#I meant to post this like a few days ago but I am smooth brained this week and barely been playing FFXIV 😭

[ffxivlilmeowmeow]

I almost forgot to do the Gpose year wrap up!

Here are my favourite gposes from each month! Hope you all have a happy new year! 🥳💕

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Don’t know if this is random to send but I got bored and decided to reread about Falkry food culture (courtesy of an older post by you…derp) and it randomly sparked something that I just have the impulse to share (hope that’s alright…even though that’s already been established like 5 times that it is lol. Why must overthinking do this? (And also overthink adding the overthinking on help-))

But did you know that there’s a fruit that is basically chocolate pudding? It’s called Black Sapote (or just google fruit that’s basically chocolate pudding) and I just think that’s very interesting and cool that nature has natural chocolate pudding cups and felt like that needed to be shared.

Out of curiosity (and this doesn’t need to be answered), is there any type of plant in Falkradia that’s like that or would it just be the, uh, Black Sapote tree aka dessert on a tree? I’d assume probably not (unless I’m being forgetful) since I’m not in your brain and know those details or if you’ve ever even considered them (am not trying to be disrespectful to clarify) but if so, feel free to share it.

Hope randomly sharing this little nugget of info is alright/cool/interesting and that you’re having a good day/night, are taking care of yourself, staying hydrated and all that jazz :]

-idk

Ps I sent an ask a lil while ago so this is just a friendly nudge. Not trying to be pushy, just in case you forgo

Oh wow, I've actually never heard of the Black Sapote before!!! That's FASCINATING!

And actually yes, there are a few plants the would have dessert-type fruit on Falkradia. The most memorable one I've come up with is called the Crying Star-Leaf. My little sister drew some images of what it looks like so you can see it below:

It's a plant with five petals that has a cluster of small berry-like fruits in the center. When picked, the plants lets out a high-pitched "crying" sound, which is how it got the first part of its name (the second half of the name is because the flower is star-shaped). It's typically meant to ward off predators. (Did you know tomato plants scream when damaged too to try and scare off insect predators? You should research it sometime, it's fascinating to learn about)

But anyway, the fruit of the Crying Star-Leaf Flower tastes like heavenly smooth caramel. It's the Falkry equivalent of candy or pure sugar.

The plants grow in large patches throughout the forest on Falkradia, and while the fruits are delicious eaten right off the plant, they can ALSO be used in various cakes and other sweet food dishes. The flower heads will close if the plant feels threatened.

There's a few other dessert-plants on Falkradia too, but I'll leave it here for now :)

(Ps. Thanks for the reminder about your other ask. I just now answered it too)

[thefanficmonster]

Infatuation

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: FLUFF, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: It’s not a secret that Corpse prefers taking care of his hair himself rather than going to a hair salon to get it trimmed and/or tampered. However, he only has so much knowledge of how to properly do it without having to obliterate his budget. Luckily, his girlfriend comes to his rescue.

Requested by Anon. Hi lovely! Thank you so much for the incredibly fluffy request! I’ve been very pumped to write it and now here it finally is - so sorry it’s taken me so long to complete and post it but I still hope you come across it and give it a read! Love, Vy ❤

“Um, what are you doing?“

I just walked into Corpse’s apartment to find him barricaded in the bathroom, giving himself a hair appointment. We were supposed to have a chill night in watching movies, but it seems to me like those plans will either have to be delayed or canceled, given the chaotic state both Corpse and his bathroom are in. I mean, how dumb was I to expect he was actually doing his hair justice when he told me he styled it himself? Why didn’t that immediately raise an army of red flags in my head and lead me to question his methods?

I’m honestly quite jealous of Corpse’s hair. It’s always so soft and silky and no matter how much or how little effort he’s put in it, it always looks good: either evidently carefully styled or boyishly messy, it leaves me with heart-eyes regardless. But to see him massacre it like this, it makes me wish I could report it as a crime.

“Ain’t obvious?“ He sounds rather frustrated and I feel at least slightly better due to this fact. He deserves to be as frustrated as I am by the sight of the crap he’s doing. “Sorry, you’re gonna have to wait for me for...a little while. I just need to get this under control and, um, clean the mess. Sorry for ruining your night like this, babe. I-I really wasn’t planning on it to take this long but I forgot to buy one of the products and I thought I could wing it without it but...I very clearly can’t so...“

“Please, stop talking. I don’t need to know what sins you’ve committed - if I do I’ll probably have to give you the silent treatment for like a week or so.“ I call out to him as I quickly skip over to the kitchen to leave the food I bought on my way over before returning to the bathroom and carefully taking a step inside, mindful of where there are hair strands on the tiles. Even severed, his hair is beautiful and I have a ton of respect for it - ok fine, I adore it. Corpse definitely doesn’t appreciate it properly. I walk over to the shower, reaching out to the two shelves inside which are lined with different types of hair products. “Oh fuck...“ I let out the whisper without even realizing it because I’m so stunned by the brands I see on those shelves. “Corpse, um, what the actual fuck?”

He turns to me, eyes wide and terrified because of my menacing tone. “What? What is it?” His gaze searches the spot where mine was just pointed at, looking for anything that could’ve provoked such a reaction from me. Seeing nothing but the hair products, he meets my deadly glare yet again, “What’s wrong?”

Alright, this man-child needs some serious help

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong.“ I say, stomping towards the exit of the bathroom, “You’re gonna stay here and wait for me to come back and don’t you DARE, even touch your hair, let alone bring a pair of scissors or any chemical near it. Copy?“

“Copied and pasted, ma’am.“ He salutes me, knowing better than to ask questions when I enter my commander role. There are quite a few things that set me off into this bossy-ass persona, and hair mistreatment is most definitely one of them. Thing is, Corpse doesn’t know that. Well, he didn’t know that, pretty sure he’s guessed it by now.

Feeling myself soften at his obedience and trust, I give him a smile and a wink over my shoulder as I go to grab my bag and leave the apartment to complete my mission, “Good boy.”

                                                              *  *  *

“Isn’t that a lot better?“ I ask, gently running my fingers through Corpse’s freshly cut, washed and dried hair. I’ve spent a good five minutes just smoothing through it with my fingers. I bet he’s expecting me to say ‘my precious‘ at any moment now, and trust me it’s tempting, but I still don’t, I won’t give him the pleasure of predicting my actions. Wow, we’ve really reached that level of being familiar with one another that I predict that he’s predicting what I’m gonna do next. While I’m a guessing game for him, I tend to think of myself as more of an open book. You just gotta be fluent in the language it’s written in to understand it.

I’ve gone off-topic, my bad.

“Yeah, you’re a lot less scary now.“ He tells me, his hand finding mine in his hair and taking it to his lips to place a kiss on my knuckles.

We’re positioned so that we’re in front of the bathroom mirror with Corpse seated in a chair in front of me and I’m for once in my life towering over him from behind. Our height difference was threatening to be a hinderance in my work on his hair, but we easily figured it out.

I can’t help but laugh, “You know what I meant.“ I curl one of his already curly strands around the pointer finger of the hand that’s still wandering around the soft dark curls while the other remains in his gentle hold, resting on his shoulder.

“And you know what I meant.“ He shifts in his seat to look at me directly, not via the mirror, “Since when do you have a hair infatuation?“

I roll my eyes and retract my hands, defensively folding my arms over my chest, “It’s not an infatuation with hair, dummy. It’s an infatuation with your hair.” I correct him, doing quick work of styling the stray strands that fall over his forehead and eyes. “I really like your hair, you already know that. I can’t handle the thought you’re doing such a shitty job taking care of it.”

He shrugs, furrowing his brows, “Hey, I was buying top-shelf products, cost me a fortune every month, my hair was being treated like royalty.”

I roll my eyes once again, “High price doesn’t always equal high quality, Corpse. Did you ever stop to read what was in those products?” I don’t let him answer, I don’t need him to confirm what I already know. “Even if you did - which you didn’t - you wouldn’t know what each of those ingredients do to your hair. You see, taking care of hair, especially hair like yours, takes patience and knowledge. It’s practically an art form. It’s not like you can just buy any product that has ‘suitable for curly hair’ on it. There’s a lot more to that.”

It’s only after I finish my monologue that I realize he’s looking at me with amazed amusement in his gaze, almost like a parent listening to their kid talk about their wish of becoming an astronaut. “Since when do you know so much about hair? You’ve been using the same shampoo and conditioner since I know you and now you wanna lecture me on hair care?”

I raise an eyebrow at him, exasperated by his stubbornness on the matter, “Who said being consistent with your hair products is a bad thing? You know, frequent changing of brands has the potential of being damaging as much as aiding.” I explain with the most amount of patience I can muster, now taking over the parent role myself, “And as for your previous question, I know so much because my mother is a hairdresser.”

His eyes widen in surprise. I can practically see the gears in his brain turning as he tries to recall if I’ve ever told him this before.

“How come I don’t know that?“ He asks finally after a long moment of silence. “Why haven’t you told me?”

“You ask that as though I just tell you things like that on the regular. Did you also want me to drop the info that my dad’s a mechanic in passing conversation about video games? Cause that’s a little hard to shoehorn in....“ He cuts off my sarcastic rambling with a brief peck to the lips. He’s the only person allowed to shut me up, and only like that. Anything else will earn him either an earful or a silent treatment. 

Just kidding....unless...

“So, does that mean you’re continuing the family business?“ he asks when he pulls away, “I mean, you’re technically my personal hairdresser now.“

I furrow my brows playfully, “Wait, what? Since when?”

“Since I hired you approximately an hour ago.“ He beams up at me, satisfied that I’ve fallen in his trap.

“And what about my payment?“ I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

He looks to be contemplating for a second before he stands up from the chair, taking my hand in his leading me out of the bathroom, “Well, each appointment you’ll give me a different price, Miss Y/L/N. But, considering today was your first day, I choose to pay you with dinner.“ He sends a wink my way, laughing when he’s met with an unamused expression on my part as I stop in my tracks, causing him to halt his movements as well.

“You really plan on paying me with the dinner I bought?“ I raise an eyebrow at him, freeing my hand from his so I can put both my hands on my hips for the complete 'I’m far from impressed’ look.

“Yeah...? Problem?“ He asks, faking nervousness and guilt as he closes the distance between us, once again returning to the default of towering over me instead of it being the other way around.

“Several actually. First of all...“ I raise my finger in the air accusingly, ready to go off but the arm that wraps around my waist and lifts me off the ground causes my words to die down, evaporating in a frightened squeal, “Corpse no!! Put me down!“

Of course, he ignores me, carrying me into the living room while I don’t know whether to thrash or stay as still as possible. 

Tsk, so much for gratitude

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[emilyoftheshadows]

Person A catches a bus home everyday, but today, they're so exhausted that they fall asleep, suddely they feel a light tap on their shoulder and open their eyes to see a cute guy/gal/person smiling at them. "Sorry to wake you, bit this is your stop, i hope you slept well"

So, this is the first piece I have written and posted here! This is a fluffy drabble loosely based on the prompt above as well as some tik tok ideas i've seen. I hope you enjoy and don't judge too hard :)

~~~~~~

Aelin never knew that she could feel such a wide range of emotions in such a short amount of time. The hectic events she had endured earlier in her day had left her drained and in dire need of sleep.

She started out her mornings as usual - brewing her coffee with the help of an overly excited Fleetfoot. On the subway ride to work, coffee in hand, she explicitly remembered checking her emails for any important notices regarding her job. As an advertising agent, she dealt with multiple clients at one time. With her meticulously organized calendar and the help of her overworked assistant Marion, she was usually able to keep everything in check. Today was not one of those days.

As she entered her office, Marion greeted her with her tablet in hand- Aelin’s schedule color coded, labeled and sorted by hour.

 “Good morning Ms. Galathynius, ready to hear your schedule for today?” Aelin nodded, sipping her coffee as Marion listed her client meetings for the upcoming day. As they entered her office, Aelin paused.

“Marion, could you please repeat that first meeting  again?”

“The Havilliard Scotch pitch at 12?” And that was when Aelin knew she was fucked. This pitch was meant for a well known drinking company in New York, fast on the come up. Havilliard Sr. was known to be picky about his branding, scrutinizing most agencies that had helped him before. She had barely gotten this client, practically begging Nehemia for the job. As she worked the branding, she had become worried about the content she was producing.

She was so worried about this pitch, that she had taken her laptop home last night in hopes of triple checking her work for mistakes and to fine tune some details. And that's where her laptop was at that moment. At her apartment, across town, sitting on her desk, collecting dust. Her mind raced at how to solve her predicament. The subway ride to and from her apartment was too long of a trip to make before the meeting and, like an amateur, she hadn’t saved her files anywhere else but her laptop. She was completely fucked. 

Marion stood in the doorway, confused on what was going on in Aelin’s head. Aelin decided to finally release herself from her stupor. “Marion, could you please go find Aedion for me? And tell him it’s an emergency.”

With a determined look on her face, her assistant went as fast as her short legs could carry her to Aedion’s office on the adjacent part of the building floor she was on. Within minutes, Aedion was standing at her door, panting like he had just sprinted the fastest race of his life. The good thing about having her overbearing cousin work with her, is that she knew that in any problem he would help in an instant. And this was one hell of a fucking problem.

“What happened Aelin? Are you okay? Were you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”

“You idiot I am physically fine, but still screwed and I need your help.” Aedion released the first breath Aelin had seen him take since entering her office.

“You know, when Marion power walked into my office saying you had an EMERGENCY and she didn’t know what was wrong with you, I definitely thought you would be passed out on your floor with blood on your face. But, you know, thanks for the heart attack. Really woke me up this morning.” 

Aelin rolled her eyes at him. He was more dramatic than her, and that spoke volumes in itself. 

“Aedion, please it really is an emergency. I have the big pitch for the Havilliard Scotch today and I left my laptop with the presentation at my apartment.” Aedion’s eyes widened in surprise. He knew that Aelin had been obsessed about this pitch and that mistakes like this only happened to her once in a blue moon. Aelin saw understanding dawn on his face and took that as a sign to continue.

“Now, I know a while back I sent you the rough drafts of the branding from when I first got the pitch. Is there any chance that you have the email or presentation saved still? If I have the basis of the presentation, I have an hour to build on it and hopefully fix this.”

Aedion’s face fell at the request. “We can go look, but you know I’m not the best at organizing my files Ace. It could be anywhere on my computer or not at all.” With those reaffirming words, Aelin and Aedion walked at a brisk pace back to his office. Combing through Aedion’s computer was an agonizing process. There were files saved from years ago that should’ve been deleted, and backtracking through all the contents of his computer made Aelin want to stab her eyes out. But it was all worth it, because hidden in the depths of this man’s terribly organized computer was the presentation. With a quick click of a button, she emailed the document to herself. She gave a half ass hug to Aedion, then practically ran to her office to start reworking her pitch on the computer there.

--

Aelin believed it was pure adrenaline that enabled her to finish her pitch in time for the Havilliard meeting. With a strong foundation laid out before her from her first draft, she had constructed almost her exact pitch that was left at home. Aelin waited for the Havilliards in the boardroom, smoothing out her clothes as she paced at the front. Far too soon, Marion escorted Havilliard Sr., Dorian Havilliard, and their close friend and partner Chaol Westfall into the room for her presentation. The three men had sat down in silence with no introduction, except for a small encouraging smile from the younger Havilliard. Taking that as her sign to start, Aelin cleared her throat.

“Hello gentlemen, today I want to present to you the future of Havilliard Scotch…”

---

As the men had exited the room single file, Aelin finally allowed herself to relax. That had felt like the longest pitch of her life. Going into the meeting, she had known the men were notorious for being extremely serious and critical of their agents. What she had not expected was the whispered words between the men after she had finished her presentation. As she looked on, Dorian Havilliard had finally broken away from their circle to address her.

“Miss Galathynius, thank you for your time. We will get back to you shortly about our decision to run with this branding or not.” With a quick nod and gesture to his companions, the trio had stood up and left the room. She was utterly shocked. Aelin had poured her sweat and tears into this pitch, quite literally, and they had just thanked her and left. No critiques, no opinions, no nothing. 

Quite honestly, Aelin was exhausted. She had spent most of her brain power reworking that pitch in that 45 minutes before that meeting and she had nothing left to give today. Yet, she still had a full schedule left to woo clients and work on her other projects. By the time Aelin trudged back to the subway, she was ready for a nice dinner at home followed by a restorative night of sleep with Fleetfoot at her side. 

Now, as she entered the subway, she immediately noticed the mystery man sitting down a few feet away from her. The man was moderately built, with muscles that were outlined by the fabric of his long sleeve t-shirt. His style was simple with a pair of nice jeans and Doc Marten boots, but that just allowed one's focus to settle on the beautiful creation that was his face. Mystery man had a strong jawline, lined with a bit of stubble and scruff. His eyes were a beautiful shade of green like none that she had seen before, his head topped with luscious silver hair. As the subway started, Mystery Man continued to sketch drawings into his book. Now, Aelin was never one to back  down from an opportunity to flirt with one of the most attractive men she had ever seen. She was a single woman in a big city, why the hell not. But her day had taken a toll on her, and she just didn’t know if this was the right time or place. So, she opted to put in her headphones as she waited for her stop, listening to relaxing music to calm her anxieties regarding the failed Havilliard pitch. 

 Seeing that her stop was next, Aelin rose from her seat to wait in line for the doors to open. As she waited, she felt a light tap on her shoulder. Low and behold, there was the Mystery Man standing next to her with a piece of paper in hand. As she pulled her headphone out, the man silently handed her the paper. Looking down, she saw a pencil sketch of herself on the subway. The drawing was beautifully done with bold lines and harsh shading, contrasted by highlights created from the fluorescent lights of the subway. Her eyes welled up, immediately grateful for this thoughtful gift after such a horrible day. The Mystery Man saw her emotions, startled to see tears welling up in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. I just… I like to draw and when I saw you… I mean, it’s just you’re so stunning..” The man’s face flushed red as he tried to justify his beautiful art. Aelin laughed out loud for the first time today at his misunderstanding of her swell of emotions. 

“Oh no, these are just tears of..uhmm.. happiness? I guess…” She started to flush at her own awkwardness, trying to explain her emotions this time.

“I just had a really rough day and feel like shit. But this drawing is beautiful and I really am grateful that such a talented artist like yourself chose me as your muse today.” Aelin watched as the Mystery Man reacted to such a lavish compliment, somehow developing an even deeper blush with a shy smile . Gaining confidence from his reaction, she decided to make her move before she exited for her upcoming stop. 

“Hey, Mystery Man, why don’t I give you my number? Seeing that I am your muse and all, I would really like to learn more about your art.” It was a subpar pickup line at best, but hey, she had a long day and for the circumstance she thought it good enough. The man gave a deep timbered laugh at her pickup line, clearly enjoying their conversation now. 

“I think I might be one step ahead of you actually. Flip the drawing over.” As she flipped the paper, she saw a messy scrawl with the name Rowan, and what she could only assume was his number. The sight of these two things brought her complete giddiness. Giddiness that made you want to jump in the air and pump your fist because you're so excited. She looked up at Rowan, smirking as she tucked the piece of paper into her purse.

As the subway doors opened and they were pushed apart by bypassers, she turned around one last time to look at the man who had brightened her day beyond belief. She winked at Rowan as she walked away, not missing the wide smile he gave in return as the subway doors closed and continued on to the next stop.

[yujikuna]

when the night is over

summary: bucky comes home to you after a long mission

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 2k

warnings: fluff, angst, and like two lines of smutty action

a/n: i always said i would never post my stuff on tumblr, but here i am. also, i’m sorry in advance. inspired by when the night is over by lord huron.

The white house across the field is illuminated like a mirage in the desert. The scene is picturesque in the way that dawn has begun to take over the sky, and the large willow tree that sits by the pond east of the house flutters in the breeze.

Every light is on, and the sconce above the front door is lit as a silent invitation for him to enter. Small lanterns line the path leading from the driveway to the porch, beckoning him forward.

He strips himself of his gear before he ascends the porch steps. There was no place for it there. This was holy ground not meant to be tainted by the dirt and blood caked on his soles and his heart. Each piece he takes off feels like a layer of skin being pulled back until he is left with only a bruised and tattered soul longing for solace. His boots are left in the yard.

The second step creaks under his weight and the rusted hinges of the screen door screech when he opens it. He would have liked to remember to fix them later, but all of his worries and responsibilities are forgotten as soon as he steps over the threshold into the metaphorical Eden that he shares with you.

There’s no need to knock. This is their sanctuary. A safe haven far, far away from the terrors of the world.

“Bucky? Is that you?”

Of course it’s him. It’s always him. No one else knows that this place exists.

His bare feet pad across the cold hardwood, following your voice and the smell of breakfast to the kitchen. It makes him think of someone else, someone older with blue eyes and brown hair like his who sang as they cooked and made him their certified taste-tester. But the thought is fleeting, and he pushes it away.

You’re a vision standing there in front of the stove. A dream. But you have to be real. There’s no way a man as twisted as he could ever create something as ethereal as you.

Bucky takes a moment to watch you. You’re humming and swaying to the song coming from the radio sitting by the window as you flip blueberry pancakes and sizzling bacon and stir scrambled eggs. He can’t see your face from where he’s standing, but he doesn’t need to.

He’s happy. He’s so utterly, devastatingly, happy that he can’t contain everything he feels within his cracked heart and has to let it pour out of him. Has to let it go wherever it can find a home. It always ends up finding its home with you.

He found his home with you.

He doesn’t think twice as he crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around your waist and bury his face in your hair, the strong scent of your shampoo tickling his nose. His titanium hand grasps your hip as his flesh one gathers your hair to push it over your right shoulder. You let out a soft sigh when you feel the tip of his nose trace a line from your shoulder up your neck, ending with a kiss behind your ear.

“If you want breakfast you’ll stop while you’re ahead, Sarge,” you tease. You don’t move away, though, just close your eyes and tilt your head back to rest on his broad shoulder.

“Don’t need food,” Bucky says, the words muffled by your neck. “Just need you.”

The song changes, slightly more up-beat than the one before, but he just presses his chest closer to your back. He feels seventeen again, swaying with you to the mellow jazz in the background. The hand that was holding your hair trails down your side, stops to give your hip a little squeeze, and then continues its journey to your leg.

His calloused palm is rough against the soft skin of your thigh. A hum falls from your lips when his fingertips dance across the peach fuzz there, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It travels upwards again, but stops at the delicate hem of silky fabric.

“This a new dress?” Bucky’s face is still burrowed in the juncture between your shoulder and neck, a grin on his face when he feels you try and fail to suppress a shiver at his lips moving across your skin when he asks the question.

“Mhm. Got it on sale a few weeks ago,” you say. The kitchen is quiet for a moment, only the sounds of soft music and sizzling bacon filling the silence before you speak again. “You’ve been gone so long, Bucky.”

“I know. ‘M sorry. ‘M here now, though.”

You turn in his arms to face him. Something warm that he hasn’t felt since he left bursts in his chest when he sees your face. He had been gone longer than usual this time. Mission after mission after mission-- they never seemed to end. But even after all that time, here you were, just as beautiful as always. It was like you never changed.

A smile takes over your face when you look at him. “Your hair’s longer,” you say, running your fingers through the tangled brown tresses before swiping your thumb across his cheek to remove a smudge of dirt. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up and breakfast will be ready by the time you get back?”

He wants to protest, wants to stay there in front of the stove with you and sway until the food is burnt and the sun finishes rising and sets again in the night. Wants to hold you until the house gives in on top of you and you both turn to dust and become one with the earth below.

He would be okay with that, content with the thought of his aching bones finally being laid to rest entwined with yours, but you just kiss the tip of your pointer finger and press it to the dimple of his chin before shooing him away and turning back to the food.

Breakfast is spent with you on his lap, his metal arm wrapped around your waist to keep you from getting up, the two of you basking in the first light of daybreak as it filters through the sheer curtains hanging on the window. In between bites he kisses your shoulder blade, and when you finish you cuddle against him while he goes back for seconds.

You’re so warm against him, and he can’t help but tuck his hand underneath your dress to feel the heat of your skin on his. He swears he can almost see his own breath.

‘S cold, he told you there in the kitchen. The furnace is acting up, you had replied. Another thing to add to the nonexistent list he was keeping.

Dishes are left on the table. Pans are left on the stove. The sink is so full that it’s overflowing to the counter. They’ll clean later. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. It can wait, but they can’t.

In the living room, a basket of laundry is taken from the couch and deposited on the arm chair instead. A stale cup of water from the night before is moved from the coffee table and poured into the overgrown pothos by the window and Bucky watches you sit the glass on the floor. It can wait.

It’s so achingly domestic, he thinks, coming home to a well-loved house and being well-loved by the woman in it. There are no false pretenses, no need for the two of them to pretend to be someone they’re not. It’s almost like he never left-- like time in the little white house in the field was frozen, allowing the two of you to pick back up exactly where you left off.

Bucky dutifully follows you to the couch, and the last of the tension in his body melts away when he opens his arms for you to fall in to.

He plans on staying there forever.

Soft touches and soft kisses and even softer words. The radio plays softly in the background as you tell him what he missed, and he listens diligently while you run your fingers through his hair. Eventually you pick up a thin book and a pen. You tried to show him how to solve the puzzle in front of you, but each time you looked at him you noticed the spaced out look and dopey smile he always got when he was watching you, and gave up soon after.

“…Six, seven, eight, nine.” The last number is nearly cut off by a choked giggle when you feel him start to kiss down your neck. He can tell you’re trying to ignore him, but he continues mapping his way down your body, looking up at you as he kisses the inside of your knee. “Bucky.”

The expression on your face is adorably stern, but the almost imperceptible quirk of your lips and the benign tone of your voice tells him everything he needs to know.

It’s there on the couch that he is given his final homecoming with your arms wrapped around him tightly and his hands, one warm and rough and the other smooth metal, grasping your legs. You’re a vision above him. A dream. Beautiful. Ethereal. He feels your warm breath ghost over his face and your eyelashes brush his cheek before you cum around him, a whispered ‘I love you’ and one final kiss urging him to follow. He would follow you anywhere. His beautiful girl. His home.

The air between the two of you is electric as you fall into his chest. He swears he can feel it in his fingertips, his toes, his brain, his heart. Every nerve in his body feels alive.

Another giggle and a slow, languid kiss is shared between you. “Do you think that was it?”

Bucky reclines on the couch, bringing you with him. “I hope so,” he mumbles into your hair. He pulls the discarded blanket over you to slow the creeping chill seeping into his bones. “We gotta get a move on if we’re gonna have four.”

You pinch his side and push yourself onto your elbows. “Four?” you ask, a teasing glint in your eye. “I’m pretty sure I agreed to one.”

“Nope, I vividly remember you telling me we could have as many as I want, and I want four.” The sun has set, but he ignores the darkness outside, instead focusing on your blissful smile and the way the soft light of the lamp on the table dances over your skin.

“Absolutely not. There’s no way I could handle four kids.”

“Okay,” he says, a cheeky grin on his face, “we’ll compromise and have six instead.”

“Six?” you squawk, your tone full of mirth. “Why stop there? We might as well have enough babies to fill an entire freight car.”

The electricity that runs through his body in response to your final two words is enough to make his jaw lock and his muscles seize. He can’t speak, can’t think, can’t hear your worried pleas for him to look at you.

Bucky wants it to stop. It’s too painful, too much, too soon, and he can see you above him still through the fog of his mind-- his shining sun. He can see you, can feel your hands on his face but you’re soon eclipsed by the current running through his body.

Too painful, too much, too soon. The night wasn’t over yet. He was supposed to still have time. Too soon, too soon, too soon.

Did he tell you he loved you? He knows he does, he knows you know, but did he tell you? He can’t see the sun anymore. Was it even there to begin with? He can’t remember.

Bucky closes his eyes, unable to move. He feels lost inside his own mind. Where was he?

When he opens them he thinks he sees the sun. But it’s not soft daylight being filtered through lace curtains or your warmth melting him down to his core. It’s harsh and white and he’s so, so cold.

A man steps in front of his chair.

“Доброе утро, солдат.”

“Я жду приказаний.”

[ajbwasntwriting]

Daughter!Reader X Negan, Reader x Daryl: Chapter 1. Darling Princess

Next

After the sneak peak tested well I decided to post the first chapter. I have many more already written and in the making but I’ll only post them if this gets a good reaction so please if you enjoy this please heart it, reblog it, and/or reply to it. Interaction inspires.

Sucking on another cigarette the stale tobacco burned your throat in a way you would’ve been disgusted by years ago. You looked out your window down at the gate, walkers pulling at it to try and get in. It had been a couple of years since Negan took power and more than long enough for you to feel trapped. You held the smoke in your lungs, a small part of your brain wishing it would ignite inside you and let you combust, before letting it out slow and smooth. Luxuries like this were meant to last. Another luxury was the leather loveseat you were sitting on, and the black and blue mosaic coffee table your feet and ashtray were on, and the acoustic gibson on your lap.

You placed the smoke between your lips to free your hand so you could strum the strings. You were playing an old rock balled your old man had taught you what felt like a life-time ago. He didn’t teach you to play guitar but when you came back from scouts playing campfire songs he insisted on teaching you some real music. You thought back on how many of his guitar strings you broke before that Christmas he bought you your own Washburn. The strings seemed to break less when the instrument was more your size. Those memories felt so distant now. As if they belonged to another person or were part of a movie you watched. The lyrics of the tune you were playing were on the cusp of coming back to you when your door opened violently somewhere behind you.

“My dearest daughter” Negan spoke as he entered your private room. You likened his new way of talking to that of a TV presenter. Always having to keep people on their toes. You used to think it funny when you were a kid but it wasn’t part of his personality then. “What are you doing here? Dinner was half an hour ago.”

“I’m not hungry” you shot back not even turning to face him, which would have been easy since the chair sat with its side to the window, but the walkers chewing on the fence were far more interesting.

“Y/N, don’t lie to me. You said the same at breakfast.” He sauntered over. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Lucille wasn’t with him.

“Food I didn’t earn doesn’t sate my appetite” you shot back, leaning forward to put out your smoke in the ashtray. That must have stirred something within him because the next thing you know you were grabbed by your arm and dragged out of your room, the guitar hitting the ground with a sorry sound. You let him drag you without protest, knowing better.

You were pulled into a plush dining room, immaculately furnished with white cushioned chair and a long oak table, set with silver cutlery. There were five sets in total for you, your father, and three of his ‘wives’. You figured this was some sort of ‘happy family’ play he’d act out but you didn’t know who the viewer was. You? The wives? The men? Or maybe knowing you didn’t want to be here was entertainment enough.

You were shoved into a chair next to the head of the table across from Frankie. She looked comfortable while nursing her drink but you reckoned that wasn’t her first. In front of her sat a bottle of vodka, distilled on-site by worker number 12. Fat Joey was filling the bowls with soup when your father shoved your chair in. He plopped himself into the chair next to you at the head of the table.

“Now isn’t this nice. A big happy family dinner before your old man takes off tomorrow.” You didn’t dignify him with a reply, instead motioning to the bottle of vodka in front of you. 

“May I have some, Frankie?” she looked at the bottle then smiled at you 

“Go ahead, Princess”. You picked up the bottle and filled your glass half-way to spite her for that nickname. 

“Thank you” you tried to be civil, as badly as you wanted to just walk off with the bottle, you sipped your glass instead.

You silently started the soup. The veggies were cut into large pieces. Perfect, chewing gave you a reason not to talk to the dickhead to your left. Your eyes were too buried in your soup to see the other two wives staring at you and your father who was boring holes into your head with his eyes.

“How was your day, Y/N?” Tanya perked up

“Same as yours” you replied with a mouth full of carrot and potato

Silence

“Where are you going tomorrow Negan?” Nicolle added.

“Ladies.” Your father spoke out, his tone showing his distinct lack of patience. “I’m not an idiot. I can tell that our darling daughter doesn’t want to share our company.”

“I made that obvious in my room.” Your spoon fell gracelessly into your bowl. “Why am I here?!” 

He reached over and rubbed your cheek affectionately. “Because I love you. And!” he punctuated the final word by raising a finger in front of your face, a silent cue to wait. He stood up from his chair and took off out of the room and down the hall. You took this moment to talk to his wives.

“You don’t have to be nice to me,” you said before starting to shovel soup into your mouth.

“Like hell, we don't.” Frankie retorted, earning a short child from one of the others. You chuckled and swallowed the food in your mouth. You picked up your glass and gestured it at Frankie

“Take notes, Ladies. Frankie doesn’t try bullshit on me” Frankie gestured her glass back. You guessed she’d been in a similar situation, forced to get along with people because it was easier. She didn’t try to be your friend because you knew you wouldn’t appreciate it, which in a weird turn of events you appreciated.

Your father arrived back. It was now you noticed he was a lot cleaner than usual, even the signature leather jacket had left him. Now you were alarmed. In his hands was a pink box with a purple bow. He placed it in front of you and kissed the top of your head. “Happy Birthday, Y/N.”

“Is it my birthday?” you asked, not quite sure. Time had become a blur since the end of the world. You pushed your bowl away to bring the box in front of you.

“Give or take a few months. I know I’ve missed a couple what with...everything...so this will count for at least one of them.” He placed a hand on your shoulder giving it a little squeeze, your own hand finding its way on top “There’s a lot more gifts coming for my princess, don't you worry.” You couldn’t help the smile that came to you, giggling slightly. You looked up at him, seeing nothing but unconditional love being sent back your way 

“Dad, it’s alright.” You smiled and turned back to your gift. The wives were now watching, captivated by this little bit of humanity at the end of it all. You gingerly opened the bow and lifted the lid off.

Inside lay a military knife, clearly hand-made on-site with a beautiful leather handle and your name carved into the side in cursive. You released a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. You picked it up, finding it fits in your hand perfectly. 

“It’s beautiful” you near-whispered, watching as the candle lights hit against the metal. In a moment it was lodged in the table a mere inch from Tanya’s hand. You kicked back your chair, making your father step back, and grabbed the vodka bottle in one motion. “Now if only I had a reason to fucking use it” you spat as you stormed out of the room.

Back in your room, you sat in the corner with your head against the cold-glass window, looking down at the dead, only illuminated by the moon. You had killed so many of them before arriving at Sanctuary. Hell, you’d say you saved your old man’s ass more than he saved you...but he was a people’s person. Ruthless. But a people’s person. ‘Let me do my thing and I’ll have these assholes sucking my dick in days’.

That was a different age. Back when your father was a teacher. Back when your mother was sick. Back when your father cheated on her with anything with a pulse and she took it out on you. Back when your mother’s treatment and your father’s lifestyle drained your college fund and you had to enlist. Back when she’d attack you, both emotionally and physically, and you took it cause you knew she was in pain.  Back when you had come home from a 16-month mission because her condition had worsened. Back when the world went to shit. Back when you had to put her down because your sleazeball of a father wasn’t man enough to do it. You looked down at the dead and thought, if you reached your hands through the wires...you could be back with your mom.

Your door opened slowly, heavy footsteps coming your way. There was no need to look. Only one person would enter your room without knocking. “You scared Tanya back there, Princess.” your father spoke in a low voice. 

“She can take it” you croaked, a clear sign you had been crying. He kneeled down beside you. In the reflection of the window, you could see him holding out the knife.

“Please take it.” You turned around, your back now pressed to the window.

“Why?”

“You need to be able to protect yourself”

“Give me a gun then”

“No.”

“Why? Scared I’d leave.” You took a swig of your drink. 

“I see you’re upset-”

“Do you?! Do you really?” you cut him short, stumbling to your feet using the window to push yourself up. “Why am I upset? Because I eat food I don’t deserve? Because you make people die for me? Because you have me trapped in a fucking tower like Repunzel or some shit!?” That earned a chuckle from him, which only served to piss you off. “I should be down there earning my bit just like everyone else.”

“Do we have to go over this again?” He sighed dramatically. He cupped your face, the knife now dangerously close to you. “You're my daughter Y/N. My darling baby girl. My precious princess”

“I was twenty-six when this shit hit, dad” you mumbled through your squished cheeks. He gave them a little loving slap.

“You're valuable to me, which means some people might want to hurt you. You eat to stay alive, people die because they’re stupid, and you live in this room on this floor so you can be kept safe.” you blew him off with a wave of your hand and an angry sigh. You pushed passed him to your bed, twirling to sit on it and start taking off your combat boots. He walked over and lodged the knife in your headboard before kneeling down to look up at you. “I have to go out for a while. Find this Rick Grimes asshole and get some payback for the fifteen men he killed at our outpost.”

A chill went up your spine “The one near the hilltop settlement” you whispered. 

“That’s right.” You looked him in the eye, not noticing how your lip quivered.

“You don’t have too.” you didn’t know if it was the booze or genuine worry for human life but you found yourself begging. “We have more than enough peo-” he shushed you soothingly, his hand coming up to your cheek, rubbing soothing circles. 

“Oh but you know I have too, and while I’m gone I don’t want anyone to get ideas on what they can do to you so” he nodded towards the knife. You pulled it out of the wall, looking it over before nodding, mouthing ‘okay’ and depositing it in your nightstand table. He kissed your forehead before leaving, wishing you a good night. Once again alone you took two large gulps of your drink and laid down.

Edit: For creative reasons Y/N is now 26 at the beginning of the apocalypse instead of the original 24

[capriciouslyterminal]

Wolves Don’t Do True Love’s Kiss

(Aka I wrote an Ishimondo Wolf Among Us oneshot thing instead of editing a paper and I’ve never posted my writing on tumblr before).

~Full idea credit goes to @andy-deer​ and his amazing art if you like Danganronpa or just cool art you really should follow him~

~Mondo’s the big bad wolf, Ishimaru’s the blind prince from Rapunzel. I know in the original fairytale I think the prince is blinded by thorns but listen a version of him being blinded by snakes lives in my brain from somewhere and I couldn’t not write it.~

~P.S. I don’t know that much about Wolf Among Us and I am sorry about that~

Mondo Oowada had been having the same dream a lot lately, ever since that night he shoved the guy who used to be The Minotaur through the display case of a yarn shop.

Normally he and the other fables didn’t have such violent altercations now that he split off from the pack, but then the detective called in a fucking favor from the big bad wolf himself.

And what else was he supposed to do? When the guy wouldn’t own up to the blood of all those teenagers stuck in his teeth and he wanted to put his horns through the dancing princess turned detective and her naive sidekick?

If he’d known the whole thing was going to lead to a blind prince from another story storming up to his apartment from the DA’s office to yell at him about property damage and chances of exposing the whole fable community at two in the morning while he was trying to sleep of the few times he got gored, he wouldn’t have bothered. 

It really wasn’t his fault The Minotaur couldn’t afford enough glamor to withstand a single punch. And he’d told the annoying little shit as much, but the whole thing inevitably meant that he was seeing a lot of Kiyotaka Ishimaru whenever he was roped into being the muscle behind Kirigiri’s investigations. Which was fine. And normal.

But then the dreams started after that night at the bar, and everything changed.

~*~

He doesn’t know when it changed, when he went from running in the forest of his mind on four feet to two as he slept.

He never lost the sights or the smells of the old forest that had no name. But now he ran it as a man. No matter the wolf he would always be deep in his heart.

It was something like when his brother died. He’d been too young, hadn’t even finished cutting his teeth, when he was shunted from the dreams of hurtling through the night at the front of the pack to hurtling alone through the end of days.

There the isolation was a nightmare, a punishment, but this is not the same. This is a simple shifting of reality.

Sometimes he wonders, looking at the webs of veins stretched under the skin on the backs of his hands in the gray light of morning, when the glamor started to feel more real than his body. 

When he grew so used to the delicate tapping of hands, to standing tall and far from the ground, that the memory of the nights spent slinking through the shadows on his belly faded. He would never truly know when that was lost.

All that meant was that now, whenever he had to shift back, it was no longer the shrugging off of a costume like in the early days in this new town. 

It was shouldering back into an old coat, ill-fitting and smelling of pine, that stretched at the seams to hold him.

He was freezing now, dreaming, skin unprotected from the winter that could steal the breath from your lungs. He was running towards the tower with a panting in his heart and a frenzied howl in his mind. 

~*~

He mentioned it only once, over drinks.

Or, well, more specifically, only Mondo had the real drinks. Something old and amber that burned as it went down. Something served in a glass of gently melting ice that was always refilled whenever he shot a slip of teeth to the bartender and flexed his bloody knuckles while eyeing the shelves of glassware behind him.

The bartender in another life, another place, not that it mattered much anymore, had been a pig. Mondo could tell not just from the swell of his pale throat and the slight tilt of his nose, but the fear that sprang in the air as soon as Mondo had entered that first night in town. The man froze like he was still the prey.

As soon as he’d entered the establishment for the first time, and seen the bartender shakily reach to stroke the brick wall for comfort, he knew the little pig remembered him. Mondo hadn’t paid for drinks in four years, and he hadn’t even needed to threaten to blow down the joint.

Not that he would do that anymore. Now, with cigarettes and cash in the pockets of his long coat, he would have had some complaints for the structure of the building and nothing more to add. Now, he could have figured out how to bring it down with his fist in moments instead of having to empty his lungs.  

Getting Kiyotaka within the brickwork bar’s confines had been an accomplishment of its own, a sign of respect for their still growing friendship that made Mondo swell with pride and grin to himself at the sight of an old world prince crammed into a booth at his favorite dingy bar.

The first time he asked for drinks after a successful arrest, and had seen Kiyotaka nod against the neon backdrop of the city with an uncertain smile, he’d practically howled with glee. If he still had his tail it would have wagged.

 But getting him to sip anything harder than soda water was a losing man’s game.

~*~

The pines are so familiar he could think of them as his own brothers, feeding the deer whose innards he lived on before he found new villages to savage. Even as he left the skin of the wolf, he would never be free of this forest that still shuddered with his howls if he stopped to listen.

But the tower, crooked and dark against the snowy sky, is new. Rising from the thorny ground as if it had been summoned from Hell itself.

A break in the tree-line, a monument of dark stone frozen in a twisting shudder as it reached for the clouds. The single shining yellow window gleams like an eye watching him approach. 

If he saw eyes like than in an animal he’d think it was rotting from the inside out. He wouldn’t eat it, and instead leave it to bleed sluggishly into the soft earth.

The tower is sick.

A man is climbing it.

~*~

He’d been five drinks deep, warm in the belly and ready to curl up by the golden hearth that kept the bar warm, when it finally happened. He hadn’t actually curled up by a hearth in years, and would only consider it after five more drinks.

But needless to say, he was drowning in golden comfort when he’d asked about the tower. 

When he felt the air that had been so warm a moment ago freeze as the words left his mouth. A question that had been scratching at the backdoor of his mind since Kiyotaka had pounded on his door and demanded Mondo put on a proper glamor when he accidentally grabbed a hunk of his hair.

“It just doesn’t seem like you,” Mondo said. The words slurred, flowing between his teeth and tongue like a river. “A blind prince of all fuckin’ people. Breaking and entering.”

There was that twitch of an eyebrow, displeasure kept on a tight leash, that made Mondo’s heart clench with fondness. 

It was a feeling like he swallowed the sun, his gut full of light, only for it try to kick its way back up out of his throat.

“I wasn’t always–I did not break anything! And I entered with permission.” 

Kiyotaka had discovered the napkin dispenser on the table earlier in the night, sopping up a ring of condensation that Mondo had been happy to leave to sink into the table. He made use of it now, and quickly shredded a napkin between his pale fingers.

“Come off it, man.” Mondo chuckled, raised the glass to his lips, and took another swig. “What would permission to break into a tower in the middle of the fuckin’ woods even sound like?”

“I didn’t break into her tower.” Even blind, Kiyotaka knew how to glare with the best of them. Another napkin was plucked from the table, but he worried at it for a bit longer this time.

“She was screaming,” Kiyotaka said. “I was nearby, hunting, and at first I thought it was the wind. But then I really listened. And she was screaming.”

~*~

The man is up higher than the treetops, clutching the stones of the tower with his bare hands. The wind is whispering, the clouds humming in anticipation.

Mondo breaks into the space, and a name rings out like a bell in his throat. He howls with it, staring up at the figure as he runs. He is too far away to catch him should anything happen.

When the man turns to look down, all Mondo can see is the red pinprick of his eyes burning against the grey eternity of the sky. And his hands.

His fingers are bloody at the tips, streaks of crimson left on the stones. He broke his nails against the brick of the tower, flecks of scratched into his pale skin. He surely has been climbing for days and is nowhere closer to the top.

Even as he runs, Mondo knows that though he has hands, he cannot climb fast enough to reach him.

“Stop!” He hears himself roar. “You’ll fall.”

The man looks down, and Mondo feels his smile on the wind. He is weeping, tears freezing before they reach the ground to shatter into icy shards.

~*~

“What did you hunt?” Mondo was not sure where the words came from inside of him.

Kiyotaka’s sightless eyes were pale flecks of ice under his furrowed brow. He crumpled the napkin in his hands, and immediately tried to smooth it out with a regretful twist to his mouth.

“I don’t know for sure anymore…it was so long ago. But there was talk of a wolf, I think.”

He let the space hang between them, gave Mondo a chance to haul him up by his collar with a growl. But the rage never came. Mondo knew him now.

He continued on.

“I wasn’t much of a hunter. But I knew that my grandfather should have–,” his voice melted as it always did when the old king came into the conversation. “It is the royal family’s duty to protect their people.”

The freezing slush of the past seeped down Mondo’s spine. For a second he almost could see his breath, as if the old forest had risen back up around him.

For a second he could almost imagine it. Them meeting there. 

He could imagine himself standing on all fours heaving, staring into burning red eyes against a dark and ancient sky. A figure fit to stop his rampaging ways. Not a woodsman, crude and homely, but a prince. 

Would he have used a bow? A sword? What would have come first? A slice through Mondo’s belly or Mondo’s teeth in his neck?

But those times were long gone, and the quiet murmur of bar patrons tethered the two of them in the present.

“She screamed, and I followed the sound…and I found the tower. I called up to her.”

Mondo could imagine that with ease. Kiyotaka thundering out of the forest like a madman, yelling up at a witch’s tower to try and ascertain if a screaming woman needed his help. 

Kiyotaka trying to figure out the best way to help her as the sun went down and the temperature fell. 

Kiyotaka shedding a finely embroidered coat to climb a random ass tower despite any good sense he might have been taught.

His princely fingers, tapered and gentle.

“I thought she had lowered a rope. I didn’t know until I held it in my hands that it was her hair. Sometimes I can still feel the slick weight it.” 

His hands clenched, old scars scraped into the pads of his fingertips drawing across the table.

~*~

The man leans back, and with the gentle gasp of the wind, he falls.

Mondo is sure his heart falls with him

~*~

“She was so young. And so frightened, Mondo. I don’t think I’ll ever forget her face,” Kiyotaka said, stricken. “Her hair falling to the floor.”

Mondo was only aware of the thundering breaths he drew in and had to focus to release with care. The howling of the wind was still inside of him, screaming to be let out.

“I promised her I’d help her, find a way to get her out of that place. I had to.  It was a single room and it was freezing. In the middle of winter! Imagine it, Mondo, a single stone room is all you know for eighteen years. I think I was the first man she’d ever seen. She stared at me like she couldn’t understand what I was. She held my hands and…and she wept.”

His hands were shaking bad. Mondo focused on his breath and felt claws scrape somewhere down deep with his bones, hiding under the skin of a man.

“I promised her I’d help her because that was my duty to my people. Because she deserved more than to be a witch’s prisoner. I promised her that I’d keep her safe. I just needed a ladder, something so she could climb down. I had to go back for one, and she didn’t want to let go of my hand. I had to pry her fingers off my wrist. She cried after me.” He admitted it like some shame, like something heavy on his chest that Mondo understood.

“It took a full day’s ride to return. I hadn’t realized how far I’d travelled. And as soon as I found a ladder long enough I turned and went straight back. I think I almost killed my horse, but I couldn’t stop to think.” 

The words were falling out of him faster and faster. Mondo didn’t know how to stop him.

“When I got back, when I called up to her, there was no sound. She tossed nothing down for me. So I climbed on my own.” His fingertips twitched, a sardonic grin followed them and looked wrong on his face. “But I was too late. I wasn’t fast enough. She was not there to greet me upon my return. But the witch was.”

~*~

The man is caught in thorns. His fine clothes in the style of their homeland torn and dirtied. He is bleeding from his crown and moaning, but he does not scream. His bones are broken, his skin is bloody, his eyes are screwed tightly shut.

Mondo feels something terrible will happen once he opens them.

The snakes are looming, dry static across the ground.

Mondo flings himself into the thorns on instinct bred by his old skin and bellows at the pain of it.

~*~

Mondo suddenly reached out, on instinct bred by his old skin, and felt himself take Kiyotaka’s hand.

The prince of the old world was startled. Mondo heard the stutter of his heart. The gasp of his breath.

Mondo knew a want like a chasm, stretching and straining from his chest through his whole body. It drove him to hunt, to shatter, to shrink his pupils to slits, and to take all the world had with a guttural howl. This want shuddered through his body at the sight of Kiyotaka, golden in the light, parting his lips to speak.

He wants–he wants–he wants–

In a way he had not wanted since the old days.

~*~

He rips into the throats and bellies of snake after snake. He tears scale and muscle with his teeth and flings the corpses away with his hands until the ground is littered with them.

Only when they are all dead, when the root-like curve of their bodies are all he can see, does he turn back to the man. He whimpers and the tears leak from under his closed eyes. He is beautiful.

Mondo takes his face in his hands, feels the sharp press of his cheekbone against the palm of his hand, and moves close enough to feel the warmth of his shuddering breath on his face. Holding him close, their foreheads almost touching.

Mondo feels the venom drip from his lips now, venom from the throats of the snakes that would fall to the man’s eyes and have force him cry out while his body recoiled. Venom that would steal his sight and cast his eyes in icy nothingness.

But it is all he can do to press even closer, feel the man’s heart beat in one with his own, and ghost his lips over the chilled ones.

The man screams into the kiss, and Mondo howls with him.

He always wakes in a cold sweat, and the moon is full and staring down at him from the sky.

~*~

Kiyotaka had continued the story, Mondo had not listened, too entranced by the simple impossibility of holding Kiyotaka’s hand.

“I think she kept her there the whole time, Mondo. And I don’t know what I wanted to do but that woman…she told me I had failed to protect the girl and she–she grabbed me and…” 

Mondo could hear Kiyotaka’s heart thundering in his chest. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, tears welling up the creases of his eyes. It was like he could feel Mondo looking at him even as he kept his eyes downcast.

“And I fell.” His voice was hardly a rasp, utterly hollow. 

Again, Mondo moved on instinct.

Pulling Kiyotaka to him felt like coming home, squeezing his arms around his back as tight as he dared felt like obeying a rule of the new world. Like casting a glamor.

“Hey man, it’s alright now,” Mondo murmured. Something warm blossomed through the want in his chest, and it coated his voice.

“Mondo.” Kiyotaka’s voice was strangled, his arms hovered above Mondo’s back, as if he were unsure how to put them down.

“None of that shit matters anymore, yeah? You’re here now. With me. And I wouldn’t let anything like that happen to you again, swear on my fuckin’ life.”

Kiyotaka took in a shaking breath that hitched in his chest.

“We’re out of the woods, Taka. You and me.”

Kiyotaka let out the slightest sob, equal parts relieved and haunted, and finally wrapped his arms around Mondo. He surrendered himself into the embrace, and Mondo felt everything inside of him shift as Kiyotaka Ishimaru took up residence within the beating of his heart.

And everything changed, simple as that.

~Thank you for reading this, if you did! And thank you again to @andy-deer for their amazing art which has made me smile any day when I was feeling particularly down~

[ewgoals]

50 Reasons why

Plot: Harry and Y/N have had an on and off relationship for 4 years, They truly feel like true love was what kept them together but nobody will take control.They had a beautiful baby boy together and the love they share was pure so pure that Harry decides to try and take control even if it was too late  and the woman he called his wife was over him. 

A/N: The Plot Is  short but the story is long, complex and beautiful. It’s based on a true story. Please listen to the song while you are listening Via Spotify or apple music, Please it makes it so much better! I have a youtube link. I said that Harry wrote and sung the song but it was a musical named rent if you don’t know lol Let me know if you want a part two 

Link: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=-9pvtRwaKHY 

Triggers: Angst, Smut, Fluff, Tears?, Heart break. 

Word Count: 5,843 

Harry was up all night, that’s how it’s been the last few days he couldn’t sleep without Y/N by his side. Harry knows that he did this to himself from pulling away from his former wife, when he began to struggle with his own personal demons. Harry finally sat up as he saw the light coming through the blinds of his home, he looked at his phone for a moment just hoping to get even the smallest text from his former lover but it was sadly nothing. Harry finally decided that he needed to take control of this situation, he needed his feelings to be out there and for Y/N to understand what he truly felt. 

This gave Harry the amazing idea, he was going to mix a romantic gesture with him pouring out his heart. This was going to start with Harry writing an emotional letter for the woman that he loved before words, he then ordered 50 roses and sent them to Y/N home after he checked with a couple of friends that she still lived there. This of course was Harry’s favorite thing that he’s done for a little while and he was beyond excited about finally having some control. 

Y/N and Harry have been talking every night since Y/N reached out, making sure her ex husband was okay. She never wanted to put him in a bad place, but she knew that it was for the better that they split up even if the divorce was rough enough on both of them. Y/N was shocked when she woke up to his friend calling her from downstairs, the woman rushed down the stairs in fear of something much more horrible. Y/N covered her mouth as she looked around at the 50 dozen roses that filled her living room and dining room. 

Roger looked at his best friend before saying “Girl he wants you back so bad” Y/N looked around just as shocked before grabbing a letter that was kept separate from the roses which made her smile seeing Harry’s handwriting “I’ll read these to you just because you are here” The woman admitted before her best friend nodded as he watched her open the letter “Okay here we go” the woman said shaking her head as she began reading.

“I know that you told me not to write this and normally I would listen but  I can’t help it, I saw this post that I made for you that was written like a year ago I think and it was crazy because you don’t think you could ever add to a post like that. I could though, it was talking about how you make me feel all of these things! I wasn’t sure how it was possible to add more but once I actually sat down and began thinking about how I could it was easy as hell. I’ll show you the post so you know which one I’m talking about.” The woman’s eyes were already filling with tears as she began to read the post Harry wrote for her on her birthday last year. 

“My Love,

As I am writing, I have a million thoughts running through my mind. This letter is meant to be a testament to the feelings I feel for you –  you are the one person that can put a smile on my face, even on those days when I am feeling down. You are the reason I am able to lay in bed and fall asleep peacefully. Looking at it, you have offered me new opportunities that no other person would be able to offer me.  As you lay next to me in bed sleeping, I lay there and wonder what I did to get so lucky in my life.

 You are the one that has reached out and showed me the true meaning of what it feels like to be in peace. There is no other person in this world that could have done that for me. It amazes me that someone with such outer beauty as so much inside her as well.  I feel like I am floating when I am with you. My days get brighter when I am with you. I still manage to get these butterflies when I see you. I guess overall I love you. “ Y/N shook her head as she sniffled trying to get herself to compose herself once before she looked at her friend “Please Read the rest” she asked as Y/B/F/N took the letter and began with the next page 

“I wrote that on 10/23 that was literally 3 days after you and I got together. That was the day I meant the love of my life and the woman would become the mother of my children, I told you last night but let me rephrase so everyone can see it. 

I may not show all the time and that’s because I’m shitty at human emotions but you are the most important person to me. When I’m down you bring me up without realizing you are. When I’m beyond crazy you manage to bring me back down to earth I didn’t wanna tell you because it goes back to the whole “what the fuck does this beautiful ass woman see in me like?” And that goes back to the whole I don’t think I’m worthy of love but you truly make me like I’m worthy even though I fuck up nonstop you still manage to love me even when I’m stupid as shit.” Roger stooped as he began to run his hand up and down his friend’s back “He is quite the words man” this caused them both to chuckle as her friend went on 

“I mean every word of that ten times over, no matter what stupid shit I do you manage to find a way to forgive me. Y/N from all the adventures we go on from fucking around and getting hitched in Vegas, to getting married in Paris or maybe me trying to drown you bora bora. That is still not confirmed, I’m only joking but I don’t feel like there are enough words to describe our relationship hell our marriage. Happy birthday to the love of my life, you still manage to keep on my toes but I think that’s because of how amazing you.” Roger  gasped “that’s what he wrote for your birthday? I can barely get laid from mine” Y/N laughed as she ran her hand over where her ring used to see as she took the paper and read the last paragraph 

“I found that post still saved in my phone and if I’m honest it started off a long list of things that I miss about you and I’ll break that down one by one so give me a minute haha, I’m going to call this the 50 reasons why I love you and the reason why I think we should try just once more and If it doesn’t work then that’s fine and the reason it’s fine is that we have such an amazing friendship that I don’t ever wanna lose. You give me hope even when I am hopeless. I can use all of those typical relationship quotes and for once I understand why they are like that. Okay fine I’ll get one with my list haha.” 

Y/N brain finally connected the dots as she looked around at all of the roses “They are in order from number 50” the woman shook her head as she looked at the roses once more, this was going to be a long night. Y/N quickly got started as she picked up the number 50 

“50.) I like the way you look at me.

I don’t know it’s possible but when you look at me, I feel this flutter in my chest telling me that I just saw the most beautiful woman look at me. I am also in a position where your eyes tell me so much more than you ever want to let one.” Y/N smiled sweetly as she kept going on 

“49.) Your Skin Care 

I don’t think I could tell you what you are actually doing when you start the process but I can tell you that I love how you almost become instantly relaxed when you start it and I love seeing that. I love to see how you can wind down from your day and just a little face cream helps you so much with that. “ Y/N looked at her best friend as ran her finger through her hair before giggling “He used to literally roll his eyes everytime I would even begin” Y/N shook her head as she smiled a little before she grabbed the next card 

“48.) Those Legs 

I love the feeling of running my hands up and down your legs, the way they curve so perfectly, and the length. Please don’t get me started because I don’t think I could stop. They are smooth and always smell so good.” Roger  laughed as he lightly smacked her thigh “told you those legs were killer”  Y/N laughed  as she shook her head “Next one” she said        

“47.) Your Touch 

The way you used to just run your fingers over my arm or trace outlines on my chest. I used to always look down at you and the minute I felt the tips of your fingers, I would freeze only for a second but that’s because I was shocked you were there.” Y/N looked down at the card as she closed her eyes “I don’t think I can truly get through these” The woman smiled but she kept going  

“46.) When you Play with my Hair 

This doesn’t get enough credit and I took advantage of it. When I used to lay on your chest and just listen to your heart you would run your fingers through my hair and I would always feel my heart speed up because it felt so good. It felt like you were giving my head the greatest massage of all time” . 

“45.) You see the positives when I see Negatives. 

I could come to you about something as simple as wanting to know what I should have for lunch and you can give me a whole pro list of different places I could eat. You literally turn every point in our life positively just by counteracting my negative. It makes us work really well but it also shows me how I should look at the world.”

44.) How you used to rub my back 

I know this sounds like I am repeating myself but I’m not. You used to straddle my waist and rub my back after the gym, It would give me this relaxing feeling and the way your fingers worked the muscles that were sore out and made me feel like I was jello. I can’t thank you enough...

43.) When You Picked Me 

I don’t think anyone was as shocked as me when it happened, I slide into your DMS a nervous man knowing that you had just gotten out of a relationship but I kept my heart open to the small chance I had. When you agreed to go on that date with me I couldn’t even believe it like Why was she settling but I thank my lucky stars for the day over and over. 

42.) When You Just Wanted To Cuddle.

I would wake up and have to get up for the gym but you would always pull me back down and ask for five more minutes and the minutes I got a smell of your hair I couldn’t say no. I would have to stay for five more minutes. 

41.) The Way You Wake Up. 

You always sit up and stretch before you look over at me and lean in to kiss me, I would always try to turn it into a little bit more but you would always say that your breath stunk and I remember that I could never bring it to your attention that I never smelt your breath, I was to busy focusing on my beautiful wife. 

40.) Your Feet At Night.

You know that I hate feet with a passion but I love the way you bury your feet under my legs when you get cold when we are together. I used to hate it now that I don't have it. I just miss it. 

39.) We Could Watch Cartoons Together. 

I never figured that would be something that made me love someone but it truly made me love you more, I could put Peppa pig on but we could still cuddle and just read. 

38.) I’ll Always Remember Your Favorite Flower

  I will always make sure to have your favorite bouquet of flowers and I will always know that they need to be a dark red because Maroon is one of your favorite colors. 

37.) Your Ankles. 

I remember when I would be messing around with you, I would always grab your ankle. I would leave a kiss on your ankle, I would hold your ankle. I think I don’t want to admit how much I love kissing your ankle. 

36.) You never make me feel dumb. 

You are genuinely one of the smartest people I know and somehow you’ve never made me feel like I was less because I don’t know as much as you but you would even try to explain it to her. 

35.) How you watch your favorite show, 

I’ve noticed that you would religiously watch the same show over and over and that would drive me insane now I find myself watching them just to think you are here. 

34.) How You Pull Me Closer.

I would try not to fall asleep first but the minute I did, I would feel you pull me closer and keep me close until you either felt safe or just content. I would love every minute I remember. 

33.) Your Dancing 

You always dance like nobody's watching and I love that. I love the way you mix current music and start doing the boogie haha I also love the way you twerk lol 

32.) Your Quick Replies 

I would feel myself becoming closer to snapping and you would always lighten my mood with a little small quick roast, It would always make me feel better. 

31.) Your Love For Dogs 

I’ve never seen someone care about our living things, I would always be a little shy about them at first but you would go and bear hug the dog no matter what haha. 

The next ten flowers were  labeled NSFW which meant that Y/N was’t going to read them out loud but her friend was quick to put that idea down “Nope, I’m emotionally invested you need to read them all” Y/N blushed before nodding as she looked at the next card reading loudly 

“30.) Your moans

Those are literally crack, I would hear that moan and it would get me ready almost instantly. I hear the moan almost every night and well let’s just say I miss hearing it in person.”  Y/N was blushing already as her best friend laughed “Oh this is adorable keep going”  

“29.) Your Whispers

I don’t know if you thought I could hear but when you whisper in my ear, I feel myself almost buckling at my knees and smiling just because I know exactly where to touch to make those moans come out.” 

“28.) Your Nails 

I miss the way your nail would run down my back, they could be long or short. They were just this naturally fuck me harder button and I swear every time you did it I was ready for you all over again.” 

“27.) Your Taste. 

This is not a place that I can beat around the bush, I miss the feeling of going down on you. I miss feeling those fingers in my hair as I eat the most amazing peach that I could’ve ever tasted in my life” Roger laughed as he held his chest “Girl you better get back with him, that alone would have be running back” Y/N covered her face as she closed her eyes “Okay next one” 

“26.) Your Lips

I miss how those lips felt against mine, they are the softest things I’ve ever kissed, and the way you bit your bottom lip is just unreal.”

“25.) Your Smirk

You only use this when you know you’ve won and it’s my favorite thing about getting to admit defeat. That smirk you have when you crawl back on top of me. A man could  fall in love with that.” 

“24.) Your Ass 

How is it I can picture your ass and I could tell you the curves of the perfect tanned ass. I love how you reacted when  I finally smack your ass. You gasp and use that damn smirk.” 

“23.) Your boobs 

I still love the feeling of kissing down your chest as I run my hands over your amazing breasts, they are soft and fit perfectly in my hands. I can tease you so much because of it.” 

“22.) Those Kisses 

I always remember when you would be giving me a blow job, You would always leave these kisses on my inner thighs. Those still drive me wild but Nobody could do it like you.” Y/N smiled as she shook her head “Girl you need to teach me your tricks. You got this boy pussy whipped” Y/N slapped Roger’s chest “Shut up” 

“21.) The way you pull my hair. 

I’ve learned that you grab onto many things, my hair is a perfect victim but god is it such a turn on. I could feel myself slipping away because you wore me out but the minute you pulled my hair I was back into it. “

“20.) The way you take control when you want it. 

 I loved watching you ride me, I get the perfect view of those amazing perfect breasts in my face but I also get to see you take control and that is so sexy. “ 

Y/N finally looked up at Roger before closing her eyes “I have 20 more reasons why he loves me and I have no words to say anymore” Roger smiled as nodded “come on girl 20 more” 

“19:) How well we fit together

I would begin that I could marry someone who just sleeps well and I did. Our bodies just fit perfectly to the point that I could never think that anything could be better” 

“18.) The Way You Talk To Tv 

I can’t begin to tell you that just because you scream at the tv, it's not going to change the outcome but watching you get so the anger was half worth it” 

“17.) Your Grace  

The way you handle yourself when the media talks about you. You don’t talk negatively but just smile through it” 

“16.) The way you handle my jealousy 

I know that sometimes, it’s ridiculous that I get jealous over small stuff but it’s because have you ever dated someone who was so above your league? Of course not, you are a goddess.”  

“15.) I love that we are friends and family.

No matter what you always made me feel important even when nobody else did, you always treated me like family and when I was going through a pure panic attack you would manage to call me down even with just your words. You treat me like I am not this piece of shit. That I matter. “ 

“14.) Your Smell  

When you would get out of the shower and come to bed, The way your hair smelt mixed with your perfume and other smells just made you into this perfect smell that I still can’t get out of my nose.” 

“13.) Our Baths 

  We did this a lot while you were pregnant, I would just run my hand over your little pregnant belly and I would feel so content with just being able to hold you, let you relax with some weird bath bomb” 

“12.) Your Christmas Obsession 

I never really liked Christmas before I met you, it was kinda just a holiday. I would go home but you made it special. Now when it’s Christmas time all I think about is you, how your eyes would light up when you would see all the Christmas lights. How you would get excited when Emre,Lea or Presley  opened a present. You Made Christmas something special and I’ll always thank you for that.” 

“11.) Your Laugh 

I think I could write a ten page essay about your laugh alone. I remember holding you and I would start to tickle you now it would end in you giving me a death threat but it was worth it to hear that laugh. I would always get this heart fluttering feeling when that special sound left your lips.” 

“10.) I miss you when you aren’t next to me 

I’ve noticed this more now that we aren’t together but I find myself taking this much more serious now that the reality sets in that we are where we are. This becomes more real every time I get  a text from you. Hell I used to miss you when you are in the next room.” 

“9.) The way you are with our kids. 

I feel like this is pretty self explanatory but the way you look at our kids and how they smile so lovingly back at you . The way they squeal when you kiss them, how they want nothing more but to hold you and play with you makes me realize that you were the perfect choice for the mother of my children, You are the perfect mom everyone is trying to me and you do it effortlessly.”

“8.) We’ll Always Have Paris. 

I’ve always wanted to say that haha. You make it possible for me to say that. Paris will always be the place where I found the love of my life, It will also be the place where God showed me that angels walk among men.” 

“7.) Always being True

You are being true to who you are, your morals are sometimes not in my favor but it makes me love you more. That you know exactly what you want and what you truly deserve. This drives me crazy but in the best possible way and almost makes me jealous of you that you are so smart and true to who you are that you can get whatever you want. This makes even more one of a kind than you are.”

“6.) The Way You Let Me In

I know that you don’t do this anymore and I think that’s what makes it even more special that you let me in. I get to see every side of you: the good,bad,stressed, sad, angry, vulnerable. I know it doesn’t make sense but when you open up to me I get this feeling in my chest and I just can’t help but feel like I am the luckiest person in the world. “

“5.) Your Eyes 

I was in the studio yesterday and the thought of you popped into my mind and the lyrics created themselves. I have the audio of me singing which I texted you, I don’t know if you caught that yet. If not I left the lyrics for you” 

Your eyes

As we said our goodbyes

Can't get them out of my mind

And I find I can't hide

From your eyes

The ones that took me by surprise

The night you came into my life

Where there's moonlight

I see your eyes

How'd I let you slip away

When I'm longing so to hold you

Now I'd die for one more day

'Cause there's something I should have told you

There's something I should have told you

When I looked into your eyes

Why does distance make us wise?

You were the song all along

And before the song dies

I should tell you, I should tell you

I have always loved you

You can see it in my eyes

Y/N saw her phone sitting next to her as she grabbed it and saw the audio file that was sent to her, the woman smiled softly before she played the song as loud as she could without waking her young son in the next room over. Roger's eyes were filled with tears by the end of the song before Y/N wiped her tears away as she shook her head “I can’t do this anymore. Roger I’m seeing someone else'' Roger nodded as he looked down sad for the woman “Just hear him out” Y/N nodded as she looked at the last four of the flowers 

“4.) Those Nose Scrunches 

I couldn’t get enough of those, when you would tease me there was a nose scrunch. When you would be making food and it splashed on you there was a nose scrunch. When you would change a diaper another nose scrunch or even when I kissed your nose. God I love them.” 

“3.) Our Inside jokes 

This is something I never thought I would miss as much I do, I love that when I say Bora Bora to you that we both think of the time you claim I tried to drown you I swear to goodness I did not!  Or our mutual hatred for the chicago bears” 

“2.) You made me feel like I mattered 

It didn’t matter if I felt like I was the worst person you always made me feel like my story mattered and that so did what I have to say. You made me realize that even if nobody wants to hear it my voice should be heard. You helped me into who I am now. I wasn’t Harry Styles to you, I was just a person” 

“ 1.) Your Heart 

This is the number one reason why I love you. Your heart is a wonderful thing, that you don’t realize is as amazing as it is. Your heart is this thing that amazes me hell it managed to love me and well that’s crazy enough to me. I get more and more amazed every time you show me your heart. When I met you and your heart, it began to change me and help heal my messed up heart. Your heart is the purest thing I’ve ever seen. I love you. I love your heart and I love that you managed to love me with that beautiful heart.” 

Y/N was now in full blown tears as she found the next letter hidden in the last bouquet of flowers “Roger please” her best friend took the letter as he opened the letter she read out for her 

“ I think I could keep going on because If i’m being honest it took me an hour to think of 50 reasons why I love you  but I decided that it might be a little too much if I sent a 100 reasons why I love you but I told you that I will give you 50 reasons why I love you and one reason why I think we should try again and here is that reason 

1..) The reason I think that we should try once more is because we are perfect. I know that it would be easier to go and talk to Matthew and fall in love with him and that He won’t give you half as many headaches as I did. Hell he probably won't give nearly as much heart break either. He would be the easier option and I would understand completely if you did it now I know he's not a guy you were talking to but he was just an example. I know that I am not perfect, hell I am far from it. I know that at points our relationship was toxic and I am still so sorry for every time that I made our relationship toxic in some way.” 

Y/N covered her mouth as she bit her lip “He knows about Matt… yet he still took a chance with all of this” Roger looked down at the letter as he kept saying 

“I know that we have our problems, I know that we can talk through them and I know that I love you. I know that no matter what I always will. Hell you can tell me no right now and that we will never happen again and I will tell you okay but only if I can still be in your life because that’s all i truly want. If I can’t have you then it would still be an honor to be your friend.” 

Y/N  looked at her phone in her hand before she grabbed her phone and quickly dialed her ex husband’s number “Y/N” the sound of the man’s voice made her breath stop as she looked at the roses in front of her “Harry, These roses and the letters” Harry just laughed a little “It was over kill huh?” Y/N quickly smiled “No! I loved them but Harry. My heart’s heavy— which I don’t know is a good thing or not. All these things you’ve said about me, these 50 reasons why you love me, it really touched me and it made me realize that you truly do love me. What breaks my heart is that this wasn’t there during the end of our relationship” The woman stopped for a moment as she tried to hold back the tears that she had 

‘On both sides, not just yours. What hurts is that it took 3, or even 4 years for us to realize this? It took countless breakups. It took so much, and maybe that’s the beauty of it. You’re right, another relationship would be easier to be in, there wouldn’t be the arguments and fights and quarrelling and all the little things that are basically ways of expressing love for one another. I don’t know if I need to explain anything right now, and I’m assuming you don’t want me to. But I will tell you that you really healed a lot with what you said. It means a lot, and I do love it.” Harry shook his head 

The man laughed at himself as he audibly said “No,  I don’t want you to explain anything. I want you to just know that I meant every word. That wasn’t my intention to heal anything with a letter. It was to show you that if you want and I need you to remember that if YOU WANT I’ll be right here waiting with my arms open and ready to love you all over again because like I said a new relationship would be easy for both of us but they wouldn’t have those parts that make us so perfect and comfortable together. Now I’ll admit I hope this does make you want to try this again but if it doesn’t that’s fine because now you know everything I was so cowardly to say while we were together.” Harry finished as Y/N sniffled into the phone 

Y/N managed to start talking without breaking her words “I do understand. I don’t know if I’d want to try again though. We could, but it could end up like it did last time, it could also last a long time, but I’m in a place where I’m slowly getting better and I’m not sure if risking that is a good thing. If I’d have heard this when we were together then that’s another story. Maybe we couldn’t work it out together and recovered from our problems and mental health issues together. But we had to separate to help ourselves, that itself says something. Harry, I love you and I will always love our son and the life that we have together but I am seeing someone Harry and I need to see where that goes” Harry smiled sadly as his eyes filled with tears before he whispered “ I understand. I’ll talk to you soon Y/N. Tell Jace I love him and that daddy misses him.” Harry didn’t say goodbye. He just hung up. 

Harry knows that what he did was childish and he should’ve been supportive, he couldn’t help it. He was upset, heartbroken, disappointed,miserable. Harry knew that he couldn’t do that to his ex wife and mother of his child, he grabbed his phone and quickly texted back “I am happy for you, I’m elated that you found someone to make you feel the way I feel about you. I’m not going to lie. I was hoping that my 50 reasons would give a little time to take you off your feet. I was just a little too late. I love you Y/N. I’ll always be waiting for you… No matter what” 

[lightsinthedistancee]

Fragmented Memories: Poe Dameron x Reader

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader 

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary: “He’d put up with the screaming, the crying, the depressive attitudes. He’d tolerated your initial hostility, the way you flinched when he touched you. He took care of you, made sure you ate, got you to sleep. Your love had stuck by you through all of it.”

Poe sticks by Reader through a traumatic event in her life.

Warnings: Implications of Past Sexual Assault, Smut, Profanity

If you wished to be tagged on future works, just leave a comment/reply below or do the form on my masterlist for specific preferences.

A/N (PLEASE READ): Hey guys, I don’t know exactly why I was compelled to write this piece, but I did my research. Tbh, I was hesitant on posting this due to the sensitivity of the subject. Belittling, devaluing, or misrepresenting the experience/struggle of a sexual assault survivor is something I absolutely do not want to do. I am fortunate enough to not have experienced any sexual assault/harassment in my life, meaning I don’t know this experience first hand. If you have any knowledge or find any inaccuracies, feel free to let me know in a comment, and I will fix it. If anyone finds this offensive or as a gross misrepresentation, I will take it down out of respect for that person without hesitation. Enjoy!

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

You laid on top of him, your pilot, your love. Sometimes hovering, sometimes resting your whole weight on his form. The air was warm, firm, like a sheet of protectiveness conforming to you. His breath was hot on your skin as he let out soft, unashamed whimpers occasionally.

You peppered soft kisses along his neck and jaw, savoring the feeling of his hands roaming your body, caressing you, feeling you. His touch was gentle, like smooth silk and velvet on your nerves.

He moaned as you ground down on him, feeling his hardness that complemented the desire you felt. You hadn’t felt that desire in a long time—for a particular reason.

This was your first time.

But no, not like that. Not in the sense of what ‘first time’ generally meant.

This was the first time the two of you had made love upon your return from the captivity of the First Order. Your first time after you’d been violated, defiled, made to feel worthless. Like nothing. After having your body used without your permission.

You’d returned a shell of yourself, doing your job for the Resistance with a ruthless, cutthroat efficiency, for you’d blocked everything else in your head out. Locked it all up. But the damming of all your emotions had its side effects.

Poe had put up with the screaming, the crying, the depressive attitudes. He’d tolerated your initial hostility, the way you flinched when he touched you. He took care of you, made sure you ate, got you to sleep. Your love had stuck by you through all of it.

You’d treated him like dirt at first, like something you wanted to get rid of, but simply couldn’t shake. The memory still triggered a guilt in you over a year later. Still, he’d stayed, had held strong as the stability and anchor in your life.

Sex had been unfathomable for the first year, and he’d respected that. He never pushed you, and he never urged you to do things you didn’t want to. Before your capture, your time spent between sheets with him had been passionate, caring, all fiery desire.

And then, it’d faded to nothing upon your return.

Recovery started small at first. A few weeks for you to let him kiss you. A month to let him hug you. Four months for you to let him see you naked again. Six to let him sleep in the same bed as you. Thirteen to let him go down on you again.

And all that led to here, where you were pressed against him, fingers intertwined as his fingers worked their magic between your legs, coaxing out your wetness.

“Alright, baby girl?” he murmured, checking in on you.

You nodded. The two of you had talked of this for weeks before the present moment. What was off limits, what made you uncomfortable, what was absolutely forbidden. “Very alright.”

When you started to moan and move your hips back against his hand, he sat up, pulling you close to his chest. “Ready?” His soft brown eyes searched yours, looking for any signs of discomfort or uncertainty. His concern made you adore him all the more.

You nodded in response to his query, the pleasure at your core begging to be acted upon. He made you feel safe. He always did.

“If you need me to stop, just say something. You need to talk to me.”

“I know.” You said it with a resolute conviction, trusting him in every way. Despite your trauma, a part of your brain still recognized him as the man who had saved your life countless times, who had consoled you in your darkest moments, who had loved you when you felt unlovable.

And with your readiness, you slowly sank down onto him. The feeling was overwhelmingly familiar, in both a good and bad way. It reminded you of passionate nights nearly a year and a half ago. It also reminded you of cold prison cells that came with an impending dread of some guard of officer walking in to have their way with you.

You didn’t realize that you’d zoned out. You came back to reality at the sound of him saying your name. His hands were on your cheeks, gently grasping your face. “Do we need to stop?” he asked, his eyes worried.

You shook your head, both in response and as a way to rid yourself of the dark memories. “No. I’m fine.”

He frowned. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, offering up a small smile and rolling your hips slightly to prove your point. He gasped, gripping your hips, his face buried in your neck.

He let you determine the pace, giving you the control, letting you do things on your own terms. You were moaning, letting out soft whines every time your clit brushed his pelvis. Only when your hands began to claw at his back did he begin to experimentally thrust back, gauging your reactions. All you did was moan louder.

Soft mutters of your name escaped his lips as he breathed shakily. He hadn’t been with anyone else. He would never cheat on you. Needless to say, it’d been a long time since he’d been inside someone, and he wasn’t going to last long.

But you were closer. He’d already had you fairly close to your finish before he’d slid inside you, and each touch to your clit was bringing you nearer and nearer until you were gasping his name. “Fuck, Poe…I’m gonna….” You were unable to finish your sentence before you were going rigid, riding out the waves of your pleasure as he groaned at the feel of your walls clenching around him.

That was the last straw for him, and with one more thrust, he came, his hands knotted in your hair.

You breathed hard as you laid limp on his chest, still feeling the dull throb between your legs. He shifted, lying down and taking you with him, holding you close to him. It reminded you of how desperately you’d missed this: to feel close to someone after sharing such an intimate act.

But as the dopamine and oxytocin wore off, a feeling of horror and something slightly worse began to set in. Fragmented memories flashed through your mind, disconnected, incomplete, yet still enough to set you off.

And then, you were crying. Soft, silent tears, so small and undetectable and helpless that Poe did not even notice them till he felt the liquid on his chest.

You knew that he was, above all, panicked, due to his body language. He said your name like a question, a plea for you to assure him that he was not the reason for you tears.

He was, but only indirectly. At the core of the situation, was you. You and your trauma that made you despise yourself every day for not being able to get over. That you beat yourself up for. You knew that it was a normal reaction, that there was nothing wrong with it, but a part of you would always sum it up as your weakness.

Poe was talking to you, but you barely heard any of it. Only hid behind the veil of your tears.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. His hold around you now seemed hesitant, unsure of his actions. You rolled out of his arms, settling on the other side of the mattress curled in a ball. The skin-on-skin contact, all of a sudden, felt less like a comfort and more like a threat. “Baby….”

You didn’t respond, once again locking him out.

There was a feeling coming over you, one you were all too familiar with, a feeling of isolation and desperation. It was a feeling that nothing else existed: that it was just you, your trauma, and your pain. Dear old abusers that would seemingly be with you till the very end.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

““Fragmented Memories” originally posted on AO3 on 12/24/20.

Taglist: @synical-paradox​ @dark-academics-and-florals​

[ghost-hyunjin]

TW: Underage users, Y/N x Chatbot Relationships, Hiding/lying about age, Attempted NSFW in chats, Mention of lawyers handling idol scandal and hate comment investigations, Mention of history where children had little to no rights to protect them

“Hello everyone. We hope everyone is staying safe and healthy in these times. Today has been a roller coaster of events, but Admin-nim wanted to say one more thing which is somewhat related to today’s incident. Please know this is not the same individual being discussed today! I’ll let her take it from here.”

[Admin: Way before Hyunjin came along as a chatbot, I kept seeing this chatbot thing happening and was trying to make heads or tails of it. It reminded me of the roleplay community I once was a part of years ago, only most of the early chatbot accounts focused on one muse and kept 99% of their content in character.

Curious, I looked around for some chatbots that had availability for accepting new chats and asked if they were open to writing platonic plots or even something more along the lines of an adventure/thriller or even a mystery plot-line (without me landing the chatbot as a romantic partner). Most I approached seemed surprised that I asked for no NSFW and a few even turned me down, stating they didn’t want to try a platonic thread. A couple gave it a go and declined doing a plot, preferring to wing it, but it was apparent they were struggling to find things to talk about with me. Then there were some who loved the ideas, but completely forgot about the thread or they deactivated their account without warning for other reasons.

Eventually I found some other chatbots who seemed more open to plotting or who asked for some backstory before starting. There was one account where the chatbot admin and I agreed to a non-celebrity AU for our chat and I asked for a strictly platonic one. This is due to the fact that I had seen A LOT of NSFW content all over the place and I wanted a break, despite being over 21 years old. In recent times, I personally have told family and friends that I am at a point in my life where I value close friendships and bonds over a romantic relationship.

The admin agreed and we began chatting. Before starting, the admin had an activation page that I read, which said they were 18. There were times where I did nudge lightly and had my dialogue remind the muse that we met literally days ago and they hardly knew me to form any kind of romantic interest so quickly. The muse would then back down and the thread would continue on. I would say the thread continued for almost a month, then some unexpected event made the admin of the chatbot confess their true age on the dashboard.

They apologized and confessed that they wanted to do chatbots like the recent trend they had been seeing. Yet part of them felt compelled to copy the popular chatbots with dark or sexual themes, as there weren’t a lot of platonic options out there in the beginning. They stopped all chats, including mine, and left the chatbot community. I was shocked to read this revelation, but I was grateful that I stuck to my guns and said platonic only. But some of the other people who wrote with this chatbot were upset and many began panicking as they scrubbed through the thread to see if they had written NSFW during the exchange. I can only imagine how upset they were and conflicted and looking back on that, I truly hope the other parties affected have been able to take time away from tumblr to heal.

Why did I write all of this out to share?

There are people out there who do not write or go hunting for NSFW or even dark concepts. I’ve stated earlier I’m over 21, but that doesn’t mean I’m living my life all YOLO like what you see in entertainment with adults partying, drinking, and having casual flings with lots of sex. (Not that people should in a time like this, of course, but that’s another topic.) Regardless of age, there are people who do not have sex on their brains 24/7, and they do not want to discuss it, engage in it, or interact with content that could involve that as a theme or possible endgame.

If you take chatbots/roleplaying out of the equation, 99% of the people you encounter (whether it be in real life or online) do not like being lied to by anyone. All relationships are built on trust and when you violate that trust by not being entirely truthful, they’re not going to see you the same way.

We are in the digital age. NOTHING GOES AWAY. Even if you delete the evidence of underage NSFW or inappropriate content that is not allowed, someone else has probably screencaptured it or saved the content on their devices to re-upload to the internet. Technology has gotten smarter and that often helps the government teams in the respective countries to track information and evidence that someone was interacting inappropriately with minors online. If you look at the YouTube series AYO Comment Defenders, they interviewed lawyers who work on idol slander and libel scandals and hate comments. Those lawyers stated that it doesn’t matter if you delete your account, or try to change your identity online, as they can work with law enforcement to obtain permissions to dig deeper and find the exact IP address or user that was posting or making these claims without evidence. Once they find the user, it’s easy for them to send the appropriate legal orders for court summons or legal fines to punish them for their crimes. Similarly, those who handle underage cases that involve trafficking and sex offenders/criminals, they can find the evidence and they’ll waste no time in serving you with the appropriate paperwork and punishment for your crime. Their job is to protect those who are underage, as many countries have checkered pasts with children being given no rights and forced into situations due to family circumstances, cruelty, or because it was considered “right” during that time. 

The way I understand the chatbot community, it is meant to be open and welcoming to all.

If you are not 18 yet, there’s nothing wrong with reaching out to a chatbot you find intriguing and saying “Excuse me, I’m not of age but I’d love to write with you. Are you accepting non-NSFW threads?” Most of the chatbots active today have a non-NSFW option and they would love to discuss something.

If you don’t like writing NSFW or have any interest in it, then most chatbot accounts will accommodate.

If you want to run a chatbot and aren’t of legal age, I say go for it, but please make it clear that you are not 18 or older. That way, people are aware and it’s smooth sailing for all parties.

Thank you everyone for reading this.]

OG @yanlee

Boyfriend: @cupid-channie

Protection Squad: @mafia-chae @la-soleilmafia-cb @doll-seungmin @serialkiller-skz @serialkillerhhj @yandere-bc @sk-nancy @mitsukojen

@vamp-minho @demon-lee @vampiremomo @vampirechangbinnie @pup-channie @skz-cb @nvrendngstry @dandyboyseungminie @soft-magicxyujin @militar-donghyun @serialkiller-ateez @subbyhyunjinchatbot @softbf-skz @sexworkerleeknow @moonlightchris @domyukhei @3racha-cb @hogwartskz @hanjisung-bot @lixielee-chatbot @tattooistchannie @demon-yeonwoo @witchy-ryu @7deadlysins-chan @gamer-yeji @phantom-jowoon @movie-itz-twice @supernatural-hj @emperorhoseok @empressyuqi @yourkevinmoon @star-twins-yoshinori @guitar-sihyeon @rose-musician @sana-foxy @yourhayoung @model-lucy @moonlit-jaemin @moonlightags1 @madmanwoodam @retro-chae @floristluda @seleneminnie @rebelhhj @vampirekjisoo

[mylovelies-docx]

Kid Krow - Checkmate

Chapter 3!

I am also posting updates on my AO3 account if anyone prefers the other format!

Don’t forget to listen to the song here!

Chapter warnings: A little angsty, mentions of anxiety and medications.

Word count: 1.7k (a little shorter than the others)

*You let some things slip to Poe that you never meant to be said out loud.

You were trying to determine if having Zorii as your friend was better or worse in relation to Poe. On one hand, you loved her as if she were the sister you never had and knew that she was a decent person, if only a little morally ambiguous like the rest of you; on the other hand, you had no one to confide in about your feelings for Poe, since, you know, they were together and all.

Sure, you were friends with Zalos, Mille, and Arle, but they weren’t your friend friends. You weren’t close enough to them emotionally to spill your secrets. You all got along great, but you knew you would never be best friends with any of them.

You considered Kes Dameron a friend since he had known since you were young, but you could not go into the gritty details of your desire for Poe with him. Gross. He was the only father-figure you had ever known, so you weren’t going to ruin it by embarrassing yourself like that.

Poe...Poe had been your best - and only - friend for the last decade and a half until Zorii was added into the folds of your heart. You three got along great and used to do everything together. You still went out with them occasionally, but felt superfluous and a bit queasy watching them together. You would always enjoy their company, but when Poe started getting handsy and showering her with affections, you always made an excuse to run away.

You were getting quite good at running away.

______

“Hey, (Y/N)! Do you want to-”

“Nope, sorry! Zorii and I are havin’ a girls’ night.”

***

“Princess! Let’s go-”

“Can’t. I’m almost finished with this story!”

***

“Come see this musician with me-”

“Sorry, Poe. I need to scour the corrosion from the capacitors.”

***

“(Y/N), why don’t we-”

“I’m a little busy at the moment, Poe!”

***

“Princess, can we-”

“Look, Poe, I’m almost-”

“No, (Y/N)!” Poe exclaimed, stopping you as you were trying to run by him with a greased wrench in your hands.

You stopped to stare at him. You could only run away for so long until Poe caught up.

“You’ve been avoiding me for days now -- what gives? You didn’t even do this after-” Poe begins, but you cut him off before he could mention the incident.

“I know!” you interject, clutching the wrench tighter so that it wouldn’t slide through your fingers and land on your foot. Again. “I’ve just been a little busy lately. You know how badly this ship needs a tune up before our next run.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but you also didn’t need to replace and re-grease every cog and gear in the galley. But you needed something to do that wasn’t pining over Poe, and this was the next best thing to finding a random person in a cantina.

“Yeah, I know. But you have always made time for me...At least, you used to.” Poe looked wounded, his eyes downturned and mouth in a straight line. You hated to see that look on his face, but what else was there to do? It was getting harder and harder to keep your promise as time went by.

You took a deep breath and tried to think of the best way to explain yourself. You couldn’t exactly tell him that you were failing spectacularly, despite how hard you were trying. Every time you were around each other, it got harder to breathe knowing how he felt about you.

Or, rather, didn’t feel about you.

But you weren't going to burden him again with your feelings, so you had to find an excuse that sounded half-way believable.

“I’ll always make time for you, Poe. I just… haven’t been feelin’ like myself these last few days.”

Which wasn’t a lie. Your mind had been a scrambling mess; unable to focus on anything for longer than a few moments sometimes, and then at others, so hyper focused that you couldn’t think of anything else. You had stopped taking your SSRIs a few days ago, and you were spiralling.

“Do you need help? What can I do?” Poe pried the wrench from your hands and placed it out of the way. He grabbed your upper arms and started massaging your tight muscles. He had done it so many times before that he knew just where to knead.

“Hmm…” you hummed in content and leaned your head onto his warm chest. “This is perfect, Poe,” you whimpered into him.

“Did you stop taking your meds again?” came his quiet voice.

You didn’t respond. That gave him the answer he needed.

“Sweetheart…” he chastised softly.

“I know. I just thought I’d try it again to see if I was gettin’ better,” you admitted. You had been feeling… not great, but alright lately, so you wanted to see if you could manage your anxiety on your own without the meds or Poe. You should have known that the middle of a crisis was not the time to stop cold.

“Come on,” Poe said, pulling away from you and grabbing your hands, “we’re going to bed. I know you don’t sleep when you’re like this.”

He was right that you hadn’t been sleeping, and you were absolutely exhausted now that he mentioned it. He tugged you along and you followed obediently, anticipating the warmth of Poe lying next to you for the first time since… that night.

You got to your quarters before remembering that you were covered in grease and sweat.

“Poe, I need to wash off,” you whined, turning around and trying to walk back into the hall towards the ‘fresher, regardless of how badly you wanted to lie down. Ever since Leena Issard’s comment all those years ago, you took every opportunity there was to get under water and wash yourself free of the smell you were convinced still clung to you.

Poe wouldn’t allow it, your entwined hands jerking you back into him. He had found your stash of sleep aids and placed one in your mouth, forcing you to dry swallow since you didn’t have a drink in your room.

“Not now, princess. You need to lie down,” Poe coaxed. He placed himself underneath the mountain of blankets on your cot, spreading out on his back and leaving a space for you to cuddle up with him. You sank down gratefully, your face in his neck and his strong arms around you, holding you close.

Maker, how you had missed this; missed this closeness and intimacy with Poe. You both had been spending so much time with other people -- he with Zorii, and you with anybody that wasn’t Poe -- that you had forgotten what it felt like to be in his arms.

Your breaths started to slow and your sore muscles were relaxing after days of tension. The excess adrenaline in your system was fading, replaced by the meds and dopamine that Poe was so good at making your brain produce.

“That’s it,” he cooed, running one hand over your head and smoothing down your frazzled hair.

You both stayed like that for quite a while. You felt peaceful, warmth suffusing from the top of your head and down to the tips of your toes. Being with Poe like this always made you feel good and was one of the main reasons you had fallen so hard for him.

“You know you could have come to me,” Poe whispered, one hand still in your hair and the other rubbing soothingly along your back.

You were in the hazy state between wakefulness and sleep where nothing was real, causing your mouth to open before your brain could realize what was about to come out.

“You did some damage, so I’m makin’ you pay,” you muttered into his chest, so close to falling asleep that consequences didn’t exist.

You felt him stiffen beneath your fingers, which were fisted tightly in his shirt. The action didn’t register fully in your mind, causing you to be unaware of just how badly you had messed up.

“What?”

“I’ve gotten tired of the games that you play. When you tell me you love me then you throw me away. It hurts. And I thought the others could help me forget you, but there’s no forgettin’ you, Poe.”

“(Y/N)...” Poe started to move out from underneath you, but you held on fast, refusing to let him put distance between you. “(Y/N), what are you saying? You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“You might not realize it, but I do. I do…” Your eyes were closed and it didn’t feel like you were present in your own body. It just felt so good to be like this with Poe.

Why didn’t he feel the same way?

“I’ve never said I loved you, (Y/N),” Poe whispered, desperate to understand what your clouded mind was trying to say.

“Nooo,” you slurred, “you’ve never said it verbally, but you’ve shown me. Like when we’re around the fires? And you’re holdin’ me? I feel it then.” You were grinning into him upon recalling those nights, unaware that he was watching you with something like horror coming over his face.

“Princess, I don’t know what to say,” Poe cried out softly. “I wouldn’t have done that if I had known.”

“Princess,” you echoed him, the rest of his statement lost to the circulated air of your quarters, “that’s another way you tell me you love me.”

“Maker, (Y/N), why didn’t you ever tell me?” Poe was barely breathing under you. He felt so trapped and was desperate to get away.

“Because I just wanted to pretend you loved me, too.”

Your hands had gone lax against his chest and your head lolled to the side. Poe took this opportunity to slide off of the cot and start pacing the room. You cried softly out to him, making pathetically weak grasping motions in his direction, but he didn’t return to you.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N),” he begged off, his hands fisting in his hair so hard he was liable to pull out chunks.

He paced the length of your room once more and hurried to the door, not even pausing to look back at you.

In the time it had taken for him to stand up and make his way out, you had fallen asleep, memories of this conversation already forgotten.

[ihatecoconut]

Red (In My Ledger)

Cross posted to AO3

Her hand was around someone’s throat. She had no memory of how that came to be but the feeling of someone’s bones and muscles collapsing under her metal hand was familiar enough that she didn’t even think about it, just squeezed harder.

“Good, Soldat.” A voice that was also familiar, familiar in the way it inspired fear in her and familiar in the way that she knew exactly what it wanted.

Her fingers cracked slightly, the metal a little misshapen from how hard she was squeezing. Their throat should have collapsed long ago under this pressure. Confusion outweighed her fear of not following the rules and she looked down at the face attached to the throat. Familiar.

“Be…Beck…”

She could feel his throat working to get the word out, hear the way his breath rattled in his chest- had she hurt him before this? Had he put up a fight? It didn’t matter, blood was starting to spill around her hand, another familiar feeling.

“Beck…” The boy whispered again, his hands coming up to gently close around her metal one, “please…”

AJ’s face snapped into a startling clarity all of a sudden, his warm brown eyes, the scar on his chin that he had got long before she met him, the slight shine of the light on his contact lenses. She released his throat immediately, bringing her other hand- the human hand- up to try and stop the bleeding but it was too late. Warm blood spilled over both her hands and his favourite Falcon t-shirt as his body collapsed to the floor.

“Soldat!” The same voice as before snapped, angry, but her fear of him was utterly overwhelmed by the horror at what she had just done.

“AJ?” Her voice cracked, rough from disuse. “AJ?” It pitched slightly with panic. She couldn’t have killed him, couldn’t have slipped back into the well-known role so much that she didn’t recognise him… could she?

A hand fisted in her ponytail, yanking her head back and then her entire body away from where AJ lay. It didn’t matter, she could still feel his blood coating her hands, making them sticky. She hadn’t vomited at the sight of blood since she was younger than she could remember, but the tacky feeling of his blood drying on her skin brought up a wave of revulsion so strong that she coughed up the meagre breakfast they had given her.

“The next one.” The voice commanded, releasing her finally and unexpectedly.

Her knees hit the cold stone floor and she raised her head to look up at the next victim they had picked out for her.

Sarah.

Sarah was bound, gagged and immobile but none of that could have removed the utter hatred that spilled out from her eyes, red hot and furious. Her face was twisted up, as if Beck was the worst thing she had ever laid eyes on and somehow that, not anything else, was what woke her up.

 Beck didn’t sit up suddenly when she woke, not like she had seen Bucky and Sam do when waking from nightmares. Too much of her was still conditioned to wake in the tiny bunk- box, really- that Hydra had locked her in every night. Instead, she woke on her side with a gasp, eyes opening to the semi-dark room and her body jolting as if her soul had just been thrust back into it. She sat up then.

Her right hand shook furiously as she managed to find the controls, managed to remove the metal arm, and hurl it across the room. It hit the bookshelf with a clang and did nothing to make her feel better.

“Rebecca Wilson,” she whispered to herself, “I am Rebecca Wilson, and I am in my bedroom at Sarah’s house…” the memory of Sarah’s hatred flung itself back into her brain and the careful grounding words that her therapist had taught her weren’t enough.

She unwrapped herself from the duvet and rolled off the bed. It took her a few seconds to adjust to the new centre of gravity, the lack of weight on her left side, but once she had, she slipped out of her room- only opening the door enough to let herself out- and padded across the house to AJ’s room.

He was lying, sprawled out on his bed, mouth open and snoring slightly, a gentle noise that let her know he was still breathing, still alive. She leaned against the doorframe for a few moments, watching her cousin sleep, her one arm wrapped around her stomach. He was alive. No one hated her.

After a few moments, however, that wasn’t enough either, and she ventured further into the room, grateful for her improved vision that meant she didn’t need to turn a light on. The skin of his throat was smooth and unmarred, no signs that anyone had tried to hurt him at any point and the relief released in her chest like a warm sip of soup.

Footsteps stopped behind her, outside his room and she turned to see Bucky, also one-armed, watching her.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he held out his hand and she let him tug her out of AJ’s bedroom and back onto the landing, “nightmare?”

Beck nodded, watching AJ’s sleeping form as he shut the door behind them both.

“C’mon.” Bucky wrapped his arm around her shoulder and steered them both towards the kitchen.

She sat down on one of the chairs, watching as he rummaged around in the cupboards and fridge for a few moments, before coming up with a saucepan, milk and some spices. The sound of the stove crackling gently after he lit it and the following smell of warming milk was more soothing than she would have expected and that, paired with the fact that he had his back to her, calmly there but not pushing, let her speak about the dream.

“There was a training exercise that he used to make me do. He’d put someone in a room and I had to kill them by crushing their throat.”

Bucky hummed, listening but not interrupting as he uncapped some of the spices and added them to the milk.

“It should have been easy, I thought it would be the first time but he was trying to teach me that nobody fights harder than those who know they’re about to die. He’d tell them before letting me in the room and then just stand back and watch.”

The aroma of cinnamon filled the room, smelling like Sarah’s hugs felt.

“Eventually it just became routine, every few days he would do that and I stopped thinking about it, just killed them.”

A mug of spiced milk was slid across the table towards her and she wrapped her hand around it, soaking up the warmth.

“It was always so cold in there.”

“I know.”

And he did, he did know the way that sometimes the cold could settle into her even on the warmest days, pushing her to wrap up in an insane amount of blankets until she was sweating.

She looked down at the mug. “You were brainwashed. Controlled and forced to do what you did. I just did it…” Unexpectedly tears were forming in her eyes and the guilt that she had once thought she would never feel was rearing its head furiously.

“Hey,” he bumped a finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him, “you were forced to do it as well. You didn’t know any different.”

“But…”

“Ah…” he held up a finger, “you remember that court case a few years back? Where they had whole hosts of professional people in?”

Her own court case, where it was decided whether or not she would be prosecuted for the crimes she had committed. “Yes…”

“What did they decide? What was the closing statement?”

She looked down at the milk again. I am Rebecca Wilson. I am in the kitchen at home. I am loved, I am valued and I have worth. “Indoctrination is a form of brainwashing.”

“And?”

“If I had never been shown any other behaviour patterns, then no one could expect me to act normally.”

Fingers tapped lightly on the table next to her, prompting her to look up again. “And?”

She sighed. “And I was as much a victim as those who died.”

“Exactly.”

It was still dark outside when she looked away from him and towards the window. The odd colour of the darkness reminded her of how blood had looked on the floor of that room after it had dried.

“I was back there.” She told him. “In that room and I didn’t even stop to question anything, just did what I always do and then I realised he was speaking to me, could feel his throat moving against my hand, and I looked down and it was AJ.” She paused to take in a shuddering breath. “I tried to stop but it was too late and then I looked up at the next one and it was Sarah and she… she hates me.”

“In the dream, she hated you.” Bucky corrected gently. “It wasn’t real.”

“It felt real.”

“I know.”

“What if I do that?” She found herself asking. “What if I do hurt or kill AJ?”

“You won’t.” Bucky told her. “Even if you tried.”

“I know all his manoeuvres! I know how he fights!” The panic was pitching her voice higher again and he didn’t respond immediately, just rubbed his hand over hers until she calmed down again.

“I think you’re failing to realise that it goes both ways.”

“What?”

“He knows all your manoeuvres, he knows how you fight, he knows how high he needs to get before you can’t reach him but can still hear him and he wouldn’t just roll over and let you hurt him. You know this.”

“You’d all hate me, though, even if I failed.” She fixed her eyes on the milk again, unable to look up at whatever expression he had in response to that.

Bucky hummed slightly, “Before I moved here, I lived in Brooklyn.”

Beck raised her head to look at him, the confusion visible on her face, but he continued.

“I made a friend. His name was Yori Nakajima and we went out to the same restaurant every Wednesday. I killed his son. While I was the Winter Soldier, he was just a kid, probably not even twenty yet and he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time so he died.”

The confusion had slipped from her face, replaced with the weird understanding that the two of them only shared with each other.

“I didn’t even realise the connection until after I had befriended him, saw the photo of his son in his apartment.”

“Did you tell him?”

Bucky sighed, a noise bordering on a sad laugh. “Not for a while. At first I thought that if I was just his friend, maybe that would help him but it didn’t.” He looked up at her, gentle. “Yori needed closure and it took your dad to help me realise that, so I went back to Brooklyn and I told him and he asked me to leave.”

Beck made a miserable little noise in the back of her throat. “That’s it?”

He leaned back and looked at her. “I didn’t hear from him for a year and a half. We got you in that time, moved in here, went back into missions, employed by SHIELD, and then I heard from him.”

“What did he say?”

“Thank you. He thanked me for giving him that closure and he told me that the year and a half he spent thinking made him realise what I was trying to do and then he invited me out to our restaurant again.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone has the capacity to forgive.” He shrugged. “It’s not the same as it was, but I can see that he’s lighter now, he’s lost that weight that he was carrying around.”

“I don’t understand.”

Bucky leaned forwards to take her now empty mug and dropped them both in the sink. “AJ isn’t Yori’s son. He isn’t a young man in the wrong place at the wrong time, he is someone who has chosen to put himself in those situations, but it would cause the same pain to Sarah as it did to Yori.”

“You think that she would forgive me?”

“Maybe. Eventually. I would, Sam would and I think Cass probably would as well.” He held out a hand and pulled her up from the chair. “You ready to go back to bed?”

Outside, the dawn was slowly creeping in, wiping away the odd blackness that the night covered everyone in. The first rays of sun were starting to peek over the horizon.

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

[kalypsichor]

five’s a crowd [ beatles x reader ] part seven

summary: You’re not jealous of the fact that girls on Tinder love George, you’re not. John may or may not be sexually attracted to metaphors. Paul may or may not have a professor kink. Ringo is just vibin’ like always. Gigi Hadid terrorizes your dreams. Oh, and y’all finally get the McLennon sandwhich you asked for.

warnings: 2k words of the usual bullshit, some english major bashing, actually it’s just john bashing ( sorry @spaceyantique​ ), i love english majors, and miscommunication babey!

masterlist and parts one | two | three | four | five | six

i’m writing this draft at 3 am. it’s a new low for me. oh, and the poem mentioned in geo’s tinder is lyrics from ‘for you blue’

“Well, it is a flattering picture.”

You have to agree with Ringo. The two of you are perched on the couch, peeking over George’s shoulder at the Tinder profile. John and Paul are sharing the armchair, snickering at something. Probably another scheme. Bastards…

The photo is the one John had snapped a few days ago of George in the kitchen. He’s got this brilliant smile on his face, just having taken his first warm shower in weeks, and he’s gloriously naked from the belly button up. It’s a little blurry, but it captures George’s happiness—though you privately think that no picture could ever really do the boy justice. Take that, stupid Tinder girls.

“‘George.’” Ringo reads the bio out loud. “‘Twenty-one. Majoring in horticultural science, looking for a girl to put the ‘ho’ into it.’ This is terrible,” he says rather gleefully. George turns around and gives his friend a betrayed look.

“You missed the best bit. ‘I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you. You looked at me, that’s all you had to do.’ What’s that?”

George goes stock still. Slowly, his head turns to John and you swear you can hear it creak like a door hinge.

“You.” The word shakes from his throat with a quiet rage. “You looked through mY DIARY???”

“YOU HAVE A DIARY?” Ringo screeches. Paul has the common sense to look a little frightened, but his boyfriend, who borrows a brain cell from Paul from time to time, does not.

“You write beautiful poetry, George,” John croons, and you have to physically hold George down to keep him from tackling the dumbass. Paul, getting flashbacks to the Shower Debacle, shudders.

You, on the other hand, are trying to wrap your head around the bio. Poetry? About who? That didn’t sound like it was about just anybody. Lucky girl, your mind hisses. Or boy. You immediately try recalling every single time George has brought up a classmate. Your brain sputters a bit and spits out an answer to one of the questions you’d skipped on your first midterm yesterday. Except now it’s fucking useless, isn’t it????

Ringo speaks, bringing you out of your downward spiral into insanity. “Hey, the app says you’ve got a match.”

Frowning, George taps on the notification. “But I haven’t even looked at anyone’s profile.”

“I did you a favor and swiped right a couple o’ times,” John says. George groans—no, the sound does not turn you on a little—and hangs his head forward. By ‘a couple,’ John must’ve meant a couple hundred, because George’s phone is blowing up. The only thing keeping George from hurtling the phone right into John’s smarmy little meerkat grin so hard that he shits pieces of it out for weeks is your hand on him. The warmth of it is radiating out from his shoulder to his chest and sweeping down to his toes. When you take your hand away a few seconds later, thinking it had overstayed its welcome, George has to try very hard not to sigh.

“This one is cute,” Ringo comments. The notification had read ‘Maureen Super Likes You!’ and the phone screen is now showing a pretty brunette, around your age, smiling up at George.

“Yeah, well, I’m not interested.”

He didn’t say she wasn’t cute.

“Wait, wait!” John scrambles out of his armchair, nearly pushing Paul off in the process. George’s thumb pauses where it’s hovering over the ‘delete’ button for the app. “Come on, Geo. You haven’t gone out in years. Like, since high school. Since… since…”

“Pattie,” Ringo says. You and Ringo hadn’t known the other three in high school, but, as always, he was good with names.

Pattie? George has never mentioned a Pattie...

“Yeah, Pattie!” John lights up. You wish people would stop saying her name. “Pattie Boyd. Man, she was a catch… I still remember her blonde hair. And those long legs. She looked like, uh… who’s that model?”

“Bridget Bardot.” Ringo, again.

Paul is mirroring the sour look on your face, though he obviously has a better reason for it.

“No, who the fuck is that? I meant Gigi Hadid. Isn’t that why you dated her?”

“She did not/” George protests. “And no, John, unlike some people, I care about more than just looks.”

At this point, Paul looks as though he’s about to cry. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m more than looks, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t mean you, obviously.” But George’s words are lost under John, who leaps back into the armchair and coos at his boyfriend.

“Macca, you know I love you for more than your looks. You’ve got that big old brain, and you’re the best artist in this whole school… it’s just a bonus you’re so pretty too.”

Paul seems satisfied by this. Stupid fucking English major. John could get anything his way with just a few words.

“John’s right, y’know.” You and Ringo mouth ‘y’know’ at each other and erupt into giggles. “You’ve got to put yourself out there more. You’re in your third year of uni and you haven’t even dated a single person. There’s only one more year before you’re out in the real world! And the sea will be much, much bigger then.”

George scowls, unimpressed by Paul’s little speech. “People aren’t fish, Paul. And I’m vegetarian, so I don’t condone catching them.”

“It’s a metaphor!” Paul cries, throwing his hands in the air. John nods and makes eyes at him as if metaphors were the sexiest thing in the world. He’s probably into that. English majors.

“You tell ‘em, babe.”

The doorbell rings, banishing any homicidal thoughts from your mind.

“That’ll be the takeout,” you say. George flies so quickly to the door, desperate to get out of the situation, that you feel a little gust of wind. You hear him say something to the delivery person and then he’s coming back into the living room, take out boxes in tow and a big smile on his face. Nothing makes the boy happier than food. And maybe leggy blondes that look like Gigi Hadid, your brain suggests, and you sigh.

For a good ten minutes, the conversation is put on hold. You’re all broke college students, after all, and getting Chinese is like a luxury.

“What’d you get?” you ask through a mouthful of food, looking over George’s shoulder. He’s sat back down on the floor in front of the couch again and he lifts the box up so you can see it.

“Veggies with fried noodles. You?”

“Same.”

“Twinsies,” George says solemnly, and you high five over it.

Unbeknownst to the two of you, John and Paul share an eyeroll.

“I got shrimp fried rice if anyone cares,” Ringo pipes up from next to you. You bump your shoulder into his.

“Of course I care, Ritchie. Wanna trade a shrimp for my broccoli?”

He nods and you both chopstick over the terms of the trade. George’s grin drops a little. John and Paul roll their eyes even harder.

After a while, having devoured their food like it’s the Last Supper, you’ e all pulled out your phones. You scroll through Instagram and send a funny post to the flat’s group chat, and everyone laughs simultaneously. Everyone except George, who… has opened Tinder again. Christ, how does he have so many matches?

Well, why wouldn’t he? He’s cute… and funny… and gives the best advice when you’re down…

And you’ll be sharing all that with some other girl if you don’t do something about it.

“Why do these girls keep asking about my teeth?”

You scoff, trying to ignore the pit in your stomach. George’s sexy vampire teeth are yours and yours alone to appreciate, thankyouverymuch. “Probably have oral fixations, the lot of them.”

John does a whole body shudder and you all turn to stare at him. “Don’t fucking talk to me about Freud. That Psych course tore my GPA into shreds.”

“Right, like you care about your grades so much.” You lean back against the couch. “What was so bad about that class, anyway? I enjoyed it.”

“Professor Pang fucked me.”

“WHAT—”

“Fucked me over! Jesus, I dunno why my mouth just had a seizure there.” John cradles Paul’s face in his hands, trying to smooth away the frown on his face. “Paul, you know I didn’t mean it.”

“That’s a Freudian slip, that is,” you comment, sticking your tongue out when John turns to glare at you. Ringo starts humming Hot For Teacher under his breath. John leans over and smacks him.

“The only teacher I’ve got the hots for is you,” John says, turning back to Paul, and you and George make gagging noises. “Professor McCartney…”

“Professor?” Paul’s Pout (yes, with a capital P) turns into a grin. “I like the sound of that.”

“I think I’ve been bad… shall I serve detention for you?”

“Okay, just go!” You point towards their bedroom. “Please leave the immediate vicinity right fucking now.”

“I’m gonna hurl,” George says. The two horny bastards giggle and scurry off in the direction of your finger, door slamming behind them.

You go to bed that night with a belly full of noodles and a brain full of thoughts that keep you turning and tossing in bed. And when you finally do fall asleep, you dream about Gigi Hadid, cackling as she chases you around with George’s stupid little towel.

***

Your second exam the next day goes miserably.

Okay, maybe you’re being dramatic. It wasn’t that bad—you’d done a fair bit of studying that weekend, invigorated to overcome the Coffee Incident. Still, you couldn’t stop thinking about George the whole time, and him swiping through Tinder, and whoever the hell that Pattie girl is.

Okay, stop it. You can’t hate her for dating the boy you like. Us women have to support each other, the rational part of your brain tells you.

You grumble all the way back to the flat, fighting with the reasonable part of you. Eventually, you give in. Rational You is right. Hating on a chick you don’t know is what makes up eighty percent of Hollywood’s bullshit romcoms. Yes, you are going to be a good person and take the high route.

That all goes away when you open the door.

John and Paul are standing in the kitchen, whispering furiously to each other. You only catch the tail end of what they’re saying—

“-didn’t think he was actually going to do it!”

—before John sees you in the doorway and smacks Paul on the shoulder.

“Heyyy there,” John says. You immediately know something is wrong. You walk shut the door behind you and eye Paul’s smile warily.

“What are you two doing?”

“Erm, we were making a sandwich for you.” Paul gestures exaggeratedly at the plate on the counter, which John holds up at shoves in your direction.

“Yeah, we knew you’d need a little pick me up after the test.”

You look around the flat carefully. It’s awfully quiet. Ringo’s at his twelve o’clock lecture, but you should be able to hear…

“Where’s George?”

This slaps the smile right off of their faces and neither of the boys can put it back on quickly enough for you to not notice.

“He’s doing yoga,” Paul says at the same time John blurts out,

“He went to visit his mum!”

Paul glares at John and you feel something twist in your gut. “Yes, you see...” Paul looks frantically to the ceiling. God won’t help you out of this one. “George went to pick up his mum… and they’re at yoga together!”

You walk into the kitchen, crossing your arms. “Louise lives in Liverpool,” you say slowly.

“Yup,” John says.

“And the yoga studio is ten minutes away from our flat.”

“Yuuup.”

You can’t believe he’s still keeping this up. “And the drive from here to Liverpool is four hours. And George doesn’t have a car.”

“Yuuuuuuuuu—”

“Oh, I can’t take it anymore,” Paul cries, ignoring John’s frantic shushing. “George went on a date with that Maureen girl from Tinder. He’s at the coffee shop now.”

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

You must’ve said this out loud, because Paul gives you a sympathetic look. After a long moment of silence, John once again offers you the plate.

“Sandwich?” he asks, trying for a smile that comes across more as a grimace.

You take the sandwich and throw it right into the trash, plate and all.

[searchingforstarss]

you heal me like the light of day

the third fic in my febuwhump/fluff series is here :)) this is written for the fluff prompts sick day + waking up together and the whump prompts graceless + stabbed. 

ps there’s mild injury description in here as well as a super brief mention of violence and shootings in schools. look after yourself x

posted on ao3 here

---

Scaring Morgan half to death really wasn’t part of Peter’s plans when he agreed to go outside and play pet hotel with Gerald after dinner in the dying autumn light.

He was in the middle of getting the alpaca ready for his spa appointment (aka Morgan brandishing a bucket of soapy water) when he lost consciousness.

It’s not like he did it on purpose. It just sort of... happened.

---

There’s a hand pressed across his forehead. It’s nice, cool - cooler than he feels anyway. He leans into it.

There’s a brief moment of confusion in which all of Peter’s thoughts jumble together and when he blinks his eyes open again, he’s not in Gerald’s pen anymore but spread out across the couch in the living room. Morgan’s there still, standing off to the side with strands of hay still stuck to her shoes while Tony is hovering over him closely, concern etched all over his face.

Peter is about to ask him what’s wrong before something is being pushed into his ear and he frowns, trying to squirm away.

Tony rests a hand on Peter’s shoulder, applying just enough pressure to keep him in place. “Just a sec, Pete. Gotta check your temperature.”

Peter scowls weakly. “Not sick.”

“You fainted, bud. I thought Gerald had bitten Morgan’s hand off or something judging by the way she was screaming.”

Guilt washes through Peter as the tinny beep echoes through his ear and Tony pulls the thermometer away. There isn’t much he hates more than scaring Morgan.

Tony glances down at the screen on the thermometer and Peter doesn’t like the brief look of worry that crosses his face as he does. “Not sick,” Peter mutters again petulantly.

“Not sick, huh? The thermometer and I beg to differ. You’re running a pretty impressive fever, just about to hit 101 degrees.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. Reckon this is the flu?” Tony asks, voice still gentle even despite Peter’s clear attempts to push him away. He really doesn’t need hovering over right now. “Have you got a headache? Sore throat? Feeling achy?”

Tony’s taken a seat across from him on the coffee table, reaching out a hand to brush it over Peter’s forehead again, thumb smoothing a few strands of hair away from his eyes. Peter just reaches up to bat it away weakly.

This isn’t the flu, Peter knows it isn’t.

The only part of him that’s aching is his side, just above his hip bone, but in all honesty that’s a secret that Peter was really hoping to keep to himself - for his own good. He's starting to doubt he'll be able to though, judging by the way that Tony’s staring him down and how his brain is starting to feel like it’s melting a little inside his own head.

Peter flounders uncomfortably under Tony’s gaze, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get up off the couch and get out of this situation.

He’s always been hopeless at keeping secrets from Tony. He only didn’t cancel this weekend at the lake house because he knew cancelling would be a sure-fire move to make Tony suspicious. Now, he’s wondering whether that was the right call at all.

“I, uh, you know what? I think you’re right. My head’s really sore, it has been all day actually, and I think that’s… that’s my stomach now, feeling really queasy. The flu really is the worst. I really should be in bed right now, shouldn’t I? Sleep cures all ailments or something like that…” Peter trails off awkwardly. Tony carries on staring. He’s suspicious now, Peter can tell, and he curses himself. He must have taken the flu thing too far. Damn it.

“Peter, if there’s something I don’t know about then I need you to tell me.”

Peter shifts. He fidgets with his fingers, tries to stall having to open his mouth and say anything else. His eyes dart over to Morgan, who’s now made herself comfortable on the armchair in the corner, distracted by a couple of animal figurines now, completely oblivious that her older brother is about to get himself in a lot of trouble.

Tony takes a gentle hold of his chin and tilts it back towards him so he’s got no choice but to look the man in the eyes. Peter exhales slowly. His side really does hurt and he wonders whether he tore a few of his (very shoddily done) stitches when he collapsed. He really doesn’t remember it throbbing this much before then.

“Peter,” Tony says again, and Peter pulls his chin away from Tony’s grip so he can avert his eyes down to his lap.

“Iwasstabbedafewdaysago” Peter blurts, and Tony’s eyes narrow infinitesimally as if this wasn’t what he was expecting at all.

“I don’t know if I quite got that, you wanna try slowing it down this time?” he says carefully, very clearly daring Peter to repeat what he’s pretty sure he heard.

Peter swallows. He dares. “I was stabbed. A few days ago. I took care of it, I promise, but it’s not, um, not really healing?” Peter says, voice rising at the end like he’s questioning.

“You were stabbed,” Tony repeats slowly, and Peter nods. “Okay. Wanna tell me how?”

Tony’s still staying fairly calm and measured. Peter isn’t sure where the angry reaction that he’d been expecting is.

“It was, um, look, it’s not that I wasn’t listening to you, but there were these guys and I overheard these things and I couldn’t just not-”

“You were out as Spider-Man?” Tony’s voice is lower now, just a touch more dangerous and Peter thinks ah, here’s the anger.

See, this is the issue. He’s kinda, sorta, definitely not meant to be out at Spider-Man at the moment.

He and Tony made an agreement a few weeks ago. After Europe and the whole Beck fiasco happened, Tony thought that Peter could really use the time out. Something about how being away from the Spider-Man suit would help him become clearer in his own head and himself again. The idea was mostly born out of the worry and panic that had resided inside Tony since the second he found out Peter was in trouble halfway across the damn world and he couldn’t do anything but sit back uselessly while Rhodey and Happy went to his aid. Tony doesn't like being useless, and he definitely doesn't like seeing Peter hurt.

Peter hadn’t thought it was too bad of an idea at first. He did really need the break at the time, but it was foolish to hope it would last. He wasn’t going to just sit back while everything was happening, not while there were men with weapons, not while they were threatening-

“Peter,” Tony snaps, waving a hand in front of his face. “Are you listening to me? I asked you a question. Were you out as Spider-Man?”

Peter rolls his eyes, against all his best instincts. He feels like shit, he’s being interrogated and all he wants is the waves of red hot pain to leave him alone. “I… ugh, yes, okay? I was. When the hell else am I going to be stabbed?”

Tony raises his eyebrows at Peter’s tone but doesn’t do anything to reprimand it. “This is New York City we’re talking about. I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt but apparently, that was absolutely the wrong thing to do.”

Silence.

“See? I told you anyway. Not sick,” Peter mutters suddenly after a moment, and Tony makes a slightly choked sound of outrage.

“Not sick? Peter Parker, in what world can you not see that maybe hiding a stab wound is worse than just being sick?”

Peter just shrugs. He could really use a nap right about now. This conversation is officially right down the very bottom of the list of things he wants to be doing right now.

“Let’s see it then.”

Peter pulls back slightly. “What?”

“Where you were stabbed. I need to see it.”

“It’s taken care of. You don’t need to-”

“If you’ve got a fever, I have a feeling it might not be nearly as well taken care of as you think,” Tony says sternly and Peter realises that he’s backed into a corner. There’s no way he’s leaving the room, or even getting up off the couch, without letting Tony examine him.

“But, Morgan…”

Peter hopes she hasn’t been listening in too closely, but for better or for worse, she’s fairly desensitised to hearing about Peter’s escapades by now. That doesn’t mean he wants her to see the consequences of them though.

Tony glances over his shoulder as if he’s just remembered that his daughter is in the room. “Hey, baby? You wanna go find Mom for a second?”

Morgan looks up from the animal figurine clutched now in her fist - a zebra - and shakes her head. “Petey’s hurt. Wanna stay with you.”

So she has been listening.

“I’ve got a really important job for you that you could do for me and Peter, though. Reckon you could tell Mommy we might need her down here with the special spider first-aid kid?”

Morgan jumps up and dashes from the room just as Peter protests, “I don’t need the first-aid-”

“Kid,” Tony warns and Peter shuts up. “Right, show me what we’re working with.”

Peter grimaces, but reluctantly tugs up the hem of his jumper to reveal the white bandage he’d adhered slightly wonkily over his wound. Pus and blood leak from the edges, but Tony barely even flinches until he reaches forward to slowly pull the bandage away, revealing the swollen, angry-looking skin underneath. There are red streaks that travel from the wound, further up Peter’s side.

“I - okay, Jesus, fuck,” Tony breathes out, jerking his eyes away from the injury.

Peter just looks down at it with an almost morbid fascination. He’d figured that his healing was working a bit slower than usual and that was why he was feeling run-down, but he didn’t think it was this bad.

“That’s infected, Peter,” Tony says shortly.

“I thought it would heal.”

“Yeah? Well, it isn’t and you know what sepsis is. I know you do. That can kill you. Is that what you want?” Tony presses, leaning in a bit closer to Peter but he pulls away from the man.

Peter freezes. “N-No, it’s not, I - I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just had to-”

“You didn’t have to do anything. What you were meant to do was remember that we had an agreement - which is clearly defunct now - about you and Spider-Man. So why are you sitting on my couch with a stab wound in your side?”

“It’s not what you think, Tony, I-”

“I think it’s exactly what I think. I know you, Peter, you have a hero complex the size of Manhattan but you need to learn that you don’t have to be the one throwing yourself down on the wire every damn time. You and I both agreed that you were going to have this break because you were worn down. You needed it.”

Peter’s too tired to even try and explain anything to Tony anymore. He knows nothing will get through, and he feels sick to his stomach but he’s not sure whether that’s from the weight of Tony’s disappointment or the infection.

“Did I really need a break? Or did you just need a break from having to worry about me?” Peter dares to ask. His voice is quiet with the knowledge that he's stepping into territory that he's not even sure he wants to be in.

Tony’s head shoots up and an odd mix of hurt and indignation twists on his face. He considers his words.

“I’m not doing this with you, not while you’re hurt. I’m going to call Bruce. I’ll get Pepper to come and look at that for you.”

As Tony gets up off the coffee table and turns to leave the room, his shoulders are pulled up in a tight, defensive posture. Peter almost wants to ask him to come back. He doesn't. Pride lodges itself in his throat instead and stops him from calling out.

He slumps and presses himself further into the couch. Slightly deliriously, he thinks that if it wasn’t for Gerald and his damn spa evening then maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

  Pepper’s in front of him a few minutes later. She takes one look at his wound before declaring that there’s no way she’s going to deal with it on the couch because "blood truly is a pain to get out of these cushions.” 

They end up in the spare bathroom downstairs, Peter perched precariously on the edge of the bathtub. His head is still spinning a little and he keeps a tight grip on the sides to try and stop himself from slipping backwards.

“Let’s have another look,” Pepper murmurs, and she helps Peter lift his jumper off over his head, wincing in sympathy as his face screws up in pain at the movement.

“Tony said you tried to take care of this yourself?” she asks once she’s fully removed the bandaging, "you stitched it up at home?" Peter gives a feeble nod in response.

“Okay. Clearly, your body didn’t love that, but your healing has definitely been trying a little bit. It’s healed enough that we won’t need to re-stitch this up once I’m done. We have one positive,” Pepper tells him, clearly trying to keep her voice light.

Peter tries for a laugh, but it comes out stunted and forced.

He sits as still as he possibly can, teeth digging into his bottom lip as Pepper cleans the wound with warm water, using some mild soap to wash away all of the gunk and fluid clogging it before she examines it closer.

Pepper focuses on the task at hand, but every so often Peter catches her looking up at him slightly questioningly as if she’s trying to figure something out.

“What?”

Pepper looks up again in surprise.

“Sorry,” Peter mutters, already regretting his abrasive tone. “I just - I, you keep looking at me funny.”

Pepper considers for a second.

“Sorry, no, I just wonder - why don’t you get May to do this? With her job and all. You don’t need to do everything by yourself, Peter, not all time…” Pepper says, trailing off at the end with worry that she’s overstepped but Peter just shakes his head to tell her it’s okay. He doesn’t mind. It’s only Pepper. He trusts her.

“I - I can’t.” He pauses. He fidgets with his fingers then stops because he knows he’s meant to be trying to stay as still as possible. “It's just, um, I don’t want her to worry, or have to see things like this when it’s me, y’know. Not after my uncle.”

“That makes sense,” Pepper says softly. There's a sort of underlying understanding clear in her voice and it fills a need for validation inside of Peter, that he’s doing the right thing by trying to look after himself, that he didn't know he had.

The bathroom falls into silence after that, and Pepper pulls what Peter thinks must be an antiseptic cream out of the first-aid kid, because when she applies it, as gentle as she is, it stings. Peter can’t stop the groan of pain through his gritted teeth.

  A few minutes later there’s a thumping on the stairs above them, just as Pepper sits back. “There, we’re all done. We just have to leave it a couple of minutes to air dry and then we can bandage it back up again but I’ll use gauze this time. It’ll breathe easier.”

“Thank you, Pep,” Peter sighs, more frustrated with himself than anything but she just shakes her head.

“It’s nothing. We can’t be perfect all the time.”

Peter scoffs humorlessly. He’s perfect approximately none of the time.

The thumping sound stops and now there’s footsteps running down the hallway. Pepper gives him a small smile. “Looks like we’re just in time as well.”

“Peter! Daddy says it’s time for bed so I wanna say goodnight,” Morgan exclaims, bursting into the room just at the same time as Tony, a few paces behind her, lets out a slightly suffering sigh.

“You need to slow down on the stairs, Morgan. Mom and I keep telling you. You'll fall down them one day.”

Morgan doesn’t even turn around to grace him with a response, all her attention focused on Peter. “I’ll do the stairs super slowly once I’ve given Peter all his goodnight kisses!”

She wastes no time in reaching up on her tiptoes to capture Peter’s face between both her much smaller hands and press six kisses all over his forehead, nose, cheek and jaw.

“Six magic kisses to make it all better! Six is my lucky number,” she explains, before adding, “because I’m six years old now,” in the same proud way she’s been doing since her birthday a few weeks ago. As if Peter could ever forget. He spent the day letting himself be showered in confetti and his face assaulted with face-paint by the gaggle of Morgan’s tiny friends that were running around the garden, cake induced sugar-rush in full swing.

“I feel so much better,” Peter says, mustering up as much energy as he can to sound enthusiastic. It’s worth it for the beaming grin that Morgan gives him.

“Love you, Petey.”

“Love you too, bug,” Peter murmurs into her hair. It’s a little damp and it smells of her strawberry shampoo.

Tony’s standing in the doorway watching the scene with an unreadable expression on his face. He won’t look Peter in the eyes. “You feeling any better?” he asks plainly as Morgan pulls away and reaches up to give Pepper her goodnight kiss as well.

Peter’s not sure. He still feels kind of dizzy and a little bit out of it, but the antiseptic cream has soothed some of the hot pain that had been radiating from his side so he guesses that’s a good thing. In the end, he just raises his shoulders a little in a shrug.

Tony nods in response to this and opens his mouth as if he wants to say something else before Morgan is springing out of Pepper’s arms and back over to Tony, latching her hand inside his.

He closes his mouth again, words left unsaid.

They leave the room and the bathroom sinks back into a silence that’s more uncomfortable this time, as if Pepper doesn’t know quite what to say to make up for Tony’s clear cool demeanour.

“Why don’t you head upstairs and get into bed, honey? I’ll bring you up a glass of water and some fever reducers soon.”

---

Peter’s still awake half an hour later, staring at the ceiling, when there’s a knock on his door.

“Yeah, Pepper, I’m awake,” he calls out. He could really use those fever reducers right about now because his body can’t seem to make up its damn mind. He keeps throwing his blankets off when he gets too hot and then having to endure the searing pain when he gets too cold a few minutes later and he has to lean down to pick them up off the floor.

The door cracks open.

“Not Pepper,” a voice says. Peter looks up and - oh, okay, it’s Tony. He steps in the door. “She did ask me to bring you these though.” He raises the glass of water he has in one hand and an assortment of colourful pills in the other up slightly. “I’ve got fever-reducers and some of your pain killers. I spoke to Bruce before and he recommended these. He’s sending up a course of antibiotics to start you on tomorrow as well.”

Peter nods slightly listlessly against his pillow, trying to process the information through his fever-addled brain.

“Okay. Thanks,” Peter says eventually. He’s not sure what else to say. Is he meant to apologize? He doesn’t think he wants to. He’s not in the wrong, he had to do something.

“No problem.”

Tony sets down the glass of water on the nightstand, and Peter reaches out to grab it, downing a few gulps and swallowing the pills that Tony had set down next to it at the same time.

“You need anything else?” Tony asks.

Peter shakes his head. “No, I’m good, thank you.”

“Have a good sleep then,” Tony says, turning to leave the room. The unsteady waves of anxiety that have been sitting at the pit of his stomach suddenly rear up as he sees Tony’s hand hovering over the door handle.

“W-Wait, no, Tony?” Tony glances back and he meets Peter’s eyes properly for the first time. “Are you, um, are you mad at me?”

Peter hates the way his voice sounds small, childish, unsure.

Tony's silent for a few moments. 

“I don’t know, Peter. I don’t think mad is quite the right word. But we had an agreement, an agreement that was solely to keep you safe." Tony sighs. "It would make me feel a lot better to know I could trust you to stick to your word."

Only ten minutes ago, Peter had been dramatically musing what could possibly be more painful than the throbbing in his side. He knows now. Tony’s words. Tony’s words are more painful.

Peter doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how.

Tony leaves the room.

---

“I’m just about to crawl into bed, you need anything?”

Peter turns his head against his pillow to see Pepper at his door about an hour later. He shakes his head, but she crosses the room anyway and lays a hand on his shoulder.

Peter sort of feels like he shouldn’t, that he doesn’t deserve it, but he can’t help leaning into the way her palm cups his forehead gently before she leans down to press her lips to the same spot.

He looks up at her, and he knows defeat is probably shining in his eyes.

“S’Tony really mad at me?” he asks quietly.

Pepper gives him a sympathetic smile. “You know how he is,” she murmurs, “he can’t do the whole superhero thing himself now, so watching you out there getting hurt when he can’t protect you is hard. He wants to keep you safe. That’s all it is.”

Peter finds this kind of hard to believe but he doesn’t ask any more questions. Pepper squeezes his shoulder and wishes him a good sleep before ducking out of the room, leaving him alone once again.

---

Peter’s freezing, icy water surrounding him.

It’s filling his throat.

He doesn’t know where he is, the stormy waters that surge around him have long since risen up over the tops of buildings, only the roofs visible. 

He kicks out desperately to try and reach one of them for a moment of respite but just keeping his head above the water drains all the energy from him. He has to find a vantage point, he has to find Tony, find May. They were just here, they all were. Pepper, Morgan, Happy, Tony, May. They were just here. Where are they?

A shape forms in front of his eyes, flailing arms, a body and a head appearing out of the water.

Its arm reaches down for him and Peter turns, wants to run, willing his weak and shivering legs to carry him but he’s still surrounded by water, still drowning, and he can’t push hard enough-

He’s knocked down.

His head is submerged, water rushing over the top of his head, filling his nose. He tries to push to the surface, to gasp, but water just rushes down his throat.

“Peter!”

Peter hears the scream before the elemental, the Hydro-Man, knocks him back down and the screams become garbled background noise to the water gushing past his ears.

He kicks to the surface again and swallows down a huge lungful of oxygen.

“-eter! Over here!”

Peter turns his head frantically, battling the waves to try and search all around him. Where are they? They have to be-

There!

Happy, May and Pepper are huddled on a rooftop not far away. The water’s rising up towards them quickly. The Hydro-Man turns as he hears them yell and he’s heading towards them. Peter barely has time to yell out before the creature is bringing its force down onto the roof.

The roof crumbles into the stormy waters. Pepper, May and Happy disappear with it.

“May!” Peter hears himself scream. “Pe-” he coughs violently, water clogging his airways, “P’pper! Happy!”

They’re gone though. Swallowed up by the water.

“Kid!

That’s Tony’s voice. Peter has to get to him. He can’t lose everyone he loves. He won’t survive it.

Tony’s on another rooftop, feet slipping over the shingled roof. One hand is clinging to what looks like a piece of wrought iron fence while Morgan is wrapped in his other.

Peter swims and swims and swims, never daring to take his eyes off them even as the water stings his eyes, splashing up into them as he tries to keep them open.

He grasps onto what he thinks might be a bit of the roofs guttering, only feet away from Tony and Morgan now. He pants, chest burning-

The water is rising up around them, trying to drag Peter away. He clings on tighter.

“Tony, T-Tony, I don’t know what to do,” Peter wheezes.

The water level reaches the roof, the singles disappearing underneath a dangerous sea of blue.

Tony slips a little. A scream catches in Peter’s throat and he shoots out a hand to try to grab him.

“Take Morgan,” Tony’s saying desperately, pulling his own hand away from Peter’s and motioning hurriedly for him to take Morgan’s.

“Ton-” Peter starts, Morgan’s wrist wrapped in his precariously slippery grip.

The Hydro-Man raises his aquatic fist again. He brings it down, and the force from it knocks Morgan’s hand from Peter’s own. He fumbles, opens his mouth to yell her name-

When the water calms again, she’s nowhere to be seen.

Instead, Beck’s there. On the rooftop in front of him, having absolutely no trouble whatsoever weathering the stormy waters around him. There’s a sick smirk on his face.

He flickers for a split second, and a cluster of drones appear in his place before he’s back, reaching, always reaching, leering as he does, arm closing around Peter’s throat and-

Peter lurches awake, pathetic whimper choked in the back of his throat.

Beck’s here. Tony and Morgan, Pepper and May and Happy. Everyone is gone. He’s on dry land again. The water has retreated and they’re still gone, washed out far away. Nowhere to be seen. Nowhere to be found.

Dry land. He’s not drowning. His feet are brushing against something solid. He chokes down a gasp and his hands shoot out to find the crumpled cotton of his bedsheets swimming around him. He grasps at them with shaking hands. They’re dry, mostly save for the clammy feeling of his own sweat that he can feel seeping into them. He’s not underwater.

He’s… he’s in bed?

He lets himself take in his surroundings properly this time. He dares to open his eyes for longer than a few seconds now that he’s sure he’s not going to be snatched away by the tide, even though he’s still shivering, can still feel the icy water lapping at his skin.

He counts five things he can see, a technique Tony has always encouraged him to do to ground himself after nightmares throw him back to a hellscape of places and memories he would rather never experience again.

The curtains.

His backpack shoved into the corner of the room.

The empty glass of water on the nightstand.

The Lego set sitting on his desk that he and Morgan were planning on building this weekend.

The bedside light. It casts a soft glow around him. It’s warm, so far away from the cold blue he’s been submerged in that Peter closes his eyes for a second again, lets the golden light wash behind his eyelids so that’s all he can see.

His head is still muddling all his thoughts into a panicked mess. All he can hear is the echoes of terrified screams in his ears. The screams of the people he loves that he couldn’t save, that he let fall to their death in the arms of the elementals, of the Hydro-Man, of Quentin Beck.

So much for grounding. He can’t breathe again.

It’s not real. They’re safe. It’s not real.

The elementals are illusions. The elementals aren’t real.

It was just a dream. The dream wasn’t real.

Beck is dead. Everyone you love is okay.

It’s not real.

Peter sucks in a few deep steadying breaths to appease his quivering lungs and burrows back under his comforter to try and find some source of comfort.

Then he sees it out of the corner of his eye.

At first, it’s just the flickering of a grey storm circling in the corner of his room underneath the window. Lightning flashes from within it and Peter swears when it does, he can see a face within the darkened swirling clouds. It reaches for him, and god, it has arms now as well, just like Peter’s dream, just like the elemental in London had. Peter flinches back and-

It disappears.

It’s like it was never there in the first place. Peter dares to blink a few times and drones take its place, hovering menacingly.

Someone has to be controlling them. Peter’s eyes dart around, searching and searching, not sure exactly what he’s looking for but then finding it anyway when he lands on Beck standing at the foot of his bed, only a few feet away.

Fear freezes like ice in his chest.

They’re here. In his room. The drones, the elementals, Beck. He could get to Morgan, and Pepper and Tony. He could hurt them.

Peter shudders. It can’t be real. It can’t be. Beck is dead.

But he’s here. In Peter’s room.

Peter forces himself to close his eyes. He can feel his entire body trembling with tightly-wound shivers. He’s not sure whether it’s from the cold or the fear anymore. He closes his eyes for a long moment and when he re-opens them, Beck isn’t there. The room is empty.

But there’s a flash to his right and he jerks his head around just in time to see fiery orange molten lava creeping through the cracks in the floorboards. It rises and rises, slowly forming into a threateningly recognisable figure as Peter’s rapidly beating heart crawls further up his throat.

Peter was stupid to think he could ever be rid of Beck. He’s still here, he’s still controlling everything and Peter doesn’t want to be a pawn in one of his games anymore.

He wants what he couldn’t have the first time.

He wants Tony.

Peter tries to swing his legs over the edge of the bed but he can’t quite get them to cooperate. He’s tangled in the mess of his sheets, and he kicks out against them, panic still coursing through his veins. No, no, no. Get me out of here. I can’t do this. Not again. Tony. Tony.

He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He wants to call for Tony. He needs help, but he’s too choked with terror.

Tony.

Need to get to Tony.

With one last fumbled kick of his leg, Peter throws himself from the bed, almost managing to catch himself but his limbs collapse beneath him, knees hitting the ground with a lump. Lava is still rising from the floor, and it towers over Peter now when he’s this low, taking on a burning figure of destruction.

Peter manages to make it to his feet, wrapping his hands around his nightstand to pull himself up. His legs feel weak beneath him, barely holding his weight. He knows he can’t afford to fall, not again, not when he has to get out of here, has to find Tony.

He fumbles a hand out until he finds the wall to his right, and he uses it to keep himself upright.

The hallway is darker than his bedroom once he throws the door open, but he lurches out and pulls the door hurriedly closed again behind him as if that will keep the monsters contained. As if a closed-door has ever stopped Beck.

He can’t see where he’s going. Everything is blurry. He wants Tony. Tony’s room is at the end of the hall, next to the landing at the top of the stairs. He knows this.

He just needs to get there.

Peter can’t remember the hallway being this long. Has it always been this long? His legs shudder and nearly give way as he nears the stairs, but he just shoots out to grab at the wall to steady himself again.

He’s so close.

He makes the last few steps and closes his hand around the door handle. Usually, if he was in a sane state of mind, not riddled with a high-grade fever and the claws of his trauma that have latched on and refused to let him go, he would be far more apprehensive about entering Tony and Pepper’s bedroom in the middle of the night for comfort. He’s basically an adult. He shouldn’t need it.

But right now he does. He needs Tony more than anything.

But when he yanks the door open and stands in the doorway, Tony isn’t there. His side of the bed is completely empty, still made up.

Pepper’s there though, and she stirs at the intrusion. She sits up and looks blearily towards the door. “Peter? S’that you?”

“T-T’ny? I need, I, um, I just - Tony,” Peter stutters out, eyes wide and pleading.

“Honey, take a breath. Is everything okay?”

“Tony,” Peter repeats again. It’s clearer this time, his desperation ringing clear.

“He’s downstairs,” she tells him, voice worn with sleep. “I can help you down there if you want?”

Peter shakes his head in the darkness. He doesn't want to be a bother. He’s already been a bother. He’s woken Pepper up. He didn’t mean to. He just needs Tony.

“No, it’s o-okay. Thank you,” Peter whispers.

Peter’s bedroom door is still closed at the end of the hallway when he retreats from Pepper’s room, but he still doesn’t feel safe.

Beck and his monsters could be lurking anywhere.

 The stairs are his next big challenge, and logically Peter should probably be more worried about the challenge of navigating them when his entire body feels like it’s barely functioning and he’s in danger of collapsing at any second. He’s just focused on getting to the bottom of them though and he grips the railing for dear life as he makes his way down, barely registering the wood splintering a little beneath his grip.

He stumbles down the last few, clumsy footsteps thudding against the rug at the bottom of the landing.

He’s downstairs.

Tony. Where’s Tony?

“Peter?”

That’s his voice. Peter tries to follow it, unfocused eyes searching until he lands on the dim light of the TV. Tony’s sitting in front of it on the couch and Peter’s lungs feel like they almost collapse under the weight of his own sigh of relief.

“Hey, Peter. Kid? What’s going on?”

Peter realises he’s just standing there, swaying and staring like an idiot. He takes a few tentative steps forward, and then he’s moving and he can’t stop himself.

He’s only a few steps away from Tony when he all but collapses, the tension in his legs from the fear and trembling finally flooding out and it’s like his strings have been cut.

“Whoa, whoa, steady on there, Bambi,” Tony rushes out, both arms wrapped around Peter to stop him from falling. He pulls him closer to him to steady him and gets him settled in the spot next to him on the couch. This is nice. Tony feels strong and steady when Peter is sure that he’s neither of those things right now.

“We’re not exactly feeling very graceful tonight, are we?” Peter hears Tony muse. He’s only half paying attention, eyes locked on the singular one of Beck’s drones he can see suspended in the corner of the room.

He was right. Of course a closed bedroom door was never going to hold back Beck and his horrors.

He shoves himself closer to Tony’s side, a whine escaping from the back of his throat before he can help it.

“Hey, no, that’s okay,” Tony placates, “that’s what I’m here for.”

Peter shakes his head. No, no. That’s not what he’s worried about. Beck followed him, he followed him downstairs and Peter led him straight to Tony.

Peter flinches as more drones appear overhead. Beck must be controlling them, making them disappear and appear at will to mess with him. They circle above him and Tony, green lights glowing eerily.

“No, no, no,” Peter mumbles, eyes fixated on the drones above them. He can feel himself shaking again.

Tony’s eyes follow his up towards the ceiling.

“Peter?”

“Make it stop, p-please. Make them go away.”

“Make what stop? I can’t help unless you talk to me,” Tony says gently. He draws his eyes back down to focus on Peter’s face, the way his eyes are darting around in an almost crazy fashion.

“I keep seeing things. I-I don’t know if they’re real. Beck’s here, he’s everywhere. He’s gonna hurt you, he’s gonna hurt e-everyone, I-”

Tony’s face softens in a sort of understanding, and Peter doesn’t get it. How is he not scared right now? Can he not see what’s going on right in front of him?

“Pete. There’s nothing there, I promise.” Oh. “It’s just your fever messing with you, buddy, you're hallucinating. You’re safe - nothing’s gonna get you here.”

It’s not real? Peter tries to remember the mantra he’d been repeating to himself earlier in his bedroom.

It’s not real. It’s not real.

Beck is dead. Everyone you love is okay.

It’s not real.

“How do we know?” Peter asks, voice small. “He’s clever, he could hide them, he could hide them from you if he wanted, how do we-”

A sudden thought catches Peter off-guard and he drops off mid-sentence. Tony’s voice doesn’t sound angry anymore. He was so angry with Peter before, disappointment dripping from every word he spoke.

He doesn’t sound like that anymore.

Peter hasn’t done anything to redeem himself, anything to make Tony forgive him.

What if this isn’t his Tony?

His breathing catches and he stares up at Tony - illusion Tony? - with wide eyes.

“You’re not real,” he murmurs. He shakes himself a little and it makes him dizzy again. He can’t believe he fell for it. “You’re not real. The real Tony is angry with me. This isn’t… you’re not - not him. You can’t fool me, Beck.”

Peter only has a short second to see the way Tony’s face falls with anguish before he’s being tugged towards whichever Tony is sitting in front of him.

Real or not, he feels real enough as he threads a hand through Peter's hair. Peter should pull away, shouldn’t let himself fall for this so badly, but he can’t help it. It even smells like Tony, like home, and he buries his face into the gap between his shoulder and neck, lets himself hide there.

Darkness envelopes him, and even though it’s not real, he feels safer, Tony’s arm curled protectively around him.

Then Tony starts speaking.

“God, kid.” His voice sounds so distraught. “I’m right here. I’m real. There’s no room on the planet for more than one Tony Stark, you know that. You got the real deal right here.” He pauses. His fingers carry on running through Peter’s hair. It feels so familiar. “I wasn’t angry with you, you know. I don’t know what it was. I was scared, probably. But it doesn’t matter how I was feeling, it never does and it never will when it comes to you. If you need me, that’s more important than anything.”

Peter tries to pull away, to look up at Tony, to meet his eyes. He wants to see if he can let himself believe that this is real but Beck still lurks in the corner of his mind. Tony must see the fear still lingering on his face because he tucks him back closer to him.

“Keep your eyes closed, okay? We’re just gonna relax for a bit, give your fever a chance to stop kicking everything into overdrive. You’ll feel better in a minute,” Tony promises, and Peter so badly wants to believe him, wants to believe that it is him.

The room is quiet for a few minutes. The television is still murmuring in the background. Anxiety thrums steadily through him until Tony opens his mouth to start speaking. 

“Remember when we did the road trip to Massachusetts to pick up my stuff from that MIT alumni exhibition? I could have had it delivered, you kept telling me that, but I kinda wanted to show the campus off to you, see what you thought. I mean, after everything, you staying closer to home doesn't sound half as bad as I thought it would, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Tony chuckles. It reverberates in his chest and Peter feels it against his ear. He knows what Tony's doing. He's reminding him who they are.

Peter and Tony.

Not illusions. Both real, both alive. Warmth blossoms in his chest and banishes some of his nerves.

He continues. “And then the car broke down on the side of I-84 on the way back? The tow truck took hours and you told me it was too dramatic to ask Bruce to come down with a quinjet so you dragged me down to that McDonald’s because you wanted me to try that god-awful thing you do where you dip your fries in your milkshake. I still don’t understand how you like that.”

Peter makes a slightly indignant noise.

He’s breathing easier now, the illusions, his hallucinations - whatever they were - slowly loosening their hold on him. Peter focuses in on Tony’s heartbeat. It sounds like the one he knows so well.

“Y’know, I still think about the first convention Bruce and I took you too, as well. We worked on that biomechanics paper and I thought you were gonna vomit on my shoes before we went out to present it but turns out Bruce was the front contender for that one right before we got on stage. He made it to the trash can. Thank god for that, those shoes cost-”

“I don’t wanna know how much the shoes were, Tony,” Peter mumbles in protest. Everything Tony wears - or, maybe, used to wear - probably cost more than months rent for his and May’s old apartment.

“Okay, yeah, sure, we can do that. I just need you to know that they did not deserve to be vomited on.”

Peter chances taking a glance out of one eye. The drone has disappeared from the corner, and a little bit of the last tension he’s been holding onto dissipates. Tony carries on anyway, voice calm and soothing.

“What about the first time you and Morgan did me that joint Fathers Day present? I dunno if I ever told you how much I love that. I still have it hanging on the wall in my office. It really should be out here in the living room somewhere, pride and joy and all that, but Pep reckoned the colours would clash with her cushions. We’ll blame Morgan for that though, between us, we all know she can get a little bit over-enthusiastic with the paints.”

“You kept that?”

“Course I did. One of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten.”

“But it’s awful.”

Peter feels Tony shrug, his head shifting a little where it’s resting with the movement of his shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter," he says, laughter in his voice. He doesn't bother denying Peter's statement because it really is true. It is awful, splotches of paint in mismatched colours, something that's maybe meant to be a stick-figure family in the foreground. It's chaotic. That doesn't mean Tony doesn't absolutely love it.

"It's still the best,” he says, not a shred of doubt in his voice as he sits up slightly. Peter frowns at the movement but lets Tony maneuver him a little so he’s resting against Tony’s side rather than hidden in his neck. “I want you to open your eyes properly for a minute now, bud. Anything there?”

Peter does. He tentatively casts his eyes around the room, but there’s no one there apart from him and Tony.

“No. No, it’s just us,” Peter says, tone awash with relief and tiredness.

Beck isn’t here. This is all real. Tony’s here. Tony’s real.

He lets himself go lax. “Thank you, Tony.”

Tony just waves off his thanks with a lazy hand movement. The man kicks his legs up onto the coffee table and lets his head fall to the side, cheek resting against Peter’s curls.

It’s nice, Peter thinks. The feeling of Tony curling around him, protecting him from the demons that he knows are just in his head now, but are still his demons nonetheless.

  “Any idea why Europe’s in your head again all of a sudden, buddy?” Tony asks breaking their quiet after a while. “It hasn’t been this bad in a few weeks.”

Peter considers whether he really wants to divulge and bother getting into it. He doesn’t want to bother Tony with everything, but maybe he owes it to him to let him know what’s going on after he’s just spent fifteen minutes talking him down from whatever the hell his fever was putting into his mind. The rational part of his brain tells him he doesn’t owe Tony anything. Tony would hate to know that Peter ever thought like that, even for a second.

He wants to tell Tony though.

Now that Beck and the drones and everything has vanished from where they were lingering in the corners of the house, taunting him, this feels like their familiar brand of normal.

He’s pressed to Tony’s side on the couch, there’s shitty late-night TV playing in the background and one of them is tangled up in their trauma. That’s Peter, tonight. He should let Tony play his part, help him sort through the mess and untangle whatever’s in his head. Peter would want Tony to let him do the same.

“I had a nightmare,” Peter admits, finally.

“You wanna tell me what it was about?”

“Yeah.” Peter stays silent for a few moments and Tony lets him. He doesn't push, just wraps his arm more securely around Peter and rubs a thumb over his shoulder absent-mindedly. He’s still way too hot even through the fabric of his pyjama shirt.

“I, uh, I couldn’t save you guys,” Peter offers up eventually. “You, n’ Morgan and May and everyone. There was all the water, like in Venice and you all needed me and I couldn’t help any of you. I… Morgan was the last to go. I tried to save, um, get to you but you told me to help Morgan instead and then you were gone and I tried, I did, I p-promise but there was too much water and she fell and I couldn’t… she didn’t… she was just gone. Everyone was gone.”

Tony sucks in a quiet breath. Peter watches him carefully. He doesn’t want him to be disappointed. It was just a dream but he didn’t mean to not save Morgan. He’s always trying to look out for Morgan - even when it results in a stab wound in his side.

“M’sorry, I tried. I just, I thought I did a good job the other day, with the guys n’ the bombs, but… but I couldn’t save her now and I think I’m still just so worried about that, that I’m-”

Tony holds up one hand to halt him and Peter bites down on his bottom lip nervously. He knows he's let his fever-addled mind and desperate need for Tony to not be disappointed with him get away from him. He wonders whether he’s disclosed too much.

“Peter,” Tony says carefully, “we’re being honest with each other right now, right?”

“Uh, yeah?” Peter says, but that sounds a bit too unsure so he tries again. “Yeah, yes, definitely.”

“Then I need you to tell me this, what are you talking about? Guys with bombs?”

Peter swallows.

“I promise I didn’t mean to go out as Spider-Man, I really didn't, but I just overheard this conversation the other night and these guys sounded kinda sketchy so I put one of those trackers you gave me on one of their cars without them noticing and I went out there later that night.”

“Okay…” Tony says. He sounds unsure as to where this is going but he nods as a signal for Peter to keep going anyway.

“They were, uh… they had this warehouse, super typical I know, nothing we haven’t seen before. But there were guns n' bombs, all that sorta stuff, loads of it. I was going to leave, I swear, I was just gonna call the police but then I heard them talking. They were going to - they were, um, gonna use them to target schools so I had to do something. I couldn't... couldn't not."

“They were going to use them in schools? To try and take out school kids?” Tony asks slowly. Peter looks up at him and he considers the words for a second before he nods his head.

“Elementary schools.”

“Pardon?”

“Elementary schools,” Peter repeats. “That’s what they were saying. And I couldn’t, I couldn’t just not do anything because I was there, and what if they got away and if anything ever happened, to anyone, to Morgan… I would never forgive myself, Tony. Never.”

This seems to shock Tony into complete and utter silence. His jaw goes slightly slack and if this was any other night, any other scenario, Peter might be pleased with himself for being able to invoke this sort of reaction out of Tony.

“You got the guys?” he asks eventually.

“Yeah. Webbed ‘em up - that's when one of the guys got me with a knife. The police swept the place out, got all the weapons.”

“Good. Good.”

“I really was going to try and stick to this whole no Spider-Man thing, I promise, it’s just-”

Tony holds up a hand. 

"No. No," he says, taking a steadying breath. "I want you to be able to admit when you're wrong and that means I have to set a good example, right? I was probably too rash. I should have heard you out. It sounds like you did good, kid.”

“So we’re okay?” Peter asks tentatively.

“Of course we’re okay, bud. We’re always okay, even when I throw a bit of a strop. If you ever need anything, I don’t want you to ever not come to me about it. I just, seeing you hurt is a little harder now that I'm like this," he says, raising his prosthetic arm. "And now that we're all, uh, everything is like this..." he finishes, gesturing around the cabin, Peter’s shoes and textbooks strewn around, Morgan’s toys covering the rug. Now that we're a family, is what Peter thinks he's trying to say. 

“It’s okay,” Peter says. He knows what Tony is trying to say. He remembers Pepper’s words earlier. He kind of gets it, in a weird way. He always used to hate when Tony used to jet off on missions he was barred from due to inexperience. “I know you worry.”

“Who told you that?” Tony says with a gentle scoff.

“Pepper.”

“Of course she did. That woman knows too much.” There’s a mock scowl on his face and Peter is relieved to have some sort of lightness injected back into the conversation.

They can talk everything out once they’ve both gotten some sleep. Peter knows Tony. He knows that he’ll probably spend hours on the phone to the NYPD tomorrow to make sure that they got every single explosive and firearm out of that warehouse.

He’ll then probably spend multiple more hours on the phone to Morgan’s elementary school trying to convince them to up their security or at least let him donate the equipment.

That sounds like exhausting work for a worried father. They both need rest.

“You making yourself comfy here then?” Tony asks as Peter buries himself further into the couch cushions, head still resting on Tony’s shoulder, the spot he fully intends to keep it in.

“Kinda planning on it. S’that okay?”

“Course. Mind if I join you?’

He couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. Peter’s trapped Tony’s arm between him and the couch, and he hopes he doesn’t try to tug it away. He likes the little bit of extra comfort.

“You were here first.”

“Touché.”

Tony turns the television on mute but doesn’t turn it off. Peter appreciates the light that the TV exudes into the room, and he knows Tony probably did it on purpose.

As soon as Peter lets his eyes close, drowsiness begins to ebb its way in. He’s content to let himself fall completely into it this time. He’s safe and warm. He’s real. This is real. They’re okay.

“Pete?”

“Mm?”

“I don't know if I say it enough, but I'm proud of you.”

---

Peter’s muscles are stiff when he wakes up, a drowsy yawn escaping his mouth without warning. He’s shifted in the night, somehow ended up with his head shoved up against the side of Tony’s leg. There’s a throw blanket over him that he doesn’t remember being there before.

Tony shifts beside him.

“What’re you doin’ awake, Pete?”

“Dunno,” he mumbles back dopily.

“If you want any more sleep, I’d get it now. The little monster’ll be up soon.”

Peter knows he’s right judging by the gentle morning light starting to creep in through the curtains.

“M’kay. You too.”

Tony threads a few lazy fingers through his hair in response and he closes his eyes.

They both drift back off.

[tinycaprisun]

a song not about love

title: a song not about love characters: chuck taylor x trent beretta word count: 1864 part: 1/1 warnings: mild cursing, no character names are said (but the perspective is alluded to be chuck’s and the “best friend” is trent) a/n: hi! so, holy crap i’m actually doing this... i know, it’s freaking me out too. i guess for context, yesterday i literally did not sleep at all and in a 5 am sudden burst of energy, this little fic came out of my brain. i’ve never posted my work online before, so this is kind of a big thing for me? also, this is so different from how i normally write because there is next to no dialogue, and it’s not, uh... funny? but it sure is something ahah

He won’t say it. That one fucking word that has been tormenting him for what feels like his entire life. He will not under any circumstance say it, or hell, even feel it. It sets you up for failure, for a gashing claw directly to your heart as it punctures and plays with what little you have left.

It’s like that song from Hercules, he thinks. The one where Meg is singing by the fountains about her feelings for Hercules and denying them every step of the way. It feels like that, except the brunette knows this isn’t some sappy Disney movie. This is real life, the one that made him hate himself every time he looked in a mirror. The one that gave him no other option to cope with everything that swirls in his mind at blinding rates than to drown what he does have away. 

Words were never his strong suit, with him always clinging to actions and movement, as more often than not, his mouth would betray him with what would come out of it. 

There’s this burning sensation, festering deep under his skin, well into the flesh, that tingles and jumps no matter what he does. It gets worse when he’s around. Not that he would know it, his friend was never good at picking up on just about anything. Itching, almost, with him unconsciously rubbing his arm over and over trying to forget that was where he had last touched him. A congratulatory pat, and that was it.  

The thought of already being dead crosses his mind. That perhaps, he is already dead, and that what he is living now would be his own personal hell. Set up explicitly to torture him for the wrongdoings of when he was alive. He wonders what that life was like, and if the people he knew now were there. That gave him no solace, as even if he were still living, there would still be his best friend there ruining it all.

Ruin in the best way possible, he amends. Because without him, the brunette can’t picture his life in any capacity. There would be none as far as he is concerned. There was so much of him that did not have, that lived in his friend.

Someone a long time ago said they were soulmates. Platonic, he assumed at that moment, was what the man meant. All this time later, he knows what he was getting at. He won’t say it, he never will, but he knows why the other man said it. That memory liked to crawl into his brain sometimes, replaying like a song you have stuck in your head until you can’t take it anymore and finally listen to it. It does not ease your pain, the song is still stuck. 

Soulmates were someone that housed all of the pieces of you that you did not have. The parts of you that you could fully - the word - because they were in someone else. Maybe that was why he liked keeping his friend around all the time. Because they were the same person.

Except they weren’t. His only slightly shorter friend was better than him at literally everything, not that it bothered him. It just made for more to... This was getting harder and harder to not say by the ever so slowly ticking seconds.

His mind takes over again. Blocking him even farther from reality than he already was, to think.

It’s the way he smiles, he ponders. But only when it’s at him. Tiny, unguarded, and sweet like pineapple fluff. Adoration is always in there too; along with warmth, and if he himself was feeling extra in his own head, intense longing. He silently prays for the last one. Never has been sure why, but he hopes with everything he’s got, that it’s in there somewhere.

What was longing? Catching his eyes across the room as they sparkle under even the dingiest of LED lights? They’re brown, like rich earth that used to be beneath their feet when they would do an outdoor show. Exposed from years of treading, letting others walk upon it without question, working down to its most basic form. It’s very core. He decides that him and the earth aren’t so different.

There is no reason to be like this. So deep into his own recesses that even the most forceful of tactics will not rouse him. Akin to a coma, however his eyes are certainly still working and there is definitely a concerned friend staring at him through their own pair of sunglasses and a neutral expression. 

He says something, slow and quiet like he usually does. It does not compute. His friend says it again. He cannot speak, but he can shrug while moving his gaze to stare past him.

It’s radiant over there, a shining oasis asking to have its glory basked in. Unsurprisingly, it’s him. Recognition helps bring back his question. Longing is time. All of it wasted, even if there is still so much to go. No mercy is given to him, not that he believed he deserved it.

His mind jitters and trails off again as it usually does. It’s his voice, he considers. Peering at him would make you guess it’s low and gritty, but he knows far better than that. His voice is of a baritone, but it’s far too uplifting and sometimes outright high to be anything else. Smooth also felt applicable, calmly finding its way to the right words and pitches as his hands say what his mouth can’t. He really enjoys that quality about him.

Reality is boring, he concludes. Sinking back into his cave of wonders and mostly misfortunes he calls his brain. He has his muse of which to think about... again, and the brunette couldn’t be any more content.

Content is the wrong word. Again, he is no good with those, but he does know that content is something he will never be. His is different though, for a reason he will not say. Fuck, are we really back to thinking about longing? For a third time? Is this what he wanted; to be caught in an infinite time loop, ala Groundhog’s Day, where he relives every thought he’s had for the millionth consecutive time? 

To be fair, that was how it always was when he saw him. Everything surfacing at the same time and he gets caught in the crosshairs, winning the wonderful luxury of wading through them again. 

His laugh is nice. His hair looks good today. The tank top he has on is way too tight fitting and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Not hard to imagine anyways, he’s seen it a thousand times, having roamed it with his hands. But only briefly, and the idea sends him into a tizzy.

One that marks the end, the one that finally has snapped him and made him have a new goal. It’s like drowning again, except not in his usual Crown. This is one where he actually can’t breathe, unable to get above water safely and take those precious gulps he so desperately desires.

He is standing in front of him now, fueled by this very known force that has a known name that managed to carry his battered body to the other side of the room, without him even noticing. There is no one else in the room. Or maybe there is, but he can’t tell. For him, it’s only his friend and himself, which is all he could ever want.

His best friend asks him how he is. He does not answer. The other brunette seemed vaguely alarmed by this, commenting on this fact and letting the notion hang in the air. There is no true reply, not to what he is asking nor to anything else. They stand in silence, pressure building and concern rising, like a dam that’s about to burst open and destroy everything in its wake.

Being forward has always been his calling card. Breaking any tension or an awkward silence with little tact and a lot of bluntness. He’s rough around the edges, as are most things in his life. 

This one comes off as a cliff though, hurtling himself off of it and waiting until he hits the bottom. But there is none, all there is- is his best friend, still concerned for his well being, because of course he was. Did he really need another reason? 

Now there was even less reason to be cautious. If he didn’t say something now, the brunette was going to faint, the lights behind his green eyes going out like the flickering flames of a candle. Where he would drop, essentially dead to the world, straight to the floor and live there for eternity. Or until his friend kneeled down and checked on him.

That idea… The thought of waking up to his face. Seeing him tending to him because for his friend, life seemingly depended on it. But he didn’t know that. What he did know was that the thick and uncomfortable quiet that had filled the room; reminiscent of a smog like haze, was becoming unbearable. 

Caution. Wind. Blunt. Do it. He has to. He will explode if he doesn’t. His best friend is staring at him with what feels like baited breath and stitched brows. He looks completely mental, clearly needing to say something, anything really to amend the situation. At this point it doesn’t matter, he’s so gone for him that even if this irreparably damages their relationship, he would at bare minimum be rewarded with getting real sleep at night.

His mouth opens on its own accord, letting the words waterfall out nearly unceremoniously as he keeps eye contact with his friend.

“I’m in love with you.” 

He says it. 

The one fucking word that has been tormenting him for what feels like his entire life. He says it out loud, to his best friend’s face, with a few words before and after it. Sure, he could say that they don’t matter as much to this whole ordeal he got himself into, but truly, they make up the full saying that has been playing on loop on his head for months. 

His friend doesn’t react, not instantly, staring at him with a blinking gaze as either his brain self-destructs, or tries to figure out a way to let him down easy. Heavy doubt sinks into his bones, weighing him down and taking residence within him. 

It’s a new, hellish, spiraling sensation that the brunette was not ready for. He was used to his usual downward hole of thoughts, usually brought about by his unmitigated need to bash himself, but this… This feeling didn’t even compare, with it being so much more destructive and raw, it opened him up like he was a frog being dissected and leaving him vulnerable to the world.

He finally speaks, his words soft and slightly timid as he can’t seem to look away from him. Unlike what he was expecting, his friend's expression was open and understanding, albeit still taken aback by his forwardness.

“I… I love you too.”

[vateacancameos]

All in the Family

Chapters: 1/1 Words: 4,150 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Both Linny and Drarry, Meet the Family, The Talk, Mentions of Ginny having tattoos, because she'd look awesome in tattoos and i just had to add that in, POV Ginny Weasley, POV Draco Malfoy

Summary: There comes a time in many romantic relationships when you have to meet the family. It’s usually nerve-wracking and awkward and something to be dreaded. Take a peek into Ginny’s and Draco’s minds during this step.

Story:

Ginny took a deep breath and squinted at her image in the mirror. She looked like her usual self, but a little neater: hair in a sleek ponytail, skin tanned from hours of practice and games, far too many freckles for her liking, but not a thing she could help, brightly colored tattoos wiggling on her arms. She smoothed hands over cropped jeans that probably sported a few too many holes. Did the green shirt make her look like a Christmas tree? No, Luna called it kelly green, not Christmas green. She said it complimented her skin and freckles, which she liked far better than Ginny did. She smiled at the thought.

“You look lovely, dear,” the mirror told her. But the mirror always said that, being owned by Luna who was (1) Ginny’s girlfriend and therefore prone to overcomplimenting and (2) a ball of sunshine even in the darkest times and would never own a mirror that wasn’t similarly inclined.

“It’s not too butch? Is it butch enough? I need to give the perfect impression here: respectable but not a floor mat. Meeting the family doesn’t happen every day.”

“You look like a beautiful summer day.”

Ginny huffed. Help would not come from this corner, apparently. She was about to call in her girlfriend, but Luna must have felt Ginny’s need, as she somehow always did, because she wandered in just then, putting on her earrings as she walked. She beamed.

“You look like a beautiful summer day!”

Ginny could feel the mirror puffing up behind her. She rolled her eyes.

“But is it good for a first impression?”

Keep reading below the cut

Luna frowned and tilted her head. “But it’s not a first impression. You’ve known him for years.”

“But not …” Ginny began, waving her arms when the words wouldn’t come. “Not like this. With romantic intention or whatever.” She wiped sweaty hands on her trousers again. “I have to give off a specific impression today. I have to be firm but, ugh, friendly.”

“You’re always friendly.” Luna smiled dreamily. “I remember when we first met, when your family invited mine to dinner. Your brothers were so loud, and you were too at first. It was overwhelming. But then you stopped fighting with them and came over to me. You smiled like the sun and said, ‘I like your hat.’”

“It was a very cool hat.”

They hadn’t seen much of each other before Hogwarts, but Ginny had always liked the rare occasions she got to spend with the odd, quiet little girl who was one of her nearest wizarding neighbors. She was so much the opposite of the rowdy Weasleys—calm, thoughtful, so very smart, and most importantly, a girl her age. It was peaceful and fun being with Luna.

Realizing how good being around Luna felt was what made Ginny finally break things off with Harry the year before. Harry was always in slight opposition to whatever life threw at him. Yes, he weathered storms durably, but he was never … comfortable. Content. Even after she talked him out of joining the aurors—which had at least taken off some of the pressure to be the perfect Boy Who Lived Twice—he still seemed restless. Even with Ginny. Especially with Ginny. So she’d let go of her dream of marrying the boy she’d had a crush on for as long as she could remember and soon after had fallen into the arms of someone who made her feel more wanted and loved and perfect than she’d ever felt before. Life was better now, with Luna to help ground her. Perhaps Ginny had been at odds with life too. She and Harry were very alike in some ways.

Which brought her back to her current dilemma.

“I’m not going for happy summer day vibes, though.”

Luna’s eyebrows crinkled. “What vibes are you aiming for then?”

Ginny rubbed an arm. “Ummm. Respectable but intimidating?” At the skeptical look from her girlfriend, she continued. “I can be intimidating.”

Luna smiled softly and laid her hands on Ginny’s cheeks. “Of course you are. You wouldn’t be a starting chaser for the Holyhead Harpies if you weren’t intimidating.”

Ginny snorted. “Are you ever going to get tired of stating my full position title? I was moved up to starter, like, four months ago.”

“Never!” Luna said with a grin.

After giving her a quick peck on the lips, Ginny turned back to the mirror, and Luna put her arms around her waist from behind. “Why do you need to be intimidating for family dinner?”

“Because it’s not just family dinner. It’s meet the family dinner. I have to give the right impression.”

“Which would be intimidating?” Luna’s breath and the vibration of her voice tickled Ginny’s neck. She liked it.

“Yes.”

“Even though you’ve met before. Many times.”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. “I still don’t get it.”

Ginny sighed and turned in her girlfriend’s arms. “This is Harry.”

“Whom you’ve known since you were ten. Whom you’ve dated. Twice.”

“I don’t want to intimidate Harry.”

Understanding smoothed out Luna’s face and widened her eyes. “Oh. You’re protective of him.”

“Yes!”

“Is Draco intimidatable?”

“Is intimidatable a word?”

“It is now.”

“Then yes, he is. I remember his pointy little ferret face completely blanching when I threatened him with hexes.” Good times …

“Your bat bogey hex is pretty frightening. Also, you should be nice.”

“It’s fucking Malfoy. I’m still not sure how Harry is even dating him. And I’m ninety percent sure I don’t like that they’re dating. Ugh. Malfoy. I’m getting annoyed just thinking about it.” She buried her face in Luna’s shoulder. She smelled like lilacs and sparkles. Ginny wasn’t sure how she managed the latter, but it was true. She smelled like sparkles. It was nice.

“You promised Harry you’d stop hating him. And you promised your father before that.”

“Ugh. I know. But it’s Malfoy. He’s an arse!”

“Ginny.” Luna’s voice turned stern, as it only rarely did, so Ginny straightened up.

“Sorry. I really am trying. It’s just … Harry hated him for so long, and he used to say such mean things to us, especially to Hermione. My brain has trouble believing he’s changed enough for Harry to fall for him. Are you certain he’s not under a spell or love potion?”

“Ginny.”

“Yeah, I know.” She sighed. “He helped you when you were a prisoner at the manor. And he kept Harry from being recognized. It’s just …”

“It’s hard to flip around what you knew about him all through school.”

“Mmm,” Ginny grunted in agreement, going in for another hug. Luna hugs were the best. She always felt so protected and calmed in a Luna hug.

Luna tightened her arms in a squeeze before letting go and stepping back. “I think the dark gray button-down and the obsidian necklace I got you for your birthday, if you’re going for intimidating.”

Ginny raised her eyebrows before shucking the green tee and rifling through the wardrobe for the suggested top instead. “You’re helping me?”

“Well, I was actually going to suggest it anyway. George told me that since Bill isn’t able to come, you should give Draco the ‘you hurt him, and I break your kneecaps’ talk. Ron can’t give it, because he’ll just get yell-y, and he’s not terribly intimidating even like that. And George is afraid he might actually break Draco’s kneecaps, and he can’t go to Azkaban right now, what with the baby on the way. And Percy would just put him to sleep explaining the details.”

Laughing as she buttoned up her shirt, Ginny privately agreed. Being a professional athlete meant she’d had to learn rein in her temper, and she’d always been closest to Bill in temperament anyway. “We could ask Charlie to swoop in on a dragon. That might work.”

“George asked, but apparently he’s busy watching over this year’s births. He offered to send a howler though.” Luna’s expression said that she thought these were perfectly reasonable suggestions.

That sounded about right for her brothers too. “We’ll keep that tactic on reserve in case my intimidation doesn’t work. I dunno about being the one giving the talk, though. I thought I was just going to glare at him across the table all through dinner …” She finished rolling up her sleeves to her elbows, letting the bottom half of her tattoo sleeves show on her forearms. She eyed her image critically. “Better? Are you sure about the necklace? I need to be more butch, don’t I? To be intimidating?”

Luna shook her head, taking the ends of said necklace to clasp them behind Ginny’s neck. “Draco likes classy. He’d probably be more impressed if you wore black trousers, but then you wouldn’t be you.” She wrinkled her nose, and Ginny agreed with the sentiment. She lived in jeans and trainers, only owning black trousers to wear at semi-formal events for work. Not to mention that her brothers, Harry included, would take the mickey if she showed up in something beyond her regular clothes.

She sighed a final time and turned to her girlfriend. “Okay, let’s get this over with. Ugh. But I swear, if he is at all acting like an arsehole, I will cut a bitch.”

***

Draco wiped his sweaty palms on the sofa fabric for the eightieth time in the twenty minutes he’d been at the Weasley abode. He’d met them all before, of course. Most of them had attended school with him. And he’d seen them at his trial. Arthur had even been kind enough to shake his hand after he’d been cleared of the worst of his charges. Granted, it hadn’t been completely out of kindness. Draco’s community service sentence had been to work in Arthur’s office for two years after his release, so he’d also been officially introducing himself as Draco’s supervisor. But even with the formality of it, Arthur had seemed kind. Serious, yes, but not in any way malicious or aloof, which was more than how the Malfoys had addressed the Weasleys in the past.

And Draco had quickly become comfortable around the eccentric man. Arthur might come off as a bit kooky, but he was ever the professional at work, and Draco appreciated that, along with being so thankful that the man wouldn’t continue to punish him for his past (terrible) choices. So yes, he’d worked with Arthur for two years, and gone to school with most of the other Weasleys, but this was different. This wasn’t just dinner with friendly acquaintances (though only Arthur fell into that category), this was meeting the family as the romantic partner of their practically adopted son/brother.

He and Harry hadn’t been dating that long, and the only Weasleys he’d interacted with since the relationship had begun were Percy and Ron. Percy was fine, if a little dry, and even Ron had graduated from angry scowls to only looking like he had a slightly upset stomach. But the other Weasleys were more unknown. Luckily Bill and Charlie were busy, so tonight that only left Molly, George, and Ginny (“if you call her the Weaselette, Draco, I will hurt you,” Luna had warned during their latest tea date). At least he’d had some interactions with Molly and George back when he and Harry were still just friends and he had with Arthur for two years, but Ginny he probably hadn’t said a dozen words to since they’d left school.

So even though the brothers might be intimidating, Ginny was the unknown. Harry swore they were completely over each other, and closer now as almost siblings than they had been as paramours, but Draco wasn’t sure what to think of her. He’d tossed out jealousy pretty early. Harry only ever spoke of her in the fond way of close friends/family. But that still left a lot of unknowns. He’d been on the wrong end of her hexes on several occasions, and she was a chaser for a professional quidditch team (one of the scariest teams out there, no less), so he knew she had both bark and bite. It was likely she’d employ some intimidation tactics, but would it stop there? Was she jealous of him? He didn’t think so, hearing Luna wax poetic about her constantly during their tea dates. But there could still be some genuine hate from her. Nothing he didn’t deserve, though.

He wished Luna and Ginny would just show up already, so he could get this dinner thing over with. Harry warned that there would probably be a “hurt him and I’ll hurt you” threat taking place that evening, but he didn’t know who had drawn the short straw on that. Unless they went in for a four-pronged attack from all of the present siblings. Merlin, he hoped not.

As if he’d summoned them with his thoughts, the two women burst through the door, calling out greetings to everyone else. Ginny headed for the kitchen without a glance at Draco, but Luna brightened further and made a beeline for the sofa.

She gave him a quick hug. “I would say you clean up well except …”

“Except I always look this good?”

“I was going to say except that you could still use some work, but if you want to go with yours, that’s fine. What’s important is that you believe it.” Her smile was deceptively serene, and the glitter in her hair and the fairy necklace didn’t help present her as anything other than innocent. But Draco knew better after years of slowly cultivating their friendship.

Draco clutched his heart in mock hurt. “Harsh. When does the girlfriend start full-time training again? I think you’re spending too much time together.”

Luna’s effervescent smile dimmed a little. “In three weeks. This will be our first full season as a couple. From what I gather, I’ll barely see her between the start of training and their first season game.”

Draco felt similar trepidation. School would be starting soon, and Harry would be a full-time professor for the first time this year. He’d spent the last few years tutoring and job shadowing while waiting for the current DADA professor to retire, so they were somewhat used to being apart as friends, but never as a couple.

(It was odd knowing that Hogwarts had employed the same DADA professor for six years running; odder still to think of perpetual disaster Harry James Potter as a professor. Draco really wished he’d use the hair potion Draco had bought him a few weeks ago; he needed to look more professional, but Harry had argued that if Dumbledore and Snape could get away with long, shaggy hair, so could he. Draco knew a losing argument when he saw one, so he’d given up after a week.)

Beyond Harry’s soon-to-be-full schedule after a summer of freedom, the two of them had only been dating for a few months, and Draco wasn’t sure how the change in daily routine would affect them. Harry tried to subdue the worries, but Draco saw that he was hiding some qualms of his own. They’d each only been in one prior relationship, so there was a chance that any change would break them apart.

Luna, reading his mind, as always, swooped in for another hug. “It’ll be fine,” she whispered in his ear before pulling back. How did she do that? “Your face, silly. You’re an open book. Not to mention, I got to hear you list your worries ad nauseum during tea last week.”

She had him there. “I just want tonight to be over already.”

“Mmmm,” she hummed in sympathy. “I remember how my meet-the-family dinner went. Oh! I wanted to warn you. Ginny’s giving you The Talk tonight.”

Draco leaned back in surprise. “Just her?” If any single one of the Weasleys was going to give him The Talk, he’d have expected one of the older ones, or maybe Ron, because he and Harry were best friends. But Draco had never expected The Talk from solely the youngest (and only female) sibling. Her status as the baby should have kept her out of the running. Just because Draco lived in constant slight terror to this day of being hit by one of her hexes, he didn’t expect the others to feel the same.

“Well, she’s most similar to Bill, isn’t she. The others know you’d respect it more coming from her.”

“Yeah, I reckon. Do you know when she’s going to do it?”

Before she could answer, Ginny entered the sitting room and addressed the others who peppered the space. “George and Ron, Harry and Dad need help outside.”

The two men looked up from where they were brainstorming new ideas for the shop, shrugged, then left the room. Hermione looked up from the baby jumper she was knitting for George and Angelina’s upcoming baby—at least, she said it was a jumper; it looked more like a lumpy blue snowball with arms.

“They’re not still trying to charm the new car, are they?” Ginny gave her a “what do you think” look, and Hermione sighed, dropped the knitting, and followed the others outside.

“I’m going to see if Molly and Angelina want help in the kitchen,” Luna added with a sympathetic look at Draco before hurrying out as well, the traitor.

Draco took a deep breath. “So it’s to be you, then? Lose a bet?”

Ginny looked a little stunned, then reluctantly amused. She dropped down onto the coffee table across from him. “I’d like to think I won.”

She leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, and the dragon tattoo on her right arm blew out an inky flame, as if to back her up. She looked more serious than usual, which was enhanced by the dark button-down she wore, so in opposition to her usual bright but scruffy t-shirts. She still sported holey trousers and her grungy trainers, though, but she made it work. Or maybe Draco was just getting inured to the sloppy look, dating someone who wore the same style like a uniform. He looked down to see that he still had on his own high-end trousers and button-down and relaxed a bit in relief.

He waved a hand so she’d get started. The sooner they talked, the sooner they’d be done, the sooner dinner would be done, the sooner he could get back home and revel in the warmth of Harry’s body in bed next to his (Harry called it cuddling, but Draco never would, ugh).

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Look. I know Dad respects you, so I learned to stop hating you a while ago.” She sighed. “And for whatever strange reason, Luna likes you, so I can admit that you’ve probably changed from the utter fucking dickhead you were in school.”

Draco choked on his own saliva. He’d forgotten she had the same sailor mouth Harry did. Or maybe he’d never known. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, given her whole … persona. Still, Luna was all rainbows and puppies about her, and Harry talked about her like a little sister, so he forgot sometimes that she was an adult and a quidditch star with the mouth to go along with it.

She glared, and he cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you. I appreciate that. Go on.”

“Thanks,” she said with so much sarcasm, he could practically hear the “I hate it” she didn’t voice. “So yeah, you’ve changed. You’re a new fucking man. Bright and shiny new leaves turned over. Whatever.” She sat up straight, her eyes boring through Draco so hard, he expected to feel two dots of heat on his forehead. “I’ll even say I’m okay with you two dating, even though it’s completely weird. I never thought I’d see the day someone in our family dated a Malfoy.”

She spit out his name out in a way that made him think back to an altercation their dads had had in Diagon Alley years ago. Harry had been there too, now that he thought about it. Her tone now was the same as Arthur’s had been then. Trying so hard to be a respectful adult, but barely hiding anger underneath. He didn’t think she was quite as okay as she claimed. He really didn’t blame her. His family was bad news. He shrugged, hoping he’d convey that the idea was still weird to him too. Him. Dating Harry Potter. What alternate universe had they fallen into?

“But Harry really likes you,” she continued, “and I trust him. I think.” A wrinkled eyebrow said otherwise, but Draco kept mum. “He’s an adult, and so if he wants to date you, that’s his prerogative. But know this.” She leaned forward again. “You even look at him wrong, and I’ll dropkick you so hard into last Tuesday, that even if we hadn’t destroyed all of the ministry’s time turners, you still wouldn’t be able to get back. Got it?”

He tried to tell himself they were just words. This was a ritual every new boyfriend went through. It was normal. But then again, this was Harry Potter. Nothing about him was normal, and that included his family. Draco had seen Ginevra Weasley in battle, and he’d been subjected to her hexes in school. She’d dated Harry and must therefore know the feeling of wanting to wrap him in cotton fluff and hide him from the cruel world. They weren’t just words to her. She meant business, and he appreciated that. They both wanted the best for Harry, and if Draco failed to be that, he deserved whatever punishment she and her clan would mete out to him.

“Thank you.”

She jerked her head back and frowned. “What?”

“Harry deserves to have the fiercest warriors in his corner. I’m glad he has friends and family who will be that for him.”

“Hm. Yes, he does.” Despite her words, she looked suspicious.

“And, in that vein,” he continued with a spark of realization, “you hurt Luna, and it’ll take them a month remove all the curses from you.”

She cocked her head for a moment, then relaxed her shoulders and almost smiled. “Deal.”

She held out a hand, and he took it, wondering if his own was about to be crushed so hard, he’d need SkeleGrow to knit his bones back together. Her grip was firm to the point of being uncomfortable, but after they shook, all of his bones still seemed to be in place and whole.

A call came from Molly in the kitchen then, so they both stood, back to feeling slightly awkward with each other. Just as they were about to head through the door, Ginny put a hand on his wrist. Draco looked over at her face in question.

“Um, Harry. He’s … he’s really happy these days. The happiest I’ve ever seen him. Thank you.” Her face was soft, and the most open Draco had ever seen it.

“I’m glad you think so.” Uncomfortable with the serious mood coming from a Weasley, he smirked. “Luna seems to be rubbing off on you as well. I think this is the most cleaned up I’ve ever seen you. Not bad, Weasley the Youngest.”

She barked out a short laugh, then got an evil glint in her eye. “I’m glad you approve, since I stole this shirt from your wardrobe. Who wears such drab colors voluntarily? I’d be getting hives from it if I didn’t have my tats to liven it up.”

He let out a surprised laugh of his own, which was drowned out by the lively mess of humans crowding around the kitchen table. He’d survived The Talk with the scariest Weasley (besides Bill). He felt confident he could survive the rest of the family.

***

After they’d apparated back to their flat, Luna jumped on Ginny to give one of the octopus hugs Ginny loved. After a quick peck on her cheek, Luna snuggled closer. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Any particular reason at this moment, or just my general awesomeness?”

Luna giggled. “You are pretty awesome, but it’s not just that this time.”

Realization dawned in Ginny. “Were you spying on my talk with Mal- Draco?”

“No.” Luna shook her head vehemently, eyes wide. “But I saw the way you two looked when you came into the kitchen afterward.”

“Which was …?” Ginny prepared herself for any number bubbly adjectives about to come out of her girlfriend’s mouth.

“Like two adults who have come to an agreement of mutual respect.”

Eyebrow raised, Ginny only said, quite intelligently, “hmm.”

“But also adorable and chummy. I saw the way you were smiling, Ginevra.”

“And there’s the girlfriend I know and love,” Ginny said drily, but she gave said girlfriend a kiss.

“I’m proud of you.”

Ginny grinned. “Good. I like making you proud.”

Luna hummed. “My respectable, beautiful, starting chaser quidditch star girlfriend.”

“That’s me.”

***

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to leave kudos on ao3, find the link in my reblog.