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takes1 · 12 days ago

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final part. one night stand aftermath with needy!tsukishima

sorry for the wait :0 this is a looong one. last installment! thanks for supporting ya'll. if you want more tsukki, just let me know

warnings. nsfw. minors DNI

details. fem!reader / rough sex / counter sex / porn with plot / flirting / one night stand aftermath / trust issues!reader / needy!tsukki / timeskip!tsukki / apartment setting / communication / a deal being made / 3.1k words

links. my masterlist. [part one, part two.] more haikyuu. my ao3. requests OPEN.

Your breath grew shallow under the weight of his hand on your upper thigh.

It was funny, your confident, split-second choice not to wear anything under your skirt this evening suddenly all you could think about.

Tiny glances. To and from the glint of his glasses in the sunset, the dashes on the road zipping by as he took you back to his place, the tendons working on the top of his hand as he squeezed your supple flesh, hungry- though his eyes gave no indication.

His car was not impressive, but it was exceptionally clean and maintained well. It helped more than anything else, more than any of his mannerisms in particular, to put you at ease.

The first and last words you had exchanged was about the music about six minutes ago. It was kept at a low enough volume to talk over, but no such conversation got off the ground. So, it was quiet and you sat alert, tummy in knots (some good, some bad) with clammy palms and a racing heart.

This state of uncertainty didn't get much better as you made your way upstairs into his apartment.

Where was the kind-of-sweet guy working part-time at the museum? Every time you met him again, it was like his personality had done a complete 180 and you needed to relearn how to talk to him.

You both stood a moment in the doorway, slipping off your shoes. He grew about four inches taller and immeasurably more imposing. You caught a tiny smirk on his jaw.

"Why wear heels?" He asked, toneless.

You squinted across the entryway, careful to not be accusatory nor provide any reference of height to boost his ego, "Because they're cute."

When you decided he was attractive that Friday night, his height was secondary.

Tsukishima lingered for a moment, a faint smile on his mouth, all wrapped up in something you said or how you said it. He shook his head and walked towards the kitchen without inviting you.

Yeah, his height was trivial compared to the complexity behind his eyes.

Again, you were left wondering what to do- you followed, of course. But it was out of hesitant assumption and not because he made it easy.

His head turned away when you entered.

You didn't have time to guess if he was waiting or not before he asked, "Would you like anything?"

It was vague, but since this was the kitchen, you settled on water.

The way he sank and slid, slow and tedious from his spot to grab you a glass made you hold yourself in doubt. But, he was smiling.

"What's so funny?" You had to ask.

Worry was apparent on your brow. He couldn't see it turned around.

"You still don't trust me, do you?"

You couldn't clean up the shock on your face before he saw it. It was exactly what he was looking for, apparently. He still thought that was funny.

You struggled to craft a response that was both articulate and true, "I guess I don't. I don't know you."

It lingered in the air for a few seconds. In fact, those seconds felt so long that you began to question your choice to come here. You thought to exactly where you put your shoes.

He looked contemplative. He crossed his arms, but not to close himself off. "But we still fucked."

You laughed at him, at the absurdity.

"I know."

You repeated, shaking your head, "I- I know. What, are you trying to guilt trip me over leaving? I know I hurt your feelings, but I don't owe you anything."

The island separating you felt bigger.

He blew a breath, brow raised. You regretted saying it that way. He just made you nervous.

But he laughed again, "Jesus, uh..." He picked up your glass and closed the distance, arm up as a little surrender to your words, "I guess you're not wrong."

He settled next to you, side flush against you when he handed you the glass.

You stared at it, tapping, and considered your options. You opened your mouth and took a breath to apologize.

"Don't say sorry," He stated. He met your eyes for a moment, then shook his head with a little smile, "I like that."

Heat crawled up your neck and inspired you to down all the water in your hands. You set the empty glass aside and wiped your mouth with your forearm. He thought it was cute, but kept it to himself.

The facts were as out there as they were going to get for you; he didn't do one night stands, he was convinced he had met a 'nice girl' and took you home, got his feelings hurt when you left, he probably thought it was fate that you met at the museum, but... now, what did he want?

"I don't trust you either," He admitted, moving slow to pin you between his arms, against the counter.

His eyes gave you no indication of what he meant by that. He looked mean. Like he could really hurt you, or your feelings at a minimum.

A flash of apprehension spread across your face. You looked to the left and right, then back at him, who found your little panic charming.

His indescribable intensity was why, when he closed the distance to kiss you, you paused.

He sighed against you for a second, then slowly straightened out. It took you a second because you were dumbfounded by how out of place his sudden affection felt, but thought it preferable to his ominous and vague nature.

At least when he was kissing you, you didn't have to guess.

Before he could take your hesitation to heart, you stretched up, hands clasped on his shoulders, in his hair, to return it tenfold.

His tongue was familiar and his lips were comforting. He leaned into you, trapping you against the counter, but it steadied you both.

God, why didn't he start out with this?

A soft moan shared between your lips sent him spiralling- his hand clutched your waist, under your flimsy little shirt, and his thumb rubbed against your tummy, rendering you a little weak in the knees.

His body felt perfect against yours. No room for second guessing.

He parted for a moment, and you caught the strangest look in his eyes. An intensity that making out shouldn't have warranted- a pain that was beyond an overdue erection.

"I...ah, I can't-," You gasped between his extra kisses, "Figure you out-!" Your hand flew to support yourself when he lifted you off of your feet from your hips.

You locked your legs around his waist, and nearly missed when you grabbed for his shoulders. It didn't matter much, but it startled you. In your panicked searching, you couldn't even find the brown in his eyes.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth at the feeling of you through his pants. That little no-underwear detail didn't go ignored earlier.

"Mmnyou don't have to," He muttered dismissively.

There was no chance to question further before he took your lips hostage once more, his hand firm against the back of your head.

Though logically, his evasiveness was concerning, it did nothing short of send an addictive current straight down your spine. Thinking grew tough, quickly.

His tongue was easier to deal with than your doubts. After all, you were always just a hook-up, anyway.

A squeak caught in your throat at the way he pushed you into the cold counter, the way he loomed over and blocked out the overhead light except for the tips of his golden hair, the way he made sure you didn't bump your head on the way down.

It was difficult returning his rough kisses. For the most part, you focused on just taking them instead, but that became nearly impossible when he started to roll his hips into yours.

Perfect, warm waves crashed over you and kept your legs heavy and weak. It was all you could do to keep up with him.

"F-uck," A choked sigh against the shell of your ear made you twitch, "I'm not gonna last for shit."

You giggled at his soft, disappointed admission. He put his face in the curve of your neck and wrapped his other arm around you. It was tight. Secure, as you rolled your hips over the outline of his cock.

"We'll go a few rounds tonight, yeah?" Your voice was weaker than you wanted it to sound.

A long inhale, taken from in your hair you couldn't help but notice, and he gave an approving hum against your neck in a long, tingly kiss.

He freed an arm to hold your wrists above your head, the other tracing up your shirt to tease your chest.

That little pout you gave him earned you a quick, rough kiss into more possessive ones all along the side of your neck- it paired well with the cruel pinching under your shirt and his heavy burden between your legs.

Soon, you were panting, dizzy and sweaty with just one thought in your head.

"You're-- ah-h, optimistic," He was just short of asking.

His little moan made your hips automatically buck- you couldn't wait around to take him again. His grip, once you expressed the desire to free yourself, was laughably light.

The metallic sounds of his belt coming undone and his zipper lowering percussed your sultry, sarcastic tone well, "Stop trying to figure me out."

Shuddery breath caught in his throat as you pulled him out. It hadn't been too long since the last time, objectively speaking, but the feeling of his warm cock in your hands was one you desperately missed.

It slowly started to feel more right after that.

You didn't have a grasp on who he was, what he wanted, what he was thinking- but when he pulls back to at least press a slow, longing kiss to your soaked pussy under your skirt, it feels right.

It feels simple. Something you were more comfortable with, more used to. Certainly an easier feeling to navigate than this serpentine man, holding you with devoted fingers, but staring you down like you had wronged him.

He got carried away, mouth sticky and hot around your aching clit, big hands shoved up your shirt to scour every inch of you he hadn't remembered well enough the first time. Now he'd never forget it.

"Mm-! Ok-ay, okay, please--," Your whine, your squirming, was tended to immediately.

His hand slid and covered so much of your neck, jaw- the whole side of your face, in fact, that you felt your skin burning underneath it. He smothered you in a wet, sloppy kiss.

When he pushed into you, you couldn't help but think of the first time.

"Oh-h," You seethed at his size, only finding that it made him grip you harder, like he was holding you together, scared you might break apart.

Your squeak at the sensation was higher, your eyes wider, as you found his gaze low and almost plaintive.

It was different from that night. You were both a little drunk, but still. He was excited, confident, more twitchy. Faster, in a lot of ways. It came across as rushed to you and it helped justify leaving when you did. It wasn't that you didn't enjoy the passion, or the absurdness of being carried up the stairs like that, but you figured he was a one-trick pony. Like most guys.

Now you felt like you were the one rushing things. He held you still by the fat of your hips when you tried to get some friction.

His kisses were softer. Deliberate and savored. Your heart was beating out of your chest.

He was perfect, beating slow and smooth between your thighs, your bodies intertwined like you wanted, but it left something to be desired. You wanted his expression to be that of lust, not whatever this was.

"What's- ah-h--, what's'wrong?" You whispered against his lips.

He pulled away to look at you, glancing around your features with that same pitiful look. Where was the passion? His charming, kinda mean, -but impressive, nonetheless- one liners?

"Do you want me?" Was a whisper right back, the mix of warmth and minty coolness in his breath a tingly shock across your face.

He didn't look in your eyes for very long once he realized the answer was not quite ready for him.

Scanning your body instead, he found many worthy things to distract himself with. Chief among them was in the form of making you take even longer to give him a response.

A gentle, slippery prodding around your clit made you gasp.

"Mm-! God," You whined, eyes rolled back as you fought to understand what he meant by that, "I want- ah-!..."

He was biting the inside of his lip with a quiet chuckle, memorizing your pretty frame twisting, writhing underneath him as you struggled to take him and get played with at the same time. Like a tired old art critic, waiting to understand the meaning of a masterpiece.

"I want you-," You sighed, luring his attention to your face again, "I- I want you to- tell me-,"

He finally laid off for a second, his hands instead grabbing at your hips to bring you further down on his cock. Your neck looked a little too plain, now that he was thinking about it. If you left, he wanted you to leave with something of his. He started working deep marks on your throat.

Your low, approving moan encouraged him.

You sighed, honest and plain, letting your nails scratch through his fluffy hair, "Tell me- you won't hurt me."

"I couldn't hurt'you," He quickly muttered against your bruising skin.

You were almost, not quite but almost, as fast. "Make me a deal, then."

He liked the sound of that. It was more practical than a promise. More real, something you could both risk for a perceived reward each. You didn't know it yet, but you really knew how to appeal to him.

His long fingers stretched over your thighs, lifting them to tease you a little from a different angle. Part of him wished he had waited to take you upstairs. You couldn't do much on the counter.

"I- ah, won't leave," You seethed as he stretched you out like that, brow furrowed at the addictive intensity, "As long as you don't hurt me."

The way he held your words in his head before he responded was unexpectedly attractive. Contemplative, he traded one of your thighs for your needy clit again and grinned at how you tightened around him.

"Deal," He leaned up to kiss you, like a handshake, of sorts.

If he kept this up, you wouldn't be able to last very long. You loved how he took care of you himself, and didn't leave you to figure out your own pleasure.

He clearly wanted to tick every box, make sure you noticed it, too, so that you could be grateful to him.

You were both smiling more after your little agreement.

Before you could get too lost in it, there was some low thudding just above you.

Everything stopped for a scary moment.

You instantly looked at him when you didn't understand the sound right away, for some sort of reassurance it was just the apartment settling, or a cat upstairs. His brow was still furrowed, concerned as he looked up, his eyes tracking the sound in the ceiling.

"What the hell is that?" You whispered, a little harsh, but justified.

His face fell seconds after your question was left hanging, unanswered. He looked defeated.

"My-," He sighed, grimacing as you adjusted under him, "My roommate, I... forgot he was here."

It seemed so stupid for a guy you pegged as so intelligent. The raw reaction in his eyes made it clear that fucking you right here wasn't deliberate.

Your body relaxed again. You were wholeheartedly glad it wasn't a criminal or a ghost. It made way for confusion as he started to explain that his roommate doesn't usually come out of his room at this time, but that you should both probably head upstairs anyway.

Though it pissed you off on the surface, it doubled down and validated the realization that he didn't have everything so figured out. Taking you on the counter wasn't something he sketched out and made a reality- he just wanted you that badly.

He tried to pull out, but you locked your legs around him so he couldn't move. His jaw worked, his eyes searching yours, his brows upturned. God, he looked like he'd fall apart like that.

Your chest tightened with shock and the raw, tingly pride that came with feeling special.

Your fingers laced around his neck; he didn't offer up any resistance as you pulled him in close.

Warm breath spilled across the side of his face. He couldn't help but lean into it.

"Well, don'tstop now," Egged him on; echoed in smaller, more desperate pleas the closer he fucked you to completion. When he was just beginning to think he could get any more obsessed with you.

His lids lowered at your words, his eyes rolling back in the sockets as he put the weight of his head in the nook of your collarbone.

Though he seemed to soften in the face, his thrusts got stronger. It felt like he was filling you up more and more, leaving you gasping and clawing at his wide shoulders.

"Mm-n-Ah! Fuck-!" You whined, with no regard for his roommate, while he shoved you off the edge.

Your orgasm was well-deserved- the delay, the conversation, made it that much more intense. You felt like you could actually start to trust this guy, so you let him have the best of you.

When he came, warm and sticky all over your tummy, you didn't even think about how your shirt and skirt were still half-on, meaning he had effectively ruined all the clothes you brought with you. Normally you'd be pissed off.

But you just wanted to watch him cum, too.

His little whiny noises he thought he had covered up were loud, his gasps and little curses flattering, leaving your head buzzing.

His body became heavier for a minute, now that he was tired, before he stood back up and pulled you with him.

Everything was quiet again, as you both looked to the ceiling, then at each other, and waited. No sound.

"Sorry," He mumbled, clumsy, reaching for his glasses so he could see how bad he ruined your outfit.

Now you took the time to notice the difference in how his glasses made him look; a little nerdier, a little cuter.

You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and put your forehead to his chin.

"I'll just steal some of your clothes, if that's okay with you."

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anamazingangie · 1 year ago

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This is mostly for my discord server but i'll post it here too, I guess! I'm hosting my first ever ‘event’ called Summer Snippets & Stories that will run through July.

Every weekday, starting Monday, July 3rd and ending Friday, July 28th, I’ll be posting a word prompt a day. You can use any tense or participle of the day's word — so if the prompt is cloud, cloudy, or clouded would be perfectly acceptable, too.

That’s all you really need to know. The word will hopefully serve as a source of inspiration for a sentence or snippet that can be posted on whatever platform you prefer.

I love the flexibility of single word prompts, but I know that isn’t always enough to inspire someone — so I’ll also be posting sentence starters and story prompts that utilize that day's word that can hopefully provide you with more ideas or something to build off of.

The goal with this is to get people in the writing spirit and provide something motivating enough to follow along with, but flexible enough that you can adapt it to your routine and the time you have available. If you write a sentence, or a paragraph, that’s perfectly fine —you still wrote something!

If you get a one shot out of it, or a multi-chapter story, or something you want to expand on later when you have more time, that’s also great! You can share links in the appropriate channels on the discord server (where this is being primarily being hosted) and/or add your story to the Ao3 collection if it’s House of the Dragon related.

The collection will be open until the end of August. ALL HotD pairings are welcome. There is no word minimum or maximum required to be added to the collection.

Collection link.

I’ll likely be posting my own snippets here using the hashtag #HotDaemyraSummer in case anyone else would like to do the same.

Also feel free to use these prompts for any fandom or pairing on any platform, I certainly don’t own them, but if you’d toss a bit of credit in the notes if they serve as inspiration that would be nice! :)

My ask box is open if you have questions or would like an invite to my server!

The written prompt list is below the cut for ease of copy pasting and clarity.

Week One:

Tension / Related Post

Reflection / Related Post

Storm / Related Post

Sparkle / Related Post

Cloud / Related Post

Week Two:

Shield / Related Post

Stitch / Related Post

Burn / Related Post

Blood / Related Post

Haunt / Related Post

Week Three:

Rough / Related Post

Silk / Related Post

Wing / Related Post

Gift / Related Post

Ink / Related Post

Week Four:

Signature / Related Post

Investment / Related Post

Squeeze / Related Post

Swallow / Related Post

Peak / Related Post

#summer prompts #prompt challenge #house of the dragon #hotd #hbo #daemyra #daemon x rhaenyra #ship friendly #ao3 #writers #writing prompts #word prompts #hotdaemyra #hotdaemyra discord #HotDaemyraSummer

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clatoera · 2 years ago

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Always Remember We’re Burned For Better Chapter 4: I’ve Loved You Three Summers Now Honey, I Want Them All.

Heeeeeey besties.

This was supposed to be a fun, light weight, fluffy filler chapter as I have an exam this Friday and couldn’t give the tour the depth it deserved. All that to say I literally wrote 20 pages of fluff. This is sort of my niche in terms of long term fic writing. Most recently I was writing entire AUs in the terms of domestic vignettes of “slice of life” moments as someone called it. These don’t really further the plot. The goal was to give the idea of what their life could be if the plot stopped here.

Masterpost with chapters 1-3

AO3 Link

The title comes from Lover (Taylor Swift). I also highly recommend Cruel Summer and Daylight. Theres also an All of the Girls You’ve Loved Before reference. Each small vignette is separated by a lyric that I thought of when writing. If Taylor Swift had to name this she would call it “The More Lover Chapter.” Thats what this is. Every bold and italicized lyric is a change in scene.

Okay, as usual, thank you to the besties. Especially to @ms1818 who i have to directly credit with the ‘on both knees’ part in the very end :)

All’s well that ends well to end up with you

The sun is not yet rising on the horizon when the District Two prep team, escort, and Enobaria herself burst through the door of Cato’s bedroom the morning after the games. Neither Cato nor Clove’s eyes are fully open when Clove is physically ripped out of the bed and her otherwise naked body is wrapped in a cotton towel.

“Thanks to your little display last night, you two have bought yourselves an exclusive interview with Caesar before we go home. Great job, you two.” Enobaria is clearly just as exhausted as they are, if the robe and cup of coffee in her hand are anything to go by. She rubs at her eyes and Clove takes in more of her appearance, from the messy ponytail with flyaway hairs around her face, to the slippers she had not yet changed out of. If Clove were to guess, Enobaria had been pulled out of bed just the same as she was, not too long ago.

Cato tries to flip on his stomach, tugging Clove’s pillow over his head to block out the light brought on by the ring lights provided by the prep team. It’s ripped off of him by Clove herself, moments before she is being forced into a chair with makeup being plastered on her at the same time they start to comb out any knots from her long hair.

He grumbles into the pillow still under his face, before flipping back to lay spine side down. “What did we do wrong, Enobaria?” Cato firmly bunches the sheets around his hips, before pushing himself up to lean against the headboard.. “We followed your rules.”

“Your whole little display of affection- lust, affection, possession I don’t give a fuck what we call it- made national headlines.” Enobaria steps back and Clove lunges towards the coffee in her hands, leaving the girl to lean back in the prep team’s chair with what can only be described as a glare. “Uh uh. Get your own, not my fault you were up all night.” She warns Clove, shooting them a look that clearly tells them that she knows they were up all night.

“Cato, can you…” Clove runs a hand over her face, earning a disapproving gasp from the makeup girl who had been trying so intentionally to make Clove look as if she hadn’t missed a night of sleep in her eighteen years of life. She knows from the look on his face, that no, he would not be getting up and walking around the apartment in the state of undress that they had finally fallen asleep in. “Oh, whatever.”

“Unbelievable.” Enobaria mumbles with a disapproving shake of her head. “Fucking unbelievable.”

“Pretend to be shocked Enobaria, stupid looks really good on you.” Clove snaps, tilting her head back as her team frantically takes concealer to her collarbones and neck. In her peripheral vision, she can see Cato staring with a smug little smile.

Fast forward two hours, and they are standing just off stage yet again, as Caesar begins rambling about his exclusive interview to another packed audience. How they gathered a full studio so early in the day and at such short notice is nothing short of annoying.

“I can’t believe we have to do this.” Cloves hissed through teeth that are clenched into a smile, digging her nails into his bicep where her hand is purposefully wrapped around.

“Not my fault you couldn’t keep your hands off of me after your interview.” Cato taunts with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face as he pinches her hip playfully. He tugs her closer by the long black tulle of her skirt.

“Give me a break, you’ve wanted this for years,” She huffs, pulling her other arm away from the stylist who is fiddling with golden bracelets on her free wrist. There was no ulterior motive with this morning’s outfit, at the very least. It was far simpler and yet nicer than anything she’d ever worn back home. A tight black dress that only covered her left shoulder, with fabric that really only fell to the middle of her thighs at most. There was a sheer black skirt that fell over the dress from her waist to the floor which would drag if not for the tall heels they once again put her in.

He was coordinated in all black, of course he was, this was too important of a moment to have them look anything less than flawless together. She believed that the all black look for the two of them, from his suit jacket to a dress that somehow was perfectly fitted to her, was chosen to highlight their intensity for both the games but also each other. Of course when she asked why they chose this during the prep period, the answer was far less thought out. It’s just what they could do with the time they had.

“You’ve wanted it too, don’t act shy now. At least this will make telling everyone back home easier.” Cato reminds her, grabbing her by the chin and directing her to look up into his face. He takes in the look of her, golden crown of a victor incorporated delicately in the low curly gathering of her hair at the base of her neck. How they manage to make her look so girly and yet so unnervingly powerful he will never understand, but he also knows part of it is something uniquely Clove that he has loved for a long, long time.

She’s looking up at him in turn, a coy little smile on her face as she soaks in the reflection of herself in his own golden crown, before her eyes trail lower from his eyes to his lips, and she stops herself before raising to try to capture him. “What I would have given to see the look on those bitchy faces in the academy when they realized you’re not for them-”

“Jealous?”

“Why would I be?” Clove flashes him a wicked grin. “I’ve got what they all want.” Be it victory. Be it him. Be it both.

They can hear Caesar announcing them, and the roaring applause that could only mean they are expected to enter.

“What do you say we give ‘em a good show?” He whispers in her ear, and she can hear the smile in his voice when he does.

“When do we do anything less?”

They step into the stage lights in perfect time, a perfect fluidity that could only be forged by years of moving in sync with one another. There's an edge to their smiles, something just the right side of unhinged that only the other could find home in. Clove realizes with a sharp pull in her chest that this is the first time the world would ever see them side by side, but even more so they would be seen side by side with their hard earned show of victories on their heads.

Clove doesn’t hear whatever Caesar says when Cato pulls her firmly to his side. The audience is absolutely wild when she tucks her legs over his knee, when his thumb steadily drums along her hip.

There's a juxtaposition in here somewhere of the brutality in which they won their games to the way they now publicly curl into each other. Or maybe this has the same tone of possession as when they made their final, respective kills. Doesn’t really matter now, does it?

“I think we all have a lot of questions here, for our lethal lovers, am I right?” Caesar pimps, before turning to look at the two of them. “Now I for one could not imagine a more stunning, terrifying duo, that’s for certain. Clove…there is clearly a long history here. When exactly did you two meet.”

She can tell you the day, the exact moment, actually.

“She’s just crazy! Don’t take it too personally.” Came the voice of some little annoying blonde girl, who helped her redheaded friend off the ground. “She’s got no friends so she takes it out on us.”

“I hope they pick her for the games soon, and just get rid of her.”

Clove’s not unused to the cruel remarks. At ten, she is the smallest in not only her class, but every class above her too. The comments never bother her, though Enobaria has always told her that people are only jealous when you’re the best.

She’s sharpened the practice knife just enough for it to actually draw the blood when she holds it to an opponent, and as the instructors get her up and face her with her next she is surely glad for her forethought.

He’s much bigger than her already, probably a head taller. There’s a smug smile on his face that she wanted to physically carve off.

“Clove. Cato. Meet your competition.” The trainer says, placing them a few feet apart. “You’re the best tens. Make each other better. No serious injuries. And don’t kill each other, you’ve got-” He looks at his clipboard and nods with approval. “Six or Seven years. Plenty of time.”

While he walks away, the blonde kid looks down at her with a dismissive cross of his arms over his child-sized torso. “You’re the best girl we’ve got? Good for me, I guess, you’ll make my win all the easier.”

She doesn’t even dignify him with a response, just narrows her jade eyes and flicks her wrist in his direction.

He ducks to the left just in time to avoid a knife embedded in his right shoulder (He’s right handed, she can tell from the way he crosses right over left), and escapes with only a graze to the skin of his shoulder. She’s impressed, truthfully, with the way he anticipated and avoided the hit.

Besides, this is just the first of many scars she gives him.

Cato is fuming all the rage his little ten year old body can allow, and when he reaches for her neck Clove gracefully slips out of his way just late enough that his hand makes contact with the wall behind her with a satisfying crunch of his finger tips. Clove laughs as she watches him pull back his hand, flexing and extending his fingers to ward off the ache that built under the surface of his skin that she has somehow already weaseled her way under.

“Oh you’re a little psycho bitch.”

“That’s the best you can do? Psycho Bitch? really?” She asks sweetly, before her foot makes contact with the side of his left knee and brings him down. “I think you’re going to make this so easy for me. Not much inside that head, is there?”

As she tries to slip by, unimpressed by her opponent and his lack of creativity in his insults. She’s been called worse by her own grandmother, when she found her with the dead field mouse in her hand the previous summer.

Cato grabs her by the ankle as she tries to walk off, yanking her sharply and causing her to fall right on top of him.

Clove shoves him away from her with both hands, wanting nothing more than to dig her heel into his jaw to prevent him from ever giving anyone else one of those annoying little grins of triumph.

“I can’t wait to kill you.” She nearly growls, pushing out of his grasp and forcing herself to her feet.

“Don’t worry, i’ll make it a good show when I take you out.” Cato promises in return, pushing himself to his feet with what little dignity he had left.

That isn’t for the world to know, though, no. That's part of the story that is intimately theirs, and theirs alone. When Clove’s hands squeeze his, she knows he got the message.

I know, but some things are ours.

“Oh we were..what? 10? 11?” Clove cocks her head, and when he nods she knows that he knows the specifics as well as she does. “We were training. The best in our classes. It was about time they put us together, no one could keep up with either of us. They Paired us up, told us we were partners now, and that was that.”

“How right they were, Partners indeed you are.” Caesar touches his hand to his heart, and the expected awww in response. He directs the next towards Cato. “We heard when you met..but when did you know there was something more than training partners?”

“Well would you know we were supposed to go into the games together?” Cato reveals, and the way his hand tightens on her hip wordlessly tells her that they aren’t getting this story either. The gasp from the audience feeds the fire of his storytelling “I know, I know, I’m glad that didn’t work out either. Being the best has its perks. Why waste your best on one game when you can have two winners.”

This long, hard fought for story was theirs and theirs alone. He’d give them the minimum details, but they knew the truth would be buried deep, shared only between the two of them.

“It wasn’t allowed. You know, dating, any of that in the academy.” He leaves out how that was more strongly enforced after a certain fifteen year old Kentwell girl, eighteen years prior, who shifted the view of the academy to truly see the weakness that love and intimacy would bring. “We were absolutely dedicated to training anyway. We were what…fifteen? But you know..things just happen.” And oh did they happen.

“Get off of me you…..you…god you stupid whore.” Clove shoves her hands firmly into his chest from her place under him, a hand to hand match gone wrong resulting in her pinned under him, his thighs bracketing either side of her hips. “Get off of me.”

“Oooooh that's a new one.” Cato teases, deftly gathering both her hands above her head in his left hand, effectively pinning both her wrists out of his way. “Thought you didn’t care what I did?”

“Or who.” Clove reminds, flexing her wrists hard in an attempt to free them, which only results in his grip tightening. “I don’t care but I don’t want you fucking up my training and my shot at the games because you’re whoring yourself out.”

It was after hours, of course. They’d never so openly bicker if the room had been full of their competition. They were a united front if nothing else. It was a privilege only given to a few candidates each class, and once they turned fifteen they were naturally the lucky two who were given the honor of full time access. Noone had a doubt the two of them would make good use of it, taking their training to the next level in only the way that Cato and Clove would.

Fifteen had changed a lot of things, beyond just their training.

They were just so familiar with each other, of course they noticed when things started to.. shift.

At least that's what they would have told you.

“Whoring myself out, that's what you’re calling it?”

“Oh I’m not the only one calling it that, that blonde bitch talks all about it in the locker room. Like you’re her fucking conquest and we should all be jealous that-”

And god if she could she would punch that look right off his face when the word comes out of her mouth, when he leans down far far too close to her face for her liking.

“I see, I see.” Cato whispers, just inches away from her ear, and he doesn’t miss the way her entire body tenses underneath him. “You are jealous, baby.”

“No i’m not-” Clove turns her face the other direction, facing the wall and not him. “Don’t call me that, i’m not your baby, either.”

“Sure you are.” Cato dismisses, mouth still hovering far too close to the skin of her neck for comfort.

“How would you feel if it were YOUR classmates talking about fucking me? You wouldn’t be to happy about how it affects your training-”

The way the hand that is not on her wrist tightens significantly on her hip causes her to whips her head over to look at him with that same snide smile on her face. “Oh are you jealous now? Of a made up scenario.”

“No.” He inhales, but he’s pulled back and is looking with a look she can only relate to a lion in the final moments before sinking its teeth into its prey. Clove is sick to realize she does not entirely dislike the feeling of being the prey in question. “Noone’s allowed to touch you, they know that.”

“What the fuck do you mean noone’s allowed? You don’t own me, you dickhead.” Clove’s angry now, and she tries her hardest to break free from under him, but by the combination of hands above her head and him holding her down by her hips she is completely stuck. “You’re just my training partner, you don’t get to decide shit about my life.”

“Just your training partner-” Cato actually laughs, head back laughing before he’s leaning down. She doesn’t even have time to tell him to wipe that stupid look off his face before he’s kissing her.

He’s actually fucking kissing her right on the training room floor. The hand on her waist has trailed up to hold her cheek, and he’s loosened his grasp on her wrist just enough that one of her hands sneaks free. When she laced her fingers into the hair at the base of his skull, he is sure she’s going to try to break his neck. When instead, she pulls him closer to her, he finds himself smiling despite her biting his lower lip.

“I think we can all agree that we are very glad we did not have to see the two of you up against each other. Though it would have been an incredible fight, I’m sure!” Caesar responds, and Clove simply tightens the grip of her knees on Cato’s. While she may not have said it yet, she knows Enobaria was right all those years ago now. She'd thank her for separating their games later.

The interview passes the same way. Volleying answers back and forth between each other. Giving just enough to satiate the needs of the crowd, but never too much.

Yes we sort of got together at fifteen.

Yes we really got together at seventeen, when he came home from the games.

No, they had no doubt watching each other in the games, they’ve always been the best.

“Well, before I let you two go home-” The crowd makes a coherent sound of disappointment, which Caesar settles. “Now I’m sure we’ll be seeing plenty of these two, no need for disappointment!” He turns to face the two of them, practically one body from how close they have intertwined through the interview. “What are you going to do now that you’re victors?”

Clove only looks at Cato with a raise of her eyebrows and her signature smirk, and when he mirrors her expression in return, she knows they have the same thing in mind.

Take me out, and Take Me Home, you’re my lover

Her head is on his lap as the train races home, his long fingers combing through the length of her soft hair. She had pulled the pins from her hair and its fans out on legs, where she had tried without success to nap for the last hour of their trip home. They didn’t even have the chance to change after the interview, when Enobaria and Brutus rushed them onto the train to get them out of the Capitol before any other opportunities to exploit their relationship arose.

“Just wear that for when you get home.” Enobaria suggested, before she and Brutus turned to retreat and leave them alone. They have earned their privacy together. Enobaria pauses and turns to suggest, or rather demand, “If you two are going to do anything, can you just pull the skirt up, don’t take the whole thing off, it’s way more work than it’s worth to re-lace the back.”

They hadn’t though. Clove tried to sleep on him to mentally prepare for what they’d face back home. Plenty of talk, disapproving looks from trainers, and endless scowls from girls who thought they had a chance at Cato. There would be her grandmother and maybe even his family, who was always far kinder to her than her own had been. While most would have seen this tiny girl as no match, Clove had pushed him to be a victor all on his own right. How could they want anything more?

They reach home in what feels like no time at all, as the brakes of the high speed train push them back on the couch. They are sitting at the tail end of the train, where he can look out at the districts passing behind them. “We’re almost there, look at this.”

It wasn’t Cato’s first time pulling into this station, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but he didn’t want her to miss the feeling of that first rush of your district fawning over you. “I remember pulling up last year. Brutus told me you never forget the faces. I don’t remember much of them, really, I was just thinking that i’d have to hunt you down if you weren’t at the platform waiting.”

They peak over the back of the couch together, watching as the mountains disappear and their home envelops them. He takes her by the hand and leads her backwards to the center of the train where they’ll step out soon.

Enobaria and Brutus meet them in the center of the train, and they wear matching looks of pride as they look at their victors together. There is years worth of training, respect, and skill between the four of them. And now, there is endless pride, as well.

Brutus is the one who reaches down to straighten Clove’s little gold wreath around her head, and even from him, pride for the girl is palpable in the air. “It was a little crooked.”

The train lurches to a stop and Cato’s hands are on the bare skin of her arms, rubbing up and down both to steady her and to comfort her in the last few moments of unknown.

Their escort is first, who introduces Clove as if the whole District hasn’t known her from her literal birth.

Clove is situated right behind the sliding door, Cato, Enobaria, and Brutus standing just a few steps behind her in a small semi circle. The doors fly open at just the right moment, and Clove steps forward and out onto the train platform. The three of them stay on the train behind her, if only for a few moments, to let her soak it in.

She understands what he meant, when he said you never forget the faces of the people in your district.

Clove soaks in the absolutely enraged scowls of the girls in her class, who look right past her and into the train at Cato. There's a few boys in her class, she notices, who had always looked at her with a certain fear that now translates to something she doesn’t care to analyze.

She catches her grandmother towards the front. She isn’t near old enough to be considered a grandparent, just around fifty years old. She had become Clove’s grandmother at thirty four, and full time caregiver at 37, and often blamed Clove for aging her prematurely. Looking at her now, looking all the more like Clove and her mother before her, anyone who didn’t already know would now know who she was. There is no love in her face, but there is certainly gratification. She would take the credit for Clove’s ruthlessness, for turning her into the victor that her mother had failed to be, for sure. There's a different kind of smile on her face today, one Clove’s never seen. It is not the kind as when she would smack Clove across the face until she cried as a toddler, or the sick and twisted one from when she made Clove watch her mother die over and over every year on her birthday. That one is the same smile Clove wore in her games, as she carved into flesh over and over and over.

Clove thinks for a moment, maybe she got this blood lust from her. She can’t imagine it coming from her mom.

Today, for the first time in her life, Clove sees the woman actually smile at her. It isn’t bright and bold like those of her mother, but it is a smile nonetheless. Yes, she was taking the credit for the woman Clove had become. She had raised a victor after all, it seems. Clove wants to scowl, to remind her that it was not thanks to her that she was standing up here victor behind her name..but it was. Instead Clove flashes that same menacing smile in return, directly at the woman who made her this way.

On the opposite side of the crowd she catches sight of a man, not even Enobaria’s height, around the same age of her mentors. She knows him, of course she does. He had shown up once a year for the first ten of her life, then never came again once she went to the academy to train. There’s a couple of little girls with him, maybe 11 or 12, whom Clove has never known the existence of until this moment. Turns out she technically had siblings, who knew. Clearly her father was not sending those two into the academy, no. He just made a bold- and stupid– choice to show up here, to try to claim part of her now that she had won and made the name for herself. A lot of audacity for the man who had begged her mother not to have her, begged for her to not throw away their future.

He had never even had a chance to compete in the games, like the pathetic excuse of a man he was. There was a reason she went in as a Kentwell girl, and not as whatever he even was.

Noone misses the eye roll she sends in his direction, and the message is beyond clear. This is not your victory, this is not your victor, this is not even your daughter to claim.

Clove is pulled out of her spite, when she feels a hand on each of hers. To her right is Enobaria, to her left is Cato, and when they raise her hands above her head, there is nothing but pride, adoration, and even love radiating from them.

These are the people who made her into the version of herself that could become a victor.

Enobaria must nod at him, because she drops Clove’s hand as he wraps both his arms around her. He twists her to face him, and before she can protest and realize what's happening, he’s bending her backwards as he catches her mouth with his own, hands firmly holding her up by her waist. She grabs his face with her hand in response, and can't help but smile against his lips when she hears the response from their very own District.

The first people who actually greet her off the platform is his family. The entirety of them with the same blonde hair and blue eyes, there was no mistaking the blood they all shared.

His mother is first, a tall woman half a foot taller than Clove, who hugs the girl like she is her own. “Oh we are so proud of you, Clove.” The woman squeezes her, and Clove finds herself wondering if her own mother would hug this way. She whispers in Clove’s ear, surely her words are just between the two of them. “And we couldn’t ask for anyone better for Cato, either.”

His father, who looks alarmingly like Cato plus about twenty years, is next, fully picking her up in a hug. “We of course wanted you to win, but we didn’t know what this one was going to do if you didn’t.”

Cato looks down, a redness flushing from his neck to his ears at the commentary. Maybe he hadn’t been as good at hiding it as he thought.

Next though, oh next is maybe her favorite reunion of all.

Cato’s toddler sister tugs at the skirt of her dress, those same shining blue eyes she loves more than anything staring up at her with child-like innocence and wonder. Clove always wondered if Cato ever looked like that, all the good in the world in tiny blue eyes and soft blonde hair, before training got to him.

“Oh hello, Cora Jade,” Clove whispers, kneeling to her level. She’s nearly three, now, and Clove can remember the day she was born like it was yesterday.

It was pretty standard practice in two, to have children far enough apart that one would be done with training and hopefully a victor by the time the other would even be of school age. She didn’t experience it, obviously, but she remembers being fifteen years old when Cato brought her home with him after school to meet his new sister.

Clove was terrified to touch her, she was barely a week old, and Clove was good at nothing but harming. She’d never even seen a baby before her, and was literally throwing up that night when she realized her mother was holding her at that age.

He had been effortlessly good at it. Tiny little Cora who looked like a doll in his arms, and he wore this goofy, love struck smile that Clove secretly burned into the back of her mind to remember forever. Looking back she thinks that had been one of the first moments she had actually fallen a bit for him.

She had watched her grow up with Cato, and had learned so much about him, too. The big, brutal, short tempered boy at training was almost polar opposite to the one who carried around his little sister on his shoulders, who fell asleep reading her little books when they babysit her for his parents.

Clove had even gone to see her by herself for a few hours last year, during Cato’s games. It was one of the only promises he ever asked of her. Make sure Cora would know him, even if he hadn’t come back.

Clove surprisingly enjoyed it, and when the three year old throws her little arms around her neck now, she does not shy away from her.

“I miss-ed-ed you.” Comes from the little girl, as she buries her little face in the crook of Clove’s neck.

“We missed you too.” Clove promises, not for a second caring about the blatant change in her demeanor from the girl the whole district had known and watched in the games. They had finally won, and life was far far too short.

She stands with Cora wrapped around her, and as she rubs the little girls back, she and Cato share a smile. His hands wrap around her shoulders, and he tickles his sister’s side to get her to giggle and look up at her actual brother.

“So now what do we do?” Cato teases her, as he pries his sister into his own arms.

“Mmm.” Clove hums as if she is considering, hands falling onto her hips. “Take me home.”

I want to teach you how forever feels

“You know you don’t have to be that precise, it’s just bacon.” Comes from behind her at the same moment she feels a hand wrap around her waist, when his chin comes to rest on her shoulder.

It catches her off guard and the knife in her hand flies to her side, aiming without even thinking for the bare upper body of whoever snuck up behind her. It may be months since the games, but there’s a paranoia that does not leave so quickly, Clove has found.

Her wrist is caught in his hand instinctively, and when he pressed his thumb between the tendons in her wrist the knife fell from her hand and to the kitchen floor.

“For fucks sake, Cato, you can’t sneak up on me like that!” Clove sighs, before leaning on her hands against the countertop to ground herself back into reality. She is in their home. She is safe. It’s just him. She’s just making breakfast. “I’m going to actually kill you one of these days, and I won’t even be trying to.”

“I think i’m pretty safe, I know your next move before you do.” He hums into her neck, his hands trailing up over her legs and sliding under the shirt-- his shirt may he point out– she decided was good enough to cook in that late summer morning. “Seriously though, you don’t need to cut that perfectly.”

“Some of us have skills we want to maintain.” Clove teases, as she leans her head back against his chest. “Noone wants to be trained or mentored by someone who lost all their own technique.” She teases, and yeah, maybe she is a bit neurotic in the way she slices exactly along the fat line of the meat in front of her with a new knife from the block. “We start after my tour, and I know I for one want to be training future winners.”

Cato grins into her neck, and firmly kisses down from her jawline to her collarbone, planning to lift her onto the counter the exact moment that they hear the front door open. He groans into the side of her neck, both very used to this type of morning interruption. Clove stabs into the cutting board, when she twists her head over his shoulder to call out to their uninvited but not quite unwelcome guests.

“How the fuck do you get in here?”

“We all have the same locks. Not hard to get a key.” Comes the voice of her mentor, who settles herself right down at the kitchen table. Brutus is only a step behind, sitting next to Enobaria expectantly. “Glad to see you’re–” She takes in Cato’s bare chest and Clove’s bare legs, the two of them combined to make a single outfit worth of clothing “–mostly dressed this morning.”

“You let yourself into our house, what do you expect?” Cato reminds, grabbing a handful of perfectly sliced strawberries before hopping up to sit on the counter top beside Clove.

She swats at his hand as it dips into the fruit bowl. “That’s for the pancakes-”

“Never thought i’d be listening to a little domestic dispute over pancakes.” Brutus remarks, already helping himself to making a fresh pot of coffee. “I’ll take chocolate chips in mine.”

“This isn’t a restaurant, Brutus.” Clove mumbles, but opens the cabinet above her head to get to the bag of chocolate anyhow.

“We kept you two alive.” Enobaria reminds them, separating sugar into two coffee mugs besides Brutus. Notably, she is not caring to make any for Cato nor Clove. “You know. Trained you. Got you sponsors. You can make us breakfast.” She holds out the mugs to Brutus, who fills both before they sit back at the island. “I think i’d like an eggwhite omelet. Spinach.”

“You can have pancakes. That's what I’m making.” Clove waves the knife over her work, before going back to meticulous chopping. “You know, Cato also got me sponsors and kept me alive, and he isn’t asking for special requests.”

“Okay mom, we’ll eat what you make us.” Brutus mocks her, voice teasingly high, which results in him and Enobaria laughing to themselves.

“I think you give Cato more than just breakfast requests, Clove.”

She rolls her eyes and finishes her prep work, Cato just chuckling next to her between bites of strawberry.

“Any other special requests? Do you need your pancakes cut into bite sized pieces so you don’t choke?”

“You offer Clove the same consideration?”

The knife that lands between Enobaria and Brutus’ heads is not meant to hit them.

This is our place, we make the call

It had just felt right, for her to end up in his house. Sure, she had been given the one directly beside him, across the street from Brutus, so that the four of them made up a corner of the village on their own. She had moved some of her things into her assigned home, but they quickly realized she was spending most days and nights next door with him anyway.

It was a natural progression, when his house became theirs, within months of returning as victors.

He finds her laying on the floor in the room directly next to theirs, staring at the ceiling on that exceedingly rainy afternoon.

“What are you doing?” Cato calls from the doorframe, where he is leaning against it but looking down at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Trying to decide what to do with all the extra space in the houses.” She answers honestly, her arms contently crossed over her ribs as she stares up at the white ceiling. “I was thinking we could use this room for practice space, but we’ll end up with a knife through the wall.”

He comes to lay directly beside her, side by side and just staring up at the ceiling. “You could take up knitting as a hobby and use this for that.” Cato deserves the gentle smack with the back of her hand that lands on his chest. He brings that hand to his lips and kisses the back of her fingers gently. “Maybe crocheting”

“Yeah, and you can use this for when you take up Yoga for anger management.” Clove rolls her eyes, but leans her head on his upper arm anyway.

“We don’t need to figure it out right now. We can just save it.” Cato suggests, lifting his head up when he experiences a sense of wetness on his neck. He cranes his head to realize the window is wide open, and now littering the floor with rain. “Open window?”

“I always liked the sound of rain.” She explains, turning on her side to face him. “Thunderstorms, really. But I liked the sound of rain. And the smell.”

Cato props himself up on his arm to face her, and an idea spreads across his face. “Let’s go outside then.”

“What? Why would we go outside when we can listen right here?”

He pulls her forward by her waist, pressing his forehead to hers. “Because we can.”

There was a time when neither of them were guaranteed more rainstorms, more sunshine, or homes with two much space for two people. Clove seems to understand that and nods, pushing herself to her feet.

He practically races her down the stairs, beat out by her only because she is so much more nimble than he is, and she can jump over the banister at the end of the stairs before he can.

Clove’s at the back door before he can even turn the corner, and she nearly yells when he lifts her up by her waist to get out there first. They stumble onto the back porch together, laughing loudly enough that surely their neighbors would be able to hear if their windows were open as well.

He sits on their top step, just out of the line of the direct rain, but close enough that they’d get misted by it.

She settles beside him, his arm falling over her shoulders. She laces her fingers together with his, and her head comes to rest on his shoulder.

They sit in silence, enjoying the feeling of cool summer rain on their skin, on the smell of petrichor mixed with a summer haze.

In a few months they would be on her tour, and then not long after that they’d be responsible for mentoring. They’d have to get back to training, back to making sure there was pride being brought to District Two.

But for now they had this summer rain and a youth that let them enjoy it. Wasn’t this what they won for?

Maybe, if they were lucky, things could always be like this.

Thunder cracks in the distance, and Clove finds herself curling in closer to his arms.

“Cato?” Clove murmurs, a feeling she can only describe as contentment washing over her with the rain. “Tell me you love me.”

Cato tightens his arm around, turning his head to kiss her temple. “I love you, baby.”

“I know.” She sighs in response. It was not the first time and it was not the last, but Clove never quite forgets how lucky she is to hear them in her adult life. “I love you, too.”

All of you, all of me, Intertwined.

Clove’s a sucker for the moments after. The times where he holds her on top of him by her waist, her face in the crook of his neck as she catches her breath, feeling him trying to capture his own under her as well.

She can remember being so scared of it, when they were teenagers. Plenty of fear mongering from her grandmother and Enobaria both resulted in a girl who wasn’t afraid of much other than this.

Looking back she can understand their concern, but her own fear was completely unfounded.

He had been so understanding, never pushy or anything. She had been willing to do..other things..to makeup for the actual act of sex, things she had gotten very good at over the years may she add.

He went to the games, nearly died, and Clove decided life was just too short to be so scared of something that she quickly found out could be so great.

“What’re you thinking about?” Cato asks into her hair, his hand gently stroking at her lower back. “You stop breathing when you think sometimes.”

“This.” She answers honestly, giving him a playful raise of her eyebrow before she rolls her hips over his. Clove smirks as he groans under her, turning his head to the side.

“You’re literally going to kill me, Clove. We literally just-”

She cuts him off with her hand trailing between them, down the broad expanse of his chest. “Can’t keep up?” Clove taunts, a sickly sweet edge to her voice. “I expected better.”

Cato practically growls as he flips on top of her.

I used to think love would be burning red, but it's golden

“What are you looking at me like that for?” Clove squints in his general direction, tucking the edges of the sheet conveniently under her upper arms to hold it around her bare chest. She rolls onto her left side to face him, her right hand coming up to stroke her thumb over his face.

Cato’s expression could only be described as lovestruck. His thumb traced over her forehead, down to her cheek, down over the corner of her mouth, and trailed down beyond her throat. He realizes, as he memorizes her freckles, her evergreen eyes, the long expanse of her eyelashes, that he is staring the rest of his life in the face. The entirety of his future is in his hands, under his finger tips, giving him a look that is somehow both inquisitive and annoyed. He’s truly won, he realizes that at this moment, nearly five months after her games. He’s won The Hunger Games. He won her. He won the rest of his life, and if it were exactly like this, he would die happy.

Of course there are other things he wants. At nearly nineteen he’s still dumb enough to say it, that there's nothing he wants more than to marry her. He can still picture that white lace dress from his reaping day, and if he imagines hard enough, he can imagine in her something not too unlike it, holding his hands in front of their district. She’s a little too fiery for lace, but maybe she’d consider it just for him that day.

“Seriously, what's the look for, Cato?”

“I’m going to marry you.” Stumbles out before he can stop it, the dreamy tone in his voice washed away when he realizes what he actually said out loud. “I mean- some day.”

“Not when we’re teenagers.” Clove warns, but she curls her body up into his anyway. She tucks her head against his chest, letting her body melt into his embrace. “And I believe you’d have to ask. Beg, really, You’re going to have to beg. On two knees.”

“Mmm…maybe around the 75th Games then.” He concedes, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, gently rubbing his hands over her bare upper arms. “We can take the attention to us, again, could be fun. Especially if Two doesn’t win next year. We can make it about us.”

Clove actually laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest and right to the center of his heart where it tugs hard.

“Sure. We can revisit then. You aren’t stealing the show of my Victory tour from me, next month. But like I said, I’m making you beg.” Clove’s voice is teasing, but there is no real edge to it. No sharpness. It’s not abnormal, really. They’d honestly be older than most people tended to get married in their district by that point, it was just a topic for later. Clove tilts back her head to look up at him, eyebrows scrunched together intently as she looks at him. “What’s next, you want a big yellow dog, too?”

He gives half a laugh as he cups her face in his hand once again. “No, I just want our kids to have these freckles.” He means it, Clove can tell from the deeply earnest tone in his voice. “At the very least, the freckles. I wouldn’t mind the eyes too.”

Clove rolls her eyes at him now, but she still gives him something between a smirk and a smile. “You think there's half a chance of that? Your whole family looks exactly the same, there's not a chance in hell that they aren’t gonna end up blonde and blue eyed with nothing from me.”

“One’ll be blonde, yeah. The girl’s gonna look like you though.” He says it so confidently she almost believes him, and she genuinely believes he can picture it. “They’ll have no choice but to be victors, too.”

“Well obviously, we aren’t raising losers.” Clove scoffs, but there's an understanding there. Trained or not, there was a better than average chance any of their kids would end up reaped. Especially, considering the long story of Clove and her mother. They loved a story, they loved drama. What better way to continue it than by throwing in the daughter of two victors, granddaughter of a tragic tribute girl. They had to be prepared for the inevitability of it. “That would be so embarrassing for us. Loser kids.” She tucks her face back into the hollow of this throat. “This conversation is also one for waaaay later, Cato. But yes. No losers here.”

Cato is grinning wide and excited at her, when his arm slips under her to flip her underneath him. He’s kissing down the center line of her body, starting at her chin and working downwards. Yes, Looking at him, you would think she has given him the entire world. Cato lifts his head when he reaches the bottom of her rib cage.

“I’ll also take the dog, if you’re offering.”

Clove shoves his head down and under the covers.

Can I go where you go, can we always be this close, for ever and ever

“Absolutely not, go home Cato.” Enobaria shakes her head, blocking the door of the train. “I’m not dealing with the two of you for two weeks. You can see her in 14 days, after tour is over.”

“That’s not going to work, Enobaria.” Brutus warns from behind her, heading to the back of the train car. “Just let him on, save us all the grief.”

“I’m coming.” Cato practically shoves past her, to end up with sharply manicured nails grasping at his throat, shoving him backwards off of the train.

“This isn’t your tour, you don’t get special tour privilege for fucking the victor.” Enobaria snaps, as if she had not been eating meals in his kitchen once a week for six months. “For the next two weeks, I’m her mentor for the last time. That includes making sure this is about her and not your little lover fest.”

“He’s coming.” Comes from behind him, from the girl neither even saw sneak up. “Like you said. It’s my tour. I want him there. Besides, you know they’ve already made him matching clothes, it would be a shame to put them to waste.” Clove steps on the train besides Enobaria, a wide, proud grin plastered on her face. She holds out her hand to him, inviting him with her. “Let’s go.”

I love you, ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard

#always remember we're burned for better tag #ARWBFB TAG #clato fanfic #the hunger games fanfic #the hunger games fanfiction #cato and clove #clato #THG fanfic #This has references of mild child abuse as well as sex

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weylerweekly · 2 years ago

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FAQ

Welcome to out Frequently Asked Questions page! Sit back, kick off your shoes and throw up your feet while you check out our FAQ. 1.] What is Weyler Weekly? It is a community for our beloved Wednesday characters. This community was created to have fun, to challenge yourself, to let loose, and write and draw. This could be for old time writers to write and have fun in between writing for fest, and for beginners to ease into writing. A community to share your stories/arts.

2.] What is a prompt?

A prompt is a word, phrase, idea, picture that can inspire one's creative process.

3.] How are weekly prompt selected?

We have a list of prompts that are numbered which includes pictures, arts, phrases, songs, words, videos etc. Every Friday we will post a selected prompt from our spreadsheet.

4.] So what is the word count?

All stories must be a minimum of 500 words. There’s no limit, but the work must be completed when posted.

5.] What is allow?

All Character, Rating, Genre is allowed. RPF is also welcome.

6.] How do I sign Up?

Sign Up for the prompt would be every Friday at 10 am EST. To sign up just comment on the post with that week prompt or email us at [email protected].

7.] When does sign up closes?

8.] What is the purpose/reason for having sign-ups in this kind of community?

To keep everything organized as much as we can. Hence the sign up for each prompt. And to keep track of it so a master list with all the work can be posted.

9.] I missed the deadline to sign-up, can I still participate in the week's prompt?

If for some reason you miss the sign-up post, you can contact us via email and ask to be added to the list. However, the same rules apply; you will not be given an extension, and you must post your work by 9PM Eastern/Standard Time on Tuesdays.

10.] What if you miss the sign-up period or a previous prompt gives some you inspiration after it's been done and dusted? Are you still allowed to post a piece for that prompt?

No, once a prompt is closed no more sign ups is allowed for that prompt. However, we might go back to that prompt if no one signed up.

11.] When is the story/art due?

Your story/art is due Tuesday by 9 PM EST. This allows three days to complete your story or art.

Note: If your done before Tuesday, you can start posting as soon as the sign up for the prompt closes.

12.] Can we only post one story/art per prompt, or can we post more than one? And if so, should it be separate entries, or the same one?

Yes, you can post more than one story/art per prompt. This is for the writers/artists to get inspired and we don’t want to diminish that. I'm assuming they will have different titles, so please use separate entries.

13.] When can we post our pieces?

As soon as sign up for the prompt closes.

14.] Will there be a collection on AO3 where I can add these story/art?

Yes! Collection on A03

15.] Do you know how we will link to that collection when we post on AO3?

If you've never posted to a collection before, AO3 provides this

handy tutorial

that explains the mechanics. As to posting to this specific collection, you wouldn't post to the main collection, but the subcollection depending what prompt your drabble used. For example, if your story/art is based on Prompt #01: Hobby there's two ways you could submit it:

* Go to the Weyler Weekly--Prompt #01: Hobby subcollection and hit the "Post To Collection" button

* When filling or editing a work, under "Associations", you'll see a line called "Post to Collections / Challenges", and you can post the keyword to subcollection in question there. In this case, you would put "WW_prompt01"

Each subsequent subcollection will follow this format, and their keywords will be "WW_prompt02", "WW_prompt3", etc."

16.]What if I want to submit my story into one story as different chapters, how do I add each chapter to a different collection?

Say you have something where one chapter is based on "Prompt #01", and another chapter is based on "Prompt #02″

: [Whatever the next prompt will be]". Then, under "Associations" then "Post to Collections / Challenges", you would put, "WW_prompt01, WW_prompt02," and they should automatically link to each collection.

Then, if you could under each chapter summary, put what prompt that particular chapter is written for.

17.] What about tags?

As this community has an open membership all must label their entries correctly. There may be younger members, and any and all drabbles containing explicit adult content must have a NC-17 rating, this is a must!

If you have any other questions that are not answered above, feel free to ask them in a comment. We'll answer them and then add them to the FAQ for others to use.

#weylerweekly #weyler #wednesday x tyler #wednesday netflix #enid

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pinkbelugacollective · 4 years ago

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August 23rd - 29th, 2021

Monday, August 23rd - Hero/Villain Swap // Cyberpunk AU

Tuesday, August 24th - Curses // Ancestors

Wednesday, August 25th - Japanese Mythology // Greek Mythology

Thursday, August 26th - Friends to Enemies // Enemies to Lovers

Friday, August 27th -��Kingdom Lore // Non-Human Lore

Saturday, August 28th - Freedom // Calamity

Sunday, August 29th - Free Day

Purpose?

To increase the amount of and diversify fanworks in the Black Clover fandom featuring canon characters!!

But we have a general Black Clover Week, so why should we participate in this one?

Good question!! The main purpose of this week is to showcase Tabata’s cast of characters through various prompts that are not relegated to the just safe-for-tunglr dot hell environment. In fact, this week will not have a dedicated blog that will be collecting these works. Instead, these prompts are free for anyone to use and publish on their preferred social media, archives, and landing sites (Tunglr, Twitter, AO3, Livejournal, etc). Because it is a non-traditional, non-monetized, and free-to-opt-in casual event, there will be no mods but moi, no advertising of paid services, or participant restrictions.

To reiterate, this event will solely focus on canon characters, and will NOT encourage Original Characters and Self-Inserts as the center of the fancontent. This an opportunity for people who’d like to explore canon characters, dynamics, and relationships to come forth and get their creative juices flowing. Crackshipping between canon actors is encouraged, as well as darkfic, horrorfic, genre-specific work, and other both safe and not-safe-for-tunglr dot hell tropes.

So how does it work?

The release date for works is from Monday, the 23rd of August through Sunday, the 29th of August!

Since this is a create-and-explore-at-will event, creators will be encouraged to write, draw, and create freely. Readers and viewers will be encouraged to engage with whatever content they feel comfortable with.

In order to ensure that both creators and readers/viewers are making informed decisions about what they engage with, all creators must include all triggers, genre specifications, ships, and warnings in their posts so that people are free to opt out of engaging with the work.

All safe-for-tunglr fanfiction should be under a read-more. Safe-for-tunglr fanart does not need to be under a read-more.

Not-safe-for-tunglr fanwork should be LINKED to whatever landing site the content is being hosted on (Twitter, AO3, etc). This includes both fanfiction and fanart. I don’t want anyone getting their blog banned because they forgot tunglr dot hell no longer supports 6k pwp between Vanica and Undine the water spirit.

And last but not least - if you are engaging with any of the fancontent, reblog, reblog, reblog! Share the work with your followers. Send all the love to the creators for crafting their masterpieces!!

What can I contribute?

Fanart (standalones, comic strips, etc.), fanfiction (one-shots, multichapter, etc.), fanmixes, gifsets, graphics, meme collections, fanvids, whatever your heart desires! Go wild!!!

Can I create/write not-safe-for-tunglr dot hell content?

Yes!!! All creators must include all triggers, genre specifications, ships, and warnings in their posts so that people are free to opt out of engaging with their work. All not-safe-for-tunglr fanfiction, fanart, and multimedia must be linked to a separate landing site (Twitter, AO3, etc.)!!!

And I reiterate, tag all triggers!!! All of them!!! I mean it, thotties!!!

What does (X) prompt mean?

Each day has two prompts!! You can either pick a prompt OR you can combine prompts in different ways.

For example, for Hero/Villain swap, you can do a traditional swap between a villain and a hero through artwork and other multimedia, OR, you can explore hero-to-bastard and bastard-to-hero dynamics through fanfiction and other multimedia. Let your imagination take you where you want to go with each prompt!! If you want to explore both curses and ancestors in the same fanart/fanfic, then be my guest!!

Both Canonverse and AU content is acceptable! Creativity is key! Have fun!!!

Can I crackship/multiship/harem/OT3/polyam the characters?

Absolutely!!! The only stipulation is that the characters must ALL be from the Black Clover CANON. If you want to write a throuple between Charmy, Henry, and Yami, then heck yeah!!! If you are writing a polycule with Vanessa, Finral, Nozel, and an OC, I will have to respectfully ask you not to participate in the week as the focus of the week are the characters of the Black Clover canon, and the purpose of the week is to increase and diversify fanworks that explore canon characters. Thank you for understanding!!!

Does this have a tag?

During release week, use the general “black clover” tag to share your work with the wider Black Clover fandom on tunglr. You can use whatever other tags you fancy. If you have work you’re not sharing on tunglr dot hell but would like to share with me, feel free to send me an ask with a link to the work!!

I have questions/comments/etc.

Send me an ask or a message!!!

I didn’t read a damn thing before this, Ava.

TL;DR: Almost four months left!!! For all content creators out there, now’s the time to start thinking about what prompts you want to utilize for your creations!! There are no creative restrictions, but I do ask that you follow these posting tips:

All safe-for-tunglr fanfiction should be under a read-more.

Safe-for-tunglr fanart does not need to be under a read-more.

Provide contents warnings for all triggers, squicks, and genres. Unfortunately, Black Clover fandom has its share of Puritans, so PLEASE be sure to post warnings for all your fanfiction and fanart, even the tame stuff!!

You can participate as much as you want!! Maybe you only wanna create for one day? Cool! Maybe you’re an overachieving corporate clown insomniac like myself, and wanna create for every day of the week? Go for it!!!

We’re almost four months away from release week, so take your time, sift through the prompts, and get your creative juices flowing! I will be sending out reminders every two weeks until the go-live date. Thanks, lads!!

For the people who showed interest during the initial interest check:

@kofiscrib, @silvyavan, @avatarpabu97, @the-black-bulls, @princesshildahw, and @spindaonateaspoon

#Black Clover #asta #yami sukehiro #noelle silva #dante zogratis #ava's ficcing adventures #real talk #2021bcweek

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imabeautifulbutterfly · 4 years ago

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The Reunion - Part 2

Summary: We meet up with our crew after they have left Barab and after Friday’s episode of the Bad Batch getting their chips removed. Hunter x Reader. Echo x Reader.

A/N: Italics - Past conversations

The quotes Crosshair says during his nightmares are directly from the Bad Batch episodes. All rights for those quotes, belong directly to the geniuses working on the Bad Batch TV show at Disney.

Warnings: Slight mention of a beating, nothing described. Medical procedures.

If I miss a warning, just let me know.

Words: 4,608

AO3 Link

Drop some love, a comment or a reblog, it’s all appreciated. If you want to be tagged, let me know.

Previous -> Masterlist -> Next

“We don’t usually work with regs”

“Grow up, Wrecker”

“If your plans are so good, why did Commander Cody have to call us in?”

“An order is an order”

“Since when?”

“Good soldiers follow orders”

“He had us disobeying orders”

“I never thought you disobeying orders was a problem”

“Disobeying orders again over a kid?”

“You’re becoming a liability”

“You disobeyed orders”

“I did what I thought was right”

“You should have killed that Jedi, you disobeyed orders.”

“You never could see the bigger picture. Now surrender.”

“Best stand down sergeant, make it easier on yourself.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Your move”

“Bad play, Hunter”

“You want to know why they put me in charge? It’s because I’m willing to do what needs to be done.”

“What seems to be the problem with CT-9904?” Lama Su asked Nala Se

The two Kaminoans looked on behind the one way mirror, “medic, what seems to be the problem with CT-9904?” asked Nala Se.

I looked towards the mirrored glass, “he’s having a nightmare”, I glanced from the mirror to Crosshair that laid on the med bed before me. The Kaminoans wanted his inhibitor chip to be constantly activated and operating at peak efficiency; if they lost him, they would lose the backing of Admiral Tarkin, something they couldn’t have.

How I wished Hunter was here? How I wished I got to the ship in time? I wished for a lot of things, mostly I wished that Crosshair’s chip hadn’t been activated, and that as the medic for Clone Force 99, I wasn’t the one in charge of keeping his chip activated. Every time he laid down on that med bed, a little bit of me died. I had to do this to my friend, my family, Hunter’s brother. I tried at first to say that the chip was damaged, it wouldn’t activate, but they quickly dealt with my deception, in the form of a beating from two of the Clones who had taken me under their wing. The beating from the two had knocked me out, when I came to Bad Batch was gone, Omega, my little helper, was gone, and Crosshair had tried to kill his own brothers.

What’s worse is that Crosshair looked for every opportunity to wound me with his words, he wasn’t my Crosshair, he wasn’t the man I had grown to know and love as a brother.

‘Must be miserable to know you fell in love with a traitor.’

‘How does it feel knowing they left you?’

‘Only the Empire can provide what you need’

‘Join them and die’

“He seems to be having a particularly disturbing dream, he keeps thrashing” that voice, oh I hated that voice, it was responsible for the so called War Mantle project, Vice Admiral Rampart. How I wish he could be the one on this bed before me, so I could make him suffer, the way he’s making Crosshair suffer.

“Indeed” oh there’s that other voice, Admiral Tarkin. I loathed both men, and would be happy to see both die a very slow painful death.

“I do not believe we should continue for much longer, the procedure could cause irreparable damage”, I suggested. I’m sorry Crosshair, I hope you can hear me. I’m so sorry.

“Very well” Admiral Tarkin’s voice filled the room, I could almost feel his breath on my skin. It was revolting.

“End the procedure, medic Kambe”

“Yes, Prime Minister”

I turned off the machine and watched as Crosshair's tortured face relaxed. I moved beside him, and disconnected him from the machine, he was still unconscious, at this moment and I could pretend he was still my family, he was still the same Crosshair. The one who taught me to shoot a target five klicks out. The one who would tease Hunter and me, when we would go out on a date. The one who said he always wanted a sister, and was happy I was his. I discreetly held his hand, rubbing circles with my thumb on the back of his hand. I’m sorry Crosshair. I’m so sorry Cross.

- - - - - - - -

“That medic seems very attached to CT-9904” Admiral Tarkin noticed

“Yes, she was the medic for Clone Force 99. She got to know them very well and went on several missions with them.”

“Interesting. She may prove useful.”

“How do you mean Admiral?” Asked Vice Admiral Rampart

“She may know something the clone doesn’t, or she could be used as bait, to bring in the others”

“Admiral, I must protest” Nala Se interjected, “she, unlike the clones, is not Empire property, she is hired by the Kaminoan facility, and works directly for us.”

“And yet, she gets paid via the Empire, does she not? Or do you pay her directly, Prime Minister?”

“Uh … I would have to check our records, Admiral Tarkin”

“Don’t bother, I have checked already. She gets paid by the Empire. She used to receive funds from the Republic, and has subsequently received funds from the Empire, therefore she is a servant and employed by the Empire. As such, we have the right to do as we wish with our workers.”

“Admiral, I would be more than happy to take over … keeping an eye on the medic” offered Vice Admiral Rampart.

“That is not necessary, it seems we have the best thing to keep an eye on her already” he motioned towards the unconscious clone.

- - - - - - - - -

Although, I couldn’t hear what was being said behind the glass, I could sense eyes on me. I grabbed a data pad and pretended to check Crosshair's vitals. If they were going to stay there watching me, then they wouldn’t get anything except a medic doing her job. There had to be a way to get the chip out of his head, someway to go under the radar. If Cross was back to normal then he and I would be able to get off of Kamino and find the boys.

I heard the door slide open behind me, “Medic Kambe”, I turned to face Nala Se, she was the only Kaminoan that I could somewhat tolerate, although in the end she was the biggest problem of all, as the Chief Medical Scientist, if it wasn’t for her, so many soldiers wouldn’t have been killed and treated less than they deserved.

“Yes, Nala Se?”

“You can move clone CT-9904 to the recovery room”

“Yes, Nala Se”

She stepped closer to me, it was odd and threw me off. She disliked me more than anyone else, simply for making the clones feel like people and not property, it was one of the reasons I was assigned to an actual team, rather than the Kaminoan facility in general. “You need to be careful,” she said in a lowered voice.

I kept busy preparing Cross for transport, “what do you mean?” I asked in a similar whisper, “they’re watching you, they want to use you to bring back Clone Force 99 and Omega. We can’t have her land in the hands of the Empire.”

“I understand”

“Please be quick about transporting the clone, Admiral Tarkin wishes to see what effect the new enhancement has on CT-9904” she said in a louder voice.

“He has a name”

“He is a clone. Clone CT-9904.”

“His name is Crosshair!”

“Medic Kambe! One more outburst and I’ll have you restricted to your quarters and brought up on charges of treason. Do you understand?”

“Yes”

“Good” without further word she stepped out of the room, maker I hated her. I really did.

I looked at Cross one more time, he had a slight scarring from where the machine had performed it’s procedure. My only hope would be to perform surgery at night, or maybe if I was able to go on a mission with Cross again, distract him, get him isolated, and perform the surgery. We both needed to get out of here, and soon.

- - - - - - -

“I don’t know if the plan will work” Fives offered

“Oh I’m sorry, do you have something better, vod?”

“Listen Phoenix Ghost, we are not judging you, it just seems risky” offered Hunter

“Well, what do you want to do?” I asked, Rex had just left after we were able to get the chips out of the remaining Bad Batch, the idea was to take the med pod with us, or at the very least take it and hide it on a planet that we could bring Crosshair to.

“Why can’t we just use the method you did before, with the other clones?”

“That would require us going to a safe clone planet, the nearest one has over 500 of your brothers, inhabiting it. I would gladly take you there, if the Empire thought you were dead. However, as of right now, the risk is too great that someone would follow you, or someone spot your ship and decide to report you to the Empire simply for credits. I’m sorry but I’m not putting your brothers at risk. Either we find a way to bring Crosshair here, or find a way to bring the med pod to Crosshair.”

“Cyar’ika, it’s okay. We trust you”

“Really, cause if you trusted me, you wouldn’t be questioning the plan right now”

“It’s just dangerous” Tech tried to reassure me.

I couldn’t help the glare that had appeared on my face, “seriously Tech? That’s your pathetic platitude, that it’s just dangerous. Everything we’ve ever done, from the moment we either joined or were sold to the GAR has been a life filled with danger. I personally have a scar on almost every quadrant of my body from one injury or another.”

They all looked to Echo, who simply nodded. Oh that was it, “WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT HIM? DO YOU HONESTLY THINK I WOULD LIE ABOUT THAT?!!!”

“No, of course not” Hunter tried to calm me down, but the anger within was growing from their… I guess lack of trust.

“Cyar’ika”

“Don’t Echo! Don’t Cyar’ika me!”

Echo let out a frustrated breath, being back with Echo was amazing, it’s like we hadn’t missed a beat, all those years being apart had evaporated within a matter of minutes.

“Fine, ner riduur”

Ugh! Why did he have to tug that cord? All the anger I had a second ago washed away at remembering that we had indeed gotten married, I dropped my shoulders and my head to my chest. As soon as we were off Barab, we had found a place to lay low for a few weeks. Echo didn’t want to waste anymore time and proposed, I didn’t want to waste any time either and said yes. We both had wasted too many years apart, to waste another second not being with each other, was downright idiotic.

Fives had been his best man, Omega was my flower girl, Hunter walked me down the aisle, Tech officiated and Wrecker stood in as my man of honour. Rex had come to wish us well, after the ceremony, he pulled me aside and gave me a big bear hug, “I’m happy for you ad’ika. I wish you nothing but happiness.”

The words were there, but the warmth in the eyes weren’t, “I’m sorry Rex. I’m sorry I couldn’t…”

He didn’t let me finish, “nothin’ to be sorry about, little one. You followed your heart to the man you love. It’s the heart I fell in love with, so how can I be upset about that” his warmth finally reached his eyes, we hugged one more time, “thank you, Rex. I love you, vod”

“Love you too, vod’ika”

“Alright, let’s come up with another plan than” I offered calmer, I looked over at Echo, and smirked.

“How do you do that?” Whispered Wrecker

“It’s my gift” Echo chuckled, I simply shook my head, “what if we make a medical droid?” Asked Omega

“It is possible” Tech advised

“We are at the scrap yard so we could find the parts we need, it won’t be pretty, but it’ll get the job done” I added, Tech and I sat down to work out a plan and design for the medical droid.

“While we are doing this, maybe the five of you could try to find an actual droid, maybe if there is an actual medical droid, we won’t have to make one” suggested Tech.

“Fine, we know when we’re not wanted,” Fives teased.

“Hey Omega”, I called, she turned towards me, “good suggestion” I winked at her. She ran over and hugged me, “thanks mo…I mean, thank you Phoenix Ghost”, I returned the hug and looked at Hunter, he had a smirk on his face, “hun, I think your dad’s waiting for you”. Hunter shot me a look, I couldn’t help but smile back, at the end of the day we were all co-parenting, so what was one or two more parents, uncles, or aunts. Whatever way she looked at us, we were family.

- - - - - - - - -

“How does it feel, vod?” Fives asked Echo

“How does what, feel?”

“Being married to the love of your life?” He elbowed Echo

Echo couldn’t help the blush that appeared on his face, “like I’m living a dream that I never want to wake up from”.

“Awww, that’s so sweet” shouted Wrecker

“Alright you guys focus, Omega and I will go done here" Hunter motioned to the corridor to his left, "Wrecker, go with Fives and Echo” as Hunter motioned to the corridor on his right.

“Copy that” Fives answered.

Hunter and Omega headed down what looked like a medical hallway, there were all kinds of beds, against the wall, “Hunter?”

“Yes, Omega”

“Are you married?”

“What?”

“Like Phoenix and Echo?”

Hunter didn’t answer for a minute, Omega could see something was bothering him, “I”m sorry, should I not have asked?”

“It’s okay, kid. No, I’m not married.”

“But there was someone?”

“Yes”

“Medic Kambe?”

Hunter stopped and looked at Omega, “how do you know that?”

“I trained under her as a medical assistant, she always used to mention Clone Force 99”

“That’s how you learned all about us”

Omega nodded, “she treated me like I was …”

“Like you were a person”

Omega nodded, “that’s how she treated us too.” Hunter continued examining the rooms, and realized more than likely his love had seen what was happening to Omega and how she was treated. He could see his tiny love stepping up to protect Omega. Knowing her, she probably even had to fight to be Omega’s trainer.

“Do you think we’ll see her again?”

“I don’t know, kid. I hope so, I really do.”

“Why didn’t she come with us?”

Hunter let out a sigh, “I don’t know, but something must have happened, otherwise she would have been waiting for us in the hangar.”

“I hope if we do find her, you two get married”

“Really?”

“Yes, she makes you happy. You clearly make her happy. She always had a smile on her face when she spoke of you, she kept her biggest smile when she mentioned you specifically.”

Hunter smiled at that, hopefully soon enough, he’ll have his brother back, and his love in his arms.

- - - - - - -

“Any luck?”

“There’s no such thing as luck” chuckled Fives

“What are you? Obi-wan?” I asked

“Hey how do you think I got so good with the ladies? I learned from the best” he laughed.

“Fives, you were good with the ladies, because they took pity on you. Not because you had any of the charm, Obi-wan had.”

“How do you know about Obi-wan’s charms?” Asked Echo.

“Hmm… what, my love?”

“We will discuss this later”

“Whatever you say, ner cyare”

“Oh don’t try and placate me with sweet sayings”

“As fun as it is to be in the middle of what’s probably your first argument” Tech interrupted, “did you find a medical droid?”

“I did!” Shouted Wrecker

“Good. By the way", Tech directed towards Echo and I, "I would like to see how an argument between married couples proceeds, it would be interesting to learn and see first hand” inquired Tech.

“Yeah, not gonna happen” I said, “let’s get this droid adjusted. Faster we get this thing on the ship, the faster we get out of here, and the faster we can get to Crosshair.”

“I think I have an idea about how to get Crosshair out in the open,” Hunter offered.

“How?” Asked Wrecker

“I’ll tell you guys when we’re back on the ship”

- - - - - - - - - - -

“That’s a bold plan” Fives commented

“But it has the potential for working” I appeased

“How do we know we can trust her?” Tech questioned, “how do we know she didn’t wilfully not show up? Had a change of heart?”

“Come on Tech, you know her. She loves us.” Hunter looked to the ground before continuing, “she loves me, she would never … She was detained. I know it. Something prevented her from meeting us in that hangar.”

“Okay, so you want to send a message that will undoubtedly put her in danger, either on the mission, or before the mission, and definitely after the mission. Basically, you are okay painting a giant target on her back, Hunter? Cause that’s what you’re doing by sending that message.”

“I know Phoenix, but it’s the only thing I can think of to do.”

“Then I’ll help to try and limit the damage. First things first, we are going to need to split up, find a planet to draw their attention to, hopefully one that’s uninhabitable.”

“With lots of ground coverage” offered Wrecker

“No high ground” suggested Tech

“With lots of animals” said Fives, we all turned to look at him, “what? If he can get distracted that gives us an advantage, I’m not crazy”, we all nodded along. “He does have a point” chimed in Echo.

“What about Felucia?” Hunter suggested

“It’s not inhabitable. I actually think I have a place.” I offered

“Where?” They all asked at once.

“I can’t say.”

“Well if you can’t say, how can we use it then?” Fives asked

“Because I have to ask permission to go there, it could put someone in danger, and that could be worse then …”

“Then having the Empire after us right now?” Wrecker inquired.

“Yes, actually. They’re very dear and special to me, I need to …sorry guys, I’m gonna have to take over the bunk for now.”

“Oh” said Echo

“Oh” I nodded.

“Oh what?” Hunter asked

“Ohhh!” Clued in Fives adding, “I thought he was dead.

“About as dead as you and I are”

“What are we talking about?” Wrecker asked Tech

“I don’t know” Tech answered shrugging his shoulders.

“Sorry guys, I can’t say more, or talk more about it. Like I said, I need the bunk, no one come in until I emerge. It could be several hours, I suggest we stay in hyperspace as much as possible.”

“What’s going on?” Omega asked as she stepped out of her room.

“Sorry guys, but we can’t talk about it” Fives answered, “just trust us, when we say she needs to do this, and you really can’t disturb her, she needs the quiet.”

- - - - - - - - -

It had been a while since I sat here meditating, trying to connect with my older teacher. I had been a force-sensitive child, and was about to take the Jedi trials, to be ordained as a Jedi Knight, but the anger within me had proved to be too volatile, with the war in effect. It was important to not let those who could be in situations where the constant fighting, the constant bloodshed and the insurmountable injustice would be present all the time. It could lead one to use the force in an unnatural way, causing one to take actions into your own hands.

I closed my eyes, and focused on the force, being one with the force was always easy for me, which was why the Council was concerned when they felt my anger.

“Little one, hmmm? Yes, hmmm”

“Hello Master Yoda”

“Why reach out through the force did you, hmm? Alright are you, hmmm?”

“I seek advice, Master, the advice is not for me, I’m alright, but it is to save two innocents.”

“To save a clone called Crosshair you wish, and medic called Kambe. Innocent, Kambe is. However, shed innocent blood, Crosshair has.”

“It’s not his fault, Master, it’s his chip. If we remove the chip, he’ll be back to his old self.”

“Possible, removing stone from a puddle is, damage the stone caused when thrown in is permanent. Back, what makes you think the Crosshair you once knew would come, hmm? Hmmmm.”

“Because it happened to one of the clones I am travelling with. His chip activated, and he tried to kill Omega, the little clone girl, once his chip was removed he went back to normal, although he remembered the incident.”

“Wrecker activated for, how long was, hmm?”

“Not long, maybe about 20 to 30 minutes.”

“Crosshair been activated, how long has, hmm?”

“Since the start of the Empire”

“Over time weeds grow over stone, in the puddle, that is. When you pull out stone, pull out weeds too. The damage caused, irreversible, could be. Prepared to face that consequence are you, hmm? Hmmm?”

“At least he would be free.”

“Of clone life free from, hmm? No. Free from the Empire, hmm? No. His other self free from, hmm? Possibly. Plague his mind constantly, the nightmares of what he has done will. Carry, can you soothe the pain his soul will, hmm? If this chip you free him from, have to help carry his burden, you will. Ready for that are you, hmm?”

“Yes”

“Then I offer, what advice can hmm? Yes, hmmm”

“We need a planet that is shrouded in darkness, with no major high ground, lots of foliage and animals”

“You use Dagobah to draw him out want to, hmm?”

“With your permission, Master, yes. But if you feel it is too big of a threat, maybe you can recommend another planet, one that can wreak havoc on a sniper.”

“My permission, you have. I will give you coordinates that will put any in danger not, and your purposes that will serve.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“Your anger and your fear I no longer sense. ��Changed, what has, young one, hmm?”

“Ever since my ‘death’, I no longer lived for myself but for others. With the help of others and my skills we were able to save 2500 soldiers. Brave men, each one.”

“That is all not. Herh herh herh”.

“No, Master. Ha, never could hide anything from you. I married the love of my life, Echo”

“Happy for you little one I am. Continue learning from the force. Serve you in the future, it will. To the dark side within you I no longer sense the temptation. However, to say goodbye to the man you love, be prepared, when the time comes, or to the dark side again find yourself on the path.

“Yes, Master. Thank you.”

“With you may the force be. Hmmmm”

“And with you, Master.”

- - - - - - - - -

“How long does this usually take?” Hunter asked Echo

“Once it took her - - - what was it? Fives, 12 hours?”

“I thought it was longer, closer to 15 or 16”

“It depends”

“On what?” Asked Tech

“On how easily I can connect to the force”, I answered. They all turned to see me emerge from the bunk room, “how long was I in there for?”

“About 8 hours,” Echo answered.

“Do we have a plan?”

“We do, Hunter” I smiled, not only did we have a plan, but I had the privilege to continue learning about the Force, who knows what will happen in the future, but as of right now I was very hopeful.

“So where are we going?” Asked Omega

“Dagobah, we’re going to Dagobah, but first I need to eat, secondly there are a few things we need to discuss and thirdly, only three or four of us should go, the others should keep Omega safe.”

“I feel like there’s going to be a whole Jedi sort feel to this story” Fives laughed

“Well not completely, but you’re not wrong either” I laughed along with him.

“Does that mean, you’re going to tell me how you know about Obi-wan’s charms?” Asked Echo

“You’re never going to leave that alone, are you?” Hunter and Tech got up and headed for the cockpit, Omega headed for her room, Fives and Wrecker headed for the bunk room, leaving Echo and I alone.

“Why won’t you just tell me?”

“Why do I need to tell you about something that is so trifling, and doesn’t matter in our current predicament?”

“Because I need to know”

“You don’t need to know, what you want to know is if I personally experienced his charms, isn’t that true?”

“I … how … that’s …” Echo rubbed the back of his neck after his failure to start his sentence, “that’s not what I want to know.”

“Then why do you keep asking that question”

“I just didn’t think that Jedis, you know”

I just looked at him, “Echo, I married you. I was learning to become a Jedi, remember?”

“Yeah, but I just didn’t think you were with anyone before me, I thought we had that in common”, that’s what he wanted to know! Man, why was he beating around the bush?

“Echo, my love” I kneeled before, cradling his face with one hand, holding his right hand with my left, “I love you. Obi-wan is just a horrible flirt. I was never interested in him. I wasn’t interested in anyone other than you. You have been and always will be the love of my life. No one can compare to you. They can’t hold a candle to your bravery, your courage, your kindness, your sweetness, the way you care for me, the way you look after your brothers, the way you look after Omega. You are the best man I have ever known. No one will ever change my opinion about that. I love you and only you, and I have never been with anyone other than you.”

Echo looked into my eyes, leaned forward and kissed me, with all the passion he could muster. “I really wish we had our own room, and our own ship, right now.”

I laughed out loud, “well let’s get to a safe haven where we can pick up another ship, and you and I take an hour for ourselves.”

“I think maybe four hours is needed”

“Ha, if only we had that kind of time my love, an hour and a half?”

“Two”

“Done, but then we have to get this plan under way as soon as we land.”

“I know”, I pressed my forehead against his, soaking in his scent; Master Yoda was right, I would have to prepare myself for the eventuality of losing him for real, one day. When I had thought I had lost him the first time, it nearly destroyed me, and it was because I wasn’t able to have a future with him. Wasn’t able to live freely with him. Now, I could. If I were to lose him tomorrow, I can be comforted in knowing that I had married, and had been able to love him without reservation. I would have no regrets with how I loved him.

“I love you, Echo”

“I love you, Phoenix”

TAG LIST:

@lady-ren

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milstrim · 3 years ago

Text

There is Good in the Dark

Chapter 2---Ever Had an Itch?

AO3 Link

Peter shifted nervously, eyes glancing around in suspicion as he pulled his hood tighter over his head and adjusted the bag looped over his shoulder. His hair had been on end all day, leaving him horribly tired and weary as he'd scoped out a few SHIELD buildings. Tony had said that he'd be doing the same for Squadron Tower, and the teenager had believed him, but he'd seen the billboards while he'd been swinging around the city.

'Elusive Supervillain Iron Man Strikes Against the Squadron Supreme in Manhattan!'

Because of course he'd gone after the Squadron. Peter wasn't sure if the fight had been intentional or not, but it still irked him that the older villain hadn't invited him. He could have helped! He was a great fighter--and didn't Tony trust him?

Peter shook himself, crinkling the plastic bag clutched in his hand nervously as he glanced around once more before slipping down the steps of a boarded off subway station. The stairway quickly faded to dusty darkness that would've stumped anyone else but the teenager peered through easily, icy blue eyes glowing in the shadows.

Every footstep was an echo as the teenager stepped over to a dusty, broken down subway train. Only the front of the train and half a carriage were visible from the tunnel. Windows were broken and paint sprayed in illustrative colors that had worn down from the years in the dark. The door to the head of the train was hinged open into its dark, cramped world.

Peter stepped through, grabbing the lever and pulling it down. When he let go it snapped back up, the base of it glowing blue. Peter stabilized himself, shifting on his feet, as the ground underneath him lit up in a bright blue circle. It twisted with a click, shifting and circling down until the train had disappeared and the teenager stood in a cylindrical high tech elevator. It was the color of bleached bones.

The teenager stepped out of the elevator the moment the doors slid open, finally allowing for his hood to fall off in the safety of his home. Well, more of a secret lair, but it was home to Peter nonetheless. For years with his dad.

"Play it again," echoed a voice only his enhanced ears could hear.

Speaking of.

He tiptoed through the halls of his and Tony's underground mansion, searching for where the man was. There was a lot to search. Most of the home shared the same bone white walls and floors, and he always had to screw up his eyes after a few hours at the brightness of it. Arc reactor blue lights lined the shiny pillars and doorways rather than traditional light placement. All in all the place was eerie, not at all homie, but it was still home.

Following the uneven heartbeat of his dad and the muttered muses of discontentment, Peter finally came across the room Tony was in. He stood in front of a wall of holograms, arms crossed and back straight. His leg tapped like it always did when he didn't understand something.

"Again," Tony ordered, unaware of the kid padding up behind him. Peter glanced at the screen disinterestedly before stopping and staring at the figures displayed on it, his eyes narrowing in confusion. It was all of the world's most wanted, save for him and Tony of course, but--weird. Peter didn't really have words to describe them. Stupidly bright, maybe? Clearly, Tony was having the same problem. "Ever had an itch you just can't scratch?"

"I cannot itch, sir, but watching you refuse to sleep is a close second," Friday responded humorously. Peter smiled, but refrained from laughing, placing a finger to his lips and glancing at the ceiling. Thankfully, the AI didn't say anything.

"Keep the attitude up and I'll give you an itch," Tony warned playfully. "Slow the recording down and play--"

"ATTACK!!!" Peter screeched, shooting up from behind Tony and grabbing him in a mock chokehold. The man froze with a rather unvillainous yelp, practically jumping as he shook the kid off and swung around, a gloved hand shooting out. The teenager grinned as Tony went from tense to practically drooping with relief.

"Kid."

"Hey, Dad. How was the Squadron?"

"Peter, please. I have a heart condition."

He stepped forward, shouldering the older man playfully. "I'm not the one who attacked Earth's defenders today."

"I didn't plan on it."

"Didn't really look that way."

"Well, I didn't," Tony protested. He glanced down at the plastic in Peter's hand. "What's with the bag?"

"Oh." Peter glanced down, lifting it higher. "Dinner! I got Japanese. From a place across from the newest SHIELD hideout."

"Did anyone see you?"

"Nope."

"Great."

Tony ruffled his hair, and Peter ducked away with a displeased grin, dashing towards the table that held Tony's headpiece in the middle of reconstruction, clearly having been damaged during his fight today. The boy set the food down, taking out the cartons of fried rice and the sushi. Tony grabbed his own box, picking up a pair of chopsticks and twirling them around elegantly.

"How'd you pay for this?"

Peter stuffed a piece of sushi in his mouth with his fingers. Tony scrunched his nose up at him in playful disgust. "I took your card."

"No stealing?"

"From a local business? We're villains, not bastards."

Tony laughed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you act like one. Don't eat sushi with your hands, you absolute animal."

"I can't figure the chopsticks out! They're too complicated."

"Oh, so you can build a bomb to escape SHIELD when you're ten but you can't eat sushi right?"

"That about sums it up, yeah," Peter quipped, taking a sip from a Gatorade he'd grabbed from a bodega. Tony rolled his eyes humorously. "So what's with the video? Is the Captain joining the US military or something?"

"He does look it," Tony agreed. "But not as far as I know. You know that red stone Mr. Sorcerer-From-Another-Universe has?"

"Uh, yeah? We've been trying to get it for months, Dad. I know what it is."

"Just checking." Peter stuck his tongue out at Tony, who blew a raspberry in response. "Anyway, I hit that thing earlier. It did this."

His adoptive father nodded his head toward the screen. The footage backed up and allowed Peter to watch the recording from the suit as Tony's repulsor blast hit Beck's glowing palm, the red waves that split the sky bursting from it, and the changes that fizzled between the waves. Peter squinted at the screen as the video came to a close.

"What do you think it means?" Peter asked, turning towards the man, who had focused in on the video once more, his face deceptively calculating.

"That's the itch," he pointed out, staring at the screen for another moment. "Quiz Time." Peter groaned, stuffing another piece of sushi in his mouth rebelliously. "Relax your teenage angst, kid, it's not bad. Hulk?"

"Radiation experiment gone wrong," he said immediately as if reading off a flashcard. "An attempt on what made the Captain, well, the Captain, by Bruce Banner. Dr. Banner's gone now that the Hulk's overtaken him. He's not smart, less wanted for villainy and more the destruction he causes and what he can provide militaries. Danger level: High."

"Black Widow."

"Superspy gone rogue. SHIELD tried to contain her but she killed every agent sent her way. No known motives but can take down countries overnight. Danger level: High."

"The Falcon."

"Deranged war hero. Was sent on an unknown suicide mission with his friend, he survived and the friend didn't. Motives are mostly against US military missions--good for him--and warmongering politicians. Danger level: Medium."

"Thor."

"A badass."

Tony gave him a look. "Try again."

Peter sighed. "A Norse God thrown out from his home with a super cool hammer. No known motives, likes to start shit. Danger level: Super-mega-ultra high."

His dad rolled his eyes with a crooked smile. "Hawkeye."

"A circus runaway. SHIELD attempted to recruit him but he betrayed them. Targets SHIELD, gangs, and wherever he can get a quick buck. Danger level: Meh."

"And the Captain."

"The creation of Howard Stark and Dr. Abraham Erskine. He was meant to be the Allies' savior, but he defected to Hydra. He ended up frozen in ice for like a million years before being thawed out by SHIELD and breaking away from Hydra. There's only been three confirmed sightings of him over five years. No known motives. Danger level: High."

"Good job, you passed. Barely."

"Barely!?"

Tony raised an eyebrow at him, waving a finger accusingly. "Stop fanboying over Thor. He could kill you in an instant."

"Pshh. I could take him."

"No you couldn't."

"Or I could just woo him into being my new dad. It worked with you."

Tony gasped, placing a hand over his arc reactor. "You little--" He cut himself off, fake offended. "You're a little shit, I hope you know that."

"I know, Dad," Peter laughed, bumping into him gently. Tony rolled his eyes, graciously pulling the teenager into a half-hug. "So, what are we gonna do about Fashion's Most Wanted?"

"I've got a theory. And a plan."

"Really. A whole plan?"

"Ehhh, 12% of a plan."

Peter huffed, "Fun. When do we start?"

A dark figure was crouched, held tight against a building. A deep black and red shield was clenched on their arm, its shine the only thing visible in the night. Steve Rogers was a professional of stealth, accustomed to the ebony and arctic of the night.

Footsteps echoed in the emptiness of the building, and Steve tensed by the doorway where he was flattened against the dark bricks, his shield at the ready. A shadow in the night, he stood completely still until a figure stepped innocently through the door. Quick as a rattlesnake and silent as a mouse, he struck.

The man toppled. Steve caught him before he thudded to the ground, dragging him across the dirty cement and slipping the SHIELD agent behind a dumpster. He didn't bother to tie him up. Steve knew he'd be quick enough.

The Captain shifted through the doorway, every footstep light, and into the dusty light. As best he could, the soldier stuck to the shadows, thankful for the way the lights dimmed and flickered. The SHIELD building was old, but its information invaluable. The thought of what he might find spurred him forward to where the hallway was even brighter.

People were in that hallway. Two. They talked importantly, voices low, towards Steve. He ducked behind the doorway and out of the yellow light that shone from the hall, drawing his shield off of his forearm with a metallic sheen. He took a step forward, his maroon boot interrupting the golden light and the women's conversation.

They froze, looking up at him in terror before drawing guns from their hips. They didn't catch more than a glimpse of him before he'd thrown the shield. It bounced off the floor and zoomed around the ceiling. The dark red and black took the light with it as it shrouded the hallway in darkness. It returned to Steve seamlessly.

"We know you're there," came a voice. "Show yourself."

Silent, he threw the shield again. There were two thuds against the ground.

Steve dashed through the hall. And he brawled through the building.

Every hallway was the same. Agents, unaware and caught by surprise, left in the darkness and alone as he took the cameras out with his shield as well. Bodies dropped, gunshots flew, and in every room Steve was left unscathed. His reputation--the myth, a whisper, unknown--was well earned.

In barely six minutes, every floor had been cleared. Almost every floor.

The Captain slipped into the hallway of the last floor, leaving the dark and chalky stairway behind. The hallway itself was almost as dark as the stairwell, save for the light that trickled from underneath a closed door. He stalked closer, footsteps light and shield outstretched threateningly. He stopped outside the door and waited, listening to the murmured voices.

"...what was with that energy surge in New York?"

"Nobody knows. News cameras were wiped, all they showed was Iron Man wreaking havoc."

"Smart. A controlled narrative. Then again, that's all the world is now," snipped a voice. Steve furrowed his brows, searching for where he recognized it, but nothing was found. "Any news on the kid?"

"He's been at the fake SHIELD bases in New York, but the illusion's only been up for a few weeks. All things considered, he's been pretty tame. No burglaries or break-ins like the other 'villains.'"

"He knows?"

"We broke free," the woman responded as an answer. Her voice was familiar too.

"We weren't on Earth when it happened," the man argued.

"But the illusion still doesn't affect us while we're here."

"Well, at the very least, whatever happened effects him less than the others."

Steve's thoughts were racing, confused and trying to keep up with uncontextualized conversation. Illusion? Not on Earth? And what kid? Most strangely, his heart gave a painful tug at the mention of Iron Man, and he didn't know why. It almost hurt. Scratch that, it did hurt.

The super soldier shook his head, breaking free of the thoughts. His eyes flashed icy blue. He just had to get what he'd come here for and leave... What had he come here for? He furrowed his brows. There'd been a reason, he remembered he'd cared a lot about it, but now that he was here--the Captain was strangely lost.

He took a step back, hesitated, and then barreled through the door.

The metal hinges crunched underneath his force, creaking and groaning loudly but unable to cover the sound of guns clicking to action. He raised his shield to his face, crouching behind it for a moment as gunfire rained, clinking off of the metal harmlessly. There was a panicked yell of, "Fall back, Fury!!"

Steve threw his shield in the direction of the yell, diving behind a pile of crates at the familiar motion of the vibranium jumping from his forearm. It bounced with a schwing! knocking down the woman and zipping back to him. It sliced into a crate just above him, and he plucked it off of the splintered wood.

A gun cocked. Steve dared a glance around the crates.

The man was tall, dark, and intimidating. The way he held himself told Steve all he needed to know about what he could do, forcing him to duck behind the crates again in caution. He readjusted his shield with two thoughts: This man is dangerous, and, This man is familiar.

He didn't appreciate either of them.

"Steve?" the man dared, his voice hard. "If that's you I swear to God when we get out of this I'm taking that shiny shield of yours."

Steve hesitated. "You know me?"

"Yeah. You know me?"

His eyes flashed blue. His voice turned robotic. "You're Nick Fury, head of SHIELD. Tyrant do-gooder."

"Sure. I'll take it. Do you know who you are?"

The blue in his eyes dimmed to its natural darker color, warm instead of icy. Confusion, but not quite realization. "The Captain. And I'm here for something, so if you don't mind--"

"I mind," Fury interrupted. "What are you doing in Ireland, Rogers?"

"A mission."

"On what?"

"None of your concern," he answered shortly. He wished he knew.

"See, I think--"

Steve didn't think anymore. He swung out an arm and his shield flew off. There were gunshots, slowing the shield off of its course as Fury dived. The soldier jumped, gripping the shield as it bounced back, landing atop Fury. He buried a heavy foot on the man's leg, holding his shield out, ready for the fire of Fury's gun pointed upward.

Fury licked his lips. His words serious, his tone daring. "Are you gonna kill me, Rogers?"

The Captain stared down, his eyes narrowed. Killing Fury would be logical. SHIELD was his enemy. SHIELD was the enemy. All the missions, all the years spent fighting and tracking--the Director of SHIELD was the endgame... Wasn't he?

Fury took his silence as an answer.

"If you are, I'd hold off for a minute." The man nodded towards his left. Steve glanced.

There was a screen, portraying Iron Man, a bright explosion behind him. The video shifted, waves of red and blurred figures hidden from clear view. He squinted. Another tug, confused and--

Lonely.

"We're counting on you, Rogers."

"You shouldn't."

Against everything he'd ever known, Steve stepped off the man, lowering his SHIELD. Fury opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was, he didn't stick around to find out. The only traces that Steve had ever been there was an open window on the seventh floor and the two high-level SHIELD personnel he'd left alive for some reason still unknown to him.

A duffel bag thumped against the floor next to a cheap hotel bed. The springs of the mattress creaked as Steve sat down on it, running a hand through his tussled, damp hair and clicking on the news on the fizzled old television. The shower had been refreshing, but not relaxing. There were still so many questions left unanswered, leaving the man more exhausted than he'd ever been. His whole body ached with confusion and that haunting feeling of loneliness that had tugged when Iron Man had been mentioned.

The feeling had died down some since he'd escaped from the SHIELD base a few hours ago, but it had yet to be smothered, and despite how much it hurt, Steve was grateful.

He didn't know how long exactly, but everything had felt murky for a while. Distracting. Foggy clouds of muddled memories and feelings and motivations. Why had he gone to that SHIELD base? Why did he go to any SHIELD base? Why did he let Nick Fury go? Why did he avoid his home in favor of destroying people and places he didn't know?

There were answers, but they weren't the ones that he wanted.

He went to SHIELD bases because they were the enemy, Hydra had taught him that. And he didn't go back to Brooklyn because the entirety of the United States was prepped to kill him. But why?

Why be loyal to Hydra? Why hurt others who didn't deserve it in the slightest?

His head told him everything Hydra had ever told him, his life had ever told him, about loyalty and values and justice--but his gut said different.

"...another warrant and surge of military power has been shifted to deal with the threat of Iron Man," commented a news reporter, catching the soldier's attention. Steve looked up from where his face had been pressed into his clamped hands to stare at the television. The pang that had been fading gave another strong tug as a picture of Tony Stark was flashed on screen. "This comes just after the villain's most recent attack on the city of New York and the world's mightiest heroes, the Squadron Supreme."

Steve almost laughed. The public worship of the Squadron Supreme never failed to amuse and baffle him. Their name was particularly dreadful.

"Mysterio, also known as Quentin Beck, Earth's resident sorcerer from another realm, assured the public in a call with the White House earlier today, that in response they will take more whale methods to assure this detrimental threat is taken care of. Here is a clip of that call."

The screen changed. In the middle was black, ready for the transcript of the call, while on either side of the screen sat the dignified faces of the president and the sorcerer.

"As the head of the Squadron Supreme," the president started. "What are your plans to fix this blight on our peaceful American ideal?"

"Certainly the team is still conferring, as we don't operate on just one view, but the general consensus is to get to Stark before he can start attacking anywhere or anywhere else."

"Will that work?"

"It will," Beck assured. "My team is the best there is, and Stark is barely anything. We've been holding back, trying to exercise some tolerance and take him in so that he may face the justice of your great world, but I believe we've reached the point where his danger is too great and there can no longer be any doubt on taking him out." Steve's eyes narrowed in anger. He paused, confused at the defensive response, before shaking his head and tuning back in. "This goes for a lot of other terrorists that have been so graciously tolerated."

The president let out a shocked yet dismissive huff. "You can't possibly expect to take down all of the Most Wanted."

"Within the week, I can promise you that, Mr. President. Starting with Iron Man and all the way to even the Captain."

There was a noise as the president moved to say something, but the last of the clip was cut off, returning to the news anchors. Steve muted the television, staring at the wall above the crackling box. His brows furrowed. He just-- he didn't understand.

The TV flashed, catching his attention. Steve glanced back down, his heart skipped a beat at the image on screen. It was Iron Man and Spider-Man. It was a photo of the two, clearly taken while they had been attacking something or other. Stark's mask was off, showing off his shiny blue eyes and dazzlingly sharp smile. Spider-Man's mask was on, but the man's posture told him everything he needed to know. He was excited, and he was safe, even with guns pointed at him.

Stark and Spider-Man were a family, and, looking at them on screen, a little bit of his lost feeling was taken away.

Steve glanced down at his bag and then back at the television. Quick footed, he grabbed it and left without another word, searching for the first flight to New York.

// Ch 1 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8 //

#Iron Man #spiderman #captain america #tony stark #peter parker #steve rogers #stony #superior iron man #villain au #villain tony stark #villain peter parker #villain steve rogers #irondad #spiderson #irondad and spiderson #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction

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shyanshippingsociety · 3 years ago

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Shyan Shipping Society - 200 Followers!

the shyan shipping society mods are beyond humbled to have reached 200 followers on our blog within the first few months of its inception! there are now 139 incredible works in our ao3 collection and 267 beautiful members on our discord!

the sss tumblr is about prompting the talents and creative ventures of our beautifully diverse team of visionaries, and we are so honored that you've decided to follow us to support these incredible people as well.

to our members - thank you again for deciding to share your talents, creativity, and incredibly expressive, kind souls with us. we hope that the shyan shipping society is a place where your creativity fosters, you feel loved, accepted, and a member of our second family ♡

here's what you can expect to see from our incredible members in the future!:

Rare Kink Bingo Summer Event!

our summer kink bingo is still ongoing! to read about the event (and maybe join!) click here! you don't have to be a member of our server to join, but we'd love to have you! if you want to read the works created for this event (you should; they're all incredible), check out our collection here!

August Monthly Challenge!

our beautiful mod zhalia is once again hard at work at another monthly writing challenge! it's all about the sallie house! we're so excited to read the works submitted!

More Fic Promo & Daily Prompts!

and, of course, we'll continue to promote works from our members every friday (ish), and new prompts every sunday! we've loved being able to support our members this way, and we hope you've enjoyed reading!

if you have any questions you can check our faq or use our ask box! and if you’d like to join our amazing community, you can follow the link here!

thank you so much for all of your support. whether you're a lurker, follower, or server member, we're thankful for the opportunity you've provided for us to be able to support our beautiful members.

- the mods ♡

#mod isaac #shyan shipping society #we took an oath #skeptic believer #watcher after dark #buzzfeed unclean #buzzfeed after dark #milestones #you better be thankful zhalia isn't writing these #you'd still be reading in a week from now #/lh #love u zhalia

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takemyopenheart · 3 years ago

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Waiting (part 1 of 3)

summary: Ethan and Luz grapple with the decisions made that may alter the future of their relationship. Takes place between book 1 and 2.

The memory of her body in such intimate proximity still lingered. The smell of her hair, her soft caresses on his chest as they lay spent, the enticing way she curled up beneath his arms.

He curses himself for dredging up such thoughts again. But he can’t be rid of them no matter how hard he tries. They invade his mind. It’s like a bittersweet curse he can’t break. His grip tightens around the nearly empty glass of scotch and wishes the cold glass was replaced by the warmth of her soft hand. He takes another swig, letting the rich smokiness coat his throat.

With a sigh, he rests his head back against the armchair, keeping his eyes wide open to keep the image of those chocolate brown eyes he’s come to know so well—and love—at bay.

Love.

He groans again. As much as he likes controlling every aspect of his life, nothing could prepare him for the unexpected impact Luz would have on his life, much less opening up his heart and inevitably falling for her and letting all the walls he’d built up crumble.

He should’ve stayed away. The thought stings because he knows he doesn’t mean it. Any ounce of regret immediately washes away when he thinks of the happy moments they’ve shared, none of which he regrets. Never did he ever expect someone to affect him the way that she did. She was there during the most turbulent times in his life when he had no one.

Dolores was relying on his expertise, and she was taken away so unfairly, leaving a child behind. A child Luz refused to leave on his own. It took Ethan a while to understand that not only was she there for baby Ethan while he fought for his life, but she was also there for Ethan while he was struggling to fight for a life.

His biggest fear was losing the only other person he cared about. Watching his mentor Naveen struggle for his life affected him deeply. But he had to be there for his friend and got right into finding whatever it was that was causing his debilitating illness. He hardly slept. He hardly allowed himself to feel. Naveen needed him. He was his only salvation, until she appeared and refused to leave their side.

Overtime, her presence became his comfort and lifeline. As much as he tried closing his heart to her, she won it in the end. Had it not been for her...he can’t even bear the thought.

The quiet stillness which surrounds him does nothing to ease his flurried mind, it merely aids in providing the perfect atmosphere in which he can still hear her voice, her laugh, every whisper of her soothing voice.

His eyes shut, and he sucks in a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. His flight leaves in a few hours. He forces his eyes open when a thought seeps into his brain again—a cycle he’s found himself stuck in. He glances down at the coffee table where his phone lays, and two words echoe in an endless haunting loop—call her.

He knows he owes her that much, but his stubborn nature prevents him from reaching for it. His arms feel heavy, as if the weight of the turmoil he finds himself in weighs them down, preventing him from dialing the phone number he’s memorized from the moment he first dialed it. Her voice is just a phone call away, and his throat closes at the thought.

The last they spoke had been Friday, but the professional distance was there, due to the fact that he was back to being her attending. And soon, she would take her place on the diagnostics team, with Ethan being her direct supervisor. He stopped receiving her texts, unless they had to do with work. It seemed she, too, was doing everything in her power to move on. Though he knew it was the right thing, he couldn’t fill that piece that was back to being the missing part of his life.

There’s a sudden ping. Ethan’s head whips to the source of the sound and finally picks up his phone. Everything’s forgotten in that instant, and he hopes to see her name displayed on the screen. He adjusts his eyes to the brightness, only to read a notification that his ride has arrived.

He feels the urge to toss it against the wall, to let the frustration seeping into him out. He sighs deeply, and before he knows it, the glass in his hand is chucked across the room where it smashes into small fragments on the living room floor and around the packed luggage sitting beside the front door.

This is what must be done, for her own sake. He can’t hinder her professional development with whatever it is they have—had, as much as it pains him to take that step. Her career must come before anything.

The forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.

And he must go before he’s tempted again. He has to.

Two weeks later

His stubbled jaw scratches its way down her neck, lavishing her skin with open-mouthed kisses. She feels his rough hand make its way down her exposed skin, tickling her in the best way possible. He laughs softly in her ear when she begins guiding his hand toward the part that begs for his touch. It’s a laugh so deep and alluring, she wishes that sound to stretch on and on and on...

Her eyes flutter open as she jolts awake in her bed. Her heart thumps a quick rhythm as she looks at the empty cold space beside her, the only body warmth her own. She’s pulled out of the reverie, letting her heart feel that familiar ache its grown used to.

She checks the time on her phone—6:16 am. At least she got four hours of sleep this time, she thinks to herself. She can’t miss the next step of what’s become her daily morning routine. She looks at the screen for any sign of him, any message to let her know he’s okay and that he’s thinking of her. But the pang of hurt hits her again as she stares at the empty screen.

Of course he isn’t thinking of her. He’s moved on. She forces her feet to keep her going and prepare for another full day of distractions—anything to overpower the lingering sound and smell of him.

She keeps her curtains closed, she doesn’t feel like letting the sunshine in.

Her feet sluggishly carry her toward the kitchen to make herself a cup of black coffee. She isn’t surprised to find Elijah and Sienna already in the kitchen. They’ve been her support system these past few weeks. They’re still the only ones who know the truth about her and Ethan. It’s an alleviating sight to wake up from dreams about him and find them there to offer her company.

A lone empty mug sits on the countertop, and when they look over to see her approaching, Sienna fills it with the steamy caffeinated beverage. She throws them a smile and takes her seat on the kitchen stool as they prepare their breakfast.

"Have some pancakes, Luz. Or some eggs and toast," Elijah encourages her with a warm smile on his face, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he stares back at her desolate-filled expression.

"I’m okay. Thanks for the coffee, though," she simply says and takes the mug in her hands to take a sip. It burns her tongue, and she flinches.

"Careful, Luz, it’s still hot," Sienna warns her too late.

"I’m all right, don’t worry."

Sienna and Elijah share a concerned look. They can’t help but worry. The brightness and vivaciousness has dimmed in their best friend since he left. It was an entire week before they learned he left for the Amazon with the W.H.O. It was like Ethan to join in on fighting an epidemic, and she didn’t fault him for that. It was an incredibly brave thing to do.

She’d followed his wishes for them to resume their professional working relationship. No longer did he look at her the way he used to. Steadily, he began to revert back to being the closed-off man she first met. It pained her, but she had to respect this is what he wanted. But deep in her heart, she knew he still cared for her, which is why it hurt her that he’d decided to leave her wondering where he was. She left a message after the first few days she hadn’t heard from him, only for it to be left unanswered.

No one had any idea where he was until Naveen shared the news. By then it was too late to try to reach him, and she couldn’t help but think that was why he delayed in sharing his whereabouts. His phone was no longer in service. She had no way of hearing his voice.

Some part of her knew he was running away from her—from everything they left behind, and she felt selfish every time that thought crossed her mind. It was no longer about her. And that was a clear enough message.

She sips the last of the coffee and steps off the kitchen stool. "I’m going to go for a walk."

"Want some company?" Sienna asks with hope in her eyes.

Luz knows she can’t go on like this. She shouldn’t let her life revolve around one emotionally unavailable man, but she can’t help what her heart still feels for him. She’s going to have to accept the fact that she can’t have everything she wants. She’ll live with the memories they shared. And she hopes that’ll be enough.

Her breath hitches as she remembers the last kiss they shared. She shakes her head to be rid of the flashing thought and looks up to meet Sienna’s eyes. "You know what? Sure. I could use friends right now. But first, let’s eat breakfast."

She and Elijah brighten up at the response. "Good. Because boy, are we going to get up to some fun today! It’s a promise." Elijah grins and places a plate in front of her. His face becomes serious, and he gently pats Luz’s arm. "We’re here for you."

Luz musters a smile. "I know. Thanks, guys. It means a lot. I don’t know what I’d do without you."

"But don’t keep it all inside," Sienna interrupts. "When you’re ready to talk about it, we’re open ears."

"Yeah. What Sienna said."

Luz feels tears brimming in her eyes because for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel totally alone. She won’t be as long as her friends are there. There’s always light at the end of the tunnel. It just may take some time to reach it. And that’s okay.

•

Note: For an added dose of angst, listen to Waiting by Alice Boman. Major Ethan leaving for the Amazon vibes.

•

@openheartfanfics

I haven’t been tagging anyone in these since they’re from my old blog, but if you still wish to be tagged in my reposts, let me know😊

#ethan ramsey #open heart #playchoices #Ethan x Luz #old fic from deleted blog

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ruindunburnit · 10 months ago

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NoHoper Part I: LightBringer

Chapters: 30/30 [complete]

Fandoms: Death Note, House of Night - P.C. & Kristin Cast, myriad references

Rating: M - Mature

Warning: Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings (see tags below)

Characters: Light Yagami, Zoey redbird, Damien Maslin, Shaunee Cole, Erin Bates, Jack Twist, Neferet, Aphrodite LaFont, Dragon Lankford, Anastasia Lankford, Lenobia, Penthesilea, Shekinah, Soichiro Yagami, Sachiko Yagami, Sayu Yagami, Yamamoto, Kayla Robinson, Stevie Rae Johnson, John Heffer, Patricia Nolan, Loren Blake, original characters, et al.

Additional Tags: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Magical Realism, Boarding School, Vampires, POV Alternating, Unreliable Narrator, Angst, Abuse of Authority, Codependency, Rape/Non-Con Elements, Victim Blaming, Dark, Body Horror, Blood & Gore, Canonical Character Death, Minor Character Death, Psychological Horror, Lovecraftian, Male Homosexuality, Female Homosexuality, Trans Male Character, Dubious Morality, Bigotry & Prejudice, Mad Science, Depression, Anxiety, Grief/Mourning, Trauma, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Chronic Illness, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Religious Fanaticism, Dissociation, Sexism, Misgendering, Homophobia, Racism, Fantastic Racism, Blood Drinking, Bullying, Broken Bones, References to Canon, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, References to Ancient Roman Religion & Lore, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Character Interpretation, Fix-It, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

---

In the wake of two professors’ murders and High Priestess Neferet’s threats to wage war, a crisis of power has the House of Night teetering into free-fall. Desperate to prove herself worthy to her friends, Zoey must finally do the unthinkable to complete her circle. Meanwhile, a research team on the precipice of discovery will pay any price in the fight against death. Welcome to the Tulsa House of Night: forget everything you think you know.

#LightBringer #Death Note #House of Night #NoHoper #ao3 #chapters every Monday #ao3 link provided every Friday #happy to explain any tag at the top of heavier chapters #(or as reasonably requested)#link always provided in the pinned post #kudos and comments always appreciated #last chapter #follow this blog for progress on NoHoper Part II

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jowritesthingss · 4 years ago

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A Fondness for Rabbits

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing(s): n/a

Rating: Teen (for swearing)

Content Warning(s): rabbits, food/drink, mild(ish) swearing, not!Sasha, eldritch beings, spoilers through late s2 / early s3-ish

Length: 3,538 words

Brief Summary: Jon isn’t particularly keen on the Archive’s new rabbit mascot. (It would help if you read this first! But it isn’t required.)

AO3 link in reblogs bc Tumblr is annoying!

If he could, Jonathan Sims would absolutely be firing one Timothy Stoker right about now.

Unfortunately, it seems that for the moment, the both of them are stuck in some sort of limbo, working down there in the Archives.

Them and that damned rabbit Tim brought in to work.

Jon is certain, absolutely certain, that Tim only brought the thing into the Archives to bother him. It happened all too soon after they had their falling out and discovered that none of them can physically quit; there’s no way that it isn’t a coincidence.

Tim swears up and down that it’s only at the Institute because his flat doesn’t allow animals, and that it’ll be gone as soon as he can find a permanent home for it, but naturally Jon is suspicious—and rightfully so, he thinks. Perhaps Tim isn’t the one who murdered Gertrude, but that doesn’t free him from all suspicions. Jon still doesn’t know why he applied to work at the Magnus Institute. For all he knows, the rabbit could be the next step in some horrid plan of some sort.

Regardless of any possible ulterior motives, Jon knows one thing for certain—he does not want this animal in his Archives. He wants it gone, and he wants it gone yesterday.

He stresses as such to a seemingly uncaring Tim: “The moment you find it a different home, it goes. The moment.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Tim agrees placidly, and Jon huffs at that, satisfied enough for the moment.

Oh, but then Martin comes in, and Jon is tasked with the lovely job of explaining to Martin why Tim’s rabbit is allowed to stay when his stray dog wasn’t. And hell, Jon regrets this already.

He stares into the beady red eyes of the rabbit as it slowly, contemplatively munches hay in a corner of the break room. Well.

There’s nothing to do but avoid the break room from then on, yes?

...No. Unfortunately.

As the last person to leave at night, and the first person to get in to the Archives in the morning, Jon becomes the reluctant caretaker to the ridiculously furry animal that has begun to take over his Archives and win over his assistants.

Tim wheedles him solidly for a day, popping in at random times until Jon finally agrees to feed the rabbit every morning when he arrives and every night before he leaves. And Jon would say no, he really would, if it weren’t for Martin, annoying oaf he is with his big pleading doe eyes and his irritatingly effective pout. Jon feels the silent judgement radiating off of him every time he pops in bearing tea.

Of course, even if he can’t avoid the animal in entirety, Jon still tries to make his trips in to care for the thing as quick as possible.

He times it once out of curiosity and boredom while he waits for his laptop to finish a surprise update—he’s managed to get the whole routine down in under five minutes. Considering the routine consists of giving it hay, getting it a scoop of pellets, tossing it lettuce from the fridge, refilling its water, and tidying the litter box, he feels almost a bit proud.

It’s somewhat relieving, honestly, having something normal to express distaste at in between investigating his coworkers on possible murder charges and fighting weird worm people and stabby hand people and other supernatural stuff. It’s kind of nice, actually.

Jon’s not too sure he likes the way the rabbit looks at him, though. It’s a rabbit—it’s not like it’s all that smart, right? But something about it just seems so...so knowing. So otherworldly.

He’ll get the routine down to three minutes, Jon resolves. Anything to avoid the rabbit’s unblinking gaze.

The rabbit becomes Jon Jr, and Jon (now apparently Jon Sr—which, don’t get him started on that bit) becomes irritated. Well, even more irritated than he generally always is nowadays.

And yet...the rabbit seems to sense that it has been named after Jon, almost. It seems to take particular fascination with him, and he cannot for the life of him figure out why.

Whenever Jon is in the break room, the thing follows him everywhere, demanding pets and snuggles and gently nibbling at the tips of his fingers if he lets them drop low enough. So he goes into the break room less and less, expecting for it to lose interest in him or hopefully forget about or ignore him the few moments he does pop in—but the rabbit seems to become even more fiercely attached.

He knows the creature isn’t like this with the others. The rabbit doesn’t particularly like Sasha—it ignores her most of the time—and it outright bit Elias the one time he chanced in on it. It seems to like Tim and Martin a fair amount, but the moment Jon walks through the doorway it bounds over, refusing to leave his side and even trying to follow him out of the break room on a smattering of occasions.

Staring into those empty, beady red eyes, Jon could swear there is something ancient and eternal and knowing. But Tim refuses to get rid of the thing, and Martin would cry, and Sasha or Elias or probably all of them would corner him and lecture him unnecessarily about being too paranoid yet again.

Although, he could always take it to an animal shelter. The rabbit very literally eats into the Archive’s budget—the thing eats an absurdly large amount of hay. Then Martin keeps buying toys for it instead of getting the office supplies Jon has asked for just about twenty times (“what if he gets bored in there, Jon? did you know rabbits can get depression? I can’t let him get depression!”), and Tim’s determined to fatten it up with copious amounts of fresh fruits and vegetables (“only the best organics for my furred son!”).

He’s certain that he could logic it out—that if he reasoned and fought it, Elias would nod neutrally and let him get rid of it. Elias, for all he is suspect in Gertrude’s murder, seems to be the only one with a modicum of sense left in the place. Surely he’ll be on Jon’s side in this.

But when he casually asks Elias his thoughts on the matter, the man adopts an oddly amused expression and says he has no objection to an animal to emotionally support the Archives team (“especially considering the incident involving Jane Prentiss, Jon, it really might help boost employee morale”).

Jon is fairly certain that this is Elias’ stance only so that he doesn’t have to be held accountable for providing his traumatized employees with actual therapeutic aid, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead he angrily bites his tongue and excuses himself from Elias’ office before he says something stupid.

As he goes back down to the Archives and continues about his day, Jon puzzles through his predicament.

The shelter is still sounding like his best option, his coworkers’ opinions be damned. He’s always the last to leave at night and the first to arrive in the morning...perhaps he could wait until everyone is gone and take it to a shelter? Or maybe he could ask around the other departments to see if anyone needs a pet or—well, or snake food.

Although...some very small part of Jon hesitates at the thought of turning Jon Jr over to Artifact Storage or a snake or anything of the sort.

The rabbit seems almost scarily in tune with his emotions—perhaps more in tune than Jon himself—and it doesn’t seem to mean him any harm. Certainly it hasn’t attacked him with parasitic worms or stabbed him with ridiculously long, sharp fingers yet or anything like that. And, well, what could it even do if it did intend harm? Bite him? Pee on his shoes? Steal his lunch?

...Speaking of lunch, Martin keeps spilling chicken from his wrap on his pants. Jon doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the mayonnaise has also started to escape.

Abruptly, Jon stands up from the couch, throwing away his napkin and shooing the rabbit away with a foot as he wriggles his way out of the door to the break room.

It has to be because they named it after him, Jon concludes. That’s why he’s starting to get attached. That must have been their plan, and dammit, it’s working.

He’ll give Tim an ultimatum, Jon ultimately decides as he goes back to his office. Tim doesn’t have to know what Elias thinks about the situation. And he did promise that the rabbit would go when he found it a home. So either Tim finds the rabbit a home by this Friday, or it goes out to a local shelter.

...The rabbit has a home by Friday: Jon’s.

Jon can pinpoint exactly when it happens.

He works himself into a panic when Basira Hussein quits the police force, and he loses any chance he might’ve had at getting the rest of Gertrude’s tapes. And at this point his panic (and his bad luck streak) really isn’t all that surprising, but something about this one particular panic is bad. Really bad.

It’s late at night, and everyone has gone home (except perhaps Elias; Jon has no idea what Elias’ hours look like). Since there’s no one else there to notice him appearing even more frazzled than usual, Jon chances out of his office and into the break room for a glass of water. It ought help his scratchy throat and his shaking limbs and his buzzing head.

Of course, he’s forgotten about the rabbit entirely.

Upon shoving the door open and flicking on the light switch, Jon nearly jumps out of his skin to see the rather unpleasant reminder of the Archives’ pesky little visitor. It’s sitting directly in front of the door, staring expectantly up at him, almost as if it’s been waiting for him.

Unnerving as ‘Jon Jr’ is, the actual Jon’s exhaustion and want for water outweighs his suspicions in the given moment, so he continues forward, shuffling into the break room and very nearly staggering towards the counter.

Once he’s managed to get a cup down from the cupboard, Jon fills it with trembling hands, dropping it into the sink once and nearly dropping it across the counter once too. He turns around and nearly trips on Jon Jr, sloshing even more water out of his cup.

Despite being rained on, though, the rabbit doesn’t seem all that put out; rather, it follows him over to the break room couch, waiting almost patiently for him to sit down and get situated before it hops up and unceremoniously deposits itself in his lap.

“What?” he manages to sourly mutter at it, but he can’t muster up the energy to shoo the thing off of his lap.

So Jon sits there, in silence, drinking his water and attempting to ignore the rabbit.

His attempt does not go well. A few minutes into the stillness, the rabbit shifts, moving to face Jon. It presses its nose towards his torso, wiggling its way under the hem of Jon’s rumpled collared shirt.

Choking on a particularly large gulp of water, Jon makes a startled noise as the rabbit’s wet nose comes into contact with his bare skin.

Coughing violently, Jon tries to flinch away, falling sideways on the couch. His cup flies out of his hands—thank god it’s one of the plastic ones—and water splatters everywhere.

However, the rabbit doesn’t seem to be deterred by the sudden motion and his attempt to get away. It simply follows him, weaseling its way from his lap up towards his face. Its bright red-eyed stare burns into Jon.

Jon flinches as the thing looms in front of his face, sucking in a desperate breath. Oh, god. There’s no one for him to call out to, no help to be had. Oh, god. Is it truly some sort of—of monster—after all? Is this it? Is he about to die?

The rabbit presses forward...

...and begins to lick his nose.

As Jon lies there, frozen into some sort of terrified shock, a vague part of his mind recalls a memory of the rabbits that his grandmother’s neighbor had kept, all those decades ago. Licking someone is a rabbit’s way of kissing them, and licking someone’s nose...that’s one of the ultimate signs of love, isn’t it?

The rabbit continues to lick his nose—nothing more, nothing less. No biting, no clawing, no attacking. Just licks. Just kisses. Just...love?

Jon’s racing heartbeat slowly begins to calm down. He lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and he allows him to fall back into the couch, relaxing his tense limbs.

The rabbit follows him as he leans into the back of the couch, clambering up onto his chest.

For a moment Jon tenses up again, unsure of what it’s planning to do, but all the rabbit does is settle comfortably onto his chest and resume licking his nose. The weight of the animal on his chest somewhat reminds him of the Admiral, back when he’d lived with his former girlfriend Georgie, and it feels...nice. Calming, almost, soothing and lessening the sheer panic he’s been feeling for the majority of the day.

“You’re not....” Jon’s voice cracks; he inhales a shaky breath before trying again. “You’re not so bad after all, are you?” He licks his lips before he cautiously tries out the rabbit’s name. “...Junior.”

Jon reaches a wobbly hand up towards Jon Jr. He stares intently at the rabbit, waiting for any sign of alarm or ill will. Seeing none, he places his hand hesitantly on Jon Jr’s back. When the animal shows no sign of startling or moving to dislodge his hand, Jon slowly begins to pet him in short, stilted strokes that quickly become more confident as the rabbit kisses his nose more fervently.

“I suppose...I suppose you can stay for...just a bit longer,” Jon murmurs into the rabbit’s warm fur. He cautiously strokes Jon Jr’s cheeks, chancing a small smile when the rabbit closes his eyes in pleasure.

And if he falls asleep there on the break room couch, there with the comforting warmth and weight of the rabbit he’d set out to hate and instead fallen hopelessly in love with—well. Nobody was there in the Archives to see it, now were they?

Too much happens all too fast, in a blur of time and terror. Melanie King limps in on Jon acting much too immature (in his defense, Jon Jr is...difficult to resist when he wants kisses), but the worry over whether she’ll ruin his reputation or not is quickly washed away by the cold terror of realizing that Sasha is not Sasha.

Suddenly there’s an axe in his hand and an oddly swirling tabletop in his sights, and then suddenly Tim and Martin are interrupting him mid-swing, Jon Jr nosing around their ankles.

Then they’re surrounded by splinters of wood and the grotesque, distorted yells of the thing that is not Sasha, the thing that was not ever Sasha, and there’s a yellow door, and a thing with too-many-too-long hands holding out for a deal.

And then they’re running.

Martin gets lost, Jon isn’t entirely sure when—was it back in the twisting halls of Michael’s domain, or down in the twisting tunnels of Smirke’s creation? everything is blurring together at edges tinged with fear—

—and then it’s just him, and Tim, and Jon Jr, and the thing that had been, had been wearing his assistant’s life like some sort of costume, and oh. This is it, isn’t it? They’re about to die, aren’t they.

At least Martin will survive to tell their tale, Jon hopes, feeling a rush of remorse at how abruptly and patronizingly he’s treated his poor assistant. He could’ve been—he could’ve been dead and gone, replaced like Sasha, and Jon never would have known. And now—now Jon is the one about to die. Him and Tim.

God, Tim. He doesn’t particularly like Tim. Tim has been satisfactory enough as an assistant, he supposes—had almost been a friend once, back in their research days—and now....

Now they back into a dead end, practically hugging the wall as not!Sasha slowly approaches them with a look of manic glee on its face. And Jon...he wouldn’t wish this on anyone, regardless of how much he does or doesn’t like them. Certainly he wouldn’t wish this end on Tim...even if a small, selfish part of him is glad that he’s not alone in the end.

It’s just him and Tim. Just like it was back with Prentiss.

Mouth falling slightly open, Jon turns towards the man in question—perhaps to weakly comment as such, he isn’t really sure—only to see Jon Jr leaping out of Tim’s arms.

“Junior!” The word is tugged out of him, unbidden. Dammit, he’s grown attached to the rabbit. And dammit, there are tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as the rabbit obliviously makes his way towards the hungry thing that had pretended to be Sasha. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Only—

Only then, the rabbit isn’t a rabbit.

It happens much too fast for Jon to really get a good glimpse at what their rabbit becomes. But there’s a loud cracking noise, then a monstrous blur of gray and limbs and mouth and teeth, then another crack and then...nothing. Not even not!Sasha remains. Just a smallish white rabbit in the middle of the now-empty tunnel, sitting primly and licking at one paw.

Jon and Tim gape at each other and at the rabbit, but one thing is for certain:

“...We’re keeping the rabbit,” Jon murmurs, light-headed.

“I—yeah.” Tim nods, and he slumps back against the wall and slowly slides down to the floor of the tunnel. A hand reaches out and snags Jon, dragging him down with, and there, leaning against the wall and each other, the two stare at the not-quite-a-rabbit.

“We’re keeping the rabbit.”

The rabbit-but-not-a-rabbit blinks his innocent red eyes up at them before flopping over to rest, and honestly? Jon thinks Junior has rather the right idea there.

And so the rabbit is kept, and Jon and Tim stagger out of the tunnels minus one not!Sasha but still with one not!a rabbit.

Come to think of it, they’re still down one Martin as well, which is admittedly worrisome.

Neither Jon nor Tim is exactly keen to go back in the tunnels so soon after escaping certain death within them. Jon has never been the most athletic of people—he’s an academic, he’s supposed to be sitting behind a desk all day, for christ’s sake—and his legs feel like jelly beneath him as they debate over calling the police.

Tim is of the mind that they should call the police, or at least Basira, whom he stubbornly still refers to as Jon’s “girlfriend” (and Jon is much too tired to dispute that at this point). Jon, on the other hand, doesn’t think even section thirty-one officers would listen to “we went into a door a monster created in a wall and we lost our coworker in a maze of endless passageways.”

Thankfully, it turns out that they needn’t have worried, because Martin turns up not too long after, dizzy and dragging two other people behind him.

One of them is a familiar face—Helen Richardson, whom Martin apparently had picked up while stuck in Michael’s spiralling labyrinth, and who seems quite content to latch onto Martin and sit firmly in one spot in the center of the place, refusing to pass through any doorways whatsoever. But the second person is an unfamiliar face—an aging, gray-haired man who seems impeccably polite, incredibly calm, and increasingly out of place among the dinge of the tunnels and Artifact Storage.

Then the man introduces himself as Jurgen Leitner, and Jon nearly drops Jon Jr.

But Jon is much too tired to deal with that in the moment, so when Martin tentatively suggests a slumber party of sorts in the Archives to ease his, Helen’s, and Leitner’s worries all in one, Jon gives in without the fight he normally would put up.

As the others assemble bedding and piles of pillows and cushions pilfered from the library chairs, Jon manages to snag the break room couch once more for himself...and for Jon Jr.

Jon has absolutely no idea what, exactly, he’s supposed to do now. There are clearly bigger things at play here—or, at least, Leitner seemed to think so, from the little he said before Tim shut him up and sent him to bed—but as he watches Jon Jr nibble on a cucumber peel, Jon feels a bit better, at least, knowing that one of those bigger things might at least be on his side.

(Or, well. Hopefully he can bribe mister “bigger thing” with enough carrots to stay on his side. That is yet to be seen.)

Fin

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I just have so many stupid ideas for this ridiculous AU that I couldn’t just let them live in my head...so I might as well scrawl them out and let y’all enjoy them with me, right? (Or you can tell me to shut tf up if these get too dumb or annoying for you asdhjkl)

But yeah, as you can tell, Jon Jr’s presence will be messing around with canon, because I take any and all opportunities for fix-its. I just really miss my boy Tim and also my wife Sasha ok so sue me

Want to chat or be added onto any of my taglists? Shoot me an ask or a message here or via my other social media!

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chaoticchickadee · 4 years ago

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Good Things Happen, Week 1

Hello there! Since I’ve been writing (mostly) consistently recently I thought it would be fun to do a little challenge. Every Friday, I’ll be posting a one-shot prompt fill from this bingo card. I’m going to try to do this until I fill the card, provided it gets good reception/I continue to enjoy doing it. You’re welcome to send in specific prompts, I will write for any Star Wars fandom you see on my blog and most characters. I’m more comfortable with gen at the moment, but I can try ships as well!

Starting out for week one is “good hair day” with Padmé and the handmaidens, circa Queen’s Peril novel.

Show your support-- reblog!

Read it here on AO3

Padmé hadn’t expected how exhausting wearing the Queen’s headdresses all day could be. Sure, she’d known during her candidacy that they were heavy and hard to balance, but knowing and experiencing were two different things. Rabé did her best to make them as comfortable as possible, but even with the braids and the styling gel her hair was a mess by evening. It was unimportant, really, but Padmé missed the feeling of her long, tightly-curled locks flowing freely all day, not just in the evenings before bed. Still, Padmé would gladly suffer frizzy and unkempt hair for the rest of her life if it meant she could make a difference as Naboo’s Queen.

Sabé had noticed Padmé staring at her, and it hadn’t taken long to figure out why. It wasn’t her that Padmé was staring at, but her hair. Padmé had lamented what the royal headdresses had done to her beautiful hair many times, and while it was said in a light-hearted, joking manner, there was a little bit of truth to it. Padmé had gotten very good at hiding her tells and insecurities, but Sabé would always be able to read her. She shared her observations with the other handmaidens, and they decided they would try to ease Padmé’s discomfort, at least as much as they could. Eager to find a solution, they put their heads together and did what they do best-- scheme.

It was a long day in the court, and all Padmé wanted to do was flop onto her bed and not move for at least three days. Her handmaidens were suspiciously quiet on the walk from the throne room to the royal apartments, but Padmé was secretly grateful for it. She didn’t think she had enough energy to walk in the elaborate wardrobe of the Queen and hold a conversation at the same time. Soon, they arrived at the apartments, and Eirtaé quietly opened the door. Once inside, the handmaidens quickly stripped her of the gown. As soon as it was off, Padmé sat on the stool in the center of the common room, and they began working on her paint while Rabé took her place behind her to work on her hair. Padmé sighed when she felt the headdress being lifted off of her, relaxing further when Rabé’s gentle fingers began undoing her braids. Instead of putting her hair into a loose braid for the night, Rabé accepted a bowl from Saché and began working some sort of goop into her hair. Padmé sent a questioning glance towards Saché but didn’t press any further when she didn’t get an answer. She closed her eyes as Rabé massaged her scalp, relishing in the simple pleasure of being cared for by her friends.

When she was done, Rabé twisted Padmé’s hair up and secured it with a clip. After quietly instructing Padmé to rinse it out after ten minutes, the girls settled down to read and unwind, as was their nightly routine. They talked about a variety of subjects, from the latest palace gossip to speculating how many heart attacks they’d given Captain Panaka that day. It was Padmé’s favorite part of her day, relaxing with her friends and chatting about nothing and everything, enjoying being in each other's company. Padmé dutifully excused herself after ten minutes to rinse her hair and clean up. She lingered a little longer than strictly necessary, tension bleeding from her body under the warm spray.

Shutting off the water, Padmé stepped out of the shower and dried herself off. She ran a brush through her hair once more, surprised by the lack of any difficult tangles. Her hair felt uncharacteristically smooth and soft when she went to braid it. Whatever Rabé had put into her hair, it had worked wonders. Padmé spent a minute staring at herself in the mirror, petting her hair in awe. She shook her head and started to braid, but she was still unable to wipe the goofy grin off of her face.

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As much as she loved her work as Queen, Padmé was grateful for the quiet day. For once, there were no meetings she needed to attend or appearances Amidala needed to make, so she didn’t bother to put on the Queen’s regalia. Officially, Queen Amidala would be spending the day in her quarters reviewing documents while her handmaidens were out running errands in the city. If, perhaps, there was so much that needed to be done that it required all of the girls, including the young page Padmé, well, who were they to shirk their duties? Surprisingly, it hadn’t taken much to convince Captain Panaka to allow the excursion. He seemed a little more at ease with their adventures now that they kept him in the loop for some of their schemes.

They’d opted against hoods for the day, as they were less likely to be recognized when they weren’t near the Queen. The central market of Theed was already bustling by the time the girls arrived at about noon. They’d meant to get there earlier, but decided to indulge themselves in their morning routine, taking time to do their hair in fun, elaborate hairstyles and go a little crazy with their makeup. Their morning was full of giggles and goofing off. It was a rare opportunity for them to be just teenage girls, not a head of state and her terrifyingly competent handmaidens. For the first time since her election, Padmé was out in public without the royal wardrobe. She hadn’t realized she missed the common, everyday activities of normal life until now. Being able to effortlessly move through the crowd without so much as a second glance was now foreign, but Padmé was grateful for it.

The girls wandered from stall to stall, eyeing the merchandise and occasionally making a purchase. Yané snagged a beautiful pair of night pearl earrings from an up and coming artisan, using most of her allowance for the day. They all teased her about using her money on one thing, but they really were a beautiful pair of earrings, well worth the price. None of the items for sale had really interested Padmé, so she used her share to buy them all a modest but tasty lunch after a few hours of meandering around the market.

Almost every time the girls approached a stall, patrons and vendors complimented Padmé’s hair, peppering her with questions about her hair care routine or tricks for styling it. Padmé deferred most of the questions to Rabé, reeling at the attention she drew. She’d gotten used to being in the public’s eye when she began her candidacy, but that had been as Amidala. It was new to draw the attention of passersby as just Padmé, but she enjoyed it much more. It felt more authentic, which in turn made her feel even more connected to the public and her people, even if they weren’t aware they were speaking to the Queen.

Once the entire market had been combed through, the girls headed back to the palace. The sun had started to set, and the girls could feel the excitement of the day catching up to them. When they’d gotten far enough away from the market that the streets were practically deserted, Padmé finally asked the question that had been on her mind all day. “So, how long were you planning my unusually good hair day?” The handmaidens stopped and looked at each other, silently discussing the best way to answer. When an explanation and a speaker was chosen, they turned back to Padmé with easy grins on their faces. “Not long. A few weeks ago I noticed you staring wistfully at me.” A couple of giggles interrupted, but quickly settled. “Once I realized you were staring at my hair, I told the others and we concocted a plan. Once we had the supplies, we just had to wait for a time we could get you out without being Amidala,” Sabé finished. Her rundown was clinical and professional, but Padmé could hear the affection in her voice. Saché piped up next, “You have a lot on your plate, we just wanted to do something nice for you.” Padmé’s heart melted at their words and the care in their eyes. She drew them into a hug, not caring how sappy and public it was. “I didn’t expect to get close to you all, but I’m so glad I did. You’re the best friends I could ever ask for, thank you.” She said. Though her words were a bit muffled, they all heard her loud and clear. “We’re glad to have you too,” Eirtaé responded. “Even if it means I won’t be the youngest accomplished engineer of Naboo.” She added. They laughed at her quip as they broke away from the hug. “It’s getting late, we should get back to the palace soon or Panaka will send out a search patrol,” Yané sighed. They all hummed their agreement and turned to start walking again. Padmé cautiously linked her arm with Rabé, and the rest of the group enthusiastically followed suit. With their arms linked and smiles on their faces, they continued their trek back to the palace.

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phandomphightclub · 5 years ago

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PHANDOM PHIGHT CLUB 2020 INFO MASTERPOST

By popular demand, @dannyphandump and @babypop-phantom return to the one and only Ghost Zone Denny’s to host the annual Phandom Phight Club! Get ready to face your friends, acquaintances, strangers, and enemies in immortal combat an organized shitposting tournament!

So what the heck is the Phandom Phight Club?

The Short Explanation: It’s basically a Danny Phantom shitposting tournament, involving 64 entrants and 6 total rounds of posts. Rounds are single elimination, leaving one ultimate Phight Club Champion.

The Backstory: In fall 2018, @ectopusses and @rayhoosier (x) challenged @lexosaurus to fight behind Denny’s. Mod Tali started as the betting booth runner on the lexx vs. ectopusses fight (before a lovely anon officially coined the term “phight.” After these fights, multiple people expressed interest in some kind of Phandom showdown. @catalystofthesoul provided a good boost to the idea and came up with a lot of the core concepts on how the tournament would work. Vic and Tali worked together to bring the idea to life. In the 2019 Phight, @reallydumbdannyphantomaus was victorious with @heyheyitsstillgay in second place and @lexosaurus in third.

The Detailed Explanation:

Please read even if you participated last year, as some information has changed!

For Entrants:

Registration begins SUNDAY DECEMBER 1ST at 1pm (afternoon) EASTERN STANDARD TIME. Use this calculator if you need to to find what time that is in your time zone.

Entrants will be sorted randomly into a single-elimination bracket. This bracket will be posted on December 31st for everyone to view.

ONLY 64 PHIGHTERS CAN ENTER. We are not sure how quickly spots will go, but we recommend signing up earlier rather than later.

Each entrant will get an ID badge made by Mod Vic with the answers to some of the questions entered on the signup form.

Please only sign up if you plan to participate in the Phight, not just to get an ID card. We don’t want people taking up slots for people who actually want to compete.

The Phight™ will take place Thursday, January 9th through Friday, January 31st. More details on the schedule will be posted on the comprehensive calendar to be released November 30th.

A new round will take place about every three days, with a couple “dead days” scheduled in the earlier rounds for phighters to prepare their shitposts and our writers to catch up on the round results writeups.

Please be sure you’re able to submit your entry on each entry day. Participants will be disqualified if they do not submit an entry by the deadline.

Competitors will create their posts on their own blogs. This is to ensure that all Phighters get credit for the shitposts they create. Phighters will paste a link to their post in a google form that will be created for each round. You may create your posts as far in advance as you would like, but the google form will not open until the day before submissions are due. (It’s recommended that even if your post is ready beforehand, you wait to post it until the submission date, to keep each round organized and in case you are eliminated beforehand.)

Posts will be reblogged to @phandomphightclub throughout the day submissions are due.

Voters decide the winners of each round. The winners will move onto the next round. The phinal round occurs when only two competitors are left. The semiphinalist phighters will also compete in the phinal round prompt for third place.

Last year’s winner @reallydumbdannyphantomaus will phight this year’s winner in a bonus round to take place in February.

You can not ask people to vote for you! This may result in disqualification! Try reblogging the voting polls to get people to vote, instead!

Limit of one vote per person. You do not need a tumblr to vote, but the form will require you to be logged into a google account to prevent duplicate votes.

Prizes for winners will be announced as we find people willing to provide them. So far @wastefulreverie has offered a fic to the 1st place winner. There will also be ceritificates for the top 3, plus bragging rights. Who would not want to brag about winning the Phight?

For Voters:

Voters are crucial to the success of this competition. A poll to vote for the winners of each round will be open the whole day after the submissions are due.

Anyone can vote, whether you are a competitor or a spectator (Technically, you can even vote for yourself, but there should be enough voters that this won’t matter much).

Follow @phandomphightclub for the links to the voting polls.

Other Information:

There is no phight the day of voting. @dannyphandump, @lumanae, and a few other chosen writers will create mafia/RP-style summary of how everyone won/lost, based on the results of the polls. (Read last year’s compiled round writeups here for an idea of what this will look like.) Writeups will be crossposted to AO3 for easier reading after the Phight, but will originally be posted on @phandomphightclub.

People will be able to place bets on who will win the Phight. Prizes will be awarded to those who correctly bet on the winner. The betting google form will open when stated on the calendar.

Results will be posted on @phandomphightclub according to the calendar.

PHIGHT CLUB RULES:

The first rule of phight club is you don’t talk about phight club.

All entries must be SFW (No sexual content or excessive gore). People who submit this kind of content may be disqualified at the discretion of the mods.

Submissions are meant to be shitposts, don’t worry too much about artistic or writing quality. This is meant to be open to anyone who wants to enter, regardless of perceived talent.

No direct personal attacks in your submissions or towards other entrants, please. This phandom is pretty good about that, but just remember to keep it clean, folks. Lighthearted trash talk is allowed; use your best judgement here.

Please do not take losing as a personal attack.

When voting, try to be as unbiased as possible. The submissions will be posted in the poll without the competitor’s name attached in order to help facilitate this.

Competitors are allowed/encouraged to advertise the Phight on their blogs, but please do not ask followers to vote for you specifically.

If you’re confused about anything, don’t hesitate to send an ask to @phandomphightclub!

Don’t eat food off the ground in the Denny’s parking lot. Trust me, please.

Thank you for your interest in the Phight Club! Order an appetizer at the Denny’s, place your bets, and get ready to watch the greatest Phight this side of the ghost portal!

#important #phight 2020 #phight club #2020 #mod tali #phight club 2: electric boogaloo

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pinkbelugacollective · 4 years ago

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August 23rd - 29th, 2021

Monday, August 23rd - Hero/Villain Swap // Cyberpunk AU

Tuesday, August 24th - Curses // Ancestors

Wednesday, August 25th - Japanese Mythology // Greek Mythology

Thursday, August 26th - Friends to Enemies // Enemies to Lovers

Friday, August 27th - Kingdom Lore // Non-Human Lore

Saturday, August 28th - Freedom // Calamity

Sunday, August 29th - Free Day

ONLY THREE MONTHS AWAY!!!

Purpose?

To increase the amount of and diversify fanworks in the Black Clover fandom featuring canon characters!!

But we have a general Black Clover Week, so why should we participate in this one?

So how does it work?

The release date for works is from Monday, the 23rd of August through Sunday, the 29th of August!

All safe-for-tunglr fanfiction should be under a read-more. Safe-for-tunglr fanart does not need to be under a read-more.

What can I contribute?

Fanart (standalones, comic strips, etc.), fanfiction (one-shots, multichapter, etc.), fanmixes, gifsets, graphics, meme collections, fanvids, whatever your heart desires! Go wild!!!

Can I create/write not-safe-for-tunglr dot hell content?

Darkfic is allowed! For more information, see this post.

And I reiterate, tag all triggers!!! All of them!!! I mean it, thotties!!!

What does (X) prompt mean?

Each day has two prompts!! You can either pick a prompt OR you can combine prompts in different ways.

Both Canonverse and AU content is acceptable! Creativity is key! Have fun!!!

Can I crackship/multiship/harem/OT3/polyam the characters?

Does this have a tag?

I have questions/comments/etc.

Send me an ask or a message!!!

I didn’t read a damn thing before this, Ava.

TL;DR: Three months away from posting week!!! For all content creators out there, now’s the time to start picking what prompts you want to utilize for your creations!! There are no creative restrictions, but I do ask that you follow these posting tips:

All safe-for-tunglr fanfiction should be under a read-more.

Safe-for-tunglr fanart does not need to be under a read-more.

#Black Clover #yami sukehiro #finral roulacase #charlotte roselei #julius novachrono #ava's ficcing adventures #2021bcweek #real talk

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whumphoarder · 5 years ago

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D is for Diploma

Summary: Between all of his commitments, Peter’s grades start slipping, putting him in danger of losing his academic scholarship to Midtown. Stressed and guilt-ridden about the effect this will have on May’s finances, he ends up worrying himself sick and having a breakdown in Tony’s lab.

Word count: 3,759

Genre: emotional hurt/comfort, angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: Thanks so much to @xxx-cat-xxx and @sallyidss for beta reading and encouragement <3

Link to read on Ao3

“But how are you getting a C in gym class?” Ned balks at his friend. He’s peering over Peter’s shoulder as he scrolls through his quarterly grades on the school library computer. “Everyone gets an A. I’m getting an A. All you gotta do is show up and at least look like you’re trying and boom, automatic A.”

Peter rubs a hand at the back of his neck sheepishly. “So, remember after the Rhino dude attacked me, how I had all those bruises that didn’t heal right away?”

“Yeah...” Ned recalls, frowning. “But you said they didn’t hurt.”

“They didn’t! Not really, anyway,” Peter says quickly. “But like, I didn’t really want everyone to see that, so I kinda didn’t change into my uniform. And apparently if you don’t change, Wilson just marks you as absent.”

“Ah.” Ned gives him a sympathetic wince. “Yeah, that’s lame.”

“What I don’t understand,” MJ pipes up, glancing up from the book she’s had her nose in all afternoon, “is the D in Spanish. Rodríguez isn’t even a hard teacher.”

Peter’s face flushes with embarrassment. “So… I might have forgotten to submit a couple assignments.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “You forgot? He reminds us what’s due, like, three times every class period.”

“I mean, it was just the take-home quiz...” he mumbles. “And some of the homework sheets. Oh, and that cultural essay thing about the ancient Mayans.”

“Peter.” She blinks at him. “That was like, twenty percent of our grade.”

“Well, to be fair, I did have a concussion,” he defends. “It was a little hard to remember stuff that week.”

Ned rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah, that makes it so much better.”

Peter huffs out a laugh. Honestly, between all the hours he’s been logging lately as Spider-Man, his frequent internship nights with Tony in the lab, the increasingly demanding decathlon practice schedule as their team moves toward regionals, and the weekend shifts he’s started picking up at Delmar’s (because, let’s face it, the vigilante life isn’t the most lucrative career path—the occasional free churro notwithstanding), Peter thinks he’s been doing quite well juggling everything. Sure, his grades aren’t quite the neat row of A’s and the occasional B he’s grown accustomed to throughout his school career, but it’s not like he’s failing anything.

“I’ve just got different priorities now,” Peter says with a shrug. “I still show up and I’m passing all my classes, so what does the grade matter?”

MJ returns the shrug, looking vaguely impressed with him. “It doesn’t really. I’ve always been morally opposed to using arbitrary numerical values as a measure of academic success.” She shifts her gaze back to her novel before adding, offhandedly, “But you gotta admit, the tuition break is nice.”

And in those nine little words, she might as well have punched him in the gut.

“Oh shit,” Peter breathes out. Hurriedly, he starts gathering books together and getting to his feet.

“What?” Ned asks, looking puzzled.

“Um, I gotta go,” he blurts. And then before anyone can say another word, he’s out of the library doors.

The Parkers aren’t poor, exactly.

May works full-time at her job as a neonatal nurse, besides picking up extra shifts one or two nights a month to give them a bit of cushion. Between her wages and the social security checks that come every month from Ben’s pension, the two of them get by. Sure, Peter might not have name-brand clothes or the coolest tech or even a pair of gym shoes without a bit of duct tape on the soles, but there’s always been food on the table and a roof over his head, so Peter’s never stressed that much about their financial situation.

Maybe that’s how he managed to completely forget about his academic scholarship.

He’s qualified for it ever since he passed Midtown’s entrance exams in the top tenth percentile back in eighth grade. The money is substantial—slightly over two-thirds of the tuition cost is paid for him—and the scholarship automatically renews every semester provided he maintains a grade point average of 3.3 or higher, which has never been a problem for him.

That is, up until now. Factoring in his B in history, the C’s in gym and trig, and his D in Spanish, his GPA is currently sitting at 2.9.

Peter is going to lose his scholarship.

With less than two weeks left before finals, Peter starts cramming in all the studying he can manage. He stays up late, pouring over his trigonometry notes, trying to work his way through all the practice problems he’s been slacking on. He makes a point of showing up three minutes early to gym class every day, even if he has to use a bit of his enhanced speed to get all the way there from the chem labs on the other side of the building. On the train, he quizzes himself on the names of historical figures and the dates of battles long-since fought. Some of his teachers are willing to work with him, letting him turn in late assignments for partial credit or giving him additional projects to complete.

And then there’s Spanish.

“Isn’t there some kind of extra credit project I can do?” Peter begs. “Anything?”

It’s his study hall period and he’s at Señor Rodríguez’s desk for the second day in a row, desperately hoping for anything that could give his grade the boost it needs.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” his teacher says, sounding genuinely regretful. “But you’ve had countless opportunities this semester to get your grade up via homework and test retakes, all of which you neglected to take advantage of. Coming to me with less than ten days left in the semester requesting make up work for assignments worth significant percentages of your grade is simply too little, too late.”

“But… I had a concussion that week,” Peter argues. “Like, right when it was all due. And I would have done the work before, but…” He trails off, unable to finish his sentence without explaining his unorthodox extracurriculars. “I...I was busy,” he concludes weakly.

Rodríguez raises an eyebrow a little skeptically. “I didn’t receive any notes from the nurse’s office about this concussion.”

Peter glances down to his feet. “Well, that’s because she didn’t know, exactly…”

No one did—not even May. After getting all those bruises the week before, Peter didn’t want anyone to know he was hurt again so soon. Apparently Karen hadn’t deemed the blow to the head he took severe enough to override his wishes. He’d just dealt with the headaches and brain fog the best he could and sort of floated through that week on his own. In hindsight, maybe not his best plan.

“Well, I guess this is a good life lesson for you then, Peter,” Rodríguez says. His voice is firm, but not unkind. “Part of growing up is taking responsibility and learning to communicate with authority figures before you get into trouble.”

“Right, and I get that,” Peter babbles, “I just—”

His teacher holds up a finger, quieting him. “My job is to train my students for success in the real world, and sometimes that means reminding you that actions have consequences. ¿Lo entiendes?”

And Peter finds himself nodding. Because, despite the pool of dread growing in his gut, he does understand. He wants to be mad, wants to say it’s unfair and the universe gave him a raw deal and he doesn’t deserve this. But he can’t. Rodríguez is right.

And Peter’s still fucked.

By the time Friday rolls around, Peter’s barely functioning. Besides all the extra assignments and studying for finals, he’s had three days in a row of Decathlon practices, followed by some particularly eventful evening patrols that all went quite a bit later than his usual curfew of ten p.m.

He can’t get much of his lunch down today, which does nothing to appease his friends’ concerned looks. The food seems tasteless in his mouth and he’s so tired he nearly nods off into his cafeteria chicken nuggets.

When school finally lets out, he’s surprised and a little disheartened to see the sleek black car waiting for him in the bus circle. He’d totally forgotten it was an internship weekend.

Figures.

Peter groans as he disconnects the circuits he just switched out. He’s been trying to fix a bug in his suit’s heater upgrade for the last twenty minutes now, but nothing he attempts is working and his head is throbbing so much that his vision is hazy.

“Just try again, kid,” Tony encourages absently from across the workshop. He’s not looking up, fully engrossed as he is in his own project. “You got this.”

“Yeah...” Peter mutters under his breath. Blinking a few times, he rubs a hand at his eyes to try to clear his vision.

He connects a different wire. That one doesn’t yield any better results, so he unplugs it and tries again. Then again. Then again. He’s fairly sure he’s already tried the next combination, but he’s so tired he can’t remember so he does it again just to be sure. Nothing.

Peter is so frustrated now that his hands are actually shaking. He pauses and takes a deep breath before trying again.

This time, the wire sparks at him.

“I can’t do this!” Peter exclaims, shoving the suit away from him across the table. “I can’t do anything! Why am I so fucking stupid?!”

He’s breathing heavily now, tears clouding his vision even further. Within a few seconds he feels Tony’s hand rest heavily on his shoulder. It should be comforting, but it only makes Peter feel pathetic.

“C’mon, just take a deep breath and—”

“No!” Peter blurts, shaking away from Tony’s grip. “That’s not going to fix anything! I can’t fix this—don’t you see?!”

Stepping backwards, Tony holds his hands up in front of his chest, keeping his expression perfectly neutral. “Okay…” he says carefully. “I think you might need a break.”

Tears prick at Peter’s eyes and he instantly regrets snapping at his mentor. “No, no, I didn’t mean that! I’m s-sorry, ’m fine…” he says. It would probably sound a lot more convincing if his breath would stop hitching.

Tony lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, no, I’m pulling rank here,” he declares. “It’s break time.”

“No!” Peter protests. His hands fumble back on the table for the wires. “I gotta finish it! It’s so close, it’s just—” He cuts himself off as the images of the suit swim before his eyes, his head throbbing. “I, I need to finish…” he concludes lamely.

“Peter, just stop,” Tony says with an exasperated sigh. “You’re no good like this.”

Somehow, those words are the catalyst. Peter feels every emotion he’s been bottling up for the past week erupt inside of him. His breath hitches and his head pulses. “I, I know I’m not,” he manages to say, “but that’s why I gotta… gotta finish, then maybe—”

“Jesus, kid,” Tony breathes out. “That’s not what I meant at all. I was just saying—”

Peter cuts him off. “No, I… I know…” Tears are sliding down Peter’s cheeks now. He runs a hand through his hair, shoulders shaking. “’M sorry.”

Tony’s eyes are a mixture of concern and confusion. “Whoa, hey, what’s going on here?” Tugging the edge of his sleeve over his thumb, Tony uses it to wipe a few of the tears off his cheeks. “Talk to me.”

Honestly, Peter doesn’t even know where to begin. The frustration of his current project, the lack of sleep, his grades, the scholarship…

“I just… I-I have a headache.”

Peter doesn’t know why he says it—the pressure in his skull doesn’t even rank very high on his list of concerns at the moment, yet the simple physicality of it somehow makes it the easiest thing to admit. He rubs the back of his hand at his eyes, but his vision is still so blurry. “Can’t really see straight…”

Tony’s brows knit together. “Is it a migraine?”

“N-No,” Peter says between choked sobs. “Or... I don’t know, I don’t th-think so?” Despite never having had a migraine, he’s pretty sure that’s not what this is. The pain isn’t anything exceptional—it’s just that he can’t seem to stop crying and he’s so fucking tired.

“Either way, I think you’ll feel better once you’ve got a couple painkillers in you,” Tony reasons. “C’mon, let’s get you sorted out.”

Peter shakes his head in weak protest. “No, ’s’okay... “

“Nope,” Tony says, his voice a little more firm. “Trust me on this, you don’t want to work in a lab right now. It’s bright, and loud, and honestly, you’re a bit of a safety hazard at the moment.”

To Peter’s horror, a fresh wave of emotion comes over him and he finds himself properly crying now, his frame wracking with each sob.

“Okay, okay, alright…” Tony murmurs, and Peter feels a hand awkwardly patting him on the back.

It’s all so idiotic, Peter decides, standing in Tony’s lab, crying over things that are completely his own fault and a headache that isn’t even that bad.

“You’re okay, kid,” Tony whispers. “Just breathe.”

As Peter struggles to pull himself together, he feels the hand switch to rubbing circles on his back. It moves up to the back of his neck, but halts as soon as Tony’s fingers touch Peter’s bare skin.

Tony frowns. “Do you have a fever?”

“Wh-What?” Peter’s throat is thick.

“You’re really warm,” Tony explains. He flips his hand around to press the back of his fingers to Peter’s skin, first on his neck, then on his cheek. “Yeah. FRIDAY, can we get a read on that?”

“100.7, boss,” she supplies.

Tony hums a bit. “Yeah, that’s about what I thought…”

Peter doesn’t get it. “B-But I’m not sick,” he protests. “Just—”

“Exhausted,” Tony finishes for him. “When’s the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”

Sniffling, Peter gives a non-committal shrug.

“Yeah, that’s not good, kid,” Tony huffs. “Take it from a guy who has a bit of experience in this area—not sleeping enough will seriously mess you up.”

With a hand on Peter’s back, Tony starts gently ushering the kid out of the lab. Peter doesn’t even bother protesting anymore as he shuffles along, his lip quivering. He figures he’s caused enough trouble today.

Tony deposits him onto the couch in the living room and Peter immediately curls up against the arm rest, squeezing his eyelids shut in an effort not to think about what a fool he’s making of himself in front of his mentor. It doesn’t help much.

“You just chill out for a minute here, okay?” Tony says quietly, draping a blanket over Peter. “I’m gonna get you some meds.”

Peter nods and Tony gives his shoulder a final squeeze before stepping out.

The second he’s alone, the tears start streaming down again, hot and silent and totally uncontrollable. If he’s not working in the lab, then he really should be studying for these stupid finals, but he can’t bring himself to pull out his flash cards. He doesn’t think he can rest—not with so much hanging over his head—but he can’t work either. Tony was right; he’s just no good right now.

When Tony reenters with painkillers and a glass of water, he doesn’t say anything about how Peter is hurriedly sitting up and scrubbing his face with his hands in a pointless attempt to pull himself together. He just presses two pills into Peter’s palm.

Looking down at the painkillers in his shaking hand, Peter’s stomach twists and he’s suddenly not so sure they’ll be able to stay down. “I can’t. I feel sick,” he admits in a whisper.

With a quiet sigh, Tony perches himself on the edge of the sofa, right beside Peter’s tucked knees. “I think you’re just tired, kiddo. Sometimes that makes you feel a little sick.”

Peter doesn’t say anything so Tony passes him the glass of water. “Here. Humor me,” he says. “If I’m wrong, I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

It’s a stupid joke, but the corners of Peter’s lips twitch anyway. “Okay,” he croaks.

Peter slips the pills into his mouth and swallows them down with a sip of water. He’s queasy, but it’s not too bad. He goes to set the cup back down on the coffee table, but his mentor shakes his head.

“Drink the whole thing,” Tony instructs.

Peter obeys. It takes him a couple of minutes, but he manages to get the entire cup down and feels just the smallest bit better for it.

Tony takes the empty glass from his hand and sets it on the table. “Think you can sleep now?”

Peter just shrugs. He wants to—god, he wants to—but he doesn’t deserve it. Not when this is all his own damn fault. His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks again:

“I think I really messed up, Mr. Stark.”

Over the next ten minutes, it all comes tumbling out: the job at Delmar’s, the decathlon requirements, the late patrols, his slipping grades, his scholarship, everything.

“I just… I don’t want to change schools,” Peter concludes softly. “I like Midtown. It was the first place I really felt like… well, like I fit in.”

Tony’s been quiet for the whole time Peter was speaking, but now his brow furrows. “Why would you need to quit Midtown?”

Peter blinks at him; isn’t it obvious? “Because the full tuition is eight thousand dollars a semester. Without the scholarship…” he trails off. “I just can’t do that to May.”

A look of relief spreads across Tony’s face. “Is that all? That’s the whole issue?” He huffs out an amused breath. “Done. Consider it paid. Problem solved.”

Peter feels his cheeks flush. He shakes his head frantically. “No, no, I didn’t mean that you should pay! Please don’t do that!”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to blink at him. “Peter. I am a multi-billionaire. Do you have any idea what eight thousand dollars is to me?”

“But you shouldn’t have t—”

“Peanuts,” Tony cuts him off. “I’ve spent more on peanuts than that.”

“But—”

“And by that I mean actual, honest-to-god peanuts,” Tony continues over the kid’s protests. “There’s this company in Peru that slow-roasts them for twenty-one days in a secret spice blend. Happy’s obsessed with ‘em—says they’re god’s gift to mankind. So, for Christmas one year—”

“You can’t pay my tuition!” Peter blurts out.

Tony stops his story abruptly. His eyes narrow at Peter. “And why exactly is that?”

“Because…” Running a hand through his hair, Peter draws in a shuddery breath. “Because… If anyone should pay, it’s me. I-I’m the one who fucked up and lost the stupid scholarship. I should be the one responsible for fixing this.”

“But you can’t fix it,” Tony says bluntly.

Peter’s caught off-guard. “Wh-What? N-No, I just need to get my grades up, and, and…”

Tony’s voice is gentler now. “You can’t, Peter. You can’t get a 2.9 up to a 3.3 by next week, no matter how well you do on your exams. You’ve gotta know that.”

(Peter does know. He’s known for days. He’s always been good at math, after all.)

“So you can’t keep going on like this, trying to make up for what happened,” Tony concludes.

Tears prick at the corners of Peter’s eyes once more. He’s determined not to let them fall this time. “But I deserve it…” he whispers.

Tony shrugs. “If we always got what we deserved, I never would have made it through the 90s.” He huffs out a short laugh. “At least nobody has to bail you out of prison. Same can’t be said for all of us.”

In spite of Peter’s earlier resolve, the traitorous tears slip out anyway. He wonders how he has any left.

Tony sobers a bit. “You’re a good kid, Pete,” he says quietly. “But you’re trying to carry the whole world on your shoulders and that’s enough to break anyone. It’s okay to ask for help sometimes. Even if you fucked up.”

Peter swallows hard. “Okay.”

“So let’s try this again,” Tony says. He makes eye contact with Peter. “What do you need, kid?”

“Right now?” Peter exhales deeply. “I dunno. A nap?”

Tony smirks slightly. “I think we can manage that.”

Peter makes it through finals.

All his extra effort and studying does yield some results. His gym grade increases to a B after Coach Wilson grades his two-page extra credit report on the rules of badminton. The trig final is rough, but he pulls in another couple points there, and the art teacher accepts a few late sketches from the unit on perspectivism. With the help of the final exam, he even manages to eek out a C- in Spanish.

When it’s all said and done, Peter’s GPA sits at 3.1.

“That wasn’t easy to do. I’m proud of you, Peter,” May says sincerely. “You know that, right?”

Peter shrugs. “I guess so.”

They’re sitting together at the apartment’s small kitchen table, May’s open laptop in front of them with all of Peter’s end of semester grades displayed. Peter’s eyes drift down from the screen to the table where a check for eight thousand dollars signed by Tony Stark himself is staring back at him. He sighs.

May plants a quick kiss on the top of her nephew’s head. “Well, I know so. So for now, I’ll just know it for the both of us.”

Peter strokes his fingers over the crisp paper of the check. Besides covering tuition, Tony has now upgraded Peter’s unofficial SI internship to a paid position—something he says he should have done long ago, given how much time Peter spends working in the lab—and that will allow him to give Mr. Delmar his two-week notice.

He knows he should be grateful, but honestly, it’s going to take him some time to wrap his head around the concept of being taken care of like this.

Getting up from the table, May moves over to retrieve a small paper bag from the counter. “That reminds me—Mr. Stark told me to give you this.” She tosses the bag to Peter, who catches it easily.

Curiously, he opens it. He’s immediately hit with the aroma of exotic spices and roasted legumes. Peter can’t help but grin.

A note inside the bag reads: Enjoy your peanuts, kid.

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, you might also like:

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#irondad fic #irondad & spiderson #sick peter parker #hurt/comfort #crying #emotional breakdown #angst #soft angst #Emotional Hurt/Comfort #headache #fever #stress #school stress #gpa

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