An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
He heard gasps all around him, and he knew what he’d see when he turned around – Dorian was there, smiling as brilliant as the sun and as beautiful as any flower he’d ever seen. Dorian was wearing a gray-blue chiffon with wide skirts that only hung so close to his body because of how thin the fabric was, and seemed to move in even the slightest breeze. The fabric was embroidered with swirling clouds matching his tattoo, each layer slightly different and heavier towards the bottom, with dangling crystals hand-sewn into the lower clouds and creating the illusion of rain. The skirts went from soft gray towards blue skies as it went higher, crescendoing with a golden sun embroidered across the back and long sleeves cinched at his arms. The deep vee of the neckline exposed blue skin and created a canvas for a constellation of scattered pearls strung across the front. Dorian was…lovely was too small a word. He looked like a vision. Like a minor deity walking among the crowd and casting blessings.
Laudna was backing away, but she might as well have stopped existing. The crowds seemed to fall away, and he knew they were probably finding a place to watch the proceedings, but Orym could only think about Dorian as his almost-husband approached him. This had been their compromise on the genasi tradition of meeting in the middle. Orym had liked the symbolism when it was explained to him, but Dorian had rejected the idea of being given away by their families. Instead, he approached Orym as a free person, untethered to a past that had weighed him down. Orym approached, too. By his own choice, in his own time. Choosing to go to Dorian, to go where he would and to be with him to the ends of the world, if that’s what it meant. They met in the middle and took each other’s hands. For the first time that morning, he felt whole.
“Hey,” he said softly to Dorian.
Hey hey hey! So I wrote a collaboration with SweetSilentSteps over on AO3 this week! 23k of Dorym delightfulness, including battlefield love confessions, 5+1 proposals, a whole-ass wedding, prankster Orym hijinks, and an E-rated interlude!
Hope you’re all as excited as I am that it’s finished!
➯ your gymnast neighbour tom cranks up his music so much that it starts a house feud. you decide to put an end to this by showing up at his flat. but tom opens the door in a way that takes you by surprise.
:: a/n › don’t let the title deceive you, we’re headed for a subby tom fic! 💕with some mcu characters mixed in for the fun of it. rude boy’s past 13k words & I love to spoil you rotten so this teaser is at scenario length. enjoy!
Now that became perfectly obvious to you: This guy was rude.
As if the plastering on the wall alongside the apartment corridor wasn’t porous enough— the hammering bass from flat #89 made it seem like the entire house was bound to corrode in a song or two.
“Hey, you! Turn the damn music down!”
Knocking at the plain door sporting a scraggly ‘Holland, T.’ sign only elicits a faint reply between beats. The voice sounds entirely out of breath. Its pitch is surprisingly high, too.
“Hello? Is this Mister Stank?”
“Who?!”
Almost an eternity passes. Footsteps follow. The door first clicks, then buckles. One second later, a babyface framed by curls peeks through the opening. Slathered in what appears to be a layer of sweat and— oddly, a white layer of powder.
Cocaine?
You’re completely stiff at the sight. So that’s Mister ‘Holland, T.’, then.
“Tony Stank! He’s been knocking here earlier. You’re not Tony, though?”
The babyface looks even more innocent than it already was by now. If he wouldn’t be all drenched and smelling like a crowded Olympic hall, the gaze would be easy to fall for. All big and hazel.
But you remain solid in your spot and feel no less irritated.
“He’s called Stark! Not Stank!”
Babyface looks confused.
“Stark? I just heard him mumbling something and things. Was busy with the weights so I couldn’t open the door.”
You place your arms akimbo.
“Tony lives in apartment #90! You know what that means?”
He shakes his head, which loosens some curls into his face.
“Um, no idea?”
You point down the corner of the hallway with more insistence.
“He lives right next you!”
“And?”
The guy’s voice goes up in pitch once again. Clearly, he didn’t catch his breath so far either. Lifting weights, he said. Poor Tony.
In fact, poor everyone in the radius of ten miles.
At least you know that whatever white powder is on his face—
Has to be magnesium carbonate powder.
He’s not even on drugs and acting like that.
How much worse can it get.
“Your music was so loud this morning that Tony did the same thing I’m doing right now, bloody idiot!”
“N—no need to be rude!”
“You’re the rude one! I’m from apartment #88!”
“Oh?”
Sweaty Holland gazes toward the other side of the corridor, seemingly surprised realizing that there looms the precise door you just came from. Apartment #88 in its full actual lack of splendour.
You feel like you’re about to burst any second.
“Yes?! I’m studying for exams and you’re blasting Rihanna! Since 10:30!”
Blank face. The guy really got you to a point where you roll your eyes like a preschooler. He looks disoriented more than anything, rubbing his powdery hands through his hair making it almost look strangely grey for his age. Something does seem to sway his confused features.
“Damn, shit... Wait a minute,” he says. “Tom, by the way. Sorry.”
The curly head disappears before you can say anything else. While you hear him walking away, the door ever so slowly falls open, revealing an almost loft-like building. You’d be very much at home in your casual clothing right now, but the thought of magnesium and the repugnant smell of athleticism has already ruined the sight.
Umbrella just keeps playing in the other part of the flat. Tom audibly rummages with some sort of dumbbells around the corner. They land and roll on the floor dull, making Tony’s words from yesterday all too present in your mind once more.
‘Bloke’s a gym rat! 20-fucking-something, sexually frustrated, IQ of a toast! Walking, cocky mess’, furious Stark in his blue designer shades had ranted meeting you on the way down in the elevator, recalling how he saw Tom moving in the other day.
Given how babyface still seems to be busy with his makeshift gym, you wish he never did.
This was one of the most crowded neighbourhoods.
“Will you please shut the goddamn stereo down!” you tap your foot more than once, still having to put up with Jay-Z’s intro rap droning from the speakers in the flat.
“Um! Searching for the remote!” Tom replies, but you’re already stepping into his training room, ready to either phone the police or take the bumping stereo out of service yourself.
But you can hardly believe your eyes. Looking into the area, framed by high shelves where towels and isotonic drinks are stacked.
Tom stands there without a single piece of clothing covering him.
No tank top. No boxers, not even socks. His arms serve as a less than adequate shield for his front.
“Shit!”
Looking all browbeaten head to toe, Tom mumbles something all panicked that gets drowned out by Rihanna’s catchy chorus. By now, the entire city of London probably knows his taste in music. And you: Just about every buff inch of him.
Fuck.
Time to get out of here.
You stumble backwards. Then, almost fall over, stepping on something squarish on the ground. Out of nowhere, the music stalls.
Silence.
You look down and realize that you’re standing on the tiny remote.
“Was getting ready for the shower! I’m sorry!” Tom repeats now that the stereo is off, covering himself with a scruffy towel in the meantime. Thank god that there are shelves around. But you have hardly gathered yourself by now.
“And... that’s how you opened the door?”
You know the answer given how Tom’s face changes from pale to crimson red, even visible through the layer of magnesium that not just his face is plastered into. It makes you wonder which odd parts of a body one can work out with.
“Was only peeking my head out! I didn’t know someone would come at this time of the day.”
Tom hurriedly tries to wrap the towel around his hips properly by now, but realizes it won’t cover enough of his backside. He hunches before you more frozen than ever.
You sigh out. This lad indeed is akin to a toast.
“But it’s the afternoon?”
“I was only trying to prepare for the shower!” he repeats, wilding pointing about. “I’m so sorry, I—”
You pick up the remote and lay it down on the shelf to your right hoping your glare would suffice for him not to lay a finger on it anytime soon.
All this shower talk.
“Exactly where you’ll go now. Fucking twat.”
“T-twat?”
Tom’s jaw hangs loose. He’s still flushed like a ripe tomato.
“The entire corridor smells like gym. And get yourself some headphones for Rihanna, thanks.”
Enough seen, enough talk. Nobody down this very avenue could be grumpier. You bury either hand in your hoodie’s muff and turn. But Tom doesn’t look like he’s heading for the bathroom.
“Hey, wait! We didn’t even finish to introduce ourselves!”
“Do I look like I care? You’re wearing a towel! That’s past introductions. Fuck your politeness. Dickhead.”
For the sake of the other apartments and the plastering on the walls, you don’t opt for the now-you-know-how-it-feels-door-slam, but make sure to shut your own flat off from the sweaty stench in the corridor lightning fast.
Hoping that the barricade would at least block out that, if Tom wouldn’t put on Unapologetic the next hour. Who knows, you already see it coming. ‘Holland, T.’ arguably was the rudest neighbour you could possibly have. You regret doing as much as step one foot into his reeking apartment.
The silver kettle bleeps— you pour up your tea. Needs to sit for eight minutes, the fancy ‘Ayurvedic Relaxation‘ label of the bag says.
You close down the window of your unloved study notes on the laptop, alongside some other worksheets, digital drafts, presentations, and forms that need signatures from what seems to be the entire university. And then— sigh out, click the Youtube icon in the bookmarked pages. Eventually, you get comfortable in your hammock chair.
Perfect.
While the tea steams off, a soothing voice starts to play in a colourful intro. You alter the volume by three bars for better tingles. Finally: Your favourite. Mantis Chiropractic Medicine. Emotional Relief, ASMR, and life advice. Only the best cracks! And good-looking clients, too. What a dream. Atmospheric music with flutes and harps begins to chime after the intro jingle right away, making you sink into the hammock all slack.
Soft-spoken and polite as ever, Doctor Mantis begins to explain common side effects of sitting too much and how to remedy them that you stir in your tea, checking the watch: Only six minutes left of Ayurvedic Relaxation. Fair enough.
In the hallway, you hear a door closing while Mantis demonstrates a few carpal tunnel exercises. It’s from the direction of apartment #85. Likely Mister Rhodes returning from the Met Office. It’s 7PM. Punctual as ever.
Mantis keeps on speaking gently on your laptop, showing her client how to correct his posture while typing.
You have to remind yourself not to get distracted because the notes and presentation are nowhere near finished. One video and you promise yourself to return to at least the mock exam questions. Again, you lean back into the hammock’s sturdy fabric and let the flutes carry you to another place and time.
Mantis, with her flowing black hair tied neatly into a ponytail, situated in the office with her immaculate white gown, already proceeds to diagnose a client on the screen with careful spine taps that a fast knock makes you jerk up. It’s not a sound coming from the video.
“Uh— Hello? Are you there?”
More knocks follow.
It’s Tom’s annoying voice.
“Please go away! I’m busy studying!” you shout, closing down the diagnosis video to remedy not your back, but conscience.
“Aren’t you watching a vlog or something?”
Too late.
Three bars on the volume button were a bit too loud. Damn it. Your entire Ayurvedic Relaxation is ruined.
“That’s a, a lecture video!”
You even catch yourself stuttering.
“Are you a med student or something?”
The voice remains persistent at the door.
“Tom. Fuck off into your gym, will you.”
To your anger, he actually knocks again.
“Please! At least come to the door! I don’t want to yell. You don’t have to open. Please. Please...”
You rub your eyes.
He has a point. Tony is still working during that time of the day anyways. Not to mention Rhodes. Yeah, Rhodes for sure. You close your laptop fast, slip out of the hammock, grab your teacup for emotional backing— and trot out of the bedroom with a grim feeling in your stomach.
“So what is it?” you grit, now inches away from Tom, but somewhat gladly, with the odour barricade still in place. Ten elephants and a pack of lions couldn’t move you to open that door.
“Y/N. I’m sorry for the music today,” Tom half whispers, half murmurs, now much more deferential.
He’s read your name on the door label. You sigh.
“The better apology’s leaving me alone. Can’t concentrate.”
A deep sip from your tea won’t make your annoyance go away either, but you still try and almost burn your tongue.
“With all due respect. If I would listen to lecture videos that loud my ears would be reeling, too...”
You could stomp the parquet below you to pieces on this very spot. Mister Stark was more than right about Tom. He was the cockiest mess.
“Look who’s talking! Rihanna’s bass line was peeling off our carpets this morning!”
You don’t want to know what janitor Rogers thinks about that.
“Y/N, please don’t yell,” Tom muffles from the other side repeatedly, tone more sympathetic. “I made enough noise myself today.”
“Oh, really? Never knew.”
“And, I’ve been using my earphones. Or did you hear anything Rihanna play?“
Mentally and physically, you give up your Ayurvedic Relaxation once for all and put the mug down on the next best birchwood cupboard. He does have not one, but two points. Maybe he’s not a toast, at least that. Still a bloody idiot, but you have to begrudgingly admit that he makes sense and didn’t touch the remote.
Just in case— You peep through the fish-eye of the door and see Tom wandering about, not topless as far as you can trust your tired eyes. When he turns to the door, you try to read his face. He looks innocent. Sad, even.
“Please, Y/N. I just wanted to apologize for being rude. I’m still new here. And now that you’re playing something loud yourse—”
Ugh.
It’s a tie.
Click goes the door. And there you see him stand, in his striped Hello Kitty PJs that are way too tight at the arms, with tiny hearts printed all over them. He’s visibly scrubbed down, smelling like he’s used four shampoos at once. His curly hair looks kind of bouncy in the brutal light of the hallway.
“Nice to see you dressed for once, Holland.”
“Sorry, I probably look ridiculous.”
You open the door wider.
“Come on in rascal, still have some water in the kettle.”
Author’s Note: Going to go see Endgame right as I post this, so this is my last fic before I go see it and see if my theories were right! Thought this was sweet and something I needed before Endgame just obliterates me so enjoy!
Pairing: Mantis x Loki (honestly this can be read as either romantic or platonic hehe)
Summary: After the Decimation, Mantis meets someone new, and it seems they can help each other.
Warnings: None
“Something’s happening.”
Suddenly, all she can see for miles and miles is a light orange.
Suddenly, more beings start showing up in dozens, then hundreds, then thousands, then millions, then billions, then trillions, then even more, all materializing out of thin air.
Suddenly, she’s lost in the sea of beings, in the sea unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar emotions and unfamiliar energies and unfamiliar colors and—
Suddenly, it’s too much. There’s too much confusion and anger and shock and sadness and confusion and grief and it feels like she’s drowning in all the things she can feel and her chest is being pushed in back in on itself by all the voices in the air and—
Suddenly, her feet are moving.
Suddenly she realizes she went from walking to jogging to running to sprinting and she can’t remember deciding to do that until she’s already sprinting and weaving through the uncountable bodies and unfamiliar faces and the now sickening orange and the indescribable whirlwind of emotions she feels from the beings all around her until—
Suddenly, there’s a speck of calm.
Suddenly, she stops.
Suddenly, she realizes the calm is moving, and it’s coming from a being.
Suddenly, the speck is her island in the sea of viscous emotions and bodies that are threatening to crush her lungs inward if she can’t make it to the island in time.
Suddenly, she’s sprinting again before she knows it and her feet are moving even faster than before, right, no, it’s left, left, forward, left again, forward, again and again and—
Suddenly, the island is standing right in from of her, just on the outskirts of where all the trillions of beings are collected in the orange sea of confusion, and she can feel her breath coming back to her as she allows her senses to focus back in on the one speck of calm to be found in this place, and she smiles, the green of their elegant clothes and the blackness of their hair made them look like herself.
Suddenly, the person turns to look at her.
Suddenly, she feels the need to hide, but there’s nowhere to go.
Suddenly, she looks into their green eyes and finds confidence again.
“Hello, I am Mantis.”
“Loki, of Asgard. It’s a pleasure, Lady Mantis.”
Suddenly, they can both feel it.
Suddenly, they realize, they’ve found an island in each other.
It’s late and it’s Wednesday and Nebula wants to go home. She still has an hour left of her shift. There are only a few customers left; students writing frantically on laptops, people just reading or scrolling through their phones, a group of teenagers out late and, of course, a few assholes which just like to stay around to piss her off.
Would it be vain to say they come around here just to vex her, Nebula, personally? Probably. But it certainly feels like it, in any case, and that’s what matters.
The coffee shop Nebula works at serves subpar coffee, and she’s sure people only come for the rustic, farmyard, hipster aesthetic and to leer at the girl with prosthetic limbs. Though, she allows, their muffin selection is fairly decent.
It’s not terrible, really, it just isn’t great. Most people are friendly enough — sometimes overly friendly to appear woke, or some shit like that — but that’s fine, and mostly makes up for those who aren’t so nice. But Nebula’s lost an arm, not her hearing, so she doesn’t miss it when people look at her pointedly and go “that’s the girl I was telling you about.” And even though it’s not unkind, usually, it’s not exactly comfortable.
The door chimes as it opens, letting a gust of icy air into the stilted warmth of the shop. Nebula puts down the trays she’s holding before settling back at the counter and turning to face the new customer. And — oh thank fuck.
“Good evening!” says Mantis, somehow cheerfully bright as always. “My class finished early so I came to visit you.”
Nebula lets a small smile slip onto her face and busies herself with the cash register, trying not to look up or blush too obviously. “Thanks,” she replies shortly, because she doesn’t want to look like an idiot. She clears her throat. “What can I get for you?”
Mantis pauses, looking up at the menu boards and then down to the muffin display. It’s cute how much effort she puts into deciding, not that Nebula would ever admit it, as though one coffee might be slightly more sub-par than the rest. The girl always ends up getting the same thing anyway.
“I think I’ll have the hot chocolate again, if that’s okay, and… what would you recommend?” she asks, eyes looking at her earnestly.
Truthfully, Nebula already has the cherry chocolate muffin, and the hot chocolate powder out, but she takes another few seconds to hum as though she’s thinking deeply about this, and to just stand across the counter with Mantis here.
“I don’t know,” says Nebula, as she does every week, as though she does not know Mantis’ sweet tooth by now. “How about this?”
Mantis seats herself by the table closest, sipping her drink and eating her muffin, smiling and waving at her every now and then just because, and Nebula smiles and waves back, because her heart is a damn traitor and also a moron.
“Hey, careful there,” says a voice from behind her. “Need an extra, uh, hand carrying all those trays?” Nebula stifles the urge to groan and pummel his skull in with her metal fist — see how much of an invalid he thinks she is then — because she does get paid to put up with this shit. She allows herself a quiet sigh, however.
“No thank you,” she replies evenly.
The kitchen is five steps away from where she is now, so Nebula forces herself to keep walking straight.
“Hey I was talking to you,” says the man again, and she can practically hear the smugness lilting the bastard’s voice. “Are all the servers here this rude?”
Nebula’s always had problems with her temper, even Father knew that. She feels her fists clench and her pulse beginning to pound loudly in her ears and the momentum already building up in her muscles and —
“Wow,” says Mantis suddenly, her voice still somehow sunny, but there’s something else. “You are an asshole.”
Apparently, this is startling for the man also, because he rears back and just says “excuse me?”
“I said you are an asshole,” Mantis repeats. “You were being the rude one, not Nebula.”
Nebula holds her breath, ready to jump in at any moment (and totally not paying attention to the fact Mantis remembers her name — she’s wearing a nametag for christ’s sake.)
The man stands up, suddenly, red-faced and looking defensive. “Look, lady, I was just offering my help. It’s not my fault she decided to be such a damn bitch about it— “
“Do not call her a bitch. You were not offering to help, you were trying to make a cruel joke about the fact that Nebula has a prosthetic arm because you are close-minded and also an asshole.”
The rest of the shop is looking at them, wide-eyed. Because mostly, people just try to turn a blind eye. And it’s a family business, so Nebula’s boss certainly doesn’t care. Nebula herself isn’t quite sure what to do in this situation, though, to be honest, the calm in Mantis’ voice right now is kind of badass. She can see how the other girl might be intimidating, even sitting down, sipping luke-warm hot chocolate.
“You should leave,” says Mantis, as softly as ever, and levels a final, bright glare at the man.
The man leaves.
“Thank you,” says Nebula, and this time she doesn’t try to keep the tremor out of her voice. “I think you just stopped me from doing something that would’ve gotten me in a lot of trouble.”
“Don’t worry about it,” replies Mantis, nibbling once more on her muffin. “He was truly an asshole, and I’ve really had enough of those.”
“Me too,” she says and takes a deep breath. “You’re sweet.”
And Mantis grins at her, flushing happily. “So are you.”
So y’all know what that means, preview time. It’s gonna be a REAL rough chapter, kiddos. Lots of big feelings. Lots of stuff happening. But, in the meantime...
“Hey, uh, Opal?”
“Yep?”
“Why do you have my name on here as @halflingtwunk?”
“Because that’s what I have you in my phone as.”
“Why am I in your phone as Halfling Twunk?”
“It was easier to remember than your name.”
She reached out and snatched her phone back from him, leaving him confused and staring at his hand where the phone had been. “My name is only four letters long…”
“Yeah, but you have to admit it’s a good description of you.”
“What’s a twunk?”
He heard a noise from the other group and glanced over to see Cyrus with his hand pressed to his face to keep from laughing, Dariax doubled over and giggling outright, and even Dorian looking straight at the ceiling like that would keep Orym from noticing how his shoulders were shaking.
“I don’t suppose any of you want to tell me,” he asked as darkly as he could manage, which unfortunately wasn’t very darkly as their own obvious good humor was making it hard for him to care too much one way or the other. Dorian shook his head but looked like he might be crying and Dariax was laughing so hard that Orym thought he might sprain something, but Cyrus somehow managed to pull it together enough to answer.
“It’s a combination of a twink and a hunk.”
Orym felt his face immediately flush and looked over at Opal who just shrugged with a smug look on her face.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“I don’t just mean for everything else he did. I just mean…the way you’re looking at me right now, if you ever looked at him like that, he was an idiot for letting it go.”
Dorian’s face blushed so dark that even in this dim light, Orym could see the color change. He shouldn’t have said that. He knew he shouldn’t have said it. He shouldn’t keep doing this to Dorian, shouldn’t keep giving him hope when he didn’t know when or if he’d be able to reciprocate his feelings properly. But he also couldn’t stand the idea of Dorian lying in bed next to him and crying over a man who didn’t deserve him, as though Dorian were the one who had made a mistake and not the jackass who let him go.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Hey friends, C33 got you down?
I am currently taking Dorym fluff prompts for flash fic. Not gonna get to everything, but I’ll get through what I can today and tomorrow. Inbox is open if you need something.
