#again the results aren’t definite indications of my next fic

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Everybody Talks Too Much (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Mute!Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language, brief violence Summary: Whenever Cassandra gets angry, no one wants to deal with her. Well, no one but you, that is. Thankfully, the middle child appreciates your company... not that she'd ever admit it. Notes: Another self-indulgent fic with a selectively mute reader. This one's a lil different. Sections in italic are mostly indications that the reader is miming actions in order to communicate, though there are a few internal thoughts that are marked as such. Unlike the past two I've done, this takes place pre-relationship, so there's some mutual pining of sorts. I think that's the word.

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Among the many servants of Castle Dimitrescu, there were a number of secret rules to be followed. Guidelines that were never written down, only spoken in hushed whispers, for specific (and dangerous) circumstances. Most could be divided into one of two categories: 1, how to reduce the chances of a Lady of the house killing someone. 2, how to make sure that if they kill someone, it will not be you. Of these rules, there was one that you knew best of all, despite never having been told it. Why? Because you have observed it time and time again. After all, the rule revolved around you. To put it plainly… If Cassandra Dimitrescu was in an awful mood, but had yet to draw blood, send in the mute.

Even now, as you rushed down a corridor, you did not know why this rule was in place. You simply knew that you had been summoned countless times by frantic maidens, to go serve their volatile mistress. Admittedly you did understand their eagerness to thrust the task upon someone else. Cassandra was often considered the deadliest of the Dimitrescu daughters, for she was the quickest to anger, the one with the deepest bloodlust, and took the longest to calm down. Personally, you disagreed, believing that it wasn’t terribly hard to know what she did and did not like. All it took was some observation. It was Daniela who scared you, seeing as she was unpredictable. She didn’t even need to be in a bad mood to want to kill you.

Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean that you saw no danger in working with Cassandra. In fact, you saw a fair bit, such as now: Right as you round the corner, a shiny object hurls past your head, embedding itself into the wall. Had you been walking ever so slightly faster… Well, you preferred not to dwell on such things, especially not when the one who threw the thing was still nearby. Based on the howling laughter and swarm of insects that moves around you, the intended target was Lady Daniela. Across the room is the markswoman herself; Cassandra stood tall, huffing in anger, staring at the spot her sister had just vacated from.

“Damn it!” She yelled, stomping her foot as if the resulting shockwave might do what her weapon had not. Oddly amused, you’re quick to remove the sickle from the wall, careful as to not damage it. It’s a tad dirty, but nothing you can’t fix with your handy pocket cloth. Cleaning as you walk, you slowly move towards your employer, not even bothering to spare her a glance. After all, you had your own rules for dealing with her.

(1: Avoid eye contact for at least one minute after an outburst.)

By the time you make it to Cassandra, the minute has come and gone, allowing you to ever-so politely look her in the eyes when you return her blade. She scoffs, then practically rips the sickle from your hands. This was your job, however, so you made no complaints. Not that you could, at least not verbally. Instead, you gave a short bow of acknowledgement. Afterwards you stood still, awaiting either instructions or a dismissal. Neither came.

“I can’t believe that little shit tried to take my favorite dagger and thought she could get away with it! Agh, the nerve of her! Can you believe this?” Cassandra snapped, turning to you as if you might agree with her. Nod, simple yet effective. “At least you know how to handle a blade. Damn Daniela is lucky she didn’t get any scratches on mine.” Then she pulls the knife in question from its place on her belt, letting it gleam in the light. A soft exhale, head tipping to the side, wow is it pretty. So is the one holding it. Your mind wanders but your gaze does not. Always polite, always ready to serve.

(2: Do not get distracted; she is no patient lover, rather a demanding boss.)

“Cassandra! What was all that noise a minute ago?” Someone called, interrupting your ‘conversation’. The speaker soon appears, being none other than Lady Bela, the most reasonable of the castle residents. Though that meant little, considering the nature of her family. As if to prove your point, Cassandra merely rolls her eyes in reply, refusing to divulge the truth. And so Bela turned her gaze to you, perking a brow. “Feeling up to talking today?” She asked, already knowing the answer. Of course, your hands are already moving, not even waiting for her to finish speaking. This is a game you know intimately.

A hand goes to your belt, moving to pull a nonexistent blade from its sheath. Raising it, moving it forward then back several times, launching it towards the wall- towards the hole left behind. Then shifting, waving your hand in front of your face while exhaling a sharp breath. Flinching. An exaggerated gulp, pretending to check if your nose is still attached, sighing in relief. Lastly, an inclination of your head towards the culprit. Cassandra.

“I was aiming for Daniela. Not that it matters, nobody got hurt,” she stated, confident. Both hands clasped together, then tapping the palms together, mimicking a heartbeat at a reasonable pace. Suddenly a stomp. The beating stops, and you hold your hands next to your ear, as if listening for signs of life. Pause. Three seconds. Worried expression, eyes wide. Finally, fast as a gunshot, the heart beats again, wildly. At this, Bela shoots her sister a look of doubt, as well as judgement. Hoping to change the subject, Cassandra looks to you. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Rubbing your chin, thinking. Squinting for effect. Ah, got it! Both hands go to your sides, lifting the imaginary hem of a dress you aren’t wearing. Waltzing forward, yet in place, with the poise expected of a professional maid. Then the focus shifts to your face. Fear. A silent scream, a hand at your forehead, feeling like you… might… faint. Falling backwards, making a step at the very last second to prevent a real collapse. End scene.

“Someone was scared?” Bela asked, sounding uncharacteristically unsure of herself. When you nod, she does as well, considering the implications. “Why would they send you?”

“I hardly care why, I just want to know who so I can kick their ass,” Cassandra interjects, taking a step closer to you. All you do in response is shrug. Unsurprisingly this is not enough to please her, and before you know it she’s wrapped a hand around your throat. “Give. Me. A. Name. Now.” A perked brow. Thoughts practically telegraphed. ‘What do you expect?’ Opening your mouth, slightly, then wide, back to almost closed. No sound comes out. Obviously. It’s not like you wanted to break your own rule, but in this case you had no choice.

(3: Give her whatever she wants, consequences be damned.)

Luckily for you, Bela acts as a foil to Cassandra, there to smooth the seas. Moving behind you, she reaches into your back pocket and retrieves the notepad you keep there. Then she’s handing it to you while making eye contact with her sister. Cassandra promptly releases you, though she’s clearly not pleased, going so far as to push you away in one last act of anger. Internally you roll your eyes. On the outside, however, you quickly write down everything you know… which isn’t much.

“I don’t remember who it was. A lot of people have asked. This happens a lot.” Then you hand the paper to Bela, who soon looks back up at you in confusion. Too antsy to wait for her own turn, Cassandra yoinks the notepad from her sister’s hands, reading it over several times before reacting.

“What the fuck? Why would they send you to me because somebody pissed their pants in fear? I’m going to kill someone. Ugh, I don’t- this doesn’t make any goddamn sense,” Cassandra ranted, pacing back and forth, looking like she wanted to destroy something immediately. To your surprise, Bela doesn’t look the slightest bit concerned. If anything, she looks amused, and smiles when the two of you make eye contact. Something tells you that she knows something that you don’t. Before you can react, she quietly retrieves your notepad and returns it to you. Then she pauses, thinking, eying you with curiosity.

“Why don’t you go for now? See if anyone thanks you for stepping in, hmm?” She suggested, tone implying that this was absolutely about something else entirely. Still, you don’t care to disobey, and so you bid the two of them farewell with a deep bow. As you leave, you can almost make out part of what they say next. But you’re certain that you must have heard incorrectly. “Showing your favoritism a little too much, sister? If even the servants can see it-” the rest of the sentence is cut off by angry muttering from Cassandra. After that you’re too far away to hear anymore. What a strange day...

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“Hey, you know where Lady Cassandra’s room is, right?” Ygritte asked, casually, definitely not having just been told by someone else that you were the solution to her problem. Pretending that you were unaware of this, you give her a smile and a nod. Later, behind her back, you will mentally add her to your list of people to watch out for. Maybe even decide to refuse to share your biscuits with her. In the meantime, you pretend that you don’t mind whatever task she’s about to dump on you. “Can you bring these books to her? I really have to get back to the kitchen soon, and that’s in the opposite direction…”

Technically true. Something told you that the real problem was that Cassandra had been extra loud the past few days. Regardless, you accept the books from her, leaving before she even finishes thanking you. Why do people do this? I don’t get it, you think. It’s like they think I’m immune to her rage. If that were true, I’d gladly throw myself between her and others. But no, that’s not the case. Hmmph, if only they saw my scars. Shaking your head to clear your thoughts, you keep walking, subconsciously rubbing the spot on your arm where Cassandra had cut you. Well, the worst spot. Being pain tolerant had made her take interest in you, during your first few weeks, but it’s what allowed you to learn her rules. Your rules, really.

Knock. Knock. A pause… three more, much softer. The door swings open, revealing your Lady, whose eyes widen at the sight of you. Tipping your hat (which you are not wearing), you greet her, forcing another smile. Then you present the books, free hand gesturing with a spiral motion towards them. She doesn’t respond. No, wait, she glances at the door hinges, considering closing the door in your face. Now both of you are staring at each other, daring the other to move.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she finally said. There’s a gruffness to her voice that you hadn’t expected. It’s unlike her usual tone, less angry, more tired. Were those bags under her eyes?... No, just smudged makeup. “Don’t just stand there- tell me why you’re here.” Again, you gesture to the books, extending your hands further towards her. This time she takes a half-step backwards to avoid you. Peculiar. “Someone else was supposed to bring them, dipshit. Fucking hell, why can’t anyone around here do their damn jobs?” At last, she takes the books from you, carrying them deeper into your room. Though she does not close the door, you assume that your job is done. Or maybe you simply do not wish to deal with a Cassandra who’s frustrated by your specific presence. Either way, it breaks one of your rules, though you do not remember until it is too late.

(4: Do not leave until dismissed by a member of the family.)

“Where the hell are you going?” The sound of buzzing flies, a blur of motion around you, then the form of Cassandra solidifying in front of you. One of her hands is raised, pressing against the center of your chest. She pushes you, hard, making you stumble backwards into her room. Next thing you know you’ve crashed onto her floor. A tad stunned, you bring a hand up to hold your head, blinking rapidly for a few seconds. There’s the sound of a door closing, and then someone’s trying to help you stand. “I didn’t say you could leave yet. Now c’mon, I’ve got stuff for you to do.” Then she’s guiding you to her bed, making you sit down on the end. Panicked thoughts race through your mind one after another. What exactly was she intending? Thankfully you don’t have to wait long to find out. “Read through these, and-” a pause, like she hadn’t known what she was going to say until she was already speaking- “take notes. Make a summary of the bookmarked sections, or whatever.” Handing you a couple books (neither of which being ones you had just brought to her), she sits on the other side of the bed, refusing to look at you. She does, however, say one last thing, voice barely above a whisper. “Just stay for a while, okay?”

Inside your head, you make a mental note to amend your list of rules.

(4.b: Do not leave until dismissed by a member of the family. If Cassandra asks you to stay, you stay, no matter what. It’s worth it.)

[clarissalance]

A sneak peck on the corner of your lips

Pairing: Xingqiu x G/N!reader, Chongyun, mention of Xiangling and Liyue trio

Warning: a peck, hugging, reader and Xingqiu are the same age 

Word count: 3943

Summary: You are going on a ghost-hunting trip with Chongyun and Xingqiu to Mingyun village.

A/N: Last time I said I’m going to write shorter fic, well, my fingers accidentally slip and tada, here it is. I feel like this Xingqiu is a little bit too shy compare to the game but I want to make him blush (or any character in general). This one takes me quite a long time to write but I hope you all enjoy it. Maybe I should write Venti next, I totally forgot his birthday until my feed was flooded with his fanart. I’m sorry Bartobas ;-;   Anyhow, please shower Xingqiu with a lot of love!! He’s the reason why I can pass abyss floor 11. 

Picture credit: Pinterest. ( I really don’t know the author of this picture. If you find the source, please comment so I can add. Thank you (❁´◡`❁) ) 

Hanging out with the Liyuen trio has always been an adventure full of thrill and excitement. Usually, there would be someone who ends up with all troubles and mischiefs the other two sets up. Chongyun is our center, holding a strike 10 times in a row, while Xiangling sometimes gets bombed by them, but it’s nothing compared to our popsicle boy. Xingqiu, you have never heard of him getting into any troubles, but he has been the famous one in the town for plotting pranks and tricks. The victim is Chongyun, and he’s somehow still very oblivious, despite many times falling into the holes.

Maybe the boy is just too naïve and trusting for his own good. 

“ Xiangling is not coming today. ”  Xingqiu announces, successful getting your attention and Chongyun’s.  “She’s busy with the restaurant, so today, there will be only three of us.” Letting out a commital sound, you return your focus back onto the unfinished charm on your hand, fingers skillfully waving through the strings. 

“ Guess we’re off to Mingyun then.” Chongyun stands up abruptly from his seat, the sound of clothes rustling together. “I got a reliable intel this time about a ghost there.” 

Glance up from the unfinished charm, you shoot a questioning look to Xingqiu, to which he sends you a wink and a charming smile. The source of ‘reliable intel’ Chongyun is telling you here definitely comes from Xingqiu. Somehow, the boy has managed to stay away from the Chongyun’s suspicion list, even after those obvious unrealistic intel disguise as pranks. You wonder how has he manage to deceive the poor exorcist this time. 

“Chongyun, there are only hilichurls in Mingyun village. No one is there.” You state the obvious. How can he fall for this so many times? The light blue hair boy turns at you and tilts his head in confusion, waiting for you to anticipate more details. He is really dense, isn’t he? 

“ So, how did you get intel about a spirit at the place if there is no one lives there?” Letting out a huff, you fold your arm, feet tapping impatiently.  

“ Someone sends me the request this morning.” He pulls out a white envelope in his pocket and hands it to you, smiling a bit enthusiastically. The envelope has no trace that indicates sender, yet the exorcist assures you it’s a reliable source. You have no idea what his standard of ‘reliable' is anymore. 

Inside the envelope is an expensive-looking card, the curving and neat writing dances on the piece. Bringing the paper closer, you can faintly make out the scent of floral perfume mingles with the fresh wooden smell of crisp paper. “By the look, this looks more like a love letter than a request of exorcism to me. You’re sure it’s not from one of the maidens?” A little further away, you can hear the sound of someone choking on breath and a muffled laugh. Chongyun then mutters something about no one would send him a love letter anyway. Oh, so he doesn’t know then. Did this boy live under a rock or something? 

This is too well-crafted for a mere prank. Did Xingqiu handwriting improve this much over the past month? Eyeing the blue boy suspiciously, you carefully watch his interaction with the young exorcist while reading the content. 

This letter is pretty legit, but you’re still very suspicious of a certain someone over there who meticulously crafts this. If you ask, will he answer truthfully or skit around the subject again? 

Putting the card back into the envelop and return them to Chongyun, you finally raise your hand in defeat. Coming with them might be a better solution, in case the exorcist condition gets out of control, you can help Xingqiu carry him back.  

“Fine, let’s see the spirit ourselves then.” You stand up, hand dusting your clothes. “ If we’re lucky enough, we might be able to see the adepti on the mountain before catching the ghost.” Shrugging, you beam brightly at the shoulder-shaking Xingqiu and the scratching-head Chongyun. You can already guess what will happen in the village after so many times witnessing Xingqiu’s prank. Is this what we called… experiences? 

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Mingyun village is located on a mountain and surrounded by many dried up ores mines, which result in people leaving their homes and moves to the Chasm and Harbor. As your group slowly trek to the written address, you notice an unusually high activity of hilichurls. It’s common for them to move to an abandoned village but isn’t this a little too much? From broken bridge connect the Guili Plain, there are many groups clustering, wandering among themselves. Even Chongyun tries to avoid them, not jumping on their head as usual. 

Imagine fighting this many hilichurls, you don’t think your group can make it back to the harbour in one piece. Padding quietly, you walk faster toward Xingqiu, hoping to stick close to him. At least if fighting is bounded to happen, he can protect you. The young master still keeps his unfazed face, following Chongyun while eyes glued on his book. You remember he already finished reading this book?   

“ Psstt.” You whisper. “ Are you sure we’re heading the right way? That direction is crowded with monsters.” From here, they can barely see the beast but you can sense an abundant amount over there. 

“ It’s this way. It’s marked on the map.” Chongyun answers, eyestrain on a piece of paper, which results in his misstep and tripping. Behind, Xingqiu looks up and worriedly calls out to be careful. You trust Chongyun map-reading skill, but right now, you’re very concerned about his navigation. How can he navigating if he does not even look at the road? 

As the scorching sun blazing down the heat, big droplets of sweat dripping down your forehead, and your shirt starts to stick on your skin. Ah, you forgot summer has arrived. The path is sun-drenched, not a single shade can be found. The sweltering heat in this village is almost unbearable, despite the area is borderline with Dragonspine. How can not a single breeze from Dragonspine drift to this area? 

As you lazily following the group, your mind starts going into vacation mode. You imagine staying under the shade, enjoy the cool breeze and munching ice cream. The village is quite close to Yaoguang Shoal, maybe you can convince the guys to head down there after they finish their task. In this weather, dipping your feet in the cold water while enjoying popsicles are the best. Stealing some from Chongyun might not be that bad. 

Next to you, the Chongyun and Xingqiu are not affected as much as you, maybe because they carry visions? You wonder how their visions help them to cool down? 

“ Xingqiu.”  You call, hand fanning your face. The boy looks up from his book, humming, unfazed by the boiling weather. Is he not feeling hot at all? Under all of those long sleeve shirt? 

“Can we hold hand?”

As soon as the question leaves your mouth, some things don’t feel right. Did you phrase it, a little bit weird? 

The cerulean-haired boy chokes on his saliva, eyes widen in surprise, almost drop his precious rare novel. You think you definitely phrase it wrong. 

“ Are you okay?” Chongyun turns back abruptly after noticing the coughing sound, his blue eyes filled with worries.

Xingqiu shakes his head and waves his hand, motioning the exorcist to turns back to his map. After a few second of heaving, he finally returns back to normal, shooting you stinky eyes and put his book away. It’s not your fault that he chokes on his own saliva. He chokes it by himself. 

“Why would you want… to hold my hand?” Xingqiu questions, cringing at his cracking voice. 

“Don’t you feel hot under this weather?” You point your finger at the sky, bright rays hitting your face. Xingqiu nods in confusion, still not understand how your request related to this question. 

“If we hold hand, maybe you can share with me some of your coolness.” 

Xingqiu stares owlishly at you, and you elaborate more on how the pyro transfers heat through physical touch, and maybe, hydro has a similar mechanism. 

As you explain, you notice how his shoulders shaking, while his face remains perfectly calm, except for the betraying light curve on his mouth. Is he trying to contain his smile? 

Finally, Xingqiu folds in half and blurts out in laughter, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. In between his howling, the boy breathlessly explains how you misunderstand the elements and visions aren't used for this situation.   

Potato, potato, you don’t believe the mischievous vision-holder over there has never tried using his vision for different purposes other than fighting.  

Your face burns up, you’re not sure if it’s because of the burning sun, or the embarrassment caused by the hydro user over there. Pouting, you turn away from him, stomping toward Chongyun direction instead.  

Hmph, if Xingqiu isn’t going to help you to cool down, then you’d have to ask the exorcist. Somehow, you already know the man is going to hesitate because it might disturb his congenital condition. Well, you’re just going to bribe him with two or three popsicles when you are coming back to the harbour. Nothing a little money can’t fix. And maybe a lot of persuasions too.

As soon as you make your mind, you rush toward Chongyun, calling out for the cryo user. The exorcist is a distance away from you both, and he doesn’t turn back even when you call out for him. Does this mean he didn’t hear the conversation between you and Xingqiu? 

   Casually skipping toward Chongyun, you call for him again-

“Chongyun, can I... ” before, suddenly hands from behind wrap around your neck, pull you into a wall of meat. You wince at the hard collision with the chest, sensation of callous fingers on your shoulder bring your longing desired: Coolness. Surprised by the sudden touch, you shoot your eyes wide open and crane your neck behind, immediately meet with a sly amber orb. 

What is he doing?

Followed by your call, Chongyun curiously turns back and his gentle light blue eyes unwavering. He doesn’t seem to be surprised at this scene. 

Does Xingqiu always this touchy? 

The young exorcist raises his brows at you but behind, Xingqiu waves his hand dismissive, successfully driving the young boy away, even before you can form your word. 

You see the exorcist shrugs and turns his attention back on the piece of paper, heading deeper into the abandoned village, distance between the cryo users and you two starts to grow.

You gawk shockingly into his small figure starts to get smaller, mouth gapes open slightly. 

Did Chongyun just leave you behind? What kind of cold-heart friend is he? He definitely saw you are being held back by Xingqiu, right? 

Behind, you hear Xingqiu mumbles something about Chongyun being ‘unbelievable’, ‘workaholic’ and ‘careless friend’. Shouldn’t you be the one who says that?   

All of a sudden, you realize your back touching his chest, his hands wrap around you from behind. From here, you can smell the faint vanilla and a mix of woody, musk scent. 

He reminds you of old books, the feeling of immersing yourself in a dusty library. 

Blood rushing to your face, and the first thing that comes to your mind is to escape from his hold. The hydro user somehow able to read your mind, his grip tightens, holding you close. 

In an intimate position, with you both fall in silence, your senses suddenly heighten. Even separated by layers of clothes, you can still feel the heat from Xingqiu. The rapid beat of your heart thumping in your rib cage, the coolness from his palm seeping slowly into your skin. 

Somehow his touch doesn’t cool you but heating you up more, your body slowly burns up like a furnace. “ C-can you let me go ?” You stutter, squirming helplessly inside the young hydro user, avoiding his teasing gaze.  

“ You asked me to touch you, so I comply with my liege's request.” 

“ I didn't ask you to touch me.” You quip back at the shameless hydro user, body twisting weakly inside his hold, the sound of clothes rustling. How come you both learn martial arts, yet your strength is nothing compared to him?  

“ This is not holding a hand.” You point out at his long arms wrap just under your neck, sulky. “ And stop hugging me. It’s burning in here.” 

Xingqiu gives you a grin, amber orbs shoot you a questioning gaze. Well, it’s not true. His long-sleeved are rolled up, exposing the long slender arms, now is pressing on the thin layer of fabric, resonating with coolness. It feels like hydro is running under the vein of his arm. His fingers wrap on your shoulder, constantly transferring the calming sensation of flowing water. 

 “Isn’t this position more efficient than holding hand?” The hydro lazily rests his face on your shoulder, smirking devilishly. You have to admit this is much cooler than holding a hand, but this is too intimate. Flustered by his alluring gaze, you turn your head away, feet start moving toward the exorcist direction. 

“W-we sh-ould catching up with Chongyun, he’s quite far away.” Stammering like a mess, you point your finger at the general direction where the exorcist was heading, the image of a light blue boy is getting smaller, slowly mending into the heat under the scorching furnace resting on your head. A chuckle is followed, but Xingqiu doesn’t say anything else, hands still wrap loosely around you, trailing steps after you. 

You are too naïve to think that walking fast will break his hold. The young master of Feiyun Commerce Guild has proved your effort is futile. He effortlessly adjusts to your pace even when you purposefully try to quicken your step or stop abruptly. He doesn’t faze by your antic, instead, leaning close to your ear and blow hot air into your ears teasingly, knowing well how flustered you are. 

From here, you can see Chongyun still having his eyes glued on the piece of paper, still not noticing his companions drift far behind him. Indeed he is careless, maybe you two should keep a close distance to protect him. 

“ Are you getting cooler?” Xingqiu suddenly leans close, his face just a few inches away from yours. 

You hold your breath in silence, heart almost drops at his close proximation. Can he not scare you like that? “ It's getting cooler.” As much as you tempted to elbow the hydro user away, you know how hot it will be without having his arms wrap around you, so you easily give in. 

The two of you keep a decent pace while the boy wraps his hand around you, clinging like a koala. Look around, you realize this place is mostly dry trees somehow manage to root in the barren soil, broken wagons and holed baskets lying around in this place. Luckily, this area has much fewer hilichurls compares to the entrance of the village. Look like they’re also trying to find a shade in this weather. This place is closed to Dragonspine, and you still have no idea how the land doesn’t receive a single cool breeze from the frosted city.  

“Why did you pull me back earlier?” Hesitantly, you ask him. 

Xingqiu let out a confusing sound, not registering your question. Should you elaborate some more?     

  “When I was calling out to Chongyun.” You quickly add, trying to keep your voice steady and casual.  

“ Oh, that.” He hums, his arms tighten around you. Why did he even hold you closer than before? You didn’t try to pry off his hug, why all of a sudden? 

“ Because…  you were… about to ask Chongyun to h-hold your hand right?” Freeze at his words, you twist your neck, curious at the face he is making right now. It’s rare for him to sound this uncertain about something. As a second son of the Guild Manager of one of the biggest trading guild in Liyue, the young man has been trained to speak with perfection. Every word coming from this young man is carefully formulated and spoken with utmost confidence. 

 As you face him, the young man furrows his brows, amber eyes fill with hesitant and worried. Why is he acting like this? A sudden wave of guilt washing your stomach, uneasiness slowly sinks deep into your skin. 

You… are not supposed to call out for Chongyun?

 “ B-but you laugh at me when I explain about the coolness exchange?” Tilting your head in confusion, you can’t help to not follow the hydro user thoughts. He refused you first, wasn't he? It should be normal for you to find Chongyun instead. The exorcist will probably agree to anything as long as he can help. “Wouldn’t it make more sense if I go to find Chongyun instead?” 

“And holding hand with Chongyun? Archon, no!” Your skin jumps as Xingqiu raises his voice, and you have no idea what tickles him. Why fuzzing over something so trivial like this? 

“ We always hold hands. There’s nothing wrong with it.” You can’t help to shoot back. “ You also hold his hand too.” 

“N-no, our holding hand is different.” He can weakly defend, trying to rack his brain out to think of a time when they hold hands. He gives up soon afterwards. “Besides, you shouldn’t be holding hands with anyone.” 

“ For your information, this is much more scandalous than holding hand.” You meekly point out, finger poking on his arm bares smooth skin. Twist back, you lean in closer, eyes crinkle into the shape of crescent moons. “And what’s wrong with us kids holding hand?”   

  Xingqiu can’t help but let out a defeated sigh, face drops down your shoulder and sulky buries his face in the crook of your neck.  His hot breaths tickle the sensitive skin, cerulean locks brushing your cheek. Under his breath, you can barely make out his muffle word, saying something about don’t understand. 

You slowly trek toward Chongyun’s direction, humming along with familiar tunes. Sudden changes from Chongyun and Xingqiu have no longer made you felt lonely or sadden. Boys at this age are unusual. They aren’t being closed with you as before, no longer inching close to you or hugging you from behind. They are more cautious when being close with you, more mindful when your fingers accidentally graze their.  

If you ask them directly, will they answer you why they're acting like a married woman, always jumping every time you innate skinship?   

You have a feeling they probably won't answer that. 

“ /N… Y/N! ”

Abruptly, you raise your head, forehead almost hitting with Xingqiu’s. Your face is a breath away from his, so close that you can see his long lashes fluttering like a butterfly, shying away from the captivating eyes. His porcelain skin is smooth and flawless, a sudden urge tells you to caress it. A blush slowly creeping up his cheek, and finally, the hydro user shies away, staring at the road.   

Xingqiu clears his throat. “ I was talking to you. You were spacing out again?” You can only offer him a sheepish smile. 

“ S-sorry, I was thinking about something.” 

Xingqiu looks up and stares at your face intently like he is trying to make his way into your maze-like mind. You shift away from his fierce gaze, but the hydro user is faster. His fingers easily catch your face, your cheeks fit perfectly into his cool smooth palm. Xingqiu lets out an amusing chuckle, fingers squishing your cheek playfully like a stress-reliever. 

You feel like he has you wrapped around his little finger, literally. 

“I don’t know what you were thinking, but whatever it is, it’s incorrect.” Despite the mean fingers toying your cheek, his voice is awfully soft and reassuring. Is he trying to comfort you? Carefully, you gloss your eyes over to his direction, observing the mischievous feature on his face slowly melts into a soft and mellow. 

Before you can enjoy the rare gentle side of his, the amber eyes slowly gleam with playfulness, and he leans closer, only stops when your face is just a breath away. His hot breath fanning on your cheek, tickling. He is so close to you, so close that if you tilt your head, our lips will meet. 

“ A moment ago, I said that you shouldn’t let any male hold your hand right?” His voice drops low, golden orb flickers like a torch. What is he planning again?  You carefully nod. 

He isn’t going to… bite you right? 

“ You see, holding hand...” The young man chuckles slyly, the arm was wrapped around your neck makes the way down and nudges into your hand, fingers interlocking. " can easily drifting to this." You turn back fully to face him, the other hand still glazes your cheek. 

“ They can easily slip their arm around you into a hug…” Slowly, the coolness in your palm slips away and snakes around your shoulder.  “Then, they can…” Xingqiu’s grip on your cheek slowly relaxes, fingers slowly inch down on your neck. 

Take a big gulp of saliva, you can only widen your eyes, nervously follow at the tracing fingers of his. His long digits don’t stop after wandering around your neck, they slowly creep up, follow your jaw, and then cup on your cheek. The cooling sensation you craved a moment ago now feels like frost nipping on your skin. Heart thumping loudly in the rib cage, you unconsciously hold your breath, waiting for his next move.    

In the comfortable silence, his thump delicately brushes your cheek, caressing the sensitive skin. You notice his touch is loving and delicate, it makes you want to snuggle your face into his palm, enjoying this lasting moment. 

“…then what?” You open your mouth impatiently, voice light and mushy. 

A light pinkish blush quickly dusts on his cheek, you feel the man in front of you tenses up, but he remains his eye contact with you, refuses to avoid your gaze. His lips quiver but nothing coming out. Is he… hesitating?  Finally, you hear him mumbles something quietly.   

…you

“ What ?” You cock your brows and inch closer, eyes training on his plump lip. They remain still. 

Feeling an intense gaze on your head, you feel a light squeeze on your cheek so you curiously tilt your chin up, just to see Xingqiu leans down and presses a light peck at the corner of your mouth.

His plump lips brush yours like a feather, almost non-touching. It’s soft and plush, but the moment only lasts for a few second. Abruptly, the coolness on your cheek leaves hastily, follows by his sleeveless arm around your shoulder. 

As soon as you realize what just happened, the young master of Feiyun Commerce Guild has already dashed away, leaving a burning tomato behind. You shyly lower your head, face heats up profusely.  Fingers slowly draw up to your lip, you recall the feeling of his lip touching yours. 

You feel like you can combust right here and right now.   

Unknownst to you, if you look in his direction, you might have spotted a pair of red ears and his inelegant falling on his butt.   

[peachsayshi]

Chapter 6 - Festival

Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

Tags: Friends with Benefits, Smut, Teasing and a little bit of Fluff.

Summary: Your best friend Rina is curious about what's been keeping you so busy, and the two of you run into Gojo and his student at a food festival.

A/N: I have been working on my jjk fics but this chapter was a little bit difficult for me to write. A little bit of backstory and plot building here. Gojo and personal space? Non-existent. You can't tell me that the man wouldn't abuse his flirting rights.

- - - 

“Aren’t you a little warm in that top?”

Rina glanced at the high collared t-shirt you were wearing under your mini dress. The top covered the marks that Gojo left on your neck but the material was a little too thick for the summer heat. Thankfully, there was a breeze cooling you off otherwise you would be dripping with sweat.

“I’m fine,” you replied, directing your attention onto the vendors instead of your best friend’s narrowed eyes.

Rina asked you to come along to check out a food festival set up in the city. The entire district was lined with painted stalls which made for a picture perfect scene. The rich aroma of cooked food danced around you, enticing the bustling crowd that was growing in numbers. From golden battered fried takoyaki balls to mouthwatering barbecued yakitori, rainbow cotton candy that sent strings of sugar into the air and sweet kakigori to cleanse the palette…

Everything was making your stomach grumble.

“Oh, let’s get okonomiyaki!” Rina suggested.

After picking up your orders, you both sat at an empty table where you could enjoy your meal. You were ignoring the way Rina continued looking at you suspiciously, clearly not letting go of her obsession with the top you were wearing.

“Okay, that’s it. Let me see it.”

“See what?” you questioned, covering your mouth as you tried to chew on your food.

“The hickey you are hiding.”

You nearly choked as you swallowed but Rina didn’t flinch at your reaction. You patted your chest lightly, clearing your throat as you gathered your thoughts.

“I’m not hiding anything!” you replied defensively.

Rina rolled her eyes at you, “then at least tell me who the guy is…”

You waved your arm nonchalantly in her direction, desperately trying to avoid getting into a losing battle with your best friend. If there was one person in the world who didn’t need superhuman abilities to tell what you were thinking - it was Rina. She read you like an open book, making it near impossible for you to keep a secret from her. How you managed to go this long without her figuring out you were hooking up with Gojo was a miracle.

“I just want to know exactly what has been keeping you so busy recently,” she continued, “I’m having a hard time believing it’s work because you would be in a miserable mood if you were spending all your free time at the office.”

“ Or we can talk about how absolutely delicious this is...” you blurted, letting her words travel in your ear and out the other as you pointed at the meal in front of you.

Rina lifted her brow, shaking her head in disapproval. She calmly placed her chopsticks on her plate, leaning forward a little closer to you before hooking her finger in the collar of your shirt and tugging it down to check your neck.

“LIAR!”

You clasped your hand over the mark, your eyes widening as you prodded your best friend with your other finger.

“Oh, you are in trouble!” a sly smile spread across her pretty face, “when did you start dating again? I thought you swore off men after what happened with the fitness instructor..”

“Please don’t remind me of him…”

“Then who is this mystery man that you are hiding?”

You pressed your lips together, hesitant to reveal the truth about the deal you and Gojo had made. Yes, you were having fun together and none of it was supposed to be as serious as you were making it out in your head. In fact, Rina would probably applaud you for initiating this to begin with.

But…

Rina also liked to ask hard questions: why were you using him instead of confronting your heartbreak? Why were you chasing after something false instead of trying for real love again? Do you really want to risk ruining the friendship you both have?

Those were questions that you didn’t have the answers to.

“It’s...It’s some guy at work, you don’t know him…” you stated, finally settling on a good enough excuse to satisfy her curiosity

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“Just a few weeks…” you fibbed.

“Tell me what he’s like?”

“Uhh…he’s fun, I guess …handsome, kind of charming…but it’s only been a few dates, I still don’t really know him well yet.”

You swallowed hard, hating yourself for not having the courage to tell Rina the truth. Your best friend continued throwing questions at you while your brain spat out the answers before you could even think things through, your guilt twisting your insides with all the lies you were spewing.

“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner…”

Rina smiled, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I just want you to be happy. If you like this guy, you should give him a chance. Who knows, maybe this could turn into something serious…”

“I am not really looking for anything serious,” you admitted, allowing yourself to be vulnerable. “At least not right now…”

How could you want something serious after what happened?

You and your ex-boyfriend were together for five years. You met him when you were both at university and he swept you off your feet. His handsomeness showed through his kind personality and he always managed to make you smile. He was your first of many things, including this painful heartbreak.

You hated yourself for getting comfortable with him, for allowing your mind to plan a future that you both could share. You were disappointed that he made you fall in love with him but more so, that he abandoned you to piece together what was left.

You always felt like you never had your closure. When you asked him why he cheated, he never gave you a solid answer. He was ashamed for keeping his infidelity a secret for so long that his only response was a pathetic apology.

Who was this woman that he was willing to jeopardize your relationship for?

Why did he stop loving you?

You blamed yourself because you couldn’t understand.

One minute you were happy and the next you found yourself betrayed in the worst way possible.

You had enough respect for yourself to know that you couldn’t stay with a man who would treat you this way. When you broke up, you expected him to beg for your forgiveness. He was your prince charming, of course he would come crawling back.

You only knew that he had moved on with his lover when you caught the two of them at the supermarket together. They were buying peas, completely entranced with one another and the adoration that your former boyfriend used to look at you with was now passed on to the woman with golden hair.

He was your weakness and you…

You still loved him.  

Rina’s eyes shifted to the crowd, pausing when she recognised a face among the sea of strangers.

“Oh! Look who is over there!”

You glanced over your shoulder, following her line of sight until you saw your dirty little secret wave at you from a distance.

Gojo was eating ice cream, mindlessly swerving around the crowd and looking exceptionally fine in his summer fit. Adorned on the top of his head were cat ears, a little souvenir trinket that some of the vendors were selling at their stalls. His free arm was draped across a teen boy’s shoulder, whose unamused face indicated that he was not keen on being here.

“Rina-chan!” Gojo sang as he approached your table, “it’s nice to see you!”

“You too! How are things?”

“Great! Busy with the usual but today I decided to stop by with my student. This is Megumi…”

The boy awkwardly bowed to greet you and Rina.

“It’s nice to meet you both…”

Gojo’s shades slid down his nose slightly, and you caught a glimpse of those blue eyes. When he winked in your direction, you couldn’t help but blush.

“What are you two up to?” he casually asked.

“Well, I finally got Miss “Busy All The Time” to myself today and we just had some okonomiyaki, that guy over there is selling it…”

Gojo hummed and swirled his tongue around his vanilla ice cream before calmly replying, “I know, she’s been so preoccupied lately! Oi, when are we going to have our catch up session?”

Your face grew warmer, Gojo was good at keeping secrets and him playing off like he hasn’t been the one taking up all of your spare time only resulted in you staring at him with furrowed brows.

Thankfully, Megumi interrupted the conversation.

“I’m going to walk around for a bit,” he stated, turning his heel to walk away from your little group.

“I’ll meet up with you in a minute,” Gojo replied with a nod.

“I’m also going to use this opportunity to find the restroom. Gojo can keep you company until I get back,” Rina added, as she stood up from her seat.

Gojo gave her a thumbs up, “happily!”

The sorcerer took Rina’s place, sitting down across from you while his long legs bumped into yours as he adjusted his position. He paused for a moment, watching your friend and his student disperse into the crowd before finally returning his attention back to you.

“Nice outfit by the way but a little warm for today’s weather in my opinion.”

“I wonder whose fault that is…” you mused, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from smiling at his teasing comment, “I bet you think you’re so cute assuming you’re completely innocent in all this.”

Gojo smiled, “Actually, I know I’m cute.”

You couldn’t deny it, even right now as you watched him with those ridiculous cat ears that pulled back his white locks. He definitely was catching the eye of every girl and guy who passed by.

You flicked one of the black ears on his head,  “this is a new look for you…”

“I bought it for Megumi but he wasn’t too pleased wearing it around, kept saying that I was embarrassing him...” Gojo explained with a frown.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on your thighs and bringing the ice cream in his hand to your face.

“Want a taste?” he asked innocently.

Your heart skipped a beat, unaware that Gojo would get this close to you in public. He knew that you hadn't told anybody about what you both have been doing and you wondered if he was deliberately trying to put you in an awkward position. You subconsciously scanned the crowd to see if Rina or Megumi were around.

You tilted your head back slightly before asking, “do you understand the concept of personal space?”

“Relax,” Gojo said in a low voice, “no one is paying attention to us.”

“What if they come back…”

“I’ll see them before they see us,” he replied with confidence, grazing his free hand over your thigh. “Besides, you look like you could use something to cool you off…”

You arched your brow, deciding to give in and play this little flirtation game. You bit your bottom lip, gently wrapping your hand around his slender fingers and slowly leaning forward to lick the ice cream off his cone. You kept your gaze on Gojo, focusing on the devilish smirk that spread across his lips as he watched with approval.

“Mmm, that is good…” you moaned, before looking at him with glittering eyes, “wait, I didn’t get any ice cream on my face, did I?”

Gojo chuckled under his breath, “you’ve got a little something right here…”

His hand moved up to your face, his fingers holding your chin as he brought your lips to his. You inhaled, holding your breath as you were caught off guard by him stealing a kiss. The moment was fleeting and before you knew it, he parted his lips from yours but trailed his hand down your neck to take a peek at the hickey he left on your skin.

“I usually don’t care about where I mark you but if it’s a big concern I’ll make sure to do it in places where only I can see…”

Even though he spoke in a low whisper, you felt like it was loud enough for the whole crowd to hear how flustered you just got by his words.

You cleared your throat, turning your face away from him to regain your composure. “Behave, Satoru…”

“Mmm,” he hummed, “I could keep going but Rina will be back in any minute…”

You sensed a hint of annoyance in his voice when he said that.

The sorcerer leaned back, inviting the space that separated you both as he ate his ice cream with indifference. Sometimes you wish you could flip the switch as easily as he did but you found it impossible.

Rina arrived before you could even respond to his statement.

“What did I miss?” she asked, patting Gojo lightly on the shoulder to request returning to her seat.

“Nothing special,” Gojo answered with a shrug as he stood up , “I think I’m going to head back and find this kid before he leaves without me knowing.”

“Enjoy the rest of your evening! Also, you should stop by the candy shop sometime. I’ve been working on some new treats I think you might like…”

“I will,” he promised, stretching the lying game even further. He proceeded to remove the headband he was wearing, his white hair flopping over his shades as he handed you the cat ears. “Hold on to these for me won’t you…”

You took it, puzzled by the sudden gesture.

“What for?”

“Just an excuse to pick it up from you later,” he remarked innocently, “otherwise I’ll never see you!”

Rina laughed, clearly not catching on to his hidden invitation. Gojo waved goodbye and walked away, leaving you both to return to your date.

For a moment you thought your lie was about to catch up to you but realised that it was easy keeping this secret because nobody would expect you to hook up with Gojo.

You guys have been playing this song and dance for a while, saving your flirtatious banter and curiosities for when you two were alone together. Maybe you’ll come clean eventually, but for now you wanted to enjoy the bubble you were in.

You played with the cat ears in your hand, completely unaware that you were smiling to yourself.

- CHAPTER 7: GAMES - 

[stuckwith-harry]

A/N: Listen, babes, I was straight up not planning on putting out fic this year, but a series of well-timed little accidents and a very sweet groupchat resulted in this flirty little guy. While I’m sorting out my organisational crisis over on Ao3, I’ll put it here, and now I will go and agonise over the 23 other writing projects on my desk, cool? Cool. I’ve no real content warnings, it’s only banter, although the banter is not what the kids might call family-friendly.

look at what a heart can do / i’m starting to get to you

Silence has begun to come easily.

They’ve opened the window over Ginny’s bed, and cool late-summer air comes spilling in like handfuls of water, moving through the loose shirt she’s slipped into. She’s sitting cross-legged on her mattress, her back to the window, her knees bumping into Harry’s legs, her fingers drumming on his knee in a slow, tipsy rhythm, lilting and lazy like the pitter-patter on her windowpane. Afterwards, she can’t say whether a few minutes or an hour passed this way, only that it was time spent simply sitting and breathing and shifting beside each other, exchanging glances like secret handshakes, knowing grins.

Harry is flipping through the Quidditch magazine that usually resides on Ginny’s nightstand, his thumb absent-mindedly scratching at his bottom lip, his bare back leaning against her headboard. His face is softer without his glasses – like she’s catching him asleep – and still covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Every once in a while, he turns the journal over to point something out to her, like –

“Look at this one.”

So Ginny leans over the open page and peers at the model he’s indicating. “D’you think it’s weird that they’ve got it listed as a Chaser broom?”, she asks quietly, meeting his eye. “Sure, it’s speedy, but look at the inertia, that’s a better fit for a –”

“Beater”, they say in unison, grinning, and settle back into silence. Outside, the night is complete and starlit, the rain showers are warm and brief, and time is passing at a languid pace, not in any hurry to end.

Ginny finally gives up on her novel after she makes it to the bottom of the page for the third time in a row without any of it sticking, resigning herself to the fact that her thoughts are elsewhere. More precisely, they’re stretched out next to her in a pair of boxershorts, squinting at a line-up of the most anticipated broomstick releases of September 1998.

She rests her chin on her hand, her elbow on her knee, quietly looking over at him. His hair, she thinks. His hair is impossible.

He notices.

“What?”, he says softly, gazing back.

Ginny hums. “I have a question.”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“Was tonight the first time you did … that?”, she asks.

He suddenly takes great interest in the pattern of Ginny’s quilt, picking at a piece of lint she’s pretty sure is imaginary. She thinks she can see a flush creeping up his neck, too.

“Which part?”, he asks, then, making a face: “Pretend I didn’t say that. The answer’s yes either way – yeah. Yes. I figured it was fairly obvious.”

“It wasn’t, actually”, Ginny says, “that’s why I was curious.”

This does nothing to lessen the way his face is heating up, but with the way he’s grinning to himself, she decides she needn’t feel too sorry for him. “I’m gonna … take that as a compliment, then.”

Ginny grins back. “Oh, you should. It is.”

He clears his throat, not quite meeting her eye. “Have … you?”

She shakes her head, shrugging.

“Huh.”

She squints, smile intact. “Surprised, are you?”

His face hovers in a place between trepidation and something that looks a little like bashfulness, but isn’t. It’s funny, she thinks, he should look bashful. Not very long ago, he would have, but now … she turns her head, searching his features. There’s newness in every slight movement of his mouth. In the intensity with which he looks at her.

“No – and it wouldn’t matter”, he starts, with that bout of sincerity he gets on occasion that makes Ginny weak in the knees. “You just, uhm …”

Ah, she thinks, there is it. Bashfulness in heaps.

“You were good at it”, he says, sounding breathless.,

“Well, thanks”, she says, feeling inexplicably warm. “So were you.”

He squints at her, then looks back at Broomsticks Monthly. “Alright, try not to sound too surprised.”

“I’m not surprised you’re good at it!”, she laughs. “I just wasn’t expecting to, ah – score a goal – the first time we did that.”

Harry peers up at her, the colour of his face roughly resembling their old Gryffindor Quidditch uniforms. Ginny wiggles an eyebrow.

“When would I ever have – who would I have done anything with?”

“You’re telling me you and Cho never reconnected in an abandoned broom closet after things went downhill?”

He seems simply stunned at the idea. “No. Definitely not.”

“It’s not a ridiculous assumption”, Ginny says, amused.

“Her and I only – come to think of it, I’m pretty sure we only kissed the one time. And she was – well, sad all the time, wasn’t she, and I was –”

“Seething all the time”, she says cheerfully. “Fair enough.”

He gazes back at her, visibly mulling something over.

“You and Dean never did anything?”

Ginny throws a pillow at him.

Harry catches.

“You needled me too!”

Which Ginny, unfortunately, cannot argue with.

“No, we really didn’t.” She watches his face for a reaction, for a hint of relief, or smugness maybe, but to his credit, there is none. “I think he wanted to, though.”

Harry makes a face.

“Alright, relax”, she grins. “I’d spare you the details, but there quite literally aren’t any.”

He slouches back, propped up on one elbow buried deep in her pillow, the deep orange glow from the lamp on her nightstand casting his face in soft shadows, in warm hues. Ginny continues to watch him. He’s squinting into Broomsticks Monthly again, but his eyes are not moving along the page, so she knows he noticed.

After a moment, he sighs.

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

Ginny merely hums in response, and it dissolves into ripples of soft laughter at his expression. There it is again. That newness in his face.

“You … made it pretty easy.”

“Hm?”

“Your face”, he says finally, with a quiet rasp in his voice that tugs pleasantly at Ginny’s insides, “is … extremely readable. It wasn’t that hard to figure out what was … working for you.”

Ginny stares at him, stunned, and he at least has the good sense to look a little abashed.

“Your face is extremely readable”, she mutters.

Harry grins. “It’s not a bad thing, it’s a good thing.”

“No, I mean it”, she says, throwing her head back, peering down at him with a grin. “You were pretty readable too. Very transparent.”

“I’m just saying, it wasn’t all me.”

In the moment’s silence that follows, while they effortlessly reassemble their limbs, Ginny’s eyes come to linger on the long-abandoned camp bed on the floor beside her bed, whose only function now is to keep up the ruse for her parents’ sake. She grins: he’s been sleeping in her bed since he came to stay in her room instead of Ron’s.

They’ve been sleeping with each other for almost a week.

“You make that easy”, she tells him lightly. She makes a purposeless dog-ear in her book, shuffling around on her mattress, her body bumping into his with such ease she might as well have never known anything else.  “Maybe it’s not … entirely accidental. It’s easy with you.”

She hears his slow exhale, watches the way his grin softens into a smile. Even under the loose-fitting shirt, she feels herself growing warm, even though it falls off her shoulders like a circus tent, the shoulder seams comically misplaced on her upper arms.

It’s as good a moment as any to remember that the t-shirt is Harry’s, technically. It makes her feel naked in a wholly new way; only she realises she doesn’t mind. 

She lets out a fluttering breath. “Interesting. I’m usually the one making you blush.”

“Well”, he says softly, “it looks good on you.”

It’s unclear if he’s talking about his t-shirt or the colour of her face, and it doesn’t matter much, it makes warmth pool in Ginny’s belly all the same. For a moment there, she’s the girl with her elbow in the butter dish all over again – if nothing else, she can imagine their faces glowing in identical shades of pink, bright like the carnations growing in the flower boxes on the Burrow’s windowsills.

What never presents itself – what doesn’t come back – is the urge to hastily pull back into her shell, like a little snail prodded by an overzealous finger. So he continues to look, and she continues to let him, the fluttering in her belly light and pleasant like the first sip of a fizzy drink.

That much is new.

[hopelesshawks]

History of Us Part 12- Your Mother's Daughter

Summary: Once upon a time Todoroki and (y/n) were best friends. Now they haven’t spoken in years. When (y/n) is forced to transfer to UA, will she and Shoto reconnect or will their troubled past keep them apart? A childhood friends to enemies to lovers hybrid fic.

If you don’t want to see History of Us content blacklist #hopelesshou

Warning for canon typical violence

Masterlist Kofi

Bakugo’s text apology, believe it or not, was more eloquent than the one he offers in person but you appreciate the gesture and the brief hug he gives you when he realizes you’ve been crying. “It’s fine dumbass, you made it to the finals now just give it your all,” he huffs. Kirishima also pulls you into a hug, much longer than the one Bakugo had given you, and spends the whole time giving you a motivational speech about how incredibly cool and manly you are and how sure he is that you’ll do even better in the finals. You really are lucky to have the friends that you do. Especially since you anticipate the crowd is about to sour towards you.

All too quickly it’s time to return to the stadium where Principle Nezu is waiting on a raised platform with a box filled with slips of paper with bracket placements on them. The energy in the stadium is electric as the crowd anxiously waits to see what the bracket will be. It’s different than with the first years, where everyone’s an unknown. The crowd recognizes most of the names now from news reports and hero rescues. Dyed hair could only hide you for so long. “We will now call up the finalists one at a time to draw lots for the bracket!” Nezu announces. One by one you hear others around you getting called up. Bakugo, Midoriya, Shoto, Kirishima, Yaoyorozu, Denki, Sero, Hitoshi Shinso, Neito Monoma, Tokoyami, Iida, Uraraka, Jiro, Ibara Shiozaki and Itsuka Kendo all get called to roaring cheers and applause. That’s 15 names. The little fucking rodent had left you for last. Probably likes the idea of the dramatic reveal. “And last but not least, our 16th finalist (y/n) (y/l/n)!” Nezu calls and it’s like the air is sucked from the room as the crowd gets quiet and then starts murmuring to themselves. You keep your head held high as you walk to the stage even as you notice some of your classmates staring at you and the members of class b whispering. You take the last remaining lot with your head held high, throwing a wink at a nearby camera to further show them their displeasure won’t deter you.

You feel the stares of your classmates as you walk back down the stage. It’s them you really care about in all honesty. 3A had been nothing but kind to you since your arrival and it would hurt a little for their friendship to sour (you’re definitely not thinking about someone in particular at that statement) but before anyone can say anything Bakugo and Kirishima are standing next to you protectively. Kirishima links his arm through yours. “Come on, let’s head to the stands while we wait for them to start the first match,” Kiri grins at you. You give him a grateful smile and are pleasantly surprised when the rest of class a seems to fall in line behind you. None of them look at you any differently, there’s no shift in the atmosphere or added tension. Even as you can feel the glares of the crowd on your back, your new friends shield you from it until you’re in the safety of the tunnel and heading up to the stands.

“You and (y/n) stopped talking about 10 years ago right?” Midoriya asks Shoto as they walk at the back of the pack of class A students. “Yes,” Shoto confirms. “So that’s about when Black Storm was-“ “Yes.” “So Endeavor made you stop talking to her so you wouldn’t be associated with Black Storm.” “Basically.” “Jesus.” Midoriya places a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. Shoto briefly acknowledges the gesture but says nothing as everyone settles into their seats. Nezu then begins to explain the rules of the last game. It’s essentially a wrestling match, the whole stadium is fair game and you win if you can pin your opponent for five seconds or completely immobilize them. Injuries are fine but take it too far and Eraserhead and Cementoss will shut it down. You nod along as the bracket is projected onto the monitors. Your first round is with the Neito Monoma kid, you don’t know much about him, just that the mere mention of his name has Bakugo growling “You better beat that fucking extra.” “Like I’d get eliminated in the first round,” you scoff back, confidence starting to build again as your classmates continue to support you.

You feel a tap on your shoulder and turn to see a guy with a large shock of purple hair and bags for days under his eyes leaning down to wave at you. You hear Denki yelp and nearly fall out of his chair nearby but ignore it. “(Y/l/n) huh?” he asks, a slight smile. “Yea. Problem with that?” you ask. “Not at all. Villain quirks gotta stick together right?” he smirks as he offers his hand. “I’m only half villain quirk but sure,” you smirk but then you freeze, eyes glazing over before you can reach to take his hand. He smirks back at you as your hand moves to shake his without your permission. You find yourself reaching for your phone, it unlocking once it recognizes your face, and then going to your contacts before plugging in a new number. You snap back to awareness a little stunned, looking between the new contact in your phone and the baffling boy with the mind control quirk who’s currently walking away. “If you wanted my number you could’ve just asked like a normal person!” you call after him. Unbeknownst to you, Shoto watches the entire interaction with barely concealed jealousy.

It’s not long before it’s finally time for your first match. The others had briefed you on Monoma’s quirk, warning you about his copying ability. “Can he copy a quirk if he doesn’t know you have it?” you ask curiously. “I don’t know actually. Most people don’t have two quirks you know, although I don’t necessarily see how it would help?” Kirishima offers with a shrug, having already made it through his first round and into the table of 8. “Trust me, I have a game plan,” you assure him. “See you guys on the other side,” you tell him as you walk down to the tunnel to wait for them to announce your entrance. “And on our left, here she comes. Ready to blaze her own trail and show the whole world that she is more than her name, it’s (y/n) (y/l/n)!” Present Mic’s voice booms over the loud speaker as you walk into the stadium properly. The crowd boos and you must admit it stings a little but you aren’t entirely unaccustomed to the negative attention. Your eyes wander over to the section where your friends are. Bakugo gives you a nod as Denki, Sero, Kirishima, Mina, and Jiro scream and cheer for you, their bodies half over the railing. They can’t drown out the rest of the stadium but they’re trying to and that warms your heart. You grin at them before locking eyes back on your opponent, stepping up to the start point they’ve indicated. “START!” Present Mic’s voice booms and immediately you lunge forward, drawing shadows into your palm before pushing them forward to race towards Monoma.

You’re not shocked when Monoma counters with shadows of his own, knocking yours away, but you can’t help but grin when you notice he’s producing shadows from both of his palms instead of just one. “I should’ve recognized you had Daddy’s quirk the minute I saw you during the qualifying rounds,” Monoma needles and you know he’s just trying to get a rise out of you but you can’t help how your temper starts to flare. He may be using your quirk but he’s clumsier with it, the result of picking it up for the first time now versus your years and years of experience. You send forward another burst of shadows making sure to get your left hand caught in the blast so it looks like both are doing the work. As Monoma clumsily sends forward his own to redirect yours you close the distance in, sweeping his legs out from underneath him. He quickly rolls before you can try to pin him down and you just barely manage to dodge the kick he’d aimed at you in retaliation. “You were there weren’t you? The day your father went rogue,” he taunts. You suck in a harsh breath allowing him an opportunity to lash out at you again and you wince a little at the sharp sting it leaves on your cheek where he’d managed to cut you with your own quirk. Your first instinct is to heal it but you hold off. Not yet. It’s not time to reveal your hand yet. “How the fuck do you know that?” you grit out before lashing out at him harder and faster. He extends both palms out, shadows flying forward to counter your own and as his hands retract you can see black crawling up his arms. Good. Your plan is working. “Oh the little daddy daughter field trip was all over the news sweetheart, we all know you were there to watch the carnage. Why do you think no one trusts you?” Monoma taunts. He fires off both palms again but this time instead of dispersing the shadows you raise both your hands, again feigning that both are doing the work, you push back against his, the shadowy energy growing and growing as you’re both slowly pushed backwards by the force of it. You hold strong though even as more and more black veins crawl up your right arm and your forearm begins to burn with the pain. You can hear Monoma grunting in pain on the other side so you kick it up a notch, fighting through your own pain until finally he breaks. He releases with a gasp, hunching forward with the pain. He looks up expecting to see you in a similar state but instead he finds you glowing as you stride towards him, the black veins rapidly fading as the light you radiate chases them back. Once you're in front of him he barely has any time to react before you deck him across the face, knocking him to the ground. You put one foot on his chest to keep him down, increasing the strength of your healing quirk just so that you’ll glow a little more brightly as you lean down to look him directly in the eye. “I may be my father’s daughter,” you start as the monitor counts down five seconds, “but I’m also my mother’s.”

The countdown finishes and an airhorn blares to signal your victory. You turn away from him, leaving him gaping at you like a fish on the ground as you walk back to the tunnel. The booing of the crowd that follows you out is music to your ears.

As far as you’re concerned? They can die mad about it.

A/N: Ngl I made Shinso so smooth in this one I was like alternate route? 💀 But n o lmao this is Shoto’s fic. OH ALSO we got even more about what happened when (y/n) was 8! I love mixing in her lore, I've actually had the very basic idea for her backstory and potentially where I’m going to take this fic after the sports festival arc since when I first started watching the show. The fight with Monoma in particular has been plotted out literally since I watched the final exam arc I think back when I was primarily a Todoroki simp oop so it's been really fun for me to get to write it here considering I never thought it would be a concept that left my head.

Taglist: @sorrythatspussynal @miss-bakugo-writes @pixelwisp @larkspyrr @sokkaandzukosimp @akkaso @sunaispretty @mindofess @todoplusultra @oliviasslut

[equalseleventhirds]

i said i wouldn't write it but i did

vaguely a sequel to this, but far in the future and focused on jon (annabelle features briefly tho. she's fine. annabelle will always be fine in my fics.) with ofc the presupposition that they've failed in one world but kept trying, bcos i think that would be fun*!

*(by which i mean heartbreaking, i'm so sorry)

There are rules, to the traveling, or at least there seem to be. There are certainly questions to be asked and points to be made, about how many instances count as a definitive rule rather than simply a pattern. But Jon likes to think of them as rules. He's always preferred concrete answers, even if it turns out they're less the truth and more just a convenient way of conceptualizing things.

So he has rules.

First: the Fears always come through on the same day. October 18, 2018. Or, given the impact history has on calendars, the equivalent of it; he'd once spent months trying to correlate the forty-third moon of cycle 1852 with his calendar just to prove his point, but the math had all worked out.

(Which does indicate, at least to Jon, that yes, the Fears probably did originate in his home world, Georgie. He'll take his petty wins where he can get them. For as long as he can remember the discussion, and the people, he's proving wrong.)

Second, it is still his tapes that the Fears follow. For every apocalypse there has been a new catalyst, but none of these new rituals supersede his. Maybe it's a testament to the strength of the Web's original plan, or maybe it's just something about Jon himself. He knows what he thinks, but... well, there isn't enough proof just yet.

Third, in spite of endless attempts to trap them and stop them, Jon is always able to travel with the Fears. Perhaps they simply can't stop him, as the original antichrist he apparently is; dozens of apocalypses in dozens of different universes, and Jon can always feel his rightful place as ruler of that terrible fearscape calling to him. He hasn't taken it yet, but it's there, and the Eye cannot abandon its true pupil without his permission.

Or perhaps they simply don't care. Every attempt so far has led to the exact same result, after all: another world left behind, another death by starvation averted, another new feast for the Fears to sink their teeth into.

Fourth, he always passes out upon entering a new world.

It's kind of annoying.

---

It is slightly unusual for him to wake up warm, comfortable, and covered in a blanket, but Jon's not about to complain. It's nice. He doesn't get a lot of comfort, and he likes sleeping in a bed, especially since he's always eldritch-nightmare-free in a new world. For a limited time only, of course.

He's fairly certain he's inside; aside from the softness underneath and around him, the air is still and temperate, the light through his eyelids is artificial, and all he can hear is the faint whirring of appliances and the whispers of two muted voices.

"—complete stranger, definitely dangerous, looks like he's from hell—"

"Okay, fine, but I wasn't going to leave him, and anyway haven't you noticed he's a bit—"

"A bit what? Scarred? Bloodstained? Glowing eyes, because I don't think I need to remind you, Martin, his eyes were absolutely glowing when you found him—"

Martin. Now there's a name. Not an uncommon one, but... he thinks he knows that voice.

Or. Well. He might know both of those voices, actually, which is even more interesting than waking up in a bed.

Jon opens his eyes.

He's met himself before, is the thing. Not in every world, and not always particularly recognizable, but he's met himself. He's met versions of Martin, too, and eventually stopped going completely useless with heartbreak every time. The merest handful of times, he's found both of them in the same world, sometimes something almost like friends, but usually not.

The fact that they have their arms around each other, casual, comfortable, close, is both entirely unexpected and perfectly, wonderfully, terribly familiar. Jon briefly considers crying about it, but there are more important things to be doing. For example.

"The glowing eyes aren't actually that sinister. I mean, they are, but not for the reasons you're probably thinking."

Jon—the other Jon—jumps at the sound of his voice, then leans forward. Curiosity, of course; that hardly ever seems to change. "You—the glowing—who are you?"

"Jon," this new version of Martin scolds, and for just a moment he's back home, with his Martin, with that exasperated tone—but no, this isn't his Martin, and he's also leaning forward now, his voice turning gentle. Concerned. Coaxing, like he's a spooked animal, and Jon doesn't think his Martin has ever talked to him that way. "How are you feeling? We found you unconscious in the street."

He can feel Martin's curiosity too, pushing forward under his concern, just as questioning as Jon but too polite to outright say it yet. He has to cut this off, or he really will cry.

"Mm... no," he says. "Well, yes. But also." Good lord, he's confusing them. Par for the course, but he should probably try to be somewhat comprehensible.

He holds up a hand, extending one finger. "I am... fine. More or less. Trust me, I'm used to this, and this isn't even the worst way it's happened." Another finger joins the first. "My name, as I believe Martin has guessed but then dismissed, is Jonathan Sims. I am not you from the future, nor am I lying, nor am I crazy, because—" a third finger "—interdimensional travel is not only possible, it has happened, is happening, because of and along with terrible monstrosities I am determined to stop, and I have explained this too many times to too many people to have much patience for anyone being shocked and disbelieving, much less a version of myself doing so, so you can either get over it and move on or I can go elsewhere and do something useful."

"Excuse—"

"And," he continues, pushing himself up so he can sit and lean forward even more intensely than his counterpart, "I would actually rather not do that just yet, because I have an extremely pressing question for the two of you."

"Um," Martin says, and "What," says the other Jon.

"How," Jon asks, deepening his voice to exude solemn, ominous, and eldritchly important, "did you two start dating?"

---

It was so... normal. Apparently. Two people, mutual friends, a chance encounter. A prickly exterior ("He hated me," both of them had claimed), but without the insecurity of being Head Archivist and the fear of dread powers beyond his comprehension, their friends had helped him open up and—eventually—apologise. A budding friendship, and then a romance, and then...

It isn't a version of them Jon has seen anywhere else, in any of the worlds he's traveled to. Normal as it is, it's a highly improbably scenario, and certainly not the same as his relationship with his Martin had been. But it was, in an infinite number of worlds, still a possibility.

Jon isn't quite sure how he feels about that, knowing that some version of them could have fallen in love without the trauma, but that they hadn't managed it.

His hands aren't shaking, as he lights his cigarette. At least there's that.

"I quit, you know," his counterpart says from behind him. "Years ago. I'd forgotten about those until you asked."

"Well then, thank you for indulging me." He gestures, meaning the cigarette, meaning the bed, meaning his claims about reality, meaning his intrusive, gossipy questioning. Meaning everything. He's not sure it gets across.

The other Jon laughs, quietly, and moves to stand next to him. "I am my worst enabler."

"Oh, that's hardly true."

"Mm." They're silent together for a while, but Jon is restless (both of him), and eventually this reality's version opens his mouth to ask. "Do you—do you know why I—I don't want to say believed you, I'm still not sure I do, b-but, didn't throw you out immediately?"

"My myriad charms?" They both laugh at that.

"Jonathan Sims," he says, as if that explains anything.

Jon takes a drag of his cigarette, considering. He could probably Know, but... indulging himself. "What about me?"

"No, not you, or. You know. You. But your name. Jonathan Sims. I decided you weren't, weren't a deliberate lie to trick me, or a future version of myself, or a mind-reading monster—"

"Well—"

"—when you said your name, because none of those things would have said that." He smiles then and holds up a hand, and—oh—his ring glints. "I've been Jonathan Blackwood for a while now."

They'd told him married eventually, but he hadn't even thought about his name. He's certainly thinking about it now. "Jonathan Blackwood," he says, soft, to himself. And to himself. "That... that sounds good."

"It does, doesn't it."

Whatever they might have said next is lost as an incredibly loud engine roars nearby and a sleek black motorcycle pulls up in front of them. Jon sighs and takes one last drag of his cigarette as the rider removes her helmet.

"Been off finding yourself, then, Jon?" Annabelle asks.

"Oh, extremely funny, yes. Did you steal that?"

"It was a gift."

"Of course it was."

The other Jon is staring at them both, his eyes repeatedly drifting back to the web-covered hole in Annabelle's head. "Who—what is—is that a—"

"She's a spider monster," Jon supplies helpfully. "She came with me, although apparently she did not pass out in the street this time."

"Two streets over, I think. Pity, I would've loved a nice nap in a proper bed, but I did get this motorcycle out of it. Come on, Jon, you can mope on the way."

"I have not been moping—"

"Haven't you? You're not the one who deals with how maudlin you get every time you meet yourself—"

"Yes, fine, thank you, we can go." He stubs out the cigarette and pauses, looking at himself. "Uh. Tell Martin—well, goodbye, I guess. I'd say I hope we meet again, but if you're lucky we won't need to?"

"...sure."

"And I'm—I hope you—that is, I'll do my best—well." He sighs. "Things are about to get... dicey, for the world in general. But just, look out for each other, and we'll try to handle the rest."

"Jon, we should be going."

"Yes, all right, all right." He gives himself one last, probably not very reassuring smile, and climbs on behind Annabelle.

They do have work to do, after all.

[poliel]

I Already Told You Not to Worry About It

On Ao3, in the comment section of my fic that takes place prior to the first party in game I got this request: "Love to see Buddy comforting and hugging Filbo after the party ends in disaster." And here it is.

~

As Filbo sat and watched, the fire shrank to be little but a few glowing embers. Enough to reignite it if one were so inclined but… why bother? And besides, if Filbo did, there was a pretty good chance he’d end up burning the whole town down… again. And then everyone would hate him even more than they already did. Not that he blamed them for that, he had a knack for messing everything up. At times, like right now, it seemed to be the only thing he was good at.

He’d probably messed up his budding friendship with the one person in town who had liked him. Buddy had tried to say ‘no’ twice but Filbo had insisted and as a result an already ruined party had gotten that much worse. Ugh, why did he have to…

The sound of footsteps approached, drawing his gaze up. It was Buddy, looking exhausted but otherwise okay. Oh no, now they were going to think Filbo had stayed up out here waiting for them to make sure they were okay or something. Which was part of why he hadn’t gone back to his hut but it was still weird, right? Because he was the only solely at fault for their getting sick in the first place.

“You feeling any better?” he ventured with a hopeful smile as they reached the campfire.

Buddy shrugged. “Eh, I guess. Still not great though. I think that’s the worst case of food poisoning I’ve ever had.” Despite Filbo’s expectation of anger or annoyance they just sounded tired as they as they sat on the log next to him. “Is there a reason you’re still up?”

Filbo looked back at the campfire and it’s dwindling embers. “I couldn’t sleep and uh… wanted to make sure you’d be okay. Sorry again about… well everything actually. The party failing so miserably and then forcing that strabby on you after you said ‘no’ twice.”

“I already told you not to worry about it, it’s fine. The fight wasn’t your fault. And the strabby, how were you supposed to know I’m allergic or whatever? Besides with the only other thing to eat being sauce, I would’ve eventually ended up trying one myself anyway. Which well, I guess I’m just going to have to get used to eating sauce no matter what since my food supplies on the airship aren’t going to last for much longer. Ugh, can’t imagine that ever getting old, huh?”

“Maybe it’s just the strabby you’re allergic too? You could try something else like the bungers maybe, they’re pretty good.”

“After how awful that was, I’d rather not risk it. Besides I’m a vegetarian anyway so…”

“And you’re a vegetarian?” Filbo lifted his paws cover his face in shame. “If you’d told me, I wouldn’t have… ugh.” He’d just wanted them to know how good bugsnax tasted. Especially since realizing they hadn’t eaten any since arriving on the island a few days ago. In hindsight that was probably an indicator that they didn’t want to eat bugsnax since they could certainly catch them just fine. “I’m sorry I’m the worst.”

Buddy let out an annoyed sigh but the paw they placed on Filbo’s shoulder was gentle. “It’s fine. Like I said, I would’ve eventually eaten one on my own anyway, I’ve never been a very strict vegetarian. So it doesn’t matter. I’m not mad. You’ve apologized and I’ve forgiven you so it’s time to move on.”

Filbo lowered his paws to look at Buddy. “Yeah, okay. S-” He cut off at their glare, reminding him to stop apologizing. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good.” They smiled at him and he was suddenly acutely aware of how close together they were sitting. Their shoulders were brushing and it was just the two of them out here alone in the dark. And this was probably the longest conversation they’d had together since Buddy had first found him. They chatted often whenever Buddy was in town but they had a job to do and people to feed and they were working on reuniting the town too and thus was rather busy most of the time. So they could never stick around and talk for super long but here and now…

Despite the chill night air and dead fire, Filbo was somehow uncomfortably warm now. He quickly turned his body to face the dead campfire again. He didn’t scooch away though, didn’t want to really. “Thanks, Buddy. It’s nice having a friend around.” Too bad Liz couldn’t be here too. Though maybe not here in this exact moment because… reasons. “Especially with Beffica being back in town.”

Buddy let out a low growl that made Filbo flinch a little. “Don’t listen to anything Beffica says to you. She’s wrong and she’s a bitch.”

It took Filbo a few seconds to recover from hearing the anger in Buddy’s voice. He’d never heard them be angry before, had he? Though to be fair he’d only known them for like a week. … And he was already way more attached to them than they probably wanted him to be, ugh. Best not dwell on that. What had they been talking about again? … Oh yeah, Beffica. “I thought you uh… liked her.” Especially since she called them ‘Bestie’, implying they were if not actual best friends, still good friends.

Buddy shrugged, anger apparently gone now. “I don’t. I’m just good at making people think I like them. It makes my job easier.” Well that wasn’t exactly the most comforting thing to hear from one’s new friend. “I’d like her if she wasn’t mean to you though. So if she stopped that, we’d probably be good friends.”

“Oh uh… wow.” Filbo wasn’t sure what to say to that. He wasn’t important enough to really warrant that kind of thing.

“Anyway,” Buddy said with a yawn as they stood up, stretching their arms up into the air. “I’m beat so I’m going head to bed now. You should probably sleep too, it’s late.”

Filbo stood too. “Yeah, sleep sounds pretty good right now.” It was way past the time he normally went to bed and he could definitely feel it. “It was nice talking to you though.”

“It was. We should try to chat like this more often. For now though, good night.” After one last paw wave and tired smile they were heading off.

“Good night,” Filbo replied before turning to head for his own hut. Despite how tired he was he actually felt better about everything. Tomorrow was a new day and Buddy was bound to bring more people back to town and eventually find Liz and Eggabell and then everything would be all right again. The next party Filbo threw was going to be much better and grander. And maybe he’d be able to get Buddy to dance with him, that’d be nice. … Oh, and everyone else too of course, parties were the most fun when everyone was dancing. It was going to be great.

[lluvguts]

the best medicine // wolfstar

pairing: sirius black / remus lupin

warnings: all fluff! so none! :)

word count: 1,833

summary: Sirius won't let Remus out of his sight until he feels better again. Even if that means breakfast in bed.

n/a: adding most of my ao3 fics onto here! if you enjoyed reading, check out my page here and requests are open so just message me!!

Sirius had woken up with a frown, fully expecting Remus to be curled into his side—in the predawn hours before Remus returned to his own bed, as the others knew well enough about their relationship but Remus and Sirius were much too afraid of any Professors finding out. But sadly Sirius’s sheets were cold without a warm, sleepy Remus and dark from the bed curtains which were oddly shut. Their dormitory wasn’t filled with its usual chatter, meaning either the rest of their friends had left to breakfast without him, or they were still sound asleep.

“Moons?” Sirius whispered softly into the quiet, slipping a finger through the curtains to see. He was right. Peter and James had already left for breakfast—along with Lily from the girl’s chambers, no doubt. Remus’s bed was next to his own and Sirius saw with a thudding heart that Remus was slumped over with his back to him, with mussy hair peeking out of the sheet. It might have been a Saturday, but Remus was never one to mope about.

That was...weird. Remus always at least tipped his head up, any indication that he’d heard him. Something was definitely wrong, and Sirius prayed it was not some prank that the others were playing on him. Perhaps they used a Polyjuice Potion to trick Sirius into thinking that his boyfriend wasn’t a magicked Peter. Yuck.

“Remus, you alright?” Sirius tried again, slipping out from the comfort of his bed to slide onto the soft covers to Remus. He set a hand against his head, leaning to see that Remus had circles lining his dark green eyes. Yes, it was definitely the real Remus. He had the same healing scrapes on his bare shoulders and neck from a full moon nights ago, the price to pay for being a werewolf.

Sirius set aside the first reason he was concerned and found a new one as he touched one purply bruise on Remus’s jaw, making both wince.

“Do you need me to get some ice from the dining hall? These marks still look bad, Moony.”

Remus snaked a hand free from his sheets and moved Sirius’s hand away. “I’m fine, Pads. You don’t have to worry over me. Go off to breakfast, I heard James was going to save you a seat.”

“Well what about you ? Why won’t you come?” Sirius settled closer on the bed, craning over Remus to see his face.

“I’m...I don’t feel well,” Remus murmured, not meeting Sirius’s eyes.

Sirius saw right through his lie. It was in the way Remus bit down on his lip, and if it was at all possible his eyes darkened further into sad, pitiful slits as he stared at the far wall.

“What’s the matter? I know when you aren’t being truthful, Moons.”

His attempts at pushing Sirius away only made him scoot closer, and made that stirring in his gut wrench around like a headless rabbit at the sight of something else. There weren’t just bruises dotting Remus’s cheeks from days before—as if that alone wasn’t enough to worry Sirius sick over—underneath Remus’s eyes were dried tears.

Sirius didn’t rush to ask about the tears just yet. He only watched, and even that was a difficult feat, he hated when Remus was upset . Especially when he had no way to help. Remus was silent, emotions flickering across his eyes as the sunlight streamed across the white sheets in little glowing patches. But soon it was as though the intent to keep Sirius as far from him as possible faded away with some burst of clarity and Remus instead shifted higher up on his pillows to grab Sirius’s eager hands.

His voice wavered, looking Sirius straight in the eyes made his face redden. “Could you stay here, er, with me? I know it’s a lot to ask, but quite frankly, I’m scared to be alone...I haven’t been sleeping well—well, I only truly sleep when I’m with you. But see, last night I...I was—“

Sirius put a free hand to Remus’s lips, and his worried expression softened.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Moons. Of course I’ll stay.”

Remus sighed in relief and opened his mouth—to say thank you, Sirius assumed—but was interrupted by a rumbling coming from his own stomach. Both boys grinned at this and shared a gentle laugh. Sirius pulled him in for a hug, one that Remus accepted with both hands wrapped around his nightshirt.

“I’ll stay, on one condition: at least let me get you something to eat,” Sirius said against Remus’s hair.

“Just nothing with animal meat...goodness, Sirius, I’ve grown so sick of the taste of...of,” Remus trailed off, that sadness in his eyes returning.

“Don’t worry,” Sirius kissed his forehead, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Sirius hardly paid much attention to the portrait’s protests as he exited the Gryffindor common room and raced down the steps—minding the gaps and shifting staircases—toward the main hall where the rest of the Hogwarts students were enjoying breakfast.

“Ah! It’s about time you showed up! In your pyjamas, too,” James greeted Sirius with a wave and a cheeky mouthful of bacon. “Where’s your other half?”

Sirius fought the impulse to smile. “Resting. He’s ill, I’m to bring him some breakfast.”

James turned to Lily and Peter—as well as the other Gryffindors who had happened to overhear his boisterous voice—and began to laugh.

“Oh, Moony is sick , you say? That’s why you’re rushing about, just to run back up to his beck and call? Are you sure you’re not just going back to go snog in the common room—“

“ Keep your voice down!” Sirius hissed with a breathy laugh.

James reached over the table to tug on Sirius’s black hair, then slung an arm affectionately around Lily, who rolled her eyes.

Sirius poured Remus’s tea strong, just how he liked it. A dash of cream, no sugar. That was if Remus even wanted tea to begin with. Sirius examined the breakfast banquet before him on the Gryffindor table again, growing more and more anxious over what food Remus might like best. He did say no meat, so the scrambled eggs and strips of bacon were certainly out of the question...Sirius chose a few less burnt slices of toast instead, with a saucer of jam and some chopped fruit to pile onto the fresh plate.

“Are you gonna eat, Sirius?” Peter asked as he watched him add a few more strawberries onto the already filled plate.

In answer to this Sirius slipped some bacon into his mouth and grabbed James’s half-empty mug of coffee before spinning back out of the Great Hall toward Gryffindor Tower, using both hands to carry Remus’s plate and tea.

James leapt from the table, as if to playfully lunge across the rows of students. “ Oy! You come back here with that, Pads!”

Sirius grinned over his shoulder at James and took a swig from the lukewarm coffee. He almost spit it out though, it was much too sugary for his liking.

“It is sweet of him, James. Maybe you’ll do that for me someday,” Lily mused before Sirius disappeared around the corridor and could not hear the rest of their conversation.

With his hands full, he had to use his foot to open the portrait into the common room, resulting in the Fat Lady’s shrieks in disapproval at Sirius’s toes touching the canvas. He muttered his apologies and practically raced up the boy’s staircase to the dormitories, the dishes clattering all the while.

“Sirius?” Remus called in a hushed voice, turning in bed so that Sirius could smile at his drowsy face and the strands of his light brown hair in disarray around the pillows.

Sirius took off his shoes and climbed into Remus’s bed, setting the tray of breakfast food carefully on Remus’s lap.

He took a drink from James’s coffee. “Eat.”

Remus scanned the food before choosing a slice of toast, chewing thoughtfully.

“Did you have any?” Remus gestured to the tray, but Sirius waved him off.

“Moons,” Sirius started with a heavy heart, inching closer until their knees touched. He waited until Remus was done with his toast to touch one of his tired eyelids, his fingers brushing the tear stains. “Why were you crying?”

Remus didn’t flinch. He sat rigid as Sirius moved the tray to the nightstand and planted his other hand to his cheek.

“I couldn’t sleep, I told you,” Remus mumbled, looking into Sirius’s eyes with embarrassment.

“Enough for tears , Moons? You cry over O.W.L. scores, not sleepless nights.”

Remus sighed, his words coming out choppy and full of emotion. “I’ve been having nightmares. About getting stuck as a werewolf, and showing up in places where everyone can see me. They either laugh and point, or cower in fear and use curses on me. I tried hurting you and the others once...I killed innocent animals...I can’t seem to—oh, never mind. That’s about when I woke up and decided to stay awake. But I didn’t want to worry you with it so I just went to my own bed.”

“You know you could have woken me. I’m very good at distracting,” Sirius held Remus’s  face and brushed a thumb along his skin, marred by old wounds.

“You’re more of a distraction than a distractor. Hate to inform you,” The pain in his eyes lifted and Remus was smiling now.

Sirius chuckled. “C’mere then, I’ll distract you some more.”

Remus took the front of Sirius’s nightshirt with both hands as Sirius flipped him over. Like they always did, Remus nestled into a comfortable position on top of him, wrapping his arms around Sirius’s neck while his legs hugged his waist. Sirius pulled the covers over them both and rested his hands in Remus’s hair.

“You can try and rest now, if you’d like,” Sirius whispered.

Remus stared down at Sirius’s contented face with his own tired one. “Not just yet.”

“Moony, one of these days you’ll keel over from exhaustion—“ Sirius said but was cut off by a soft kiss on his lips. His whole body flooded with a smothering heat, and he brought Remus’s face closer to cradle his neck and deepen the kiss.

Remus pulled away and pressed his nose to Sirius’s neck, his eyelashes tickling his skin.

“A goodnight kiss, eh?” Sirius said with a little laugh.

Remus murmured something back, probably a reminder to wake him up at a certain hour or to stop his teasing. Sirius held him against his chest and listened to the pattern of his breathing, looking up at the ceiling as Remus drifted to sleep.

Remus really was right. The boy could only fall asleep when Sirius was with him. And he only let the dark thoughts that plagued him drift away when Sirius was cuddling him close—and kept him tucked safe in his arms.

[kabira]

06 | disguise

pairing — spider-man!vernon x ofc

featuring — joshua, yeji (itzy), felix (skz), yangyang (nct)

word count — 2.5k

genres — spider-man au, marvel au, fluff, action, angst, humor

warnings — none

go to fic masterlist | main masterlist

Joshua walked into the cafeteria alert, his head held up and gaze searching for a familiar brunet head amongst the thick crowd in the room. Usually he’d be late, probably held up talking to a teacher or waiting for Vernon, but after the experiences of the past week, he knew better than to wait up for his distracted friend.

“Sorry!” he yelled after almost colliding with a girl and making her spill her banana milk down the front of her shirt. She glared at him as he gripped his tray tighter and winced, quickly shouldering through the group before him to get to his table and as far out of her reach as possible. “Coming through!”

He reached the empty table as the same time Vernon did, both of them putting down their trays at the same moment. Joshua raised his eyebrows, letting a small smile form on his face as he slipped into the seat next to Vernon’s. “The prodigal returns,” he announced. “Where have you been, dude? I’ve barely seen you all week.”

Vernon shrugged, tapping his fingers on the table. He seemed distracted, eyes darting around the cafeteria as if waiting for something, or someone, to appear. Joshua knew that look—it was the one that indicated that something bad was about to happen, most likely within a ten-meter radius. “Um,” the blue-haired boy muttered with a small frown, “I don’t have to worry about that Rhino guy busting down the door, do I?”

“What?” Vernon glanced at him with wide eyes, as if only just having noticed he was here. “Uh, no. At least, I don’t think so.” He smiled sheepishly, hands sliding over the tabletop to grip his tray again, though Joshua guessed it was just to stop them from moving. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Joshua sighed, placing a fingertip against the bridge of his glasses and sliding them up his sweat-slicked nose. It wasn’t even hot out, but being in a room packed with sweaty, hormonal bodies will do that to you. “I was asking you what you’ve been doing to keep busy in the last few days.”

“Nothing much,” Vernon said, twirling his plastic fork. He looked distracted, maybe a little tired, but despite the dark circles under them, his eyes were alight. “Because of the new team, I have to do all of these S.H.I.E.L.D. training projects with them, and they keep giving up these random hero assignments like stopping robberies and rescuing cats from trees. You know, the usual.” He shrugged. “It’s kind of annoying that I have barely any creative freedom with my fighting these days.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Joshua quipped. “If you call flying solo creative freedom.”

His best friend grinned. “Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you,” he said, suddenly excited as he leaned forward on his elbows, eyes glittering. “I got a job in Dr. Connors’s lab.”

“That biotech guy who worked with your dad?” Joshua raised his eyebrows, looking impressed. “When?”

“Last Tuesday.” Vernon’s eyes had taken on an almost dreamy quality as he talked about his new job. “It’s just the post of research assistant, pretty basic stuff really, but he lets me take part in some of the data collection sometimes. Man, you should look at all the amazing equipment in his lab. He’s got a BOD incubator, an electrophoresis chamber—”

“Vernon.” Both the boys looked up at the source of the voice, which stood before them in the form of Felix Liu (or, as he was better known, Felix Lee). The boy’s eyes glazed over Joshua as if he wasn’t even there before coming to rest on Vernon’s with a kind of communicative intensity. “You’re wanted in the principal’s office.”

Vernon stared at the boy for a few moments, looking confused, and Felix raised his eyebrows, glaring at him meaningfully. Joshua glanced between them, wanting to say something but a little apprehensive of doing so. “The principal’s office?” Vernon echoed, a defiant note in his voice. “Why?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Felix asked, scowling. “Coulson himself stopped me in the hallway, so it must be urgent. You should probably go talk to him.”

Something like realization flickered across Vernon’s features. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, right. You’re right.” He got up suddenly, casting an unsure look at Joshua as if he’d just remembered there was a witness to their exchange. He glanced at Felix with a conflicted look in his eye, clutching the back of the chair uncertainly. “Uh, there’s something I should tell you—”

“Tell me later,” Felix cut him off impatiently, waving him away. “Just go.”

Vernon glanced at Joshua again, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. He opened his mouth, looking like he was about to say something, then stopped himself. He shook his head, chest deflating as he let go of a long breath, before turning around and making his way towards the exit.

Joshua kept his eyes on his retreating back as he went, not turning even when he felt Felix pull up a chair opposite him. Only when Vernon finally disappeared behind the double doors did he turn to his food, which lay untouched on his plate. Something was up, and he had a good idea about what it was.

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” Felix asked, making Joshua look up at the sound of his voice. The boy’s cheeks were puffed out, mouth already filled with whatever they were supposed to consume by way of food for lunch. When Joshua didn’t answer, he cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”

“I don’t feel like eating,” the blue-haired boy murmured, but unwrapped his sandwich anyway. The new kids had started eating at his, Luce’s and Vernon’s usual table in the past week, which Joshua was completely okay with—except he usually had at least one of his old friends to keep things from becoming too awkward. Between the three of them, Joshua was probably the one with the worst social skills.

He took a tiny bite of his sandwich, and glanced despairingly at the door, waiting for Luce to show up. Heck, even Yeji or that other guy—Yangyang?—would have been welcome. Felix had always struck him as the silent type, but he didn’t yet know if it was a strong silent or a sensitive silent. Eating this way was awkward, to say the least, but the only topic of conversation Joshua could think of was probably not fit for discussion in public.

Ah, to hell with that. “You’re Iceman, right?”

Felix looked up so quickly Joshua heard something crack in his neck. He felt a sudden, sharp, bite-like pain in the back of his right hand, which had been lying much too close to Felix’s tray. “Ouch!” Joshua pulled back his hand with a hiss, cradling it against his chest. “What the hell was that for?”

“Sorry, I—” Felix stopped with a small scowl. “Hey. Don’t go around saying stuff like that!”

“So you are Iceman,” Joshua said. “Can’t really deny it now.”

Felix blushed at the statement. The color that flooded his cheeks was startlingly bright against the pallor of his skin. “Who told you that?” he demanded. “Was it Vernon?”

“No, I kind of figured it out by myself.” He lightly touched the back of his hand again, making sure the feeling in it hadn’t been stopped entirely. “Between three new superheroes showing up with Spider-Man and three new kids dropping right into the middle of the session less than a day apart, it wasn’t hard to guess,” he said. “You were sent here by the biggest super spies in the world and the best disguise they could come up with was hair dye and a last name change?”

Felix didn’t snap at him again, but the look he was giving him was definitely hostile. “You have a better idea?” he countered. “In case you haven’t noticed, no one in the school has realized my identity yet.”

“Except me.”

“Except you,” he added, though a little sourly. “And that’s probably because you already know who Spider-Man is.”

Joshua considered this. “Well, that is true,” he admitted. “But it’s still kind of surprising that none of the kids that go here have figured it out yet.”

“They probably don’t want to believe there’s a mutant in their school,” Felix muttered. Joshua noticed how his face darkened as he continued staring at his food, stabbing the mashed potatoes with his plastic spoon. “People believe what they want to see.”

Joshua studied the boy, noticing the tension in his shoulders and the probably unconscious crease in the middle of his forehead. “Are you…” he started, then hesitated. What was he supposed to say?

Felix waved the half-question away, and spooned in a huge mouthful of his potatoes, indicating that the conversation was over. Joshua took another bite of his sandwich, wondering what was going through the blond’s head. Not having a secret identity, he didn’t know what it would feel like to have a common high school kid figure it out within days of meeting you. Something bad, probably.

There was a metallic clunk as someone placed their tray on the table. Luce swung her bag off her shoulders, dropping it to the floor, and took a seat next to Joshua. “Sorry I’m late, got caught up in a meeting,” she said, seemingly oblivious to the tension at the table. “What’d I miss?”

Joshua cast a furtive glance at Felix, only to find the boy’s eyes already trained on him. He hadn’t noticed before, but Felix’s eyes were brown. Joshua had never taken a close look at Iceman’s eyes, but somehow, he knew the brown eyes were a result of contact lenses.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

Running in the hallways wasn’t allowed, but when you were going to the principal’s office, Vernon guessed it was an exception.

He sprinted all the way to the room, equal parts concerned and annoyed by the summons. If Coulson had called on him in school, then it was probably something important—but on the other hand, he hadn’t asked for Felix. Maybe it was a specifically Spider-Man related emergency.

When he burst through the door into the office, Coulson was leaning against the side of his desk, arms folded over his chest. The only other person in the room was Yangyang, who was seated on one of the chairs before the principal’s table, picking at the stuffing peeking out of the worn-out arm of the chair.

Vernon let the door shut behind him before stepping in, glancing between the two in confusion. The atmosphere definitely didn’t feel urgent. “Agent—I mean, Principal Coulson,” he said, wincing slightly at his slip-of-the-tongue. “You asked for me?”

“I did.” Coulson uncrossed his arms, placing the heels of his hands against the edge of the table. “Take a seat.”

Vernon crossed the room hesitantly, slowly sitting on the unoccupied chair. “Uh,” he said, glancing at Yangyang’s lounging figure with a frown. “Is this about something important?”

“It is indeed,” the agent confirmed, straightening. “If you consider the Shocker important.”

“Shocker?” Vernon repeated. “Isn’t he in S.H.I.E.L.D. jail or something?”

Yangyang snorted, and Vernon shot him a murderous look. “Unfortunately, no,” Coulson answered. “We’ve been trying to apprehend him, but he’s been laying low for a while.”

“Shocker, laying low?” Vernon raised an eyebrow. “Not something you see every day.”

“Yesterday, he robbed a bank on Madison Avenue,” Coulson continued, ignoring him. “I didn’t call you in then because you had a pop quiz in history going on, but—”

Yangyang groaned. “Seriously? Man, I could have used the distraction.”

The agent gave him a sharp look, before facing Vernon and speaking. “He’s out again today, terrorizing citizens in Central Park,” he said. “Usually, I’d prefer for other professionals to take on him, but orders are orders, and you, Vernon, have the most experience with him and will probably be able to take over him the most quickly.” He looked almost regretful, probably about them having to miss school hours. Damn, he was really getting into his role as the principal. “You are to leave immediately.”

“Wait, what’s he doing in Central Park?” Vernon frowned. “That’s not the most lucrative venture for a small-time villain.”

“Terrorizing citizens.” Coulson raised his eyebrows. “As I said.”

“Terrorizing citizens…?” Vernon muttered, sitting up a little. “That’s strange.”

“What’s up, Parker?” Yangyang asked with a mocking grin, uncrossing his legs and getting to his feet. He stretched, flexing his shoulders. “Disappointed in your little pet project?”

“Shut up, bucket head,” Vernon murmured. “It’s just not his usual style, but I guess he’s branching out.” He pursed his lips. “Still, I can’t imagine why.”

“And I can’t imagine why the two of you would stand around bickering and wasting your time when there’s a dangerous criminal on the loose,” Coulson said firmly, giving them a very teacher-like look. “Get going already.”

Vernon blinked. He glanced at Yangyang, who stood by the door looking at him expectantly, and then at Agent Coulson. “Wait,” he muttered, brow creasing as it slowly dawned on him where this was heading. “What about Tiger and Iceman?”

“They’re not needed for this simple mission,” Coulson said. “I’m sure the two of you can handle this problem by yourselves just fine.”

“Unless you’re scared of old Shocker, that is.” Yangyang gave him a lopsided smirk. “In which case, I’m sure Agent Coulson wouldn’t have a problem packing you an extra pair of underwear when you wet your pants.”

Vernon glared at him, his grip tightening on the armrests as he refused to get up. His gaze swiveled to the agent, eyes going round and pleading. “What about sending me with White Tiger instead?” he asked imploringly. “I’m sure we could take Shocker down more efficiently since we’ve had more time to practice our maneuvers together—”

“Go. Now.” Coulson was definitely not taking no for an answer as he gave him a stern look. Vernon stood up slowly, not taking his eyes off the man, just in case he got a last-minute break, but he was unrelenting. “Today would be good.”

“What are you going to tell your teachers?” Vernon asked desperately as he reluctantly made his way towards the door, where Yangyang was still waiting for him. He gave the boy a disbelieving look, surprised that he was willing to go along with all of this. Their animosity was, on most days, mutual. “We have bio lab later, and we’re both partners, and if I miss this class I might—”

“Don’t worry about that, leave it to me,” Coulson said, now simply looking impatient. “And stop making excuses to get out of the situation. Every little second you waste here doing that means another second of those innocent civilians being in danger. What happened to all your preaching about responsibility?”

Saying this, he pushed the two boys out of his office and shut the door in their face. Vernon stared at it glumly, finally accepting his fate.

“Come on, then, partner,” Yangyang said. He stood next to him with his arms crossed over his chest, grinning like a cat after a catch. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

[twokinkybeans]

Seven Inches - Starker Tailor!AU

Find it here on AO3

Wrote this piece for the lovely bean Lien for a very unplanned fic exchanged that somehow blew itself into existence! <3 She needed a tailor!au in her life. Well, here ya go sweetie!

Summary: Peter's hands are a little shaky as he wraps the tape measure around Tony’s chest and huffs a frustrated breath when the tips of his fingers slip past his ribcage. “Kid, it’s okay. You can touch me,” Tony smirks, clearly amused at Peter’s awkward attempts to avoid touching him.

-

Aside from being in college and keeping his neighborhood safe in the evening hours, Peter Parker works in May's Tailoring shop as a Tailor In Learning. One day, Tony Stark, Peter's all-time-favorite idol, sets foot in the shop. It doesn't take long for Peter to figure out Tony wants more than a suit.

---

Seven Inches

Peter hums along with the soft beat of Señorita as he hits the ‘send’ button for yet another order. The man that had been here earlier had wanted a special jacquard wedding suit. Peter loves tailoring wedding suits. Loves it when his customers have specific requests. In the end, they opted for a black tropical print as that matches the man’s dark slicked-back hair perfectly. The print is going to look perfect on the jacquard fabric and he can’t wait to see the end result of this particular piece. He hopes the man will love it but he feels pretty sure about this one. He glances at the clock behind him and smiles. Two more hours to kill before he gets to go home and finally play that new video game with Ned. His best friend had been bragging about for weeks in a row now. It’s hard balancing working in May’s shop, attending lectures, and studying to pass his exams and on top of that also being Spider-Man at night. Ned understands that Peter doesn’t have a lot of time to spend with him, but whenever they do it’s definitely some high-end quality time. 

Peter looks up startled at the jingling noise indicating that another customer has walked into the shop. Peter looks up from his clipboard and a smile immediately finds its way onto his face. After years of working in May’s shop, it has become an automatic reaction. A Pavlov reaction to the bell. Peter grins at the thought. “Good afternoon, Sir, welcome to-” Peter’s voice catches in his throat when he sees that the man is no one other than Mr. Tony Stark. He gulps and mentally kicks himself for his reaction. “-welcome to May’s Tailoring, how may I help you?” Mr. Stark sends him his characteristically charming smirk and doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he eyes at Peter, causing the boy’s cheeks to flush. “You’re not May Parker, are you?” Peter is dumbfounded for a moment until he spots the man’s playful demeanor and laughter bubbles up in his throat. He shakes his head sheepishly and relaxes. “No, Sir. Peter. Peter Parker. I work here every now and then.” “How convenient. You’re her son?” “Nephew.” “Fair, fair-” Tony teases and walks up to the counter, still eyeing him. “We must’ve missed each other the other times I’ve been here, I-”

“You’ve been here?” Peter blurts only then realizing his mistake. “I-I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to pry, I just-” Peter cuts himself off before he makes this situation even worse. He always told himself he’d act cool if he would ever meet his idol. Well, so far for keeping it casual. Mr. Stark must get this all the time and Peter wishes he’d been able to contain himself instead of exposing his inner fangirl from the very first second. Tony waves it off nonchalantly. “Don’t stress it, kid. I’m flattered.” He clears his throat to break the slight tension. “I need a new suit, obviously. Do you take measurements too or are you only in here for sales?” “No, no I do. Aren’t your measurements in our system already, Mr. S-” “No.” Peter cocks an eyebrow at the man and the billionaire rolls his eyes. “Well, they are. However, I’m not exactly consistent in my health habits so,” he gestures at his own body. “-I want to make sure it actually fits.” “Of course. What are you looking for?” Peter opens the right tab in the computer’s system to fill our the information and have a quick check at the old numbers anyways. Any reference would only make his job easier. He can’t believe May never told him about this. She knows just how obsessed he is with the CEO of Stark Industries, or Iron Man. Both. The dark-haired man in front of him is both genius and hot. Peter looks up to him, only hoping to ever be that smart or handsome. He sighs quietly and a faint smile plays on his lips. This, this is exactly why his aunt kept it in the dark.

“Well, I have this stupid gala coming up and I’m looking for a royal blue lounge suit. Preferably with three buttons, single-breasted. The linen May used last time was perfect, is it still available?” Peter quickly scribbles down the man’s requests on the little notepad he keeps at the counter and then glances up at the screen to figure out what exact fabric the man’s talking about. “Oh, I’m afraid that one only comes in either burgundy, black, or a cloudy gray. We do have a very similar fabric that might come in blue, let me check, and-” “Burgundy.” “What?” “I’ll go with burgundy. I love that fabric and I don’t think I own any piece of clothing in that color yet.” “Are you sure, Mr. Stark? It really is no big deal to find something blue,” Peter tries, not wanting to make the man feel as if there are no options to choose from. Heck. The options are endless for a man so wealthy. Tony shakes his head adamantly.  “I want this one.”

Peter shrugs as he decides not to question nor judge the man’s impulsive choice and he picks up his pen to cross ‘royal blue’ and add ‘burgundy’ instead. He opens the top right drawer to take the tape measure - which of course isn’t there. Tony snorts at Peter’s displeased face. “You’re exactly like your aunt.” “She’s the only reason things are never where they’re supposed to be.” Peter sighs, his tone playful though. He loves his aunt, and there should be enough tape measures around the shop to make up for the one he can’t find right now. They’re scattered everywhere. “I should be able to find one… Here!” Peter grins triumphantly as he grabs one from the bottom shelf in the closet behind him.  “Let’s get to the back, Mr. Stark.” “Tony, call me Tony.”

Peter has to force himself to not stare at Mr. Stark’s gorgeous body in front of him. All the man is wearing now are the tight black boxers and it has Peter half-hard in his jeans. He can’t stop glancing sideways as he expertly takes the necessary measurements for the sleeves and shoulders of the lounge suit. Blushing every time his finger’s brush past Tony’s warm skin. He tries. He really tries to keep his hands from touching but completely dodging it is simply impossible with this job. He scribbles down the numbers on his little notepad and bites down his lips as he realizes the next step is the man’s chest. His waist. His hips and then, oh god, his thighs. Peter gulps as he steps towards Tony’s right side. He’s a professional. He’s done this countless times. Fuck, May trusts him to run the shop by himself, and here he is, thinking the most inappropriate thoughts about the richest man of the States. He has to get a grip on himself, but it sure doesn’t help that the man stars basically all of his dirty little fantasies. His hands are a little shaky as he wraps the tape around Tony’s chest and huffs a frustrated breath when the tips of his fingers slip past his ribcage. “Kid, it’s okay. You can touch me,” Tony smirks, clearly amused at Peter’s awkward attempts to avoid touching him. “Mr. Sta- Tony. I’m so sorry. I don’t usually get like, well, this-” his cheeks flush even more and he groans. He couldn’t even keep his mouth shut if his life would depend on it.  “Mmh-” Tony hums playfully. “-get on with it then.” Peter looks up at Tony’s face and the blatant flirtatious grin knocks the air out his lungs. Oh, God. This isn’t happening. He feels the little surge of arousal in his groin and licks his lips, casting his eyes down at hands. At the number that indicates the perimeter of Tony’s chest. Right. He’s taking measurements. The sooner he finishes this, the sooner he can forget about his embarrassing behavior.

“I’m just gonna…” his voice trails off and he bites down on his lip as he sinks down onto one knee at Tony’s side. Peter wraps the tape around Tony’s thigh shakily and he’s ashamed to admit he loves the strong, lean muscles underneath his touch. Tony shifts his weight, causing the muscles to tense, and Peter nearly gasps. “Boy, you alright down there?” “Yes, yes Sir. I-” “Tell me, kid. How old are you?” Peter’s head shoots up at that, searching the man’s face. He isn’t exactly certain why the man is asking him that. He has an idea, though, and the mere thought has his breath hitch in his throat. “I’m nineteen, Sir.” “Good to know. Now, finish up.” “Of course,” Peter rushes out and scribbles down the number. The stern order finally clearing his mind a little and his hands find back their usual rhythm. It doesn’t take long for him to finish. His eyes scan past the page quickly to see if there’s anything he’s missed, but nope, he’s all good like that, so he gets up from the floor, taking a step back.

“Alright, Tony, you can uh, dress again. I’ll see you at the counter to discuss the details.” “Sure thing, Peter.” The man doesn’t move though and Peter wonders what would happen if he’d drop to his knees again. Would Tony take the offer? He wants to ask. He’s so close to actually going for it. He can’t, though. He wouldn’t be able to stand the rejection. This is Tony fucking Stark, and he’s just some kid working in his aunt’s shop. Surely Tony must’ve had better offers. Without another word, he turns his back to Mr. Stark and makes his way to the counter to fill out the digital form to complete the order.

He almost asked the man to fuck him, and he’s not sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed that he didn’t. 

-

“May?” Peter squeaks and he groans at the way his voice betrays him. He hopes May will simply see it as his usual nervous babbling and won’t blink an eye. “Can I work this Thursday?” May looks up from her iPad and smirks, rolling her eyes at him. Peter blushes. She knows what he’s up to. “This is why I didn’t tell you, Pete.” “I know, I know!” He exclaims and sinks into the couch. “But now that I found out, surely you can’t deny me that little bit of pleasure?” May grins at him, shaking her head. “Fine, fine, I’ll take a day off. God, he’s sexy isn’t he?” His aunt wiggles her eyebrows at him. “May!” She laughs and Peter blushes. She found out just how deep his obsession with the billionaire ran one day a couple years ago when she walked in on him jerking off to one of his many posters. It’s hands down one of the most embarrassing moments of his entire life. She didn’t judge him for it, though, Peter is still very grateful about that. It also had been his coming-out to her, the first time he ever told anyone he’s gay. She simply gave him time to get dressed and then they talked about it for a bit. No matter how mortifying the start of the conversation had been, the moment definitely made him grow a stronger bond with her. She’s so much more than his aunt now. She’s his big sister. His friend. Maybe even his parent - something he still finds hard to wrap his head around but it’s the truth.

“Well, isn’t he? I don’t believe you didn’t watch at his abs.” “Hnnngh, I did actually.” “See?” “Fuck, he’s hot, May.” Peter groans, hugging a pillow into his chest. “Should I even help him again? Isn’t that like, against tailor-ethics?” “Oh you, don’t worry so much about it. Just don’t do anything stupid.” She pauses for a moment and Peter figures he shouldn’t tell her how he almost offered the man to fuck him right there and then. “No matter how cocky the man presents himself, he’s not like that at all.” “What do you mean?” “I can’t say I know him, but… I’d say deep down he’s genuinely a sweet man.”

Those are the words that echo in his mind when Tony walks into the shop that Thursday. Peter musters a smile onto his face and can’t help the tingly feeling from spreading through his chest when he sees Tony’s eyes light up as he spots Peter behind the counter. “Morning, kid!” “Good morning, Sir.” Peter beams, knowing he doesn’t have to address Tony like that. He wants to, though. It has a nice ring to it. “You’re too polite for your own good, kid,” Tony grunts, walking up to him. “-good to see you again though. I was hoping you would be here.” “You were?” “Yeah.” Tony sniffs and leans forward on the counter. Peter’s breath catches in his throat. The man’s face mere inches away. His eyes so daring and playful that Peter is almost dreading the next string of words. “You’re cute.” 

Peter’s cheeks burn up and he swallows, a sudden bold feeling overcoming him when he too leans on the counter and grins. “What exactly are you implying here, Mr. Stark?” The man grins at the question.  “I like boys like you, Peter. Young. Handsome. Cute.” Tony licks his lips and stands up straight again. “I’m no predator, though. I’ve laid out my cards, and I’m leaving the choice up to you.” Peter can’t believe what he’s hearing. Can’t believe how straightforward Tony is. Oh God, Mr. Stark thinks he’s handsome and cute. Fuckable.  “I-I-” he stutters, fingers digging into the counter, only to let go quickly. He doesn’t want to accidentally break the wood with his super strength. Tony doesn’t give him time to answer. “So, how’s my suit?”

Peter inhales sharply, trying to recompose himself. He’s at work. He should do his damned job. May wouldn’t forgive him if he didn’t.  “You can try it on in the back. There’s a large mirror directly on the right. Call me if you need me.” Peter picks the right suit from the rack behind him and hands it to Tony. Smiling innocently. Two can play a game. He knows the man has worn so many suits in his life that he would never actually need Peter’s help. He hopes Tony will pretend, though, pretend not to know how it works. Calling for Peter to rescue him. He sighs out loud, glancing at the doors. Peter isn’t usually very confident with things like these, but Tony is so clearly hitting on him that he wants their little game to continue. Please, please call out for me.

“Peter? I think I need some help.”

-

Ever since that day, Peter checks May’s work schedule obsessively. She notices but doesn’t really comment on it. She’s sweet like that. Peter knows Tony could drop in without an appointment as well, like last time. He tries to work as many shifts as he can with his college schedule. Just in case. Just in case the man will step in to demand yet another suit. Peter’s not gonna lie, he’s been watching the new interview with Mr. Stark where he actually wears the burgundy suit they had with him right before the gala. The color just fits so well with the man’s tanned skin and his dark hair. Watching him wear it makes Peter’s mind flash back to the teasing that occurred in the shop and he can’t help think of it as his suit. Peter’s.

Peter is actually splayed out on his bed now. He’s got half an hour to kill before he leaves to the shop again so he scrolls through Tony’s Instagram account, gawking over the beautiful pictures from the same night. He remembers his fingers brushing past the man’s skin. Remembers kneeling, feeling his strong thighs flexing underneath his touch. Most of all, he remembers the soft “Pretty boy,” the man had whispered, fingers dragging through his curls while Peter had checked how well the suit fits him.  It’s been three weeks. Three long weeks in which Peter has jerked off every single night just thinking about those words. Imagining how it’d feel to have the man pushed balls deep inside of him. His fingers swipe up on the phone screen and tap on his contact list, scrolling down until he sees Tony’s name appear on the screen. He knows it’s not exactly fair but he saved it in his phone from the information Tony gave them for the shop’s clientele system. Tony’s only one call away.  However, Peter can’t bring himself to follow through. He hates it. He hates how he doubts everything. He isn’t sure whether he just wants to fuck the man or go on a date with him. Perhaps both. Maybe nothing at all. He’s worried he only likes the man because he’s been idolizing him for years now. Because when he thinks about it, even in the store, they haven’t actually talked much. Some jokes here and there, some basic information he needed for the suit and the sexual innuendo from last time. That’s it.  But then, people fuck actual strangers. Peter at least knows who this is. That’s already a plus, right? Gosh, sleeping around has never been this difficult. Not that he’s done it often but it’d definitely been different.

He sighs, dragging his ass out of bed to leave for the shop. The longer he waits here the more he’ll start to doubt himself. At least work will distract him for a bit. With Valentine’s Day coming up there are more requests than usual and Peter loves keeping busy. He fastens the shoelaces tightly and smiles at himself in the mirror, readjusting the collar of his white button-up shirt.  “May, I’m off!” “Wait- Pete hold up!” May’s voice comes from the kitchen and he cocks an eyebrow as he waits for her to catch up with him. “I just got a phone call. Guess who?” Peter’s eyes widen. Either it’s Mrs. Cortes from the apartment beneath them or Mr. Stark. Seeing the shimmer in May’s eyes, it’s the latter. “No way!” “Yes, Peter. He asked for you, specifically. He’s coming in at two for a new suit.” Peter’s mind is spinning. He’s seeing his crush again. Tony Stark asked for him. “Peter, is there something going on that I should know about?” “No? I mean? I don’t know?” May raises her eyebrows at him and Peter groans. “I think he wants to fuck me?” “What?! Peter!” “I know! I don’t know!” He exclaims and adjusts the backpack sliding off his shoulder. “He’s been hinting at it?” “And you want him to, that’s why you’ve been working at the shop so much lately.” May groans and shakes her head. “Peter, I don’t even know what to say. Did something happen?” Peter shakes his head frantically, blushing. “Just… Flirting.” “Flirting. You’ve been flirting with our most important customer.” “He started it!” May huffs at his words and Peter knows he fucked up big time. “Look, May, I’m sorry-” “Peter. I don’t… I’m not angry with you. It’s just...” May sighs and Peter presses his lips together. “Mr. Stark is handsome. Sexy. I know that he’s your superhero and all that. He’s charming and sweet, but I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”

What?

“You’re not going to fire me?” “No. I guess I’m not. I probably should, but, you’re old enough to decide who and who not to fuck. And I can’t blame you for wanting to ride his di-” “May!” Peter’s cheeks are glowing hot with embarrassment now. “What? I’ve been young too. You think I never did anything like that?” Peter squeezes his eyes shut to banish the intrusive images from his thoughts. He did not want to know that. “Just be careful. He’s more than twice your age. I want you to really think about this.” May sighs, shaking her head. “And please lock the door, I don’t need to lose customers to this.” Peter can’t believe what she’s saying. Is she really telling him to go for it?  “May, I don’t-” May simply grins at him and presses a kiss on Peter’s forehead.  “Have a good day at work, honey!”

It’s safe to say Peter anxiously waits for 2 pm to come around. He’s a wreck. Now that May knows about this it’s so real. So very real that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s an easy day, only one appointment at 10 am for a simple black tux. The man bought one by himself but the sleeves were two inches too long. He promised the man it would be ready tomorrow and Peter was thanked for the quick service. Peter mindlessly worked on both sleeves and stored the jacket away carefully when he was done. May still needs to teach him a lot, but the sleeve work is something he can do himself. He stares at the clock. Ten more minutes. Ten more minutes until Mr. Stark will walk in here again. God. Peter is horny. And scared. What if it’d been nothing more than a silly game? But then, the man had told him he’d wait for Peter to make a move. That seemed to be a pretty serious offer. 

Right?

The door jingles and Peter jumps up startled, his head whipping around only to find the devil himself standing in the doorway. Peter gulps. He’s wearing the burgundy suit. Tony Stark is wearing his suit. “H-Hello, Mr. Stark,” he stammers. “You’re early.” “I arrived precisely when I meant to,” Tony joked, referring Lord Of The Rings, and Peter can’t help chuckling at that.  “Didn’t take you for such a nerd.” Peter snorts and visibly relaxes now that Tony is actually here. The man fake-gasps. “Did you just call me out on my fantastic taste in movies?” “I may have.” “Well, then you’re a nerd too. Knew that from day one though.” Tony jests. Peter raises an eyebrow at him and shakes his head slightly. “What gave it away?” “Are you aware that you wear batman vans to work?” Peter blushes and glances down at his feet. Dammit. He wears the pair so mindlessly that he hadn’t given it a second thought. Ever. Okay, he is a nerd. 

“So, how can I help you, Gandalf?” Tony snickers and shakes his head.  “Need a new suit.” “Something wrong with this one?” Peter waves at the burgundy one he’s wearing now. “No, I love it. I’ve got a little press conference coming up though, and well, I need to spend my money on something now don’t I? I was thinking a deep blue tweed suit. Do you two work with that?” “A tweed suit? I- Yes, we do.” Peter scribbles it down again and then searches for all the possible options in the system. “Alright for deep blue we have two options.” Peter turns the screen around so Tony can see. “The first one is woven using the herringbone structure. The color is slightly darker than… This one, woven using a twill structure. It might feel more sturdy but the color is lighter.” “Which one do you recommend?” “Depends. Herringbone is classier, twill more casual. Most people won’t see the difference...” “But you do.” “I do.”

It’s silent for a moment. Somehow, those words were spoken like a confession and they both feel it. Peter looks up at Tony and sends him a little smile before reaching for the tape measure that’s dangling from his neck this time.  “Peter,” Tony breathes, his nostrils flaring. “-is this you making your choice?” “Well, Mr. Stark…” Peter grins and walks to the entrance. The loud click when he turns the key is his answer. He turns the sign, stating that the shop is now closed. When he turns around again, he tilts his head slightly.  “Follow me.” Peter walks past Tony, not waiting for the man’s response. This is his chance. He knows the man wants him.

“Alright. If you would please undress yourself, Sir? I can take your measurements.” Tony raises his eyebrows at him. “You already have my-” “Wouldn’t want to risk your suit not fitting due to your fluctuating health habits now would we.” Peter teases, repeating the words Tony had spoken to him the first time. Tony licks his lips and moves his hands up to unbutton the burgundy jacket. Peter watches how Tony undresses himself slowly. He’s not even trying to be sexy about it. Quiet. Practical. Almost authoritative and Peter’s already hard again. When the man pushes the pants down, Peter’s pleased to see the man is hard too. And fuck, he’s… Well, big. “Get to it, boy.”  “Yes, Sir.” Peter rushes and he takes the tape between both his hands to work through the little measuring ritual. Just as he did the first time. As he always does. Starting with the wrists, lower arm length, upper arm length. This time he doesn’t try to minimize the contact with Tony’s skin. The opposite. He takes every chance he gets to trails his fingertips past the man’s body.  He deliberately steps in front of the man when he measures his chest. It’s unprofessional to stand in front of a customer instead of at the side, and yet that’s why it feels so exhilarating. He takes a step closer as he wraps the tape around the man’s hips, his hands lingering just above the hem of Tony’s underwear. He doesn’t cave in yet. Instead, he looks up at Tony who’s staring back at him, eyes full of lust. “I just need to measure your legs, Sir.” “Get on your knees, then.” Peter moans and obeys, slowly sinking down until his knees hit the floor. His face is just inches away from Tony’s crotch but he doesn’t break eye contact with the man towering over him. “That’s it,” Tony coos, his hand reaching out for Peter’s curls. The boy gasps when Tony grabs a handful and tugs slightly. “Such a pretty boy.”

The sparks that rush down Peter’s spine have him gasp. For the first time he realizes how this man will be a complete different fuck than than the handful he’s had. This man is older. Has a shit ton of experience. He’s impatiently patient. He’s going to make Peter work for it and the thought alone sets off another surge of desire coursing through his veins. His hands are sweaty and trembling as he brings them up to circle the tape around Tony’s strong thigh.  “You’re so strong, Mr. Stark.” “You like that?” “Mh-mh, I do.” “If you’re good for me and finish the measurements, I may just allow you to kiss them.” Peter whines at the blatant promise and his hands move down, mindlessly finishing up his measuring series. He can’t really concentrate on it. All he notices is how the grip in his hair changes, tugging more, making him tip his head to expose his neck. Pushing him down, making him bow. He’s a puppet, Tony controls his every single move. He’s never submitted to someone so easily and he’s never loved it as much as he does now.  “Peter, look at me.” Tony forces Peter’s head to tip back and he gasps, staring up with his big brown eyes. With his free hand, Tony pushes his boxers down and Peter nearly chokes at the sight of just how big he actually is. It’s a beautiful cock. Hard, fierce, massive. Peter wants to taste it. Wants to lap his tongue at the hot skin to taste the salty precum.  “Measure it.” “Wh-” “I’m not repeating myself.” Tony smirks and Peter shuffles closer. Bringing his hands up carefully. He whimpers when his fingers touch the cock as he presses the tape against both the base and the tip. “Tell me how big it is, Peter.” Peter moans as he looks at the number. Oh god, that’s bigger than average for sure. “S-Seven inches, Sir.” “Have you ever had anyone that big?” “No, I haven’t.” “Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with you, sugar.” Tony growls. He opens his free hand and curls his fingers in a demanding motion. “Give me the tape measure.” Peter easily complies and gives it to Tony. The man grins and wraps it around Peter’s neck to pull him in closer. Peter wants to lean in, wants to take that pretty cock into his mouth so badly, but the grip in his hair holds him back. “You sure you want this, Peter? Do I have your full consent?” Peter nods furiously. Yes, he wants this. Wants everything. “Yes, Mr. Stark. I do.” “Good. Suck.” Tony yanks the boy forward using both the tape around Peter’s neck and the grip in his curls. Peter gasps, scrambling forward and parting his lips to catch the man’s cock in his mouth. He moans, lips closing around the soft flesh and drags his tongue across the tip, eliciting a moan from Tony. Oh god. He just made Tony Stark moan. For him. The thought spurs him on and he sinks deeper onto it, loving how it fills his mouth. He’s got the worst gag reflex, already knows he won’t be able to take it fully, but he sure as fuck knows how to work his tongue to make the man’s knees buckle.

“Oh, oh damn, boy, you’re so fucking good at this. Been wanting this the second I laid my eyes on your pretty face.” Peter whines around the cock and shuffles closer. He doesn’t use his hands, somehow he knows Tony wouldn’t allow him to if he tried. He’s bobbing his head up and down, the musky smell pleasing him to his very core as he manages to suck deeper and deeper with each thrust the man makes. “I want you to touch yourself, dear. Take that cock out and stroke it for me. Don’t go slow. I want you to wreck yourself, understood?” Peter nods as much as he physically can in this position and moves both his hands down. Quickly unbuckling the belt and shoving the fabric down just enough for his hard-on to jump free. His right hand wraps around it and he strokes. Hard. And fast. And rough. Making himself see stars the way Tony told him to. His eyes flutter shut. It’s overwhelming. The rumbling grunts rolling of Mr. Stark’s tongue while the grip in Peter’s hair tightens. The burning pit in his stomach that only burns up more and more and more the faster he strokes himself. He wants to swallow every last bit Tony will give him. He swirls his tongue around the head, sucking and hollowing his cheeks. Gasping, moaning, taking and taking and taking what the man gives him. 

“Are you close, boy?” Peter nods desperately. He doesn’t stop, though, doesn’t stop from flicking his thumb around the head, squeezing his own shaft with every little pump. Hips bucking wildly into his touch. His moans muffled by Tony’s hips thrusting forward in a fast, unforgiving pace. “I want you to come like this, baby. Desperate and needy and without shame.” Peter mumbles a short please around Tony’s cock. He’s not sure if the man got it, but, his eagerness as he keeps going down on the man clear enough. “Fuck, sugar, ‘m gonna cum inside of you. You’re gonna take it all, uh? Isn’t this what you’ve been dreaming of? Being used by me? I can hear the fucking awe in your voice when you speak my name. You were ready for me before I even met you.” Yes, yes, yes! Peter gasps, abs clenching tight as he collapses forward. His hands moving up and down in a killer pace until-

“F-fc!” His broken curse around Mr. Stark’s cock when he spills his cum on the tile floor. Another spurt leaves him. And another. His thighs are trembling and his mind is spinning. The explosion in his stomach is so wonderfully sweet and he feels so filthy and good and used in the exact way he loves it so much. Tony growls at the sight.  “Good boy, Pete. Fuck, good boy. ” Peter doesn’t exactly follow what happens next, but suddenly Tony is no longer holding the tape around his neck. Both his hands tangled into his hair tightly to fuck his mouth, pounding into him relentlessly. Peter just submits to the complete and utter control the man has over him. Moving his face where he wants him. Setting the pace. “Yes, oh, you’re going to swallow for me, pretty little thing. Feel so good, so hot around me. Prettiest mouth I’ve ever had. You’re perfect, Peter. Fucking p-perfect, I’m go-” Tony’s voice breaks off into a loud growl, hips stuttering and rolling forward desperately. “Take it, take it! I- Aaah!” Peter’s eyes widen when he feels the hot load spill into his mouth. The familiar taste exploding on his taste buds. He whimpers, swallowing. His mind hazy and floaty and he just wants to devour every single drop of it. Make the man proud. Please him. 

Peter moans quietly when he feels the man’s cock softening up in his mouth. He’s not sure why he’s still on his knees. Still gently suckling on the hot, sticky skin. All he knows is that he feels good. That he doesn’t want this feeling to end. He’s never had such good sex and jokes on him, it’d been nothing more than a quick blowjob. It’s only when Tony gently tugs on his hair that he opens his eyes again, staring up at the man when the cock slips out. A soft breath leaving his slightly parted lips. His jaws ache and he loves it. Loves the enamored look the man sends his way. “Peter, sweetheart…” Tony whispers. “Are you alright down there?” Peter nods, a smile playing on his lips as he closes them. He nuzzles his face into the man’s leg. Only vaguely aware that he might be displaying a tad too much affection for someone he barely knows. He simply feels so happy. “I feel good, Mr. Stark.”  “God, you’re precious.” Tony kneels down as well, cradling Peter into his arms. Stroking his back, whispering the sweetest praise into his ears until slowly the veil lifts from his mind and he becomes aware of his surroundings again. The tape measure dangling from his neck once more, the cum staining on the tiles. The fact that he just fucked Tony Stark in his aunt’s tailoring shop. Oh my- “W-We should probably get dressed before anyone wonders why we’re closed,” Peter mumbles and he slowly leans back from the embrace, smiling at Tony apologetically. He slides his cock back into his jeans and buckles his belt tightly. Tony nods. “Of course. I… Should probably get dressed too.”

They don’t speak when Tony dresses, when Peter grabs a towel and soap to clean up the little mess he made. Not when they walk back to the counter and Peter finishes Tony’s order for the tweed suit. He’s not so sure what to say. Doesn’t know why he’s so silent all of a sudden. What could he say? Thank you, Mr. Stark, that was the best fuck of my pathetic little life. See you never? It’s Tony who breaks the silence. “Are you alright, kid?” “Y-Yes. I’m just finishing up this section of the form and then I can send-” “Peter, look at me.” Peter looks up reluctantly. The man is so fucking gorgeous in the burgundy suit. Peter doesn’t know how he’ll ever find someone to live this up with. “I… Here, this is my business card. It uh, has my phone number on there in case you- well.” Tony sniffs. “I guess I’m telling you to call me if you ever want to come by my penthouse.” Peter’s eyes open wide.  “You’d want to do this again?” Tony nods.  “I like you. You’re pretty, funny, nerdy enough for my liking. You’re smart, I can tell. And that mouth of yours…” Tony grins. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that, Sir.” “I like it when you call me that.” “I like calling you that.” 

They’re silent again for a moment. Now that the sexual tension is out of their system - already building again a bit - Peter feels so many things and he can see the same emotions cross Tony’s eyes. He wonders what it means. Wonders how badly he wants to find out. “Please, Peter. Give me a call.” “I will,” Peter whispers, but he looks up at Tony and smiles widely. More resolutely, he repeats himself. “I will.”

“So,” Peter chuckles as he hands Tony the receipt for the tweed suit. He doesn’t tell Tony he completely forgot to write down any of the measurements he did, but he’s fairly sure that the man’s body didn’t change that much in just three weeks time so he used the once he took before. “-what are you doing tonight?” “Oh, it’s nothing. Some shit for the Avengers.” Peter’s cheeks flush. Oh, how he wishes he could ever be a part of it. He never thought he’d get the chance, but now that he knows Tony Stark personally. Who knows if he ever has the guts to ask. “Avengers? Is there a threat?” “No, no, nothing to worry about. There’s someone I want to recruit. You may have heard of him, some dude calling himself Spider-Man? He’s…” Peter freezes. He doesn’t quite follow what Tony says next. So casually. So- unwavering. He should come clean. He has to, he has to, he has to!” “I-I’m Spider-Man!” He squeaks. The look on Tony’s face is priceless. “Fuck, well kid, welcome to the team.”

---

Part Two: Inch By Inch

Are you curious about the Stripper/Prostitute!AU Lien wrote for the fic exchange? Find it here! Seriously, it’s amazing.

[scullydubois]

Only the Light ch. 6

read on Ao3 here. read earlier parts here.

This was getting quite long, so I decided to cut what I planned to be chapter 6 in half. I’ll try to keep the chapters a bit shorter than they have been cause I know lots of people prefer that. Anyway, that means I’m now almost done with chapter 7 so that’ll be posted in a couple days too. 

Please let me know what you think in the tags or message me! I’d love to know if you think something like this should have been canon or even if you think it was canon, just not shown to the audience (is that possible? haha). 

Description: As Mulder and Scully begin their investigation in Aubrey, Scully finds herself sympathizing with the detective who found the bones more than she would prefer to.

*includes a few lines of dialogue from season 2, ep 12 “Aubrey.” Credit to Sara B. Charno, writer of that episode!*

WC: 2595 words

tagging @today-in-fic​. Thanks for all you do!

-------------------

Scully stares at the bones on the autopsy table in front of her. She has always been capable of separating her feelings from her work. Too good at it, even. But right now, looking at these bones that have been in the ground since before she was even born, all she can think about is how they once were a living, breathing person’s. A partner. A son. An FBI agent just like her. She had narrowly escaped a similar fate. How? What made her survive while this man became a bundle of bones to be poked and prodded? She knows she shouldn’t dwell on it, but sometimes she wonders if her luck would stop if her overthinking did. 

Mulder mentions the killer the detective was investigating. Three victims, all young women between twenty-five and thirty. Scully’s current demographic. He doesn’t say that part, of course, but Scully’s thinking it, and perhaps he is too. The word ‘sister’ was carved onto their chests, then painted on the wall with their blood. That could have been her. 

Nevermind that she wasn’t alive in 1942, let alone living in Missouri. Horrific, misogynistic crimes had been happening well before she was born, and they would happen well after. Scully had no doubt something like this could happen to her at any time. A petite, female FBI agent? She would be the perfect victim.

She had been the perfect victim. And she survived! But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t victimized by all of it. Surviving doesn’t mean living. She is coming to terms with this. It is like going through it all over again.

She lifts one of the rib bones, runs her fingers over it. The rubber gloves catch on a series of tiny cuts down the length of it. Were these a result of decades underground, or had these been inflicted before the detective bled to death? She shivers at the thought.

“Scully?” Mulder’s voice anchors her back in reality. 

She turns around. “Yes?”

“Are you cold?”

He had seen. He grips the edges of his jacket, prepared to place it on her shoulders at a moment’s notice.

She shakes her head. “No. I was just imagining being cut like this.” She points to the razor marks, each one a separate wound. 

Mulder winces. “Do you think that’s what killed him?”

Scully turns the bone over in her hands. It has known pain, and she can almost feel the ghost of it in the marrow. 

“I don’t know,” she says, meaning it. “That would be a horrific way to die.”

“Most ways are,” Mulder replies, not missing a beat. They stand there, this dead body adjacent to them, thinking about death, and life, and what it means to be a person. What a situation they have gotten themselves into. 

A few minutes later, they are looking at computerized scans of the bones when BJ, the detective who dug them up, enters. She asks Mulder a question about the case, but doesn’t seem to listen to his answer. It’s like she’s in a trance.

Just as quickly as she arrived, she goes, excusing herself and staggering out of the room. Mulder and Scully exchange a glance like two gossiping high schoolers. Wordlessly, Scully follows after BJ. She finds her in the women's restroom rinsing her mouth. A pang of guilt circulates through Scully’s insides. She and Mulder have involved themselves in something that is, frankly, none of their business, but it’s too late to back out now.

“Feeling better?” she asks, holding a clean paper towel out for BJ, who ignores it and pulls one from the dispenser herself.

“I’m fine now.” This is all she offers. 

Scully has given this answer enough times to know that BJ is most definitely not fine. She considers her options: she could respect BJ’s hostility toward her, pretend she saw nothing, & return to Mulder, or she could probe further into the situation and try to comfort BJ. She knows the terror that BJ must be feeling.

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” The words leave Scully’s mouth before she registers deciding to say them. 

The terror surfaces on BJ’s face. “Does it show?”

“No, not yet,” Scully reassures, patting the detective on the shoulder. She will try to be the comfort she wishes she had at the moment. The comfort she knows she could have, but...

BJ interrupts her train of thought--”Now I know why my mother only had one child. She told me about the nausea, but not about the nightmares.”

Scully blinks. There’s that pang of guilt again. “Nightmares?”

BJ nods. “It's always the same. I'm in a house, it feels familiar. There's a woman that's been hurt. There's a mirror... I see a man's reflection. I recognize his face, but I don't know it. What I remember most is the blood.” She looks up at Scully with desperate eyes. “There's a lot of blood.”

Scully swallows. Hard. She can feel acid in her throat, the contents of her stomach threatening to follow BJ’s lead. She’s glad to be in the bathroom. Nightmares are not a particular indication of pregnancy, she knows this. But she also knows that changing hormone levels can trigger vivid, sometimes upsetting dreams--she had not connected those dots until just now.

“Have you talked to anyone about these nightmares?” Scully asks.

BJ shakes her head. “I'm sure it's something about the pregnancy. If anyone else knew I was pregnant…” She trails off in a way that makes Scully ache for all the women that have ever feared their own body, herself included. There could be no worse betrayal than one’s own body.

“Brian would kill me if I told anyone,” BJ finishes. Her fear is evident in her voice. Scully packs as much sympathy as she can into her glance at BJ. 

“Thank you for opening up,” she says. “I’m sorry about your situation. Let me know if I can help.”

BJ nods in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything. She lingers near the sink, as if waiting for the bell to dismiss her.

Scully can feel her uncertainty. “I won’t tell anyone,” she reassures.

BJ releases a breath. “Thank you. I need to...sort things out.”

“I understand.” Scully offers her a soft smile. BJ reciprocates, then quietly exits the bathroom.

Scully stands there a moment, hands in her pockets, heart in her throat. Then the queasy feeling passes, and she moves on.

She returns to the office and takes a seat next to Mulder. He’s gobbling some cookies while the computer analyzes the cut patterns on the bones. It is interesting what their line of work does to them; how it desensitizes them to the most gruesome of wounds, the most horrific of situations. She sometimes forgets that ordinary people don’t play doctor on dead bodies for a living, or chase phantoms, or get abducted by--well, plenty of people claim that’s happened to them. And she doesn’t see why, considering how unpleasant it all was. Is. Maybe that’s why people talk about it, because they just want someone to believe them, someone to know, but Scully’s mind has never worked that way. It’s exactly the kind of thing she’d like to forget forever and never share with anyone else. How shameful to get caught up in myths like that.

Mulder lifts an eyebrow, expecting a report on BJ. 

Scully shrugs. “Food poisoning.”

“Yuck. Remind me not to have what she’s having,” he wisecracks.

Scully’s teeth clamp down on her tongue. “I don’t think you need to worry about that, Mulder,” she says, a knowing edge to her voice. She wishes she could say the same about herself. 

-------------------------------------------

They return to their motel after sunset. Mulder walks Scully to her door- number 13, to the right of his--and parts ways with her chastely, telling her he’s planning to set his alarm for 7am and saying goodnight. 

“Night, Mulder,” she says, twisting her key in the lock and pushing hard against the door stuck from humidity. She casts one final smile his way before entering her room, shutting and locking the door behind her.

Mulder turns his key in his room’s lock, but waits for Scully to disappear into the safety of her room before opening his own door. He is not going to lose her again.

Relieved to be in a space of her own after a long day of traveling and consorting, Scully switches on the bedside lamp, illuminating the room. One queen-sized bed with a plaid comforter, a boxy TV with an antenna, a flimsy wooden desk, and a bathroom about three Scully steps deep. It is not much, these lodgings never are, but at least it’s not coming out of her paycheck. She pulls her badge from her jacket pocket and throws it on the bed. It does a backflip against the mattress. She shimmies off the jacket then, folding it up and setting it in the side of her suitcase reserved for the dirty laundry. One time Mulder saw the way she organized her suitcase and laughed. He’s more accustomed to throwing his worn clothes in a garbage bag...or just wearing them over again. 

The shoes come off next, lined up neatly by the door. She craves a shower. After spending the day with decades old bones, she is in need of a baptism. 

She flicks the bathroom light on, and the fluorescent bulb buzzes in protest. There’s no telling when this motel was built; the wall is supposed to be light blue, but entire sections of paint have chipped away into an aged white exterior. Fissures snake through nearly every square of the floor’s tile like they’re there for decoration. Scully looks for her reflection in the mirror and gets the blurry outline of a woman instead. The mirror is somehow permanently fogged. 

She ponders the science of that while she pulls back the shower curtain and turns the knob for hot water. It spurts noisily out of the faucet, interrupting her peace. Speaking of interrupting her peace...she remembers that she forgot to leave Missy the number for the motel. She is not used to someone keeping such close tabs on her. She switches off the water and heads for the phone.

She dials the number, her own number--now her sister’s too--and waits. One ring, then another, then Missy’s steady voice.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Missy. It’s me. I forgot to leave the number, I’m sorry.”

“So I take it you’re not coming home tonight?” She knew her sister never was, but she’ll milk it anyway. 

“No, we got a motel.”

“You already had the reservations, didn’t you?” Melissa inquires. “Or else how would you leave the number?”

Scully rolls her eyes, though she knows her sister can’t see it. Missy can probably sense it anyway. 

“We did, but we would have cancelled them if we didn’t need to stay. It looks like we’re taking the case.”

“Is it an interesting one, or can you not say cause it’s vital to the security of the nation or something,” Melissa teases.

“It’s pretty freaky, but nothing really supernatural. Just your run of the mill humans hurting other humans.”

“Hmm...I thought the suspect had to be like, a werewolf, to qualify as an X-file.”

Scully smiles. “Well, it’s like Scooby-Doo. You always think the culprit is some crazy creature, but then you unmask them and it’s just a cranky old man.”

“Even worse!” Missy quips.

Scully laughs. Her sister’s right. At this point, she’d be relieved to find out that the worst atrocities of humanity were not committed by humans after all, but by some beast with no morals, just instinct. Maybe she’d feel less guilty if she didn’t have to atone for all the sins she’s seen. If they weren’t the sins of humanity. 

“Anyway, you’ve got this number now, so just ask for room 13 if you need me. Or room 14 if you want to prank call Mulder, I don’t care. I’m about to hop in the shower, but did you have a good day?”

“Uh yeah, work was busy and I just got home a little bit ago. I’m waiting on some pad thai from that restaurant you suggested. Probably gonna veg out, watch some Golden GIrls, maybe do a face mask.”

“You’re living a life of luxury,” Scully murmurs.

“Very much so. How was your day?”

“It was...good.” Her voice rises unevenly between the words.

“That’s a ringing endorsement.” 

Scully can hear the hollow noise of Missy twirling the phone cord around her finger.

“The first day on a case is always a bit overwhelming,” she assures. “We’ll get through it.”

“I’m sure you will,” Missy replies with a flat voice, not at all impressed by her sister’s answer. 

“We always do.” There’s a note of optimism in her voice. The statement is more of a prayer than a reassurance. 

“Well, come home safely, okay? I’m not used to sleeping in a big city by myself.”

“I’ll be home as soon as possible,” Scully says, not holding herself to any safe returns. 

“You’d better.” The cheekiness in Missy’s voice takes Scully back to the conversations they had when Scully had just moved to college and would recount the titillating tales of living in a co-ed dorm. Having never had such an experience, Melissa would live vicariously through her stories, and Scully would realize that her sister would make much better use of the situation than she ever did. “Love you. Bye.”

“Bye, Missy,” she says with some weariness. She puts the phone in the receiver, closes her eyes, and wonders how many times she’s uttered that exact phrase. Twenty-nine years worth, so the number’s got to be high.

She returns to the bathroom, feeling significantly grungier than just a few minutes ago. She repeats the routine with the water, slipping off her pants and blouse as the room steams up. By the time her bare skin hits the water, sweat is sliding down the ugly walls.

Usually the motels they stay in don’t have very warm water, so this is a treat. She doesn’t usually take hot showers, seeing them as wasteful somehow. Maybe she subconsciously doesn’t want to increase her water bill. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t apply right now, and every muscle in Scully’s body softens as the water runs down it. Touch. How many times had she been touched today? Surely this is one of the only instances featuring a force with any life in it. It's the most intimate too. She ravishes in it. 

There’s a noise, or rather, a sudden absence of noise, and Scully realizes that Mulder’s shower is on the other side of the wall and he has just turned off the water. She pictures him on the other side of the tile, naked and dripping wet. Slick all over. If only she had x-ray eyes... This is what partners do, isn’t it? She has goosebumps despite the temperature of the water. 

She blinks her eyes closed, holds her breath, and tilts her face toward the showerhead. Baptism. Rebirth. New beginnings. The chance to make up for missed opportunities.

She carries this energy with her through the rest of the night. Through buttoning her silk pajamas from hips to collarbone, through towel-drying her hair because she left her blow dryer for Melissa, through flipping the channels and finding nothing but reruns she never cared to watch in the first place, and through dozing off with her hair cascading off the pillow. Not all nights are as delightfully simple as this.

---thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!!

[kenzirobinthoughts]

I have so many😂😂 the first ones that come to mind are reader x Sub!Malcolm where he finds out he has a breath play kink

Or a fluffier, less smutty first kiss fic 😍😍

Alright, this kind of got away from me? But here we go, my first shot at fan fiction :)

Your friend Edrisa has told you all about Malcolm Bright. You feel as if you’ve heard his witty remarks, experienced his trauma filled humor, and seen those intense eyes for yourself. Yet when he arrives at the crime scene, he is so much more than you could have prepared yourself for. His coat is long and dark, and a strand of his hair falls down slightly over his face. It doesn’t seem to care when he pushes it back, because it falls again almost immediately. Dani and JT walked into the room before him but haven’t noticed me yet. They’re too busy looking for the body. Edrisa is going to be so mad that she missed this case. You make a mental note to remember everything to report back to her later. You know she misses Bright and is definitely kicking herself for getting sick right when they finally got another case. “So, where’s the body?” JT finally asks. At the same time, you and Bright point and say, “There.” He looks directly at you for the first time. You like to think of yourself as intelligent, but in that moment, all you can think about is those eyes. He’s surprised to see you, and he’s definitely assessing you. You wonder what he might be thinking of you, and you remain locked in eye contact until JT clears his throat. Both he and Dani are looking at you questioningly. “You’re not Edrisa,” Bright says. Of course, I’m almost a full head taller than Edrisa, white, and with long brown hair. Dani rolls her eyes. “Great detection,” JT mocks. I explain, “Edrisa’s sick. I’m just filling in. I’m Y/N.” “Nice to meet you,” Dani says, holding out a hand. “Now, what’s up with this body?” I shake her hand, and then lead them over to the corner of the room Bright and I had indicated. The body is hard to see. It’s been painted to look just like the wall and is sitting propped up in the corner. His eyes are the only part of him you can see. This isn’t how Bright found him though. Eyes, so freakily realistic, have been painted all over the walls. “Who is he?” Dani asks. “We, uh, don’t know yet,” you say, “but he was found by Alicia Semple, who lives in this apartment. She’s in the bedroom. Says she doesn’t know him.” “So why go through all the trouble to stage him like this?” Malcolm asks, but he doesn’t seem to be asking us. I think he’s asking the killer. He gets close to the body, much too close for the average persons comfort. You join him next to the body. He asks questions in rapid succession, but you never miss a beat with your answers. Edrisa had you cover her for a reason. Once he’s satisfied by the medical answers you’ve provided, he stands up and surveys the rest of the room. While he does so, you have plenty of time to survey him. His eyes paint a trail around the room, marking pieces of evidence. Dani and JT are going around as well, occasionally pointing something out to each other. The wheels of Malcolm’s mind turn, and he excitedly rushes back to the body. “You said he lost most of his blood?” he asks you. “Almost all of it,” you confirm, stepping closer to him once more. You can’t help it. “They weren’t killed here. This room is exactly what it looks like. A stage. We need to figure out who this guy is. Was.” “Fingerprints and DNA results aren’t back yet,” you tell them. They all look at you expectantly. “I’ll call as soon as I hear something.”

“Excellent,” Malcolm says, and his smile lights up the room. Or maybe that’s just an illusion, it’s gone so fast you can’t be sure. “Now let’s figure out what this killer is trying to tell us. Or, probably, her.” All of us look towards the bedroom, where the woman is still pretty shaken up. A couple of uniformed officers are talking to her, and some tea sits untouched on the table beside her. JT looks scared, and Bright doesn’t move. “Guess I’ll handle it,” Dani grumbles. JT goes to talk to some of the officers in the kitchen. “How long have you been doing this Y/N?” Bright asks you. “A few years. I don’t normally do such exciting cases.” “But Edrisa thought you’d be the perfect fit for us,” he guesses. “Why do you say that?” you ask. He smiles like he knows all of your secrets, and quietly says, “Because you are.” Dani pokes her head back in and calls for Bright. He goes, and it takes you far too long to move again once he does.

That night, you’re in the lab doing your report. All the paint has washed off the body, and he seems so plain. Blank. The door opens and you turn around to find the whole team. They all nod politely at you, except Bright. He’s the last to walk in, and his eyes linger on you for longer than they should. Not that you’re complaining. Neither of you say anything, eyes locked, until Gil interrupts you by asking what’s new with the case. Talk of the man on the table beside me and their theories based on my findings flies by. When we’re done, they file out of the room, and it’s quiet for a moment. Then Malcolm comes back in, shaking his head, clearly deep in thought. “What is it?” You ask, walking towards him. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, as if he’s deciding whether or not to. You take a deep breath and take a risk. “Would you like to get a drink sometime?” you ask. His smile is brighter than those damn eyes. “I’d love to,” he tells you, taking a step closer. You’re now face to face, just a foot apart. You don’t know what to say, all you know is that you don’t want to stop looking at him. Apparently, he feels the same way, as he doesn’t move his eyes from your gaze either, until they finally drop down to your lips. You take another step toward him, almost without thinking about it. You just need to be closer. It’s like a magnetic pull between you. Now that you’re this close, his face is easier to read. In his eyes there’s a sort of animal hunger, as if he wants to take you right here. And yet, he doesn’t move. He waits. He’s barely taller than you, so your lips are oh so close.  You lean in, and before your lips meet his his hand is on your waist, pulling you in. It’s raw passion, so intense it scares you, and then it’s over. He smiles again, so sweet you’d never guess what just went on. “I’ll call you about that drink,” you say, and he disappears out the door.  

[alexthepartyman]

The Bleeding: Plain Sight

Hi guys! My name is Alex, and I like to write fics. This is the fic that used to be known as Fine Line, but for creative reasons, not anymore! This idea has really meant a lot to me, and the amount of times I restarted this fic I-

That means something, right? I’ve gotten to various points in this story before, but I could never tell it the way I truly wanted to tell it. THis time should be it, but don’t be surprised if I start over again. 

This is The Bleeding! The chapter is under the cut, and it’s 3600 words, last I checked. 

CONTENT WARNINGS: MURDER, MENTIONS OF RAPE, DEATH. READ AT OWN RISK.

“Make a wish,” Elle says. I look up to where smoke is ascending from Spencer’s desk.

“Come on, man. Blow, baby! Blow!” Derek yells with a chuckle.

“I thought you were full of hot air, Reid,” Elle teases.

“Come on, Reid!”

“They’re trick candles, Spence. Okay?” JJ cuts in. “They’re gonna come back on every time.”

“Oh, Mommy to the rescue,” Derek coos, shaking Spencer’s head.

“Mommy?” Spencer asks.

“Hey, James. Come join the celebration,” Elle says. I shake my head and look away from the Latina woman smiling at me. “Oh, you’re no fun. Ignore him, Spencer.”

“This is work time, not fun time,” I dryly comment. “The distinction between the two is very important to me. And no, I won’t have any cake.”

“Okay then, suit yourself.”

“Hey, Reid, does this make you legal yet?”

“Uh….”

“Hope you like chocolate,” Elle says, turning her attention back to Spencer. I can hear a phone ring.

“Agent Hotchner?” Grant asks across the bullpen.

“Aw, look, you blew wax on the cake, man.”

“That slice is for Derek,” I comment.

“What? No way, why do I get the slice with wax on it?” Derek asks me. I look up from my work to see Spencer walk over to Gideon and watch their lips move.

“Hey, Spence, first piece for the birthday boy,” JJ says, holding a piece of cake out to him. “Spence, get over here. James, are you sure you don’t want some cake?” She turns to me, and I snap out of the zone I just went to.

“Huh-uh, no. I’m sure.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“Birthday boy.”

“JJ, why don’t you feed it to him?” Derek teases.

“Sorry, guys. Party’s over,” Hotch says from the phone. I close the notebook I was working in and slide it into my bag, slinging it over my shoulder and heading up to the round table. The rest of the team meets me up there, and we take our seats. “We’re going to San Diego,” he tells us.

“Not for the surfing, huh?” Derek asks.

“Nope,” I comment.

“They’re calling him the Tommy Killer,” JJ says, handing us each files.

“Six women raped and murdered in their homes in the last three weeks.”

“Six in three weeks?” Elle asks.

“Two a week,” I add. “Short fuse.”

“And getting shorter. The first two were eight days apart, then the next four in two weeks.”

“Rapid escalation,” Spencer comments. “Do you think he’s regressing to a psychopathic frenzy?”

“No, he’s too controlled for that,” Hotch answers. “See you on the plane.” I raise my eyebrows and look up from the file, watching our boss leave. Okay, weirdo.

“Why the Tommy killer?” Derek asks.

“You know the rock opera?”

“Uh...that was by The Who, right?” I ask.

“Yeah. This unsub glues his victims’ eyes wide open,” Hotch answers as he walks away.

“Tommy was blind as a result of psychosomatic disability, though…”

“He wants them to see him.”

“And feel him,” Gideon adds.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Brenda Samms was found yesterday by her children when they got home from school,” Hotch says. “She had been strangled with a thin ligature, possibly a wire.”

“No weapon left at the scene.”

“Residue on the wrist and mouth indicate that duct tape was used and removed.”

“Also not found at the scene.”

“Brought it with him, took it with him.”

“Why?” I ask, looking over the crime scene photos.

“He also started leaving messages at the fourth scene. This was on the mirrors,” Hotch says, holding up the picture of the mirror covered in lipstick. “Fire lady, lay your costly robes aside. No longer may you glory in your pride. Take leave of all your carnal vain delight-”

“I’ve come to summon you away this night,” Spencer finishes.

“That’s not in Tommy,” I comment, looking at him.

“No, it’s a ballad from the late 1600s. A Dialogue Betwixt Death And A Lady,” he answers.

“Lovely.”

“A seventeenth-century ballad?” Elle asks.

“Yeah, a woman essentially begging death to live.”

“What kind of person knows this ballad?”

“Are we looking for a literature professor?” JJ asks.

“Anyone with an internet connection, actually. You should see what comes in when you type the word Death into a search engine.”

“Reid, no wonder you can’t get a date,” Derek teases.

“Reid, Balian, you two stay on the messages. See if there’s a deeper meaning,” Gideon says.

“Well, it definitely looks like he ransacked the crime scene pretty well.”

“Lot of damage, but nothing taken.”

“The eyes are the thing, the signature.”

“The behaviour that isn’t necessary for the murder, but necessary for the emotional release...that’s what he’s there for...” I comment, pulling out my notebook and writing notes in it. “It’s one collar, two sleeves, right?” I ask.

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s a trick to how to spell necessary. It’s like explaining a shirt. One collar, two sleeves.”

“Yes, it’s one collar, two sleeves.”

“Thank you, JJ.”

“There used to be a widely held belief that the eyes record a snapshot of the last thing a person sees before they die,” Spencer cuts in.

“Yeah, that’s right. People used to write poems about talking to death.”

“Ballads.”

“Whatever.”

“You think they’ll ever run out of new things to do to their victims?”

“Well, finding new ways to hurt each other is what we’re good at.”

“Right. Spencer, can you write down the poem for me? I’d ask you to recite it, but I couldn’t keep up,” I ask, sliding my notebook his way.

“Uh, sure.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“My name is Death. Have you not heard of me?” Spencer whispers, staring at one of the verses pinned to the evidence board. “You may as well be mute…”

“Creepy, huh?” JJ asks.

“Actually, conversations between death and his victims was a fairly popular literary and artistic theme throughout the Renaissance…” He peers over to JJ’s face. “Yeah. Creepy.”

“Thank you for making this James-friendly. So, uh, if this pattern sticks through, this is how it plays out?”

“Yeah.”

“Why not include the lady’s verses?”

“If the unsub is writing as Death, then it wouldn’t make sense for the lady to respond,” Spencer replies to me.

“Why start with the messages now? There were three other murders, why no messages until now?” I ask.

“Maybe he’s evolving.”

“Why would he evolve? He’s spending more time at the scenes now, what with writing the message, and the cool off period is getting shorter... Gideon? Where are you going?” I ask, trailing off at the sight of Gideon and Derek following someone out.

“We’re going to the crime scene. Come on.”

“Cool.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“This profiling really works?” The detective asks as we ride down a street.

“It’s a tool,” Derek replies.

“You can tell all about a guy from looking at the scene?”

“The scene’s only part of it. We also use victimology, precedent. We can usually get a fairly clear picture of the guy.”

“Our guys went over it pretty well.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“Local officers aren’t trained to look for the things we look before.”

“What’s that?”

“Hate, insecurity, fear, anger.”

“That’s all in the scene?”

“It’s all in the behaviour,” I comment.

“You know anything about our guy yet?”

“Yeah,” Gideon replies. “He isn’t gonna stop until he’s caught.” We pull up beside the house with perfectly trimmed green grass surrounding us, in every yard. As we get out and walk to the house, a cruiser drives by us. “You increased patrols in this neighbourhood when the pattern was identified?”

“After the fourth victim. Bosses cancelled days off, vacations.”

“Neighbourhoods full of cruisers, and he still struck two more times,” Derek comments.

“He blends. Gideon,” he answers his phone. “Attempt?”

“Damn,” I whisper to Derek.

“Well, we’re already at the last crime scene. Let us know if you identify a suspect,” Gideon replies, ending the call.

“Suspect?”

“There might have been another attack not far from your station.” I watch as the detective turns back to walk to the cruiser.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I cut in, stepping in front of him.

“Where are you going?” Derek asks.

“Over there.”

“Sir, units are already heading that way. There’s not much you would be able to do there, we can get more accomplished here -”

“You’re kidding me, right?” The detective stares down into my eyes.

“No.”

“If there’s an arrest, what we find here will help you prosecute,” Derek answers.

“This scene won’t be pristine forever,” Gideon adds.

“Guys, knock yourselves out,” the detective responds, putting the house keys in my hands.

“Thank you-”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Derek asks, stopping the man from running off. “The unsub went through the back, right?”

“The family room. It’s the one full of print dust,” he replies before turning to run away.

“Gideon, we’re going around the house.” I then toss the keys at Gideon and chase Derek around the side of the house, we climb over the gate and head to the family room window that was propped open, and we climb through it, carefully climbing the furniture until we get to the floor.

“Okay, it’s not that easy to manvuever.”

“Athletic,” I reply, helping pull him off of the armchair. We head to the kitchen, and Derek hands me crime scene photos.

“Alright, he messed with something in here.” I look around at the modern kitchen, feeling like I had walked into a friend’s house in Alexandria again.

“Microwave door’s open,” I comment, looking inside and closing it.

“Broken cappuccino machine. Took the appliances, which are upstairs. Why?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why would I take the time?” We continue our tour around the house, leaving the kitchen and heading into the dining room. “Here's where I got the china...the silver.” I look to the open silverware box. “I didn’t take it, I broke it.”

“There’s a scene in Tommy where he throws all his mom’s riches into the water,” I add.

“Why wouldn’t she hear me?”

“Because she was blaring something upstairs.”

“Or I did it after.”

“Why stay afterwards for that long?” I follow Derek up the stairs, to the bedroom, where we meet Gideon staring at the TV.

“She had a workout video on,” he tells us. “Stepaerobics.” I told you so.

“Stepaerobics? With the platforms? Step up, down, step up, step down?”

“It can be fun,” I retort, looking around the bedroom floor. “Where’s the platform?” Gideon turns to the bed, getting on his knees and peering underneath it.

“He spent a lot of time here.”

“What, so he vacuumed? I mean, there’s no marks from the platforms.”

“A lot of time. We established this. The broken things, the message, the vacuuming-”

“The broken things. She must have been dead or incapacitated when he did that,” Derek cuts me off. “Cappuccino from the kitchen, dishes, vases, broken jewellery.”

“Symbols,” Gideon answers, sitting on the bed. “Your riches, gold, garments, jewels bright. Your house and land must on new owners light.”

“Is it just me, or do I just not understand that sentence?” I ask.

“Her riches,” Derek replies.

“Right.”

“You ever feel like there’s something obvious right in front of you, you just can’t see it?”

“A lot,” I nod.

“Yeah, usually right before a woman dumps me.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The verses,” Spencer walks up to us as soon as we come back.

“You found something?” I ask.

“Uh, not an answer, a question. I found the full text. He’s pretty much following it to a T, a least the death side of the conversation.”

“Okay. What’s your question?”

“Why didn’t he leave them at the first three murders? I mean, this ballad is ten verses long, just on the death side, he’s got plenty to work with. But if it’s not part of his signature, if it isn’t something he has to do for an emotional reason, then, I mean, why start?”

“JJ,” Gideon asks, grabbing her attention. “Find out when the press ran the first story on this unsub.”

“When?”

“After which victim.”

“Yeah, you got it.” She picks up the phone.

“What are you thinking?”

“He wasn’t getting enough attention.”

“Narcissist? I mean, claiming you’re speaking as Death is a pretty big grandeur. It’s saying that you control life, you’re the thing to fear.”

“Police departments sometimes don’t even know they’re looking at a pattern.”

“Yeah, until somebody tells them. Balian, see me, feel me. Remember that. Tommy.”

“The first story ran the morning after the fourth victim was found,” JJ tells us.

“The increased patrols didn’t begin until after the fourth victim, either,” Derek adds.

“Yeah, the police didn’t realise what was happening, he writes his verse.”

“And everyone knows he was there.” I look behind me to see Hotch and Elle walking in.

“The offender in this new attempt is a black male.”

“Black male? Cross racial- that doesn’t happen.”

“What about Herbert Mullin, he killed fourteen people of completely varying ages, races, and creeds.”

“There was no sexual component to his crimes, he was a paranoid schizophrenic that was under the delusion that he could prevent earthquakes with murder,” I ramble.

“This attacker wore a ski mask,” Elle adds.

“Tell em we’re ready?”

“For a profile?” I ask Gideon.

“We’re gonna make Tommy contact us.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The unsub brought his weapons with him. Tape, glue, wire. He did not leave them at the scene,” Gideon says. “He took them when he left. He has a kind of killing kit that he carries.”

“Organised killers usually have a skilled job, likely technology related, which may involve the use of the hands,” Hotch adds with his arms crossed. “The crime scenes are far enough apart that he needs a vehicle. This will be well kept, obsessively clean, as will be his home.” Gideon has found a spot, sitting next to me on a desk. “He’s diurnal, the attacks occurred during the day, so the vehicle may be related to his work, possibly a company car or truck.”

“We believe he watches the victims for a time, learns the rhythms of the home, knows his time frame,” Derek comments.

“You’re not gonna catch him accidentally,” Hotch continues.

“He destroys symbols of wealth in the victims’ homes,” Gideon gets up and paces to the boards at the front of the room. “He harbours envy and hatred toward people of a higher social class. He feels invisible around them.”

“Class is the theme of the poem which he left at the various crime scenes,” Spencer cuts in. “At one point in the poem, the woman attempts to bribe death, but he doesn’t accept it, he says this is the one moment when riches mean nothing. When death comes, the poor and the rich look exactly alike.”

“So, he’s poor?”

“Probably middle class,” Hotch answers. “A lower-class person would significantly stick out in a highly patrolled neighbourhood. This guy appears to belong there. He blends in.”

“Why does he glue the eyes open?”

“The unsub is an exploitative rapist,” Elle interjects. “Most rape victims close their eyes during the attack, turn their heads. For some rapists, this ruins the fantasy. For this type of rapist, the goal is more related to the victim watching him than the act itself.”

“The verses, the staging, the aggressive language, “I am death. This is a guy who, while being in control at the crime scene, almost certainly feels inadequate in the rest of his life.”

“That’s why he couldn’t wait for you to figure out what he’d done. Why he needed to make sure all his crimes were counted. His victims,” Gideon stands up again from a chair, “they represent whatever it is that’s controlling him, and he wants that control back. He is under the thumb of a powerful woman who frightens him. And a final point. He is white.”

“We have witnesses that identify him as a black male,” the chief argues.

“The attacker was black, but he’s not the Tommy Killer. Mrs Gordon’s husband came home at the same time he always does. The Tommy Killer would’ve known that-”

“And Mrs Gordon’s attacker wore a ski mask,” Elle cuts me off. “The unsub knows when he walks into a house, he’s going to kill the woman who lives there. If you’re not leaving any witnesses, why wear a ski mask?”

“And he wants the victim to see him anyway.”

“Your attempted rapist is a garden variety, disorganised young man.”

“As the victim’s age goes up, generally, the attacker’s age goes down. Mrs Gordon is about sixty, which puts her rapist at about twenty.”

“And it takes years to develop the level of calm and sophistication that Tommy displays at ta crime scene, and the rapist is far too young for that.”

“Mrs Gordon told me that there’s a young man who delivers groceries to their home. He fits a lot of what we’re describing here.”

“Great. So we’re back to zero on Tommy.”

“Not at all. May I see you in your office for a moment?” Hotch asks, walking off with the chief.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You really watched the opera on the plane?” Gideon asks me.

“Yeah. I didn’t exactly remember it all, and I wanted to be able to determine if this unsub really fell like he was Tommy,” I answer. “And I figured I could do that by comparing details of the movie to the unsub, you know, since they call him the Tommy Killer… you know, that bugged me the most.” I turned to Gideon, facing him. “I couldn’t figure out how this was connected to Tommy at all, except for the riches in Brenda Samm’s house being destroyed and Tommy throwing his mom’s riches into the sea.”

“I could tell you found the opera fun to watch,” Gideon replies.

“Elton John caught me off guard, and I love rock music.”

“He confessed to Mrs Gordon’s attack before we even got to the car,” Elle struts in.

“Thanks, Elle.”

“Should just make the eleven o clock news,” JJ states.

“Did they get good footage?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t miss him.”

“Good. Now we wait.”

“Call Garcia.”

I pull out my phone and speed dial, reaching her in moments.

“Go for Ms Penelope Garcia,”

“I got her on,” I say, handing JJ my phone.

“You ready for the trap and trace?”

“Peaches, this is the office of unmitigated superiority. I am always ready. With the awesome power I have in this room, all I need is fifteen seconds on the phone to nail this skeevy perv.”

“Fifteen seconds.”

“If that.”

“That’s not bad,” I comment.

“Not bad? What do I have to do to impress you, Agent Balian?”

“Didn’t mean it like that, you are already impressive.”

“Uh-huh.” She then hangs up on me, and I pocket my phone. “I’m no Derek Morgan.”

“Yeah, clearly. You need game with the ladies.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don’t need game if I’m not gonna play,” I retort.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Still waiting, Garcia,” JJ says into a phone.

“God, I hate waiting like this,” Elle complains from the desk I’m at, flipping something over.

“Do you think it’s weird that I knew that ballad?”

“Spencer, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but everybody has that tidbit of knowledge that nobody else has,” I state. She scoffs.

“I don’t know how it is that you know half the things you know, but I’m glad you do.”

“Do you think it’s why I can’t get a date?”

“Don’t listen to Derek. What works out for some people doesn’t work out for others,” I don’t even look up from my book.

“Have you ever asked anyone out on a date?” Elle asks.

“No.”

“That’s why you can’t get a date.” A phone rings from another desk.

“Detective Martin.”

“That’s what that guy’s name was? Martin?” I ask quietly. “Did I even introduce myself?”

“Hey, hey,” I hear a whisper, and Derek throws his hand up.

“Line six, Penelope, line six,” JJ says. Gideon gets up from the chair he’s chilling in, and we take the call as Hotch and Gideon run over to us.

“You stupid, incompetent sons of bitches! I don’t make mistakes! I am death! You hear me?! I am death! You’ll see now. Tomorrow. Mark my words, you will see. And while I’m taking her, I’m gonna be thinking of you.” He then hangs up, and I pull my head back in disgust and confusion.

“Anything?” JJ asks. “She says she got nothing.”

“Nothing?” Derek exclaims.

“We missed him?” Hotch asks. Thinking about the FBI while you’re getting off? What kind of statement is that?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We have an undercover car for each of your teams, and the entire damn department out there, too.”

“Remember, a truck. Maybe a work truck, in excellent condition.”

“Everyone knows.”

“Alright, he might make a mistake today.”

“He’s angry, and he probably hasn’t done the surveillance he’d like.”

“Yeah, well, neither have we. Let’s go, Reid,” Derek says, claiming the beanpole.

“I’ll bring the car around,” Elle sighs, then leaves. I look to Gideon, then to Hotch. He gently pat’s Gideon’s arm.

“We’ll find him,” he says before leaving.

“There’s no way we just gave Tommy another victim,” I sigh.

“Profilers make mistakes, too.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A cell phone rings, bringing Hotch and me out of our silence.

“What you got?”

“Put it on speaker,” I comment, and he does so.

“He’s a phone technician, Hotch. Police are looking for someone walking around the neighbourhood in broad daylight. Who notices a phone guy up on a pole?” I look from the phone to the phone poles, connected by miles of wire.

“He can watch for husbands leaving for work, watch for police patrols, know when the neighbourhood’s quiet.”

“He knows when he’ll have plenty of time. He can even tap into a phone line to make sure someone’s home. How about routing a call through twenty-five substations?”

“Twenty-five?” I ask.

“Yeah. Backyard? Hey, he’s just looking for a pole. Got tape? Of course he does. Wire? He’s a repairman.”

“Sounds right, Jason.”

“It is right. And we have his name.”

“We do? We have his name?” I ask Hotch as he looks at me and flips his phone shut.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you,” Gideon says, pulling something out of his go-bag. “Forgot to give it to you at the party.”

“But you don’t give birthday presents,” Spencer remarks, taking the blue box with the red ribbon and opening it. “Wow...the Red...skins…”

“Reid, you got football tickets. And if I can count, there’s two of them,” I explain. “Why the Redskins, though?”

“It’s a VIP box,” Gideon explains.

“Whoa.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Ever been to a pro football game?” Gideon asks.

“No, I honestly didn’t even know this was football,” Reid laughs, examining the tickets.

“You’re gonna love it.”

“We are, you’re coming with me, right?” Spencer asks.

“No. Someone else on the plane is a huge Skins fan.”

“It’s not me,” I volunteer.

“Who?”

“Only person in the whole world who calls you Spence.” I look over the back of the seat at JJ, who reads a newspaper.

“No way, dude.”

“JJ?”

“She’s a huge Redskins fan.” Spencer looks back at her.

“Wh-what should I say?” Gideon just stares at him, and he tucks the tickets into his shirt pocket, getting up from the seat. He stops and stares at the board. “Checkmate,” he moves a piece.

“What? What?” I exclaim, looking back as he goes to sit with JJ. “Why did you just do that to him?”  

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Animal Magnetism

Summary: Belle finds herself in a predicament when her pet gets into Rumpel’s workroom. Rumpel isn’t quite sure what to make of it all.

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling prompt: “How on earth did you get up there?”

Rated: G

Note: Imaginary bonus points if you recognise which Disney film Tibbs is from...

=====

Animal Magnetism

“How on earth did you get up there?”

Belle shouldn’t have been surprised by the sight that met her in Rumpel’s workroom when she went in there to clear away the tea things and give the place a quick onceover with a duster. She had been with him long enough and been witness to enough magical mishaps in this very room that nothing should have surprised her anymore. 

She knew this, and yet, on entering the room to find her cat stuck to the middle of the ceiling, her first reaction had been disbelief. 

Tibbs gave a pitiful mew and Belle sighed, hands on her hips. 

“You got yourself into this, you know,” she said, and whilst she had some sympathy for the poor stranded feline, it wasn’t a lot. She’d had to rescue him from an awful lot of scrapes ever since she’d first found him cowering in the corner of her herb garden in the rain, a sad and soggy moggy.

She had no idea where he had come from, but he had settled into a warm spot by the kitchen fire and steadfastly stayed there, despite Rumpel’s efforts to tell Belle that maids did not need pets.

She’d counterargued that she needed someone to keep her company whilst he was away from the castle making his deals, and Tibbs had just continued to purr like a foghorn in his corner. Now he was a permanent fixture. Literally, if his current state was anything to go by. 

Tibbs meowed mournfully again, and Belle sighed. It was impossible not to be moved by his plight, even if it was self-inflicted. The one rule that Rumpel had imposed on Belle’s cat ownership was that Tibbs was never allowed in the workroom for fear of what dangerous magics he might get into. Most of his hair (or fur) raising escapades had resulted from him getting into the workroom and upsetting one potion or another. 

“You know you’re not allowed in here,” Belle continued. 

Tibbs meowed again. This time he sounded impatient; no doubt annoyed that Belle was spending her time lecturing him instead of getting him out of his predicament. She heaved another sigh and went to fetch a step ladder. She knew that Rumpel would never put Tibbs in harm’s way intentionally. She was sure that despite his bluster, he was just as smitten with the new addition to the household as Belle was. All the same, given Tibbs’ precedent for causing chaos, Belle thought that he might have learned by now to keep his workroom slightly tidier, instead of leaving half-finished spells and potions all over everywhere. For all Belle knew, she might have ended up as the one stuck to the ceiling the next time she cleaned in there. 

Returning with the ladder, she set it up in the middle of the room and looked around at the mess of papers and potion vials on the workbench, unsure if the jumble had been caused by Rumpel or Tibbs. She flicked through the papers, looking for something that would indicated what Tibbs was stuck with and whether or not special measures would be needed to bring him down again, but nothing immediately jumped out at her. She’d just have to go up the ladder and hope for the best. 

“I didn’t think that it was possible for cats to make puppy dog eyes,” she grumbled as she reached the top of the ladder and came face to face with her pet, who was looking at her with a doleful expression, begging to be rescued like the poor, helpless kitten that he was. 

Carefully, Belle wrapped her hands around his tabby-striped middle and attempted to lift him away from the ceiling, but his paws wouldn’t budge. That was when Belle noticed the powder. Tibbs had three white socks and one orange, but today, all four had a distinctly purple tinge to them. 

“Oh Tibbs, what have you been walking in now? Rumpel’s going to go spare if he finds paw prints in one of his ingredients.”

She carefully brushed at the purple powder with one finger, bringing the grains up closer to her face to examine them. The powder was shimmering slightly, and it smelt rather metallic. Rubbing it between finger and thumb, she felt it grow warm under her touch. Whatever it was, it was definitely magical, and probably the cause of Tibbs being stuck to the ceiling. What she didn’t know was how he had ended up on the ceiling in the first place. 

She sat down on the top rung of the ladder and looked at Tibbs from all angles, wondering what she could do to assist him. As the distribution of the light against the ceiling changed with her movement, so she saw the trail of shimmering paw prints wending their way across the ceiling and down the opposite wall. Leaning over, she saw them vanish into an upturned box in one corner, and she sighed. 

“Tibbs, you have plenty of other boxes all over the rest of the castle. Why do you have such a fixation with getting into boxes that are in the one place you’re not allowed to go? Is there something particularly special about that particular box? Are none of the myriad other boxes that Rumpel and I have provided for you up to scratch? And what were you doing walking up the wall anyway?”

The powder was obviously some kind of sticking spell, and it had stuck firm once Tibbs had stopped moving. 

“Oh Tibbs.” She began to stroke his head and in spite of his rather precarious position, Tibbs started to purr loudly at the touch, nudging his head into her hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you down in a minute. I’m sure there must be an antidote around here somewhere.”

She made to climb down the ladder again, only for her stomach to sink to her boots with the realisation that the powder she’d had on her fingers had now stuck her hand to Tibbs’ fur. She was stranded at the top of a tall stepladder, stuck to her cat who was stuck to the ceiling. She could only hope that she wouldn’t end up stuck to the ladder as well. 

Belle looked at Tibbs.

“Right, well, we’re in a bit of a pickle now, aren’t we? We’re just going to have to wait for Rumpel to come and rescue us.”

She wasn’t sure what Rumpel’s reaction would be when he found them both on the ceiling, but she hoped that it would give him a good laugh if nothing else. He had not gone far today and had promised to be back before nightfall, and Belle could see the sky beginning to grow darker outside. He shouldn’t be long, but then, Rumpelstiltskin was nothing if not unpredictable and she really didn’t want today to be one of the days where he got side-tracked by something and didn’t come home till midnight. Or the next day. 

Thankfully, just then, there was a puff of inky magic and Rumpelstiltskin appeared in the workroom. He made to stride over to the bench and stopped short just before he crashed into the stepladder. It took several seconds of him staring at the ladder before he thought to look up to the top of it, his face showing utter disbelief. Belle waved guiltily with the hand not stuck to Tibbs.

Finally, he managed to splutter: “How on earth did you get up there?” 

“The ladder, obviously, Rumpel. Unlike Tibbs I don’t possess the ability to walk up walls.”

“Walk up… Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Rumpel snapped his fingers and the trail of paw prints up the wall immediately became clearly visible. He stalked across the room to the box and picked it up, a sweep of his hand pulling all the powder back inside and sealing the lid. “He got into the sticking salts.” 

Rumpel placed the box back on its shelf and looked up at them. “I take it from the fact you’re still sitting pretty up there that you’re also stuck?”

“I’m only stuck because I got stuck to Tibbs whilst trying to unstick him!” Belle protested. “Maybe if you labelled some of your boxes, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“There should be no need for me to label my boxes, because curious cats and equally curious maids should not be investigating them. Also, unless you propose to teach him to read, I don’t see how labelling the sticking salts will keep Tibbs out of them in the future.”

Belle had to concede that point.

“Still, I suppose I’d better get you both down. I won’t be able to concentrate on anything with a ladder in the middle of the workroom.” With a snap of his fingers, Rumpel vanished and reappeared at the top of the ladder, a few rungs below Belle, startling her. 

“You couldn’t have climbed up it like a normal person?”

“When have I ever claimed to be a normal person?” Rumpel looked affronted by the implication. “I’ve a mind not to unstick you after that.”

“Ah, but just think how infuriatingly irritating I would be, stuck in here all the time with you whilst you were trying to work.”

Rumpel narrowed his eyes and clicked his fingers. Belle’s hand became unstuck from Tibbs at the same time as Tibbs became unstuck from the ceiling with a yowl, and Rumpel held out his hands to catch him before he could fall too far. Rather shocked at this, Tibbs blinked up at Rumpel for a few moments before nuzzling in against his wrist. 

“No. Stop that. You are a pest and an annoyance. Stop it.”

Belle just giggled, and Rumpel glared at her afresh, before vanishing in a puff of smoke and leaving her alone at the top of the ladder. He was still holding Tibbs by the time she had descended, and she observed the pair for a moment.

“You know, anyone would think you were getting attached to Tibbs, Rumpel.”

Rumpel quickly thrust the cat towards her, trying to deny that he’d been stroking him. Belle knew better, but she also knew better than to draw attention to the fact. She leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you for rescuing us, my brave knight. You know, I think we’ll make a hero of you yet.”

She could tell she’d stunned him when he didn’t make any kind of remark, and Belle left the workroom with Tibbs in her arms and a smile on her face. 

[rosalind-of-arden]

Sword and Pen Reread, chapter 10

Thomas chapter time! In addition to my usual interest in worldbuilding, Santi, Wolfe, and Morgan, I’m also looking for some Jess/Thomas fodder and Thomas trauma symptoms here. Because post-canon fics can use these things.

In the ephemera we have some conspiring between Obscurist Vanya Nikolin and the ex-Archivst. Still watching to see if we get confirmation of this obscurist’s fate. He could be useful as a post-canon villain. Still very cautious and self-interested.

Another thing of note. While the ex-Archivist doesn’t mention Thomas by name here, we know that’s who he means. So the ex-Archivist knows that Thomas “understands Heron’s work as deeply as Heron himself.” Now, how does the ex-Archivist know this? From Thomas’s journals or other writing (essays for Wolfe’s class?), which I assume they would have gone digging through? Or is this something they got out of Thomas in Rome? Considering the Archivist’s greed and tendency to hoard technology, it’s possible that putting Thomas to work on recovering things from Heron’s tomb was always one of the Archivist’s goals.

Artifex Greta Jones is American, “a round, pleasant woman” with “a rich, slow accent like melting butter.” She calls Thomas “son”. Could be one of those people who calls everyone that. Could be the type to see a stray kid and immediately adopt him.

“He knew how he looked: tired, shadows under his eyes and lurking in them.” Thomas is not ok. He’s focusing on work to cope, and he doesn’t want to. He wants this to be someone else’s job.

“Physical activity helped him think and rid himself of the dark storm of anxiety that was still blowing inside him.” More coping strategies.

Thomas is not comfortable with High Garda soldiers following him, even though he assumes Santi ordered them to guard him. Intuition that they’re sketchy? Trauma symptom? Both?

“Waiting was a thing he couldn’t bear, not now.” Damn we have a lot of Thomas anxiety symptoms here. I did not catch all of these the first time.

For Thomas whump purposes, this whole scene in the carriage gives a good look at how he handles both danger and pain. Very focused, a lot of planning, but not necessarily effective planning.

Just how long has the Archivist been implanting Library insignia in people’s skin, anyway? Assuming this was an “honor” for the Elites?

And here’s Thomas wishing Jess was with him. “He wished Jess was with him for other reasons, too.” Ok, sure, next clause says that’s because Jess is good at escaping. But, I mean, there could be more reasons than that.

Thomas thinks in German first. Indication of language difficulty?

Thomas’s first assumption is that he’s being kidnapped to hurt Wolfe. Interesting. And of course Zara does think that’s a bonus.

“Is that bitter old fool still alive? I’d thought he would have died in the arena.” So did Zara really not know Wolfe was alive? The Archivist does, so that would indicate that he’s not telling her everything. Or is she just saying that? Also, calling Wolfe “old”. Just being rude and calling him something she knows he’d hate? Or evidence that she’s younger than Wolfe and Santi? (Zara has a thing for older guys?)

Zara blames Thomas for inventing printing. Perfectly reasonable that no one’s told her about Gutenberg and all the others from the Black Archives. But apparently no one’s told her about Wolfe’s press - I don’t think she’d blame just Thomas if she knew Wolfe did it too. She’d be right there with everyone else who’s assumed Wolfe influenced Thomas.

Thomas is both afraid and angry when he learns he’s going to the ex-Archivist, but he’s also trying to think his way out of it. Definitely a coping mechanism. In Thomas’s POV, the waiting “grated on him.” Downplaying how much this really bothers him?

When he’s led into the ex-Archivist’s lair, Thomas first thinks he’s underground. He smells earth and feels that the air is cool and damp. Could just be signs of the coming storm that he misinterprets. Could be that he’s out of it enough to be actively perceiving things that aren’t real. The last time he was taken prisoner, he was taken to an underground prison. Is this a sensory flashback?

Zara says the ex-Archivist was in charge for “half a lifetime”. That’s a very long time. How long is a lifetime in this setting, anyway? We’re probably talking 40-50 years? This guy was probably on the throne as long as Wolfe was alive.

Good look at what’s going on in Zara’s head here. “The world makes you.” “Dissent is chaos, and it must be controlled.” Government can’t be clean.

Thomas keeps a lot in his pockets. Birdseed for feeding pigeons, half-eaten snacks, pencils.

Thomas is all kinds of freaked out by this. He still trolls the guards by claiming to have a knife. That’s actually a good strategy. If he can’t stop whatever’s happening, he can slow it down by making them search him again. And he’s choosing to risk a strip search over whatever they have planned for him.

“I have engineered my rage.” More signs that Thomas’s rage is a result of what happened to him in Rome.

What does Thomas really want? To be just another Scholar. Poor kid

Thomas is definitely trying to stall things by arguing with and provoking the Archivist. More survival strategies.

Archivist says he meets with “heads of every kingdom and country” every year to get them to pledge loyalty to the Library. So those treaties have expiration dates. Interesting. Both for future Khalila stuff, and for answering questions such as “WTF happened in France?”

Thomas trying to sound like he doesn’t care about Jess while talking to the Archivist. I didn’t need my heart anyway.

“I’d rather be a useless corpse than a useful fool.” There’s Thomas’s limit. He’ll try to stay alive to get out of this and help his friends. He won’t let himself be used against them.

This Archivist is the one who had the magic mirrors made. He has one, Lord Commander gets one, Obscurist Magnus gets one, Artifex Magnus gets one. Obviously Archivist and Artifex used theirs for evil spying and fucking with Jess and such. Wonder what the old Lord Commander did with his. And Keria. I am having very sad thoughts about Keria using the mirror to watch Wolfe over the years.

Why does Keria say she cares so much about Nic back in Paper and Fire when they’ve quite possibly never met? Because she’s been fucking watching him and Wolfe through a fucking magic mirror all this time.

Thomas begging for Glain’s life. My fucking heart.

Panic/trauma symptoms for Thomas: tasting bile, fists clenched.

Thomas seems to be equal parts worried about Jess and denying that Jess will die. He assumes Morgan will be able to save Jess. Poor baby. And, well, fuck, how much would that fit into my Jess/Morgan/Thomas OT3 if things had gone differently.