered the question. “What does She say?”

“She says the universe is vast and expansive and that the probability of us being the only lifeforms is something we can only guess at.”

“Then it’s possible we’re not alone.” Shaw turned her head to look at Root, snow crunching with the movement. “But if you’re talking about being alone on Earth, you’re not.”

“That’s not what I was playing at, Sameen,” said Root softly, her hand crawling into Shaw’s gloved one, “but thank you.” Root kissed her on the cheek, lips warm against the chilled skin. They stayed there for a few moments longer, watching the stars, Root wishing on shooting ones, murmuring them quietly to herself. “I wish for a good life” and “I wish for happy times ahead, not just for me but for everyone else.” She said to Shaw, “Aren’t they beautiful?”

A large one streaked overhead, the tail a white-blue before vanishing in a matter of seconds. Three more followed afterwards, glowing white against the cold sky.

Shaw replied, “Yeah.”

It was one kiss, in the bar when it was just two men in leather jackets watching the last of a baseball game playing above the bar on flat-screen TVs. Quick but tender, filling Shaw’s nose with spicy perfume and the lingering scent of someone’s rich chewing tobacco. It was one kiss and then Carter murmured, “Two minutes.” She didn’t need to say more than that for Shaw to know she would be going home with her. One kiss, then many, and only one night. Shaw tugged on her jeans with watchful eyes on her back, then pulled on her boots. For a moment she sat on the edge of the melancholy-coloured bed, staring out the window that offered a view across the Hudson and the sparkling lights of the Manhattan skyline.

“I should get going,” Shaw said after a while.

“I don’t expect you to stay for coffee,” Carter told her, a smile in her voice.

Shaw let a smirk tug the left corner of her mouth up. “Even if you offered I’d decline.” She rose from the bed, shrugging on her jacket in one smooth movement. It was nearly midnight. She’d have to get up in six hours and wasn’t sure if she’d find Root crashed on her couch again.

“Be careful out there,” Carter warned. She was sitting up now, a plain T-shirt on that screamed of her military days. “Things are changing that we have no control over. Makes my day job a hell of a lot harder.”

To tell her of the existence of Samaritan would be a wrong move, Shaw thought, adjusting her ponytail even though there was no need to. Carter had enough on her mind, what with trying to take down HR practically singlehandedly. It wouldn’t be good to occupy her mind with the existence of another evil thing and make her wonder about their own lives, who the man—or, in this case, machine—behind the curtain was.

Shaw said, “I will be. But I can’t promise we’ll come home without a scratch.”

“See you later, soldier.” Carter’s teeth gleamed in the incandescence of the bedroom lamplight.

Shaw gave a little salute, and let herself out.

As expected, Root was curled up on her couch, lanky limbs bent in seemingly awkward positions. One of Shaw’s flannel blankets was thrown over her shoulders and there was a pillow under her head. One of Root’s socked feet stuck out from underneath the blanket.

Shaw was getting herself a glass of water when Root was roused. She asked sleepily, “You have a good time?”

Whiskey, spicy kisses, handcuffs, creaking bed, five satisfying orgasms. Contentment walking out the door, though nothing compared to nights with Root.

“I did,” Shaw replied, and Root smiled at her.

“Good.” The warmth in that smile, the sick look of adoration in those liquid brown eyes, churned Shaw’s stomach in a way she was not familiar with. She swallowed several gulps of water and the glass slid into the sink a little louder than she’d meant it to.

“Sleep well, Root.”

Somehow walking out that night had reminded her of countless nights walking away from strangers’ homes and buddies’ apartments in her military days, of walking back to her own quarters after nights spent with Cole. She thought back on the casualty of it all, how she and him could meet in bed and then return to normalcy the day after, like it hadn’t even happened. Clearing her head in the summer or winter air, gazing out at stars if they so happened to be visible, feeling satisfied, like she’d just eaten a damn good steak and every side that came with it. Root gave her the same feelings, though with her, something else hung in the air. Maybe her lovesick eyes, like Cupid had shot her in the ass with his little cherub bow. Maybe it was Root’s flirting, the double meanings in some of her clever sayings. Maybe it was the way her hands lingered a little too long to be casual. Shaw would shrug her hands off and Root wouldn’t look hurt, just lay back against the pillows and watch Shaw like she wanted to devour her all over again with a little spark of something in her eyes.

Shaw allowed the lingering hands now. Samaritan had turned both of them into something else but still had their authenticity intact. Root’s hands running over her skin or fingers tracing the many scars on her back was soothing and grounding, something that filled Shaw with a strange but familiar contentment. Root likened her to a cat and said, often, that each time she ran her fingers over Shaw’s skin like this she could swear Shaw would start purring.

“I’ve run out of lives,” Shaw said.

“No, you’ve still got plenty more,” Root assured her, kissing her on the head. She pulled Shaw tighter against her. The tip of Shaw’s nose pressed between her breasts. “Nothing kills you.” A whisper of cold air leaked through the window, raising gooseflesh on both their bare skin. Shaw pulled the covers higher. Root’s cheek rested against her head.

“How many would you say I have?”

Root hummed, fingers tapping between Shaw’s shoulder blades. “Seven. A lucky number.”

“Mm.” Shaw pressed her lips to the warm skin in front of her, Root’s chest expanding with a breath. The hand at her back stiffened, staying there to hold her close while the other got buried in her hair, short fingernails digging into scalp. “You gonna put that on a jersey and give it to me as a present?”

“Well,” Root said, pondering now, “your birthday is in three months. But I don’t have to get you a jersey. I could get you something more practical.”

Shaw moved up, kissing around a nipple now, “Such as?”

“New guns, maybe that sports car you were looking at on the lot last month, a new version of that toy you suspiciously lost…” Root trailed off, her breath coming shorter. She grunted and pulled away to flip onto her back, spreading herself out, an offering. Shaw took her hair down, setting the ponytail around her wrist. She leaned over Root, allowing her face to be cupped between warm hands. “Getting any ideas?”

“Whatever you give me,” Shaw murmured, leaning down to kiss her, “I’ll be perfectly content with.”

Root kissed back gently, sighing happily into it. They lay there for a long stretch of minutes until Root asked for the window to be open just a crack and for the fire to be started again. Sometimes she liked to set a mood and tonight, Shaw was willing to go along with it. So cold air was let in, crisp and fresh and smelling like snow and pine trees, and the fire was rekindled, crackling warmly in the fireplace.

Shaw settled herself on the bed, letting Root settle her weight on her waist. Shaw’s hands made their way to Root’s stomach, gracing over muscles that were months in the making. In the firelight the scars on Root’s torso were silvery and orange. Lines of muscle were outlined and cast in dramatic shadows. She looked ethereal, Shaw thought, a surge of want spreading through her limbs, wanting to be pliant to Root’s will.

Root reached down and moved one hand to a breast, leaning down to kiss Shaw gently on the mouth.

“I want to take you slowly,” she said. “Is that okay?”

“As long as you order me around.”

Root hummed. “Keep your hands up here until say otherwise.”

This kind of sex produced a slow heat, with soft sounds of want and no obscene colliding of skin on skin that rougher sex brought with it. It wasn’t Shaw shouting at rough thrusts or teeth digging sharply into the sinew of her neck, or Root whining wantonly into pillows or the crook of her elbow when taken from behind. It was, instead, gentle kisses, breathing hotly and deeply into curves of shoulders or hair, hands squeezing waists or digging into supple flesh to draw them closer, the slow, searching, body-consuming orgasm that caused limbs to tremble and stomach muscles to twitch, caused Root to whimper into Shaw’s neck and Shaw to hold her close.

Cold air washed over them, chilling the sweat on their skin. Shaw looked up, making eye contact for a rare occasion. They kissed softly, the only sounds breaking the silence being the quiet breeze coming through the window, the crackle of flames, the creaking of the cabin as it settled, and the sounds of buckles being undone.

“Want to go back home soon?” Root asked, still regaining breath. “It feels a little too quiet here.”

“Give it another day,” Shaw said, stroking strands of hair away from Root’s face. “I could stand one more.”

“Does that mean what I’m thinking it means?” She reached for the drawer again, but Shaw guided her hand back, fingers wrapped around a delicate wrist.

“Just you.”

Root raised Shaw’s hand to her mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to her palm. “Okay Sameen.”

The weather was miserable. NBC predicted a snowstorm was going to blow through in the next couple days, dumping more snow onto the city. For now the skies were a clear blue with small wisps of smoke-like clouds hovering above the skyscrapers and the sidewalks were a mix of salt and slush. The wind was bitter and bit mercilessly at Shaw’s face even when she rounded the corner towards Cole’s parents’ house. It still had Christmas lights hanging even though Christmas was a while ago.

“Still visiting my parents even after all these years, Shaw?”

“You know why I do it.”

“You were never obligated to.”

“I know. But they deserved to hear the news from me too.”

Shaw stomped the snow from her boots on the soggy welcome mat before ringing the doorbell.

She’d left Root at her apartment, sitting in front of her MacBook Pro eating a pint of Rocky Road. “You’ll know where to find me if you need something,” she’d said. When Shaw kissed her goodbye she tasted that damn ice cream.

The door opened slowly, creaking on its hinges, and Miranda Cole ushered Shaw in, wearing a turtleneck sweater and comfortable jeans. The house was warm and smelled like cinnamon. There were still family pictures hanging on the walls that Shaw never tired of seeing: High school pictures of Cole, vacation pictures of a scrawny, tow-headed boy with piercing blue eyes with sunburnt cheeks and shoulders, college graduation pictures taken outside of MIT. Other pictures included family portraits—in which Shaw could see that Cole looked like his father but with his mother’s hair and eyes—more vacation pictures in various seasons, like winter treks in the Canadian wilderness, a spring walk through Washington, DC, underneath hundreds of blooming cherry trees, a summer walk along a beach somewhere in the tropics, a fall adventure in pumpkin patches and apple orchards, and several birthday portraits. All of Cole at various ages, from little to college aged. The pictures stopped at his 26th birthday, in 2006, just before he was recruited.

“I have a few bags of your usual tea, Sameen,” Miranda said from the kitchen, just a little ways down the hall. “Unless you’d like something a little stronger?”

It was eleven in the morning, a little early for a glass of scotch or whiskey. “I’ll have the tea.” It was a homemade black tea with leaves imported from England, and there was cinnamon, orange peels, and rose hips added to the tea leaves for flavour. Shaw took this tea with no milk and usually one small spoonful of brown sugar. It was the tea that Miranda offered on Shaw’s very first visit here, when she told Miranda and Mr. Cole the news of her friend’s death. They’d already heard it from two ISA agents a few days before, but to hear it from Cole’s co-worker and friend made it all the more real.

“Hello.” She’d stuck out her hand, keeping it stable. “I’m Sameen.”

And every year since Shaw came by to check up on them. She never knew why, just that they were her last living connection to someone she’d grown close with over a period of five years.

Despite the largeness of the house the kitchen was the only smaller thing. It was cosy, though, reminding Shaw of the kitchen in the house she grew up in, when her father would come whistling downstairs and embrace her mother, and then they would dance to his whistling of a classic Iranian love song before he had to go to work.

The kettle on the stove whistled until it was turned off. Shaw tapped her fingers on the table top, staring out the window onto the quiet street. The clouds were beginning to build up again, obscuring the brilliant blues of the sky.

“Here’s your tea, dear.”

Shaw wrapped her cold hands around the steaming brown mug. The spice of cinnamon filled her nostrils and warmed her insides. “Thank you.”

Cole had, of course, told his parents a little about Shaw in the time that they knew each other, before his death. He couldn’t say much, only that he’d met someone. In the attic of the Cole household there was a box of tape recordings his parents kept when he would send them messages from different states or overseas, wherever the missions took them. The very first one was from October of 2007, when he and Shaw first met.

“Hey, Mom. That new job’s going well. I uh… I’ve met this girl. She’s interesting, but damn good at her job. I’m sorry I can’t really tell you much about it, but what I can tell you is that the paperwork is an absolute nightmare.” A pause. “Well, I should go. That co-worker gets a bit impatient if I stay here too long.”

Shaw never stayed very long on her visits, an hour at most. It was enough time to catch Miranda—and Mr. Cole, if he happened to be home—up on the current comings and goings of her life and give them the chance to tell her how they were getting along. Cole’s death had been five years ago but still the effects were felt. Clouds seemed to loom inside the household. It appeared abandoned in a way, and Shaw wondered if she were to go upstairs to Cole’s bedroom or to the attic if sheets would’ve been placed over his belongings or if the bedroom was emptied of them and remodelled. Miranda always gave her permission to wander in the house but Shaw never ventured upstairs. Somehow it felt wrong to do so. Instead she stayed downstairs and spent most of her time in the picture hallway or in the den where there were large bookshelves filled with both books and movies. Some had boxed board games from Cole’s childhood, collecting dust, the edges taped many times over. There were still Cole’s favourite movies on the shelves too, declared so by his neat handwriting on the spines in Sharpie, or, from younger times, a messy, childish scrawl of Crayola marker or crayon. She remembered him talking about these movies every once in a while, between dull numbers and the moments between night and day when neither of them slept for very long. His favourite books, however, hadn’t been marked the same as the movies. Instead they were marked by little pieces of coloured tape with an F on them, taped to the spines. It’d been so long since Shaw sat down and read an actual book. There was always something to keep her busy and on her feet, hardly any downtime. But now that the war with Samaritan was over and things were finally beginning to calm down again, there would be time to pick up one of those novels, read it cover to cover, and discover another part of Cole that she hadn’t seen before.

“You can take some of those books with you if you’d like,” said Miranda, stepping carefully behind Shaw but being mindful to keep a respectful distance away. “I know you’ll return them safely.”

Shaw chose the books carefully, burying herself deep in memories of Cole telling her book recommendations. In the end there were four in her arms: The Millennium Trilogy books and a skinny book called The Member of the Wedding. The paperback covers were bent a little but other than that, the books were in pristine condition. Very unlike the books Shaw had bought in her college days, which were already filled with dozens of highlight and pen marks, books which she herself wrote in but in pencil.

“Thank you for the tea,” Shaw said. She adjusted the buttons on her coat and pulled her beanie over her head. “And the books.” She gazed at the covers for a moment. “I’ll come back in a couple days.”

“I’d like that.” Then, when Shaw was walking towards her car around the corner, “Take care of yourself, Sameen.”

Shaw gave a little salute.

The books were set carefully in the passenger seat before taking off. There was a cold cup of coffee sitting in the cup holders, left over from this morning. It mixed with the soft scent of artificial pine tree from the air freshener that hung from the rear-view mirror, which Root had gotten her a while back. Shaw flicked it as if it were an insect.

She drove to the cemetery where Cole was buried. Both Miranda and Mr. Cole’s names were on the headstone, but unlike theirs, Cole’s was the only one that bore a death date. “A tragedy,” Hersh had said, “that the son should die before the parents.” And maybe it was. He’d had a whole life ahead of him and it was ripped away too soon. Would he have gotten out of the ISA eventually? Settled down, had a wife and kids? The world didn’t know, nor did Shaw, who probably knew him best.

“Relax, Shaw; you look a bit put out.”

Shaw sighed, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. “Visiting your mother is never easy,” she told him. “But she let me borrow some books.”

“You’d better read them,” Cole said, turning away now, that smile in his eyes, “else I’ll read them to you in your sleep. You hated when I read aloud.”

Shaw bent down to pluck the dead, dried flowers from the headstone. She made a mental note to buy fresh ones, and remembered that out of all the favourite things Cole had told her about, he’d never told her his favourite flower.

“Hope you’re happy with daffodils.”

When she got home, hours later, nightfall already descended upon the world, Root was in the shower. An empty pint of Rocky Road sat beside her open laptop, the spoon stuck to the inside. Her laptop was open but dark, and when Shaw walked by it, the camera light flashed hello in Morse code. Shaw merely nodded and felt the Machine’s watchful eyes as she collapsed on the bed to remove her boots. Her coat and hat were in the entryway.

The bathroom was steamy and lavender shampoo filled the air. There was a faint, foggy outline of Root visible through the glass, rinsing shampoo from her hair, eyes closed against the onslaught of hot droplets. She didn’t stir even when Shaw’s clothes hit the tiled floor but came to attention when, in a sudden surge of tenderness, Shaw placed hands on her waist and leaned her forehead between Root’s shoulder blades.

“Hey sweetie,” Root murmured. She stroked the top of Shaw’s hand. “Everything okay?”

“Mind if I stay with you for a bit?”

“Not at all.” Root turned around, cupped Shaw’s face in her hands. “She told me you went to visit someone. Did it go well?”

“For the most part.” Shaw reached up to rub away a smear of mascara from Root’s cheek, which was flushed from the heat of the shower stall. “She let me borrow some books. They were uh, Cole’s favourites—some of his favourites, anyway.” Shaw stared at their feet, the hot water travelling around them in order to get to the silver drain.

“I see.” Root’s nose was pressing tenderly against the side of her head, close to her ear. “Do you miss him?”

“Sometimes,” Shaw replied after a moment. “Not all the time.” It was the same with Carter. Losing friends was never an easy thing, and though most people felt like part of themselves died with that friend, to Shaw it was just a feeling of strange emptiness. Or an area of a picture that had faded but the rest stayed the same.

She stood on tiptoe to give Root a kiss. There was the lingering scent of mint toothpaste but her lips just tasted like the shower water. Shaw closed her eyes, to better feel the kiss and let her body absorb the tenderness that Root showed her despite the fingernails that dug into the flesh of her waist. It was a rare thing for sex to occur in the shower, since Root had slipped once and ended up with a nasty bruise just above her left eyebrow. They kissed instead, a mix of tongue and teeth, until Root pulled away to let Shaw wash her hair.

“You can sleep with me after,” she said, smiling a little as she dressed in her silk pyjamas. It was tempting, Shaw thought, to undo the buttons and kiss the triangle of pale chest, or tenderly tease a prominent nipple through the fabric of the shirt until it was wet. Root left the door cracked, her outline visible in front of her laptop.

Later, Root’s hands clenched and unclenched in their bonds, her chest heaved, and her hips twitched upward. Shaw was practically worshipping her chest with kisses and teasing strokes of tongue and teeth but declined to call it that. She wanted to know if it was possible to reach climax like this, and Root was a willing test subject, if a little impatient. But, minutes later, a deep bite to a nipple had her tilting her head back in a soft, pleasured outcry, and the breath exhaled afterwards was proof of Shaw’s theory being proven correct. She kissed Root deeply while undoing the handcuffs.

When her hands were free she cupped Shaw’s face in her hands, combing strands of still-wet hair away and tucking them behind Shaw’s ears. Root bit her lip; fingertips were stroking just below her navel.

Shaw kissed her again but kept it brief, moving her lips lower and lower. Root’s hands buried themselves in her hair, pushing her head—and, essentially, her whole body—down in the bed until it was level with the inside of a thigh marked with both scars and stretch marks.

She stayed there for almost an hour, Root a writhing mess underneath her each time she was denied. In the end Shaw wrapped a hand around Root’s throat, keeping enough pressure to restrict her breath just slightly. Root’s fingers stayed on her wrist in encouragement, shuddering, her body twitching as she gasped.

“Sam.”

Shaw allowed her a languid kiss. A hand slid down her stomach and Shaw bit Root’s lip when fingers slid inside.

When Root fell asleep and Shaw was in between worlds, she could still taste Root on her mouth.

Shaw’s whiskey was cradled between her hands, the glass sweating in the warmth of the bar, ice cubes already melting. The earlier adrenaline had long since worn off, leaving her with a feeling of irritation. Her trigger finger was, admittedly, satisfied because of Root’s doing and the mission the Machine had given them both earlier in the day. But the mood it left her with was one Shaw was familiar with, the same one she’d felt merely days after her escape from Samaritan and its destruction: a feeling that it was possible this was all a dream.

She scooped an ice cube from her drink and wrapped her hand around it, letting the cold sting soak into sinew and between her fingers. She half-expected the Machine to text her with reassurances. Shaw met the security camera above the bar and the red light blinked once. I’m watching, it said.

“You burnt out about something, Shaw?”

Shaw shook her head, downed a sip of watery whiskey. “I just have a feeling,” she replied, sparing Carter a glance. She wasn’t wearing her detective uniform. Instead she was dressed semi-casual: maroon blouse, dark jeans, leather jacket, boots. Her hair smelled like that spicy perfume she always wore mixed with Aussie brand hairspray. “I don’t know,” Shaw said at last, gulping down the rest of her whiskey and summoning the bartender for a second one, no ice. “It’s complicated.”

“Feelings almost always are.”

There were only a few hours of daylight left by the time Shaw emerged from the bar. The temperature was a comfortable 42 Fahrenheit and the breeze was as soft as one of Root’s kisses. Shaw adjusted her coat and stepped to the curb to hail a cab. The inside was warm and smelled like seasonal pine trees, the kind Root had hauled into her apartment around Christmas and decorated with brand new glass ornaments, colourful lights, and silver garland. The scent triggered a clear memory of hospital co-workers walking in with bags and purses smelling of pine trees during the Christmas week, tending to trauma patients and patients coming round from anaesthetic.

Shaw told the driver the address of the cemetery where Cole was buried. The drive took half an hour, since evening traffic was beginning to pile up—people on their way home from work. There were abundances of them crowded on the slushy sidewalks, wrapped up against the oncoming cold that was the threat of a later snowstorm. Six inches of fresh powder was expected to fall sometime during the night.

There weren’t many people in the cemetery this time of evening. They preferred to visit when the sun was high and not casting yellowing colours. Shaw picked her way around headstones, through well-trod paths other feet had left in the long dead grass, to Cole’s grave. The daffodils from last week were already dead, the petals dried and blown away with the wind, save one, still clinging onto the flower. She didn’t have the heart to pluck it away.

“Your mother lent me some of your books,” Shaw said. “They were the ones you told me about. I haven’t started them yet.” The headstone stared back at her, the death date boring into her skull. What had she promised, the day she saw the coffin being buried from afar, when Miranda’s composure had finally broken and she wept over the American flag folded and clutched against her chest? “I promised you I would read them when I had the time, but you know my life was busy for all those years afterwards.”

“I know.”

Shaw swallowed, throat suddenly dry, tongue glued to her teeth. She stood there for a while longer, the sun casting shadows on the headstones, a very faint warmth. Then, softly, “I was asked if I missed you. For a while I didn’t know what that was like, but… things changed.” She straightened her coat and put her cold hands inside her pockets. “I do miss you.”

The next week she came back to replace the flowers in both Cole and Carter’s graves. She didn’t spend much time talking to them but knew that, wherever they happened to be, they would understand.

#root x shaw #fan fiction #long post #person of interest #idk how else to tag this

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mousedetective · 7 years

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Like Sister, Like Brother (A “Where The Wild Ones Are” Story)

It has been an age and a half since I wrote anything for this series, but @fadeddreaming asked for a fic with John and Annabelle and I couldn’t say no to one of my besties. Not tagging it as such, but there’s hints at Sherlock/Molly that will culminate in the next fic in this series; however, this fic is mostly Kelly/Annabelle and Warstan-centric, ship wise, even though it’s mostly just Annabelle and John.

Like Sister, Like Brother - Kelly tells Annabelle the truth about her brothers' girlfriend the day before he unexpectedly arrives at St. Trinian's for a drink and a chat.

Read @ AO3 | Buy Me A Coffee? | Send Me A Prompt

“Has John mentioned his girlfriend going away for a bit?” Kelly asked Annabelle the evening before Molly was supposed to come up to St. Trinian’s to see Sherlock. Annabelle had been very eager to poke a little fun at how Sherlock was trying not to be excited and ended up scowling at everyone. It was rather cute. She just wished Kelly could be here to see it. She’d wanted to share, but Kelly had gotten right to this question, causing Annabelle to frown on her end of the conversation.

“No,” she said, drawing the word out slightly. “I mean, Molly is coming up tomorrow and she hasn’t said anything either, but I can ask her.”

“You need to know something about her. It’s not...well, it could be problematic,” Kelly said.

“What is it?” Annabelle asked.

“She’s working with me on behalf of the Americans,” Kelly said. “Her ‘last job’ as a member of the CIA. She has special skills my superiors seemed to think I needed at my side.”

“Bloody hell,” Annabelle said, sinking onto the bed. “Is she...has she…?”

“Killed people?”

“Yes.”

“Not that she’ll confirm, but I wouldn’t be surprised.” Kelly paused. “She actually loves John a great deal, Belle. And I don’t think it could cause too many problems unless her past comes back to haunt her. But they should talk, and he should know.”

“Kelly...she should tell him,” Annabelle said. “Not me.”

“I know,” Kelly said with a sigh. “It’s a shite situation.”

Annabelle was quiet for a moment. John was, really, the only family she had, even if by most standards no one would consider them family anymore, and she felt very protective of him, possibly even more than Sherlock. But she liked Mary. Mary was so good for him, and this? This was a complication. “Does she plan on telling him?”

“She can’t really avoid doing it, now that I know the truth,” Kelly said. “But give her a day or two and...be there for John, alright?”

“Alright,” Annabelle said. The conversation turned from that topic to others, but the truth stayed in her mind. She wasn’t sure what to do, and in the end, she went to bed with her troubled thoughts.

The next morning, a car came around to the front of the school. She had given the first years strict instructions to leave the car be since Molly didn’t deserve to have it destroyed. She and Sherlock waited out at the front, but she was somewhat surprised to see two people inside. “Why is John here?” Sherlock asked Annabelle quietly.

“I think he learned something about Mary last night,” she said before they moved away to greet their respective guests. John just ended up engulfing her in a hug, and she knew. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Did you know?” he asked, pulling away to look at her.

“I just found out last night,” she said, reaching to squeeze his hand. “Did she tell you?”

“Probably more than Kelly told you,” he said with a sigh. “Do you have something stronger than tea?”

“Strong as in your favourite whiskey or strong as in the bootleg vodka?” Annabelle asked.

“I want a drink, not a brain aneurysm,” he said with a small smile on his face. He watched Sherlock and Molly head towards the teacher’s quarters and then nodded towards the main building. “But I’ll take tea if that’s all you’ve got.”

“You know I have a bottle of your favourite liquor on hand,” she said. “Of course, Aunt Camilla always had stuff in between that and the vodka.” They made their way up to the door. “But the vodka isn’t as potent. It sits just around 100 proof now. We haven’t put anyone into a coma in weeks, according to Flash Harry.”

“Good to know the girls are taking their chemistry lessons to heart,” John said.

“Well, Sherlock is a good teacher. It helps that he specifically gathered up the girls who make the vodka and gave them a private lesson.”

John stopped, staring at her with wide eyes. “He’s helping?”

“One of our other teachers ended up getting blackout drunk after half a shot so he decided to make sure there were no deaths on their hands,” Annabelle said. “He doesn’t want to be associated with an investigation.”

“Well, that makes sense,” John said, starting to move again. Neither of them spoke again until they were safely up to Annabelle’s office. She went to the desk and got a bottle of Glenmorangie Milsean, pouring a bit into the cups in the tea set on her desk, and then handing a cup to John. John looked at it and then drank it all in one gulp. “She’s a spy, Belle. Not even for the Queen. And...”

“So she has killed people,” Annabelle said. “Do you love her any less now that you know the truth?”

“No, and I think that’s the problem,” he said with a sigh. “If anything it makes her more bloody interesting.”

“Oh, how I know that feeling,” Annabelle said with a smile. “Remember, my girlfriend is MI-6.” She had some of the whiskey in her cup. “So what do you want to do?”

“Ask for as much of the whole truth as she’ll give me when she comes back, I suppose,” John said. “I mean, I’m not a saint either, obviously. I've killed, and not just in the war.”

“The man who pulled a gun on Sherlock when you first met?” Annabelle asked.

“You knew?” he asked, his features reading shock.

She nodded. “Sherlock knew, and we talked about it. He felt at one point after we became friends that perhaps involving you in his life was a bad idea. I reminded him that you’d do anything to keep him or I safe, and he told me about the cabbie.” She had some more of her whiskey. “I told him that if he did that for you without knowing you as well as you do now, you’d already decided whatever this life entailed, you would do, because you won’t leave anyone in danger.”

“No, I suppose I don’t,” he said. “But do I just attract...people like Sherlock and Mary?”

“Just as much as I do,” Annabelle said. “Harry is the outlier in our family. She picks the normal women.”

“Yes, well, she’s a mess, and I suppose we’re more...” He trailed off.

“One day she’ll straighten herself out when she hits rock bottom,” Annabelle said. “Or at least I hope she does, for your sake.”

“Not yours?” John asked.

Annabelle shook her head. “Harry’s never seen me as family the way you have, and frankly the feeling is mutual. I have you, and somehow Sherlock and Molly and Mary are all part of my extended family too. That’s enough for me.”

“You know Mrs. Hudson would gladly adopt you too,” John said, a smile easing on his face.

“Oh, she would?” Annabelle said, smiling back. “She can be my adoptive grandmum, then. I mean, I’d say the vodka aunt but that was Aunt Camilla, and no one will take her place.” She set her cup down and fingered the necklace she wore. “She’d challenge Mary to a sharp-shooting contest if she was still here, you know, and she’d be so happy for you.”

“I don’t know who would win, either,” John said with a chuckle. “Mary has a pretty good aim in other things.” He set his cup down and tilted his head. “I miss her, you know. Perhaps not as much as you, but Camilla was always someone I admired.”

“She knew that, I think,” Annabelle said. “It’s why she wanted us to stay close.” She nodded to his cup. “Refill?”

“Only if we’re going to drink and reminisce about Camilla,” he said.

“I’ll agree if you tell me about why you love Mary so much,” she said.

“Deal.” Annabelle got up and got the bottle, somehow not all that surprised that John and Mary might have a happy ever after in the end. After all, he had one relationship that was the same he could pattern his after if he was smart. And as she had always considered John the smartest man she knew, she didn’t think he would mess things up too much.

#st trinians #Sherlock #annabelle fritton #kelly jones #john watson #kelly x annabelle #john x mary #warstan #my stuff #fanfiction #fanfic #my au: where the wild ones are #fadeddreaming #cheer up fic

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theparaminds · 7 years

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It seems in modern music, creating for the sake of happiness and enjoyment has become a lost art; becoming Increasingly impossible in our disconnected society to create an environment of dance and groove that binds hearts and souls across the dancefloor. To write songs that produce a euphoria in the mind that only builds in strength as the night progresses has vanished in the present-day. Though, New York based musician Greg Aram is doing just that, working tirelessly to create a culture of music for the sake of bliss and escapism, all in the name of human connection.

Born in Hoboken, New Jersey, Greg grew up in a childhood filled with multiculturalism, music, theatre and waiting for the endless summers that shaped who he is today. Summer is evidently Greg’s favourite season and is beautifully articulated in his music through the upbeat rhythms and themes he presents, such as: hangovers, summer love and late night drives of reflection. But in Greg’s new song, ‘Acting Famous’, he has started to use his platform to criticise some of the faults modern society continues to hold in its idolization of celebrity culture as well as our never ending lust for fame, keeping the dance centric sound his fans have come to love. Greg has proven himself as a unique and fresh face in the music industry, hoping only to bring pleasure and escape to all who need it in our seemingly bleak world.

Paramind got the chance to ask Greg Aram 13 questions on himself, his music and the paths he sees himself going down artistically throughout his future; hoping to get an insight into the man making true melodic elation:

Paramind: First question, as always, How is your day going?

Greg Aram: My day got off to a late start. I woke up at 1pm because I stayed up all night binging the new season of Stranger Things. I just made a fire smoothie though, so it’s off to a good start.

PM: How would you describe yourself to someone wanting to get to know you?

GA: I try to stay as real as possible, sometimes that comes off as a little too blunt. I really care about people and making them happy though. In the end, other people’s happiness makes me happy. I’d rather show someone a good time than have a good time myself because even if I’m not having fun and that person is, I’m happy.

PM: How did growing up in New Jersey shape who you are? Has New York changed you in anyway since moving there?

GA: I grew up right outside of NYC in Hoboken, NJ so it’s definitely a little different than what people expect when they hear “New Jersey”. Im super thankful for where I grew up, mostly because how diverse it was, and not only in race and beliefs, but all aspects of life. Even the geographic culture is diverse in the fact that NJ has city culture, beach culture, suburban culture, that was always really cool to me.

I think since I grew up so close to NYC and would come here all the time growing up, I was pretty jaded when I first moved here. It was so brand new for everyone I was with, so I was like “damn, I’ve already done all this” like the clubs and clothing stores or whatever. Eventually, experiencing those things with new people made it all worth it and became a new experience in itself. Also, it wasn’t really until I started traveling more when I started realizing how much I love NYC and how dumb I was being super jaded.

PM: How did you first decide to get into music/who got you into music?

GA: It honestly happened pretty naturally, it was never a plan. Both my parents are into music and exposed me to all kinds of stuff since I was only a baby. One of my first memories pertaining to music was in 2005 when my parents bought me Late Registration and NYSNC Greatest Hits for Christmas. That was the first time I remember sitting down and actually listening to music rather than just hearing, it and was like “oh shit, Greenday isn’t the only artist making dope music”.

Also, my mom was an actor when she was younger so she inspired me to do musical theater stuff when I was a kid. I was never like a stereotypical “theater kid” or anything, and I definitely got shit for it from all my jocky friends, but I always knew I liked performing after doing that.

PM: Where do you believe you’d be right now if not making music? Would you still be following an artistic career?

GA: Honestly, I tell everyone if I didn’t do music, I would try a run at pro wrestling. There are so many parallels between the two, and both are rockstars in their own right. That would be so ill. I still might pursue that anyway to be honest. Pull up with the Wrestlemania cameo when I’m like 35. Imagine…

PM: Your music itself is quite upbeat in nature, is this a conscious effort or something that materializes due to who you are?

GA: I think it’s a combination of both. Like I said before, I really like making people happy and I’m usually happy for the most part, so making music that is upbeat and can bring people up is definitely what I want to do. Even if I’m making a sad song, there is a way to express that and still have it be upbeat. Also, I have a bunch of energy, especially when I perform and I don’t think I want to play sad songs live. I rather see people rage, dance and make-out instead of cry.

PM: What is the perfect time of day/place/event to play your music at?

GA: Play my music when you’re in the car and your mom picks you up from school.

Play my music when you go to a pool party or the beach with your friends.

Play my music when you hate the world and feel like dancing in your room.

PM: How do you believe your music is going to evolve in the future?

GA: Naturally, as I mature, so does my writing and my sound pallet. There are a lot of things I want to try to do in my music, but I feel like I have to build up to that point. Also, what I make will constantly change based off what is happening in the world and how that will effect me and the people I care about.

PM: On top of your new single ‘Acting Famous’, do you have any new music to tell your fans of?

GA: I have a bunch of music ready that I want people to hear, so expect more consistency for the future of my releases. I truly want to keep putting records out for everyone to hear because they all mean something to me and I feel they’ll mean something to my fans as well. In general, a lot more content from me (videos, interviews, etc). I used to be scared of over saturation, but at this point I don’t want to waste things by not putting them out, so I’m just going to release it all and give people the option to pick what they like the most.

PM: When performing live, what is the feeling you’d like your audience to go home with?

GA: No matter where I’m at, I’m trying to make it feel like it’s summer for ever. That feeling you feel when the bell rings on the last day of school and it’s the beginning of summer break. I want that anticipation and anxiousness from the crowd every time before I go on stage.

PM: What is the best show you’ve ever played? Why?

GA: This is super cliche, but I try to make every show the best show. At least for everyone watching. In terms of self fulfillment, I don’t think I have played the best show yet. I know where I want to be and I’m not there yet, but I’m working on it.

PM: Are there locations still on your bucket list to play a show in? if so, where?

GA: Yeah, I want to perform at MSG, on a boat, and like if Mark Zuckerberg threw a party/BQQ at his house I’d love to perform at that.

Aside from those, I really want to go on tour. That my next big goal.

PM: To wrap up, is there anyone you’d like to shout out?

GA: Shout out Millie Bobby Brown. Congrats on Stranger Things Season 2. I saw you rap, hit me up if you ever want to make a song together

Paramind would like to thank Greg for his time and for the music he’s creating; Greg is without a doubt a face and name to remember in music as he continues to grow and impress with his optimistic and euphoric sound.

Greg’s new song, ‘Acting Famous’ is available now on Itunes and spotify:

Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/album/0WjnE5ZibazRh27XRKzTSH

Itunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/acting-famous-single/id1289682563

Social Media:

Instagram and Twitter: @Greg_Aram

Words by Guy Mizrahi

Photos by @superdupermaxx

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