#but it sucks that as a friend and a leader he couldn’t even fathom her situation being bad and was instead sympathetic towards Jimmy

[pianojoy-blog]

In the back of my mind it’s always there 🥲💥💥💥💥

Pulling out my white pen from 6th grade for curly because this game has me in a chokehold

[violetnotez]

Izuku x reader

⤷ Genre: Fluff, Mafia Boss AU!

⤷ Word Count: 3600+

⤷ Warnings: i think cursing? I think?

⤷ Synopsis: Working in a rundown bar kinda sucks, especially when the owner is you ex best friend, your crush, and now a mafia boss.

This is for the Izuku Month! Pls check out the awesome writers participating for this month!

You wiped down the grimy surface of the bar, your shoulders sagging from fatigue.

God you hated this job.

It seemed like such a long day, such a long time since you’ve been able to truly be completely calm. You felt how rigid your shoulders were, always seemingly expecting a fight or confrontation. 

Working and managing a bar under the control of the mafia wasn’t the most calming job in the world, you had to admit that, but you had to get money somewhere. You would be on the streets, scrounging for anything that resembled a meal if you didn’t have this job. 

As much as you hated it and all of its requirements, from the drunken brawls you had to pick apart to the back room deals in the dark, you at least were able to eat, to live in a somewhat decent apartment, to pay your bills. 

You constantly had to remind yourself of this, every time you had a man cat call you or a fight happened on the sickly white porcelain tiles. You would bawl you fists into balls, your lip quivering to finally let loose the pain and frustration being caged in your chest.

If you allowed yourself to be truthful to yourself, you'd admit just stuck, trapped, and powerless you felt in this moment. You felt like a little ant scrambling in a hug hive, under control of one leader who wouldn’t ever let you stop working. 

You wiped a brow of sweat off your forehead, your makeup long gone from the strenuous workday as you glanced a look at the corner of the room.

Each table was clean and pristine, (all thanks to you), the wooden surface glistening under the hazy yellow lights, the crystal vases holding a single rose bloom, the petals dark like blood. 

Some tables were occupied, men having late night conversation with a beer in hand, their tones surprisingly quiet and calm, as if  the alcohol had somehow changed their rambunctious demeanor from 2 hours ago. 

Everything around you was a typical late night on a Saturday, the clock reading 12:45 am as it ticked like a bomb ready to explode, the men oblivious to the ominous countdown as they chit chatted away on their tables. 

The only thing strange, the only thing that had thrown you off since he had arrived…..was the man in the corner, casually drinking at an empty table.

He was sitting in the VIP lounge, his shoulders hunched like yours as he surveyed the scene like a slinking cat, his scarred hands swirling an amber liquid. 

You had been watching him all night, after your boss had been thrown into an uncharacteristic frenzy when he first saw the man: it was him. Izuku Midoriya. The owner of this bar and the mentee of Toshinori Yagi, the late Mafia Boss.

Midoriya's rise to fame was infamous, it seemed-Yagi had plucked the poor boy off the streets, declaring him as his protege that very same day. All the mafia bosses in the city couldn’t understand why Toshinori had picked the boy at the time-he was barely 16, his short height and timid voice practically making all the others bosses double over in laughter.

He would never survive this hardened lifestyle, and the talk was they would slowly pick apart the Yagi legacy, taking over all of his territory once the boy became the new leader.

You were barely 16 yourself at the time, a poor girl who had watched her best friend get thrown into a world that wasn’t his. You had been friends with Midoriya since you were a child, playing with him in the streets after school and protecting him from all the bullies that would try to take advantage of his shy personality.

It was strange to see him now after all those years of silence, his change shocking you.

He was older, in age and in spirit. He looked so burdened with knowledge, his eyes coated underneath with a purple hue and his brow fixed in a tired expression.

 But he still had a youthful look, his eyes wide and doe-like and his freckles like stars in a clear night, his curly green hair as unruly as it was in his youth.

You couldn’t fathom why he was at this bar so late at night, or why he was even here in the first place. He was well known now-everyone knew who he was, whether they respected him or not. There was no need for him to be in a shady bar at 1 in the morning, drinking his alcohol as if he was bored by the whole scene in front of him.

But there he was, looking as placid as ever as his two bodyguards stood at the ready, surveying the spotless room for any intrusions or enemies that could hurt Izuku.

You looked down at the bar, the white rag turning brown with the dirt that had collected on the surface.  

You wiped a strip of sweat from your eyebrow again, the humid heat feeling suffocating as  your hand returned to the rag, swirling it in lazy circles on the shiny surface.

“Another whiskey please,” you heard a young voice ask, his voice sounding hesitant and slightly worried.

You looked up with exhausted eyes, only to feel all the air leave your lungs.

Izuku was looking at you with wide, apologetic eyes, his face expecting your response. He was wearing an expensive suit, the gold embellishments on the sleeves gleaming in the warm lighting.

You gulped as you willed your heart to slow at the sudden movement, moving a fallen piece of hair back behind your ear.

“Isn’t it a little late for that?” you asked dryly, your voice free of any emotion as you continued to clean the counter, your cheeks blossoming with red as you tried to contain your shock.

Even though you knew Midoriya for many years, it was embarrassing for you, seeing your once best friend becoming such a high and mighty figure in the underworld, so full of power and luxury, while you were stuck in a grimy job that gave you just enough to survive.

It also didn’t help that you used to have a crush on Izuku since grade school-you had thought you had gotten over those feelings, but apparently that wasn’t the case. Your heart still swelled at hearing his voice, it’s pace quickening like you were running a race just from the sweet sound.

He chuckled, a soft chime rumbling out of his chest. He sat himself at the counter, not minding the dampness as he rested his shoulders on the dark surface.

“Still always out to protect me,huh, y/n?” he asked, his voice sounding bitter sweet, “You were always looking out for me.”

You looked up, your eyes blown wide with shock. 

He still remembered you? It was strange to see  him after all these years, those pink cheeks bright against his brown freckles, as if he was cursed to always be blushing so adorably.

“More like I don’t feel like dealing with another drunk this late at night.”

He smiled yet again, his face lighting up at your sarcasm.

How the hell was he still so him, so innocent and sweet after all he must have seen, must haven been through?

Was he really still the same boy from your past?

You sighed, your heart feeling heavy with emotions. No, he wasn’t the same-he was a mafia boss. He was the boss above your own boss, the CEO of your whole damn life. You couldn't fall for his sweet antics, no matter how much they pulled on your heartstrings. 

You sighed, your hand slowly stopping the rag.

“What is it you want Izuku,” you quickly asked, your face stony and harsh. “Somebody like you doesn’t just come to a bar like this just for some whisky-at 12 in the morning might I add.”

He chuckled again, this time the sound more nervous as he scratched the back of his head. 

Izuku had to admit it, you were right-there was no reason why he should be here. No reason why he should be here at 12 in the morning, looking like a pompous rich brat with his two bodyguards as he peered at you from his lounge, watching you work.

When he had heard you were working at this bar, one that he owned on his part of the city, he felt like bricks had been dumped into his stomach. How did he not know you were here? 

After getting recruited by Toshinori, he had somehow lost all contact with you, his life becoming so hectic and terrifying that he has decided he didn’t want to see you. He was fearful of bringing you into this terrible life-you were his best friend and his crush after all, he didn’t want to see you get hurt because of him.

But you had somehow already gotten twisted into this lifestyle, this swirling mish mash of legal and illegal, family and foes, loyalty and lies. Now you were apart if it, being a manager of a mob bar. If you were apart of it, he felt like he could actually approach you now, because the fear of getting you hurt was far less. 

But he was scared for you still-you were around many shifty characters daily, dealing with your fair share of criminals. With his high status, he could help you now-he could keep you safe.

“I just want to know how you are,” he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked at you with concern, “it’s been so long I-I-didn't realize you were here.”

He grimaced slightly, weighing his words out slowly and carefully. “You don’t seem to like working here much.”

You grinned slightly, your eyebrows cocked up in an amusement and exhaustion. You set the rag down, your hands spread against the counter.

“You’re still very observant-did you catch that from talking to me or watching me for the last 2 hours?”

Izuku chuckled nervously, his cheecks on fire as he hands swirled the gold watch in his wrist like a worn out habit. Your eyes widened slightly at the expensive accessory-another reminder of how different this Izuku was from you. He had power, he had freedom, control, and everything in life- and you didnt. You were a bird caged inside, unable to spread your wings and free yourself of the troubles that followed you each and every day. 

Your smile lessened as the lump of misery in your stomach grew, his eyes catching the small gesture. He leaned against the counter, his green eyes searching your face. 

He felt so close, those tufts of green hair cascading against his forehead as his eyebrows scrunched in worry.

“Are you okay y/n? I’m worried for you,” he said quietly, as if he was revealing a secret to you.

Your cheeks blushed in red-how did he still seem so-him? He was so kind and caring like he was as a child, always making sure you were okay, taking care of you when you had scraps on your knees or tears on your face. His heart was made of gold, and you honestly couldn’t fathom why Izuku had turned to the life of a hardened, merciless mob boss.

You noticed his hands twisting again, wringing in worry as he waited for your response. Your eyes trailed down to those digits and the plethora of scars on his fingers, wrapping around his skin and trailing under his tailored suit, turning his smooth skin into a rippled, pink pattern.

Your heart broke at the sight, just imagining the terrible things he must have been through to attain those marks. 

Your fingers wrapped around his hand, your nurturing nature kicking in once seeing those pink tiger marks decorating his skin. Your finger trailed against the skin, following the pink river lines rising against his skin.

“You don’t look so good yourself Izuku,” you said, your digits touching and caressing the scars lightly as you examined each one.

Izuku gulped, his brain going into overdrive-you were touching him. 

No matter how much time had passed, he couldn’t forget how much he had fallen for you as a kid, and it was following him into his adult life. He missed your sweet smile, your laugh, your bright personality that could light up his whole day and week.

But now his sun was so bleak, your face cracked with fatigue as you stared at his scars with such intent it was as if your eyes were burning a hole into his skin. 

He sucked in air harshly, trying to figure out how to breathe again.

“How do you get these ‘Zuku?” You asked quietly, looking up at him, his wide, green eyes staring back at you.

He shimmied his hand away from yours, his cheeks a rosy red as he averted your gaze. It was sweet to see him so vulnerable, the hint of nervousness gracing his complexion, but you missed the feeling of his skin on yours.

“I-It’s not that important-“ he stuttered slightly, “I’m hear you see you, not talk about me-“

You gave him a thin smile, your lips curling inward from exhaustion as your head tilted onto your shoulder.

“So, what did you want to ask me?” you asked. You watched as he exhaled a small sigh, his body willing him to speak his next few words. You held your breath watching him look so nervous, like watching a dam slowly crumble and release the flood of water it had been holding back for so long.

“Are you happy-doing this?” he looked you square in the eye, those forest green eyes expansive and sucking you in whole. 

 “And you have to answer, no going around the question,”

He quickly pointed his finger  at you, his body manner stern yet his face betraying his thoughts. His face was still so soft, still so innocent looking and concerned as he leaned closer to you on the countertop.

You squinted your eyes at him-you honestly didn't want to sound mean, or well, bitchy, but-what was he playing at? Over the years you had learned that trust isn't something easily won over, even if you had known the person for years. You and Izuku had been friends since you could remember, that was true-but it had been so long, and you weren't quite ready to be rubbing shoulders so closely with the mob boss yet.

“I work at a bar where I get paid enough to survive and have to deal with drunk idiots who catcall me every 5 minutes,” you chided slightly, your voice dripping with sarcasm, “ So, no, not that much,”

“Do you want to change that?”

“Of course I want to but-“

“But what?”

You stared at him again, not knowing what to say. He was a puzzle to figure out- there were so many questions and clues surrounding Izuku’s nature and motives and personality. Once you found a piece to the ever growing puzzle it felt like 3 other pieces were missing, making the picture of who Izuku was full of gaps and holes. You couldn't understand him, why he was here, if he was truly the Midoriya you knew or if he was just a memory-but the way he looked at you with his doe eyes and his lips parted with concern made your heart pace and your hands squirm.

Maybe this was still the kind, nurturing boy you knew from your childhood-just maybe.

You sighed, willing your heart to stop beating so quickly and  to say your truth. “It-it’s scary. This is a mob bar after all, who knows what would happen if I left,”

“But what if you didn’t leave?” he interjected, his face still laced with concern but his voice quickening from anticipation,  What if you just-got promoted,”

You chin tilted up, your eyes scanning the boy with suspicion.

“What are you implying Izuku?” You asked him slowly, hesitantly, watching as he squirmed with uncomfort in his seat. A breath collected in his lungs, being held for barely a second as he slowly let it escape his body.

“Y/n, we’ve known each other forever- we were best friends and, well, you were the one who ever believed in me. I-I never forgot about you, and always wondered how you were. Once I found out you were working here, I had to come. To see how you were. I just wanted to know you were okay-and now I know your not.”

He leaned into the bar yet again, his hands folded, his green tresses bouncing against his skin.

“Please y/n, I want to make you my personal assistant. You’ll be safe, I’ll make sure of it-all you have to do is help me with my daily tasks and events and-“

“No, I won’t do it.” you interjected, your voice having a desperate quality, as if you were anxious for him to stop talking

Izuku gazed at you with confusion, blinking a few times with shock- you didn't want this job? He watched your face turn into a grimace, as if the mere idea was painful for you to imagine.

“You-what?” he asked quietly, unable to understand your words.

“Izuku, I cant just get a free card from you,” you revealed, your eyes looking down from guilt, “I’m not going to just be your desk girl so I can be a little bit better off.”

“But-but your not, I want you to be my assistant-You know me better than anybody else!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide as he tried to convince you, “ You’ll be the best person for the job because you’ll be able to make the best decision for me-“

“I’m not taking your pity Izuku. People pity me enough, I don’t need you to add to the list.”

Izuku gave you a good, hard look, his big green eyes searching your face. He could tell you were hurting inside- the way your shoulders sagged like you were carrying a heavy burden, your tired eyes signaling you hadn't had a good night’s sleep, the way your voice broke and your face cracked when you allowed yourself to be vulnerable. You felt scared. You felt trapped, and alone. Powerfless. He had never wanted to comfort anyone more in his entire life, to hug them and tell them that it would all be okay.

He took a breath, letting the air escape through his nose as he gazed with you with empathy.

“You want to know how I got my scars?”

He watched you blink from confusion, to then give him a numb nod in response. He smiled nervously, settling in his chair as he opened his mouth to speak.

“A lot of people didn’t believe in Toshinori when he said he had gotten a 15 year old kid from the streets to be his successor-many people laughed at him, laughed at me, even talked down to me. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t strong enough. I’d never be able to take over his empire.

“But I trained. I fought. I learned everything I could so I would never feel inferior ever again. Toshinori gave me leverage in life, yes-but I took advantage of it. I have some blood on my hands, I can’t say I don’t- but I proved my worth. I proved I deserved everything life had to offer and more-all I needed was a boost.”

“And that’s what I’m trying to give you-“ he gave you a reassuring smile, his eyes soft and his cheeks rosy, “a chance at a better life. A chance to prove your worth.”

“What do ya say?” His smile turned into a bright grin, his scarred hand outstretched and welcoming as he waited for your answer.

You stared at him, your lips parted and your eyes wide with conflict-where you going to do this? To just throw away everything in your life right now in the hopes it would be a little better? You were putting all your trust in Midoriya-would it all end up okay?

You looked down at your hands, the fingers sticky with grime and spilled alcohol, making your spine crawl with disgust. 

Fuck it-never again did you want to be underestimated, to be barely surviving and another ant in the hill. No-you were going to make a name of yourself.

“Fine-,” you placed your hand in his, your heart pacing. His skin was surprising soft on the inside, the pads of his digits coarse against your own flesh. “But if my uniform is a tiny ass skirt I’m going to kill you.”

A bright laugh tumbled out of his chest, his curly tresses bouncing with the motions.

“I promise I won’t,” he smiled at you, his cheeks as red as ever.

He loved the feeling of your skin on his, and the way your eyes light up like lightbulbs on a dark night. A glimpse of your previous self seemed to surface, for barely a moment, but he drank up the rare moment and locked it in his memories. 

You sighed, your hand leaving his reluctantly as you looked up at the clock, the ticking entering your mind and banging against your head like a headache. 

“I gotta lock up the bar…” you grumbled, your hand reaching out for your rag, “thank god Ill be out of this place-“

Izuku smiled, his green eyes trailing up to the clock. His eyes widened as he noticed the placement of the hands, the irises glistening with stars as he recognized something in those numbers.

“It’s 1:11,” he stated, his pointer figure drawing your attention as he nodded his head at the clock, your eyes trailing to the device. “You know what that means?”

You cocked your tired head, a small smile gracing your lips: Izuku was always the bookworm, his brain soaking up information like a sponge and giving it out at the strangest times. It was quite endearing, and you surprisingly missed it.

You leaned against the counter, your face closer to his.

“What’s it mean?”

He grinned at your face, his cheeks bright and on fire- 

“New beginnings.”

Taggings:

@weebartistinc​ @orokayagi​ @leeeah-loooser​ @bakarinnie​

[bunnirs]

Scarlet Crossroads:

Chapter One: 113

Next

Scarlet Crossroads Masterlist

Running away was almost second nature to you by now.

Maybe running was a harsher word than what was needed. Well, for better word, avoiding seemed to fit your situation better. You didn’t run because you were scared, no, you had nothing to be scared of. You just didn’t like to take responsibility over the fact that you were a monster.

It was no secret that you were dangerous. You walked around with your head held low, your expression hidden from everyone. They couldn’t tell what the hell you were thinking, but your aura gave them a hint, and they didn’t want to know.

Your aura was immense. Almost suffocating to those who got too close. Your hair was kept behind a bandanna, seeing as even the slightest strand would distract you. You wanted complete control over your body, and getting aggravated over one tiny baby hair seemed a bit much.

You could say the bandanna was kin to one that one of your ‘partners’ had, though you didn’t like to admit it. In fact, anything that reminded you of them seemed to set you in a bad mood.

As if your thoughts betrayed you, that was the only thing you could think about.

The Phantom Troupe were people you had known since birth. They stood in as the family you never had. In a way, you even had a brother, who just happened to be the leader of said troupe. To your relief, you weren’t blood related, but blood never really mattered between the troupe. You all were stuck together. Like glue.

You felt a large amount of guilt over the subject. They gave you everything, and yet, you couldn’t stand to be near them. You never had the freedom you wished for. They always stuck to you like dogs, their attention almost unbearable.

Chrollo Lucilfer was to blame for this. Your brother, the infamous leader of the Spiders, seemed to think you couldn’t handle yourself. In all honesty, you could. You had one of the strongest abilities compared to those of the troupe, and since you weren’t a member, they seemed to trap you inside their web. They used you for missions sometimes, finding your power quite fitting. You hated it. You weren’t some pet for them to use.

They liked to say you had a rebellious streak. You’d leave, they’d send someone after you, and you’d come home. You were nothing but a rebellious teenager in their minds.. and it pissed you off.

You couldn’t stay mad at them though. You were the youngest, and happened to be their boss's little sister. They worried and cared for you, that much was obvious. But them treating you like a baby? That got old quick.

You didn’t want to be seen as a child. You wanted to be seen as an equal. You were just as strong, just as dangerous, but they didn’t seem to notice. No, they just didn’t seem to care.

It was all bullshit though, and it made you chuckle darkly to yourself.

The familiar ding of a bell brought you back from your inner turmoil, and your eyes focused on the small screen in the elevator. It read ‘B-100’, most likely standing for “Basement 100”, but with your state of unsettlement, you could be wrong. But of course, you weren’t.

The screeching of the doors could be compared to that of cats on a black board. Maybe it was your sensitive ears, but it was painful as it shook the elevator as a whole. You gritted your teeth, your eyes rolling as you grew annoyed with yourself.

You didn’t know why you were so angry, but you were. This whole situation fucking sucked.

The real reason behind you taking the Hunter exam? You wanted a license so you could go somewhere so far, the troupe couldn’t bring you back. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to find you. That would be too good to be true though.

The bandanna on your head felt heavy, almost like the guilt that seemed to turn within your stomach. Maybe leaving them forever was too harsh. Maybe you’d visit, just for old times sake. While you, Chrollo, and the Troupe had your fair share of disagreements, you still were a family right?

Goddamn why was it so hard to make a decision?

Maybe because they decided all of yours for you.

No. You needed to get used to working alone. You needed a break from them. You couldn’t depend on them for answers. You would most likely outlive them.

Keyword of that statement? Most likely.

Your aura had failed to calm down, roughly thanks to your realization of helplessness. The dark red aura had transformed into shapes that resembled spikes, clearly influenced by your mood.

The elevator seemed to finally open all the way, making the aura suddenly shoot in all directions, disappearing. The trip down felt like hours, and it seems being trapped in a small room didn’t help.

The cold air hit you, and that made a chill run up your arms, settling at your spine. You breathed out, taking your first step off the elevator.

Before you could even get through, you bumped into something.. or maybe even someone?

Stepping back a little, you saw who fell victim to your lack of awareness. Standing multiple feet below you was a small green man, his name tag reading ‘Beans’. Who in their right mind would name their son Beans? Certainly no one with standards.

“Hello, my name is Secretary Beans! Please, take this number and put it on. Thank you and Good Luck.” It seems with that, the short jelly bean of a man waddled away, a tag now left in your hands.

He left before you could thank him. You mentally thanked him, not really feeling up to making conversation, especially with someone who’s name made you want to cry.

Now back on topic, you looked back down to the tag in your hands, studying its content. It read ‘113’. How peculiar. It seems with new found curiosity, you decided to step through the elevator again. Hopefully nothing would stop you this time, fearing that the elevator would crush you alive.

As your shoe met the cold, dull concrete, the aura of another seemed to catch your attention. Standing only a few meters away from you was the owner of said aura, and the mere shock was enough to send you into orbit.

Why the hell was he here? Did Chrollo send him to watch you? No, was it to stop you from taking the exam? You couldn’t fathom an answer good enough it seems.

So why was Hisoka Morow, Troupe Member number 4, standing in front of you?

“What a coincidence in seeing you here… Y/N.” His signature grin struck something within you, and you broke out into a coughing fit.

How you’d love to wipe that smug grin off his face.

Truth is, you knew about Hisoka’s quarrel with your brother… and yet, you didn’t mind. Maybe it was the fact that you had a mutual liking to each other, or the fact that you wanted to see what your brother looked like with a broken nose.

Of course you wouldn’t allow your brother to actually get killed. There’s no way you’d allow that. But in hindsight, there’s no way he’d be defeated. He’s too strong for that.

Whatever it was between you and Hisoka, you didn’t like it. It was almost as if you and him were the same.

What a load of shit though. You and him? The same? Just the idea of that made you laugh.

Hisoka seemed shocked at your distant gaze, the dull laugh leaving your throat sent shivers up his spine. “Oh? What’s so funny?”

You snapped out of it, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “You look like an idiot.” You grimaced, looking at his choice in clothes. “What are you supposed to be? A roly poly?”

“Oh I’m truly devastated. Not even the darkest cloud could compare to the depression that just hit me.” Hisoka teased, his smile widening, his long fingernail poking into your forearm. You were sure if he pressed any harder, he’d break skin.

“You’re getting off on this.. aren’t you?” You stated, your voice holding a certain calmness that certainly didn’t fit the situation at all.

“Oh how low of you to expect such a thing from me? Your dear friend, might I even say, family?” He removed his finger, a card slipping into his vacant fingers. The sound of paper cutting through air would’ve startled you if you were a normal person, but to your dismay, you weren’t normal.

“Gross.” You muttered, catching a stray card that had just flown towards your face. This man was truly testing your patience. Could he let you get away from the elevator at least? “No way in hell are we family.” You said sternly, a growl almost forming in your throat.

“So you’d settle on friends then?” Hisoka smirked, his eyes narrowing as his eyes trailed down your form.

“No.” You grumbled, pushing past him. “You’re more like a fly if anything. Annoying, loud, and stupid.”

“Oh how you wound me.” He faked a frown, his eyes crinkling up as his nose scrunched, his tongue grazing over his lips as he flipped a card in his hand. “Do try not to die alright? Chrollo would be very disappointed you know.”

“Is that anything new?” You pondered, but you were already too far ahead for him to answer, much less hear you.

The truth was clear as day, if you continued to live like this, you wouldn’t outlive the troupe at all. Which is why, you’d get your license, show it to the troupe, and leave.

You immediately concluded those thoughts, now emptying them from your mind. Dwindling on something so far in the future seemed like a waste of energy, and you really needed that right now. It seems you have an exam to plow through.

SOOWEE MAMA HERE’S CHAPTER ONE OF MY LONG KURAPIKA X READER UMMMMM 

JUST TY GUYS SO MUCH FOR CHEERING ME ON AND SUPPORTING ME!! i FEEL LIKE THIS ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH FOR Y’ALL BUT I JUST WANTED TO GET THIS OUT FOR YOU OMG OMG OMG

FUN FACTS:

 THE BANDANNA Y/N IS WEARING IS THE SAME TYPE OF BANDANNA FEITAN WEARS AROUND HIS MOUTH. Ever since Y/N was little, she’d try to steal and wear Feitan’s bandanna, so he got her a matching one. (He stole it of course but it’s the thought that counts)

Y/N’s badge number is 113 for a reason! If you look up Chrollo’s actual theme song, you will notice that it is called “1/13″. I also made sure this number wasn’t used by any of the important characters in the Hunter Exam!! So it checks out!!

Y/N is also aware about Hisoka being a fake member! Seeing as she’s not an actual troupe member, she sees no right in outing him. Besides she finds it funny omlllll.

Y/N is 17 years of age!!! She’s a literal teen so she will not be in any sort of ship with Hisoka/Illumi/Feitan/Ect. 

THANKS AGAIN OMG OMG OMG ILY

[hljournal]

Today’s author is suspendrs / @suspendrs​ ! Don’t forget to give the fics kudos and leave a comment! 

to the cloud and the cold (2k)

Or, Louis is a Summer Fairy, Harry is an Autumn Fairy, and the autumn equinox is the best day of the year.

fearless (97k)

“You’re my best friend, Louis,” Harry says, barely above a whisper. Even if he was yelling, Louis wouldn’t be able to believe his ears. “And I know it’s been a while, but you’re still the person I consider my best friend,” Harry says.

Louis blinks, and then blinks again. “I honestly cannot say the same, Harry,” he says.

Or, Harry left home without a word after high school, and a lot can change in ten years.

just a little dance (1k)

“Keep your head up, love,” he says, pulling away and grabbing Harry’s hands. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t want to dance,” Harry pouts, but he lets Louis pull him into the center of the dark kitchen, anyway.

“Just a little dance,” Louis says, tugging Harry’s hands until he’s flush against his front.

Or, a tiny drabble based on the cutest lyric from perfect now

ferricadooza! (65k)

Harry can’t even fathom the idea of surrendering; he’d fight ‘til he died, if he had to, anything to keep from surrendering.

Or, the year is 1963, homosexuality is illegal in the UK, Louis owns a gay bar, and Harry’s an underground boxing champion with an unfortunate enemy.

at last, at last (41k)

“Come with us,” Tommo says, stopping at the other end of the gymnasium, near the doors. “Don’t let them make you suffer any longer. Come with us, and be human.”

Before Harry has even finished thinking it through, he’s on his feet, gaining the attention of every single person in the gymnasium. What has he got to lose, anyway?

Or, Harry is born into a cult in a post-apocalyptic world, and Louis is the leader of the rebel group tasked with the mission of shutting them down. Together, they make a rather effective team.

the act of making noise (32k)

“Oh,” Harry frowns, waving him off. “No, I could never. I respect myself too much to sing for a living.”

It feels like a slap across the face, but Louis does his best not to stiffen, blinking once and then frowning. “What?”

“Those people are always so miserable, you know?” Harry says, hopping down off his stool and straightening his sweater. “There’s so much pressure on them, and they have to work so hard to keep up appearances, I can’t even imagine how difficult that is. I can’t even stand to listen to pop music today, let alone watch TV or read the magazines. It makes me so sad, thinking that those people, you know, the ones who actually went into it with heart, they only ever just wanted to make music and instead they got turned into things on leashes being paraded around to make money for other people,” he says. “Anyway, you can have the stool.”

Or, Louis's famous, Harry has no idea who he is, and they get snowed in together at a ski lodge in Vermont.

walls (20k)

The thing about having been on the move so much for the past five years is that now, once they’re finally able to sit down and rest for a bit, they don’t really know what to do with themselves. Louis loved the pace of the band, for all he and the others complained about it; he isn’t very fond of sitting still, and he absolutely loathes boredom, and there was very little space in their lives for either of those things while they were so busy putting out an album every year and touring more often than not. Being in the same room as Harry while neither of them are under the pressure of keeping up appearances feels like being in a room with a total stranger, and the amount of trouble they’re having trying to get to know each other again is really rather alarming.

Or, a love one whole decade in the making, inspired by Louis's debut album.

fine line (22k)

There’s still a lot of things they don’t talk about, a lot of things they don’t bring home with them at the end of the day, and a lot of things that don’t even need to be said. The world is the world and it sucks sometimes, but it’s far away when Harry’s at home and Louis’s here with him and none of it needs to matter when it could just as easily be ignored. Harry tries to open up sometimes, tries to bring Louis into his world, but Louis’s got a world of his own to tend to, and it feels like more often than not they are on two separate planets and the universe just keeps expanding.

Or, a love three more years in the making, inspired by Harry’s sophomore album.

out for a duck (2k)

“Well, once I got control of Clifford, I took him right back to the house and changed my clothes and gave him one hell of a dressing down, let me tell you,” he scoffs. “And then I felt so bad I went back out to see if the duck had gone back to her eggs, and that Clifford hadn’t damaged them or hurt the duck at all. She wasn’t there when I got back, and I sat there for hours waiting for her, but she never showed her face! She just up and abandoned her babies, just left them there cold and alone, all because a dog barked at her,” he sighs, shaking his head.

“Still not sure why the eggs are now in my kitchen,” Louis frowns.

“I couldn’t just leave them there!” Harry says. “It was my fault they were abandoned! Well, Clifford’s fault, but whatever. I couldn’t live with myself if I just left them there to die. So I came back to the house and got a bowl and some gloves and scooped them up so I could bring them home and keep them warm until they hatch.”

Or, Harry accidentally adopts two duck eggs.

what’s inside your imagination (is as real as anything else) (3k)

“Hey!” Niall shouts suddenly, scaring Harry nearly out of his hat. “We like your costume!”

The ghost turns to glance at Niall, producing a hand from under the sheet and giving him a thumbs up. Harry can’t help but laugh a little more, the casual gesture adding to the entire vibe of the sunglasses-wearing ghost.

The ghost looks at them for a moment longer before turning and disappearing into the crowd again, and Harry sighs. “I love Halloween,” he says thoughtfully.

Or, Harry's a witch who likes to pretend he's a human pretending he's a witch, and Louis's the human in a not-so-clever costume that keeps catching his eye.

satellite (100k)

“It’s been three years since I’ve had a proper hot meal,” Louis says finally. “I have no idea where my family is, or if any of them are even still alive. The only reason I’ve been able to keep myself alive for as long as I have is because I keep to myself, stay guarded, stay hidden. It’s the only way I know how to live,” he says.

Harry wants to cry, but he tries to put on a brave face when Louis finally meets his eyes. “You’re safe here. You don’t have to be so guarded around me,” Harry says quietly, earnestly.

“That’s very sweet of you,” Louis says, putting his fork down. “But yes I do. Especially around you.”

Or, Harry finds out that someone's been living in his house without him knowing, but instead of kicking him out, he falls in love with him.

sugar in a plum (4k)

“I’m your dad,” Harry says softly, extending his hand to Plum for her to have a sniff. Plum considers for a moment, looks up at Louis, and then bites Harry’s finger.

“Ow!” Harry shrieks, pulling his hand away quickly. He’s not bleeding, but Plum’s teeth are incredibly sharp, he feels like he’s been stabbed with ten tiny needles. “Jesus, Lou, I thought we were getting a cat, not a demon.”

Or, Harry's new kitten is out to ruin his life.

there are no atheists in foxholes (64k)

“Do you think we’ll ever see it again?” Harry asks after a minute. “London?”

Louis blinks, looking down. They very well could spend the rest of their lives on this island, and they’re both very aware of that. Everyone probably already thinks they’re dead, anyway. Their flats are going to be sold, and their families are going to have funerals, and life is going to go on without them. Even if they do get rescued, it’s already been days. The news of the shipwreck has definitely reached London by now. They don’t know if there’s been any effort to look for survivors, but they also don’t know how far away from the wreck they are, or how far people are going to go to look for them, or if anyone even knows that this island is here and, like, it’s very possible that they’ve already looked and stopped looking for survivors, and no one knows they’re out here-

“I don’t know,” Louis says, before he can start spiraling. “I hope so, but I don’t know.”

Or, the sea takes everything from Louis, but it gives him back more than he ever could’ve asked for.

it ain’t right, but isn’t it amazing (7k)

It’s all Niall’s fault, as most things are. Niall’s the one that made the bloody Tinder account in the first place, and the one that added every decent looking photo of Louis he could find on his phone, and the one that swiped right on the first fifteen guys that popped up. Yeah, Louis might have done the rest of the work that landed him here, in the men’s toilets of a Japanese restaurant in west London with vomit dripping down his chin and down the very, very attractive chest of the very, very attractive man in front of him, but Niall started it.

Or, Harry takes Louis for sushi on the first date. It doesn't go well.

keep this love in a photograph (48k)

“I could never forget a damn thing about you, Harry Styles, not even if I wanted to,” Louis says. His hair falls into his face when he glances over at Harry, the moonlight reflecting off of it and making it glow golden, like maybe Louis himself is the sun.

Harry thinks of how dark and cold his life got once Louis went away, how Harry got a taste of the sweetest sunshine imaginable and then was plunged into the longest winter of his life. He feels like he’s been buried under mounds of snow for months, years, and he’s finally made it to spring, finally getting another taste of how wonderful life can be.

Or, it’s 1919, and Harry’s been falling in love with his best friend for his entire life.

thrills don’t come for free (4k)

The night before comes back to him slowly, puking in the toilet at the club and then falling asleep in his car in the parking lot. He closes his eyes again for a moment until he realizes that the car is on and moving, and someone is driving it that isn’t him.

He picks his head up and peers between the seats, catching sight of a perfect stranger sitting behind the wheel, singing quietly and driving Louis’s car.

Or, Louis has a bit too much to drink and falls asleep in the backseat of Harry's car.

not even the gods above (25k)

The thing is, though, this isn’t good enough for Harry. Sure, he has the rest of his life to be a notable king, but he wants to be notable now. He wants to bring the two kingdoms together and he wants to do it early on, wants to be the one to facilitate the merge until it seems like the two kingdoms were one all along. He doesn’t want to wait, but everyone he’s turned to thinks waiting is the right choice, so he supposes he has to trust them.

That is, of course, until a declaration of war from the Kingdom of Tomlinson shows up at his palace.

somewhere far away from here (12k)

“Harry,” Louis says, squeezing his arm. “Do you know her?”

“My sister,” Harry mutters, eyes glued to the screen.

“What’s she saying?” Louis asks, voice quiet. “What does she want?”

“Me,” Harry murmurs, hardly a breath. “She knows I’m here.”

Or, Harry's sister comes to Earth to bring him home, but Harry's got a few things keeping him here.

i’ll take your pain (2k)

It’s kind of romantic when Harry thinks about it, feeling all the pain of the person he’s supposed to love for the rest of his life. Sure, it’s rather inconvenient when he’s in class and his soulmate gets kicked in the balls, or when he’s sleeping and his soulmate knocks his head or his knee off something. It’d be nice if the function helped them to find each other, but Harry supposes he can live with knowing that they’re destined to run into each other someday.

Or, soulmates have the ability to feel each other's pain, and Harry finds his after getting his arse waxed. (Or, the soulmate au crack fic I can't believe I actually wrote.)

the pink album (31k)

They don’t really discuss how hard it is to be in this situation, or to be doing the things they have to do to continue being together. It’s just something they don’t talk about, and that’s alright. Or maybe it isn’t, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.

Or, a love seven years in the making, inspired by Harry's debut album.

i’ll make this feel like home (41k)

It’s nerdy, much nerdier than anything Harry would have engaged in back home. Perrie and Ed are singing some song from West Side Story and Stan is just giggling along, and it’s almost weird how weird Harry doesn’t find it. Liam and Niall would be running as fast as they could from this interaction, but somehow, Harry finds himself giggling along as well.

Maybe it’s because no one in this group seems like they should belong in this group, but Harry feels like he fits right in. He feels more himself than he has in weeks when Louis plops down beside him for a couple moments and throws out another title to add to their movie marathon. Even though he can’t contribute to the conversation about musicals and he has no idea whether The King and I or Oklahoma is more important, he never feels like an outsider.

Or, Harry is new to Plymouth and has had a rough start, but Louis won't rest until he makes it start to feel like home.

dirty laudry looks good on you (19k)

“So um, Niall mentioned you haven’t lived here long. What brings you to London?”

“What is this, an interview?” Louis smirks, stealing Harry’s drink and taking a sip. “Wanted a change of scenery. Dunno.”

Harry hums and takes his drink back, narrowing his eyes playfully at Louis as he takes a long sip. “Can I buy you a drink, or would you rather keep sharing mine?”

“You most certainly can buy me a drink,” Louis grins, grabbing the bottle back out of Harry’s hand, “but I’m still going to be stealing yours.”

Or, Harry is jaded and sad and resigned to be forever alone, until Niall sets him up with a friend of his whose broken pieces may just fit pretty well with Harry's.

we’ve got to get away from here (23k)

“It is my understanding that you are the most comprehensive member of this agency in the field of extraterrestrial life, is that right?” the agent asks. He’s trying to sound calm, but Louis can tell he’s shaken as well.

“Um, I guess so,” Louis says, glancing over at the man in the blanket again.

Suddenly, Louis’s blood runs cold. There’s something off about the man, something in his gaze, something Louis can’t put his finger on. It’s terribly unsettling, but excitement bubbles in his gut.

Or, Louis is an FBI agent who likes to think himself a paranormal expert, and Harry is the alien that somehow ended up in his office.

in midnights, in cups of coffee (15k)

“Sorry about the sugar,” Louis says, backing toward his own flat. “Bundle up before you go out.”

Harry smiles so sweetly then that Louis can’t imagine he’ll even need the sugar, if the muffins aren’t sweet enough just because they were made by him. “Thanks,” he says, eyes lingering a little longer on Louis before he lets himself back into Gemma’s apartment, and then Louis is just standing in the hallway by himself.

Or, Louis is overworked and cold, Harry is stressed out, and they might be in love.

come away with me (80k)

Or, Louis has to pick up the pieces of his and his daughter's life after his wife dies, and Harry is a beautiful stranger that just wants to help.

in the night (19k)

Or, the self-indulgent reversed pov and slight continuation of come away with me.

my song has not been sung (2k)

Or, Harry is watching a protest from the sidelines until a boy with a rainbow flag and a pretty smile drags him right into the middle of it.

i’ll be home for christmas (12k)

Or, Louis and Harry can’t decide where to go on Christmas.

autumn leaves (27k)

Or, Harry is an American soldier in France during World War II, and Louis is a French waiter that doesn't mean to fall in love with him.

we’ve got unfinished business (7k)

Or, there’s a ghost in Harry and Louis’s apartment that seemingly just wants them to date.

falling in love with you again (4k)

Or, three times in which Louis fell in love with Harry all over again.

heading for a small disaster (20k)

Or, Harry drives an Uber and Louis’s life is falling apart.

don’t stop to worry (4k)

It was just supposed to be a trim today, to skim off the dead ends of his hair. He had no idea it’d end the way it did.

Or, Harry cuts his hair. It's kind of a big deal.

diamonds, they fade (1k)

The cold does nothing tonight but remind Louis of the boy he left inside, the boy that’s curled up under the blankets by himself right now, the boy that’s probably going to come looking for him soon when he wakes up and Louis isn’t there.

Or, Louis has insomnia.

maps can be poems when you’re on your own (19k)

Or, Harry falls in love with the guy his best friend is fooling around with.

we could be enough (4k)

Or, Harry runs an anonymous crush confession column in the school newspaper and Louis has quite the crush to write in about.

no place to call home (22k)

Or, Louis isn't Peter Pan and Harry isn't Wendy and Neverland is nothing like Harry thought it would be, but it's perfect anyway.

show a little mercy (3k)

Louis hates him so, so much. But then again, he’s never loved someone quite so fiercely.

Or, Louis and Harry try to break up. (Or, a drabble based on Love You Goodbye)

kiss me on the mouth and set me free (17k)

Or, Louis is a gamer and Harry is a beauty guru, and VidCon is a good place to fall in love.

sing me like a choir (17k)

Or, Harry is nervous to do actual makeup on his channel, until his boyfriend Louis helps him out.

please don’t bite (21k)

Or, Harry releases his own line of beauty products, and Louis feels abandoned when Harry’s newfound fame gets the best of him.

underneath the christmas tree (17k)

Louis sends Harry on a scavenger hunt on Christmas Eve.

to be loved and to be in love (50k)

Harry and Louis' first year as a couple, as captured by snippets of home movies.

hope your heart is strong enough (4k)

Prompt: Set in the US, Harry spends Thanksgiving with Louis' family, or vice versa. Chaos ensues.

to watch you fall (16k)

Or, Harry is lonely and Louis is engaged to be married.

give me your hand and i’ll hold it (18k)

Prompt: Harry (9) moves in next to Louis (11). They have little roofs under their bedroom windows and like to sit there and talk. Seven years later, Louis has to leave for college.

you make me strong (14k)

Louis comes home from war with a few more problems than he left with, but Harry can't find it in himself to let him go.

[detroitbydark]

Chapter 11

Characters: Fox/Mouse (reader), appearances from Hound, Thire, Rule, Mace Windu, Yoda, and Padmé Amidala.

Warning: angst (y’all want me to hirt you right?)

A/N: so get ready to read nearly 6000 words of Fox’s self loathing, the CG being supportive vod, Jedi being Jedi, and Mouse being hurt yet again.

Current

The choices had been fresh ink or gut-rot barracks hooch. Fox chose the ink.

He’s down in the levels, he can’t remember which one exactly, far enough from prying eyes and questioning vod, that was all that had really mattered. The artist, a pantoran with a nice portfolio, was busy laying out the design. He can feel the cool transfer as it’s pressed over his heart and he drags in a ragged breath. This was penance. This was the closure he needed. He’d messed up. For two weeks he’d messed up and now any chance he had was gone along with her.

“You wanna talk about it, man?” The tattoo artist asks as he peels away the flimsy leaving the outline on his skin.

“No”

Two weeks earlier

Fox hates the sterile smell of the hospital, the beige walls, the gleaming metal all around. It reminds him of Kamino and a medbay he’d spent more than enough time in. He was never quite as strong or quite as fast as the other CCs in his batch, men that would go on to bear monikers like Gree and Bly and Wolffe. He made up for it in other ways. His mind was sharp, quick to come to a plan of action, he could think on his feet.

He remembers Sargent Kal coming into the CC classroom one day for a talk on urban combat- something that had piqued CC-1010’s interest from the word go- and how by the end of the lesson he’d ended up the star of the day. His observations as they’d talked through scenarios had left Kal remarking that he was “Sly as a Fox” and that the Triple Zero would be a good place for the likes of him. He was only the second in his batch to earn a name and he wore it around like a badge of honor.

Now he didn’t feel so honorable or so sly. He felt a lot of other things though. The psych droid, a loathsome device of he'd ever seen one, had talked him through what had happened in the Supreme Chancellor’s suite. It had questioned him over and over, maybe expecting the answers to change, about what his part in the assassination of Sheev Palpatine had been. He was tired. He wanted to wrap himself around his cyar’ika and pretend the whole day had been a nightmare.

That was impossible, she was somewhere else in the hospital being treated, shoved into a bacta tank. It had only been Rex’s firm voice that had convinced Fox to let the medic’s anywhere near her. When he’d let them take her limp body away from him-

Fierfek.

The handprint- a bloody partial across the left side of his breastplate, was still there.

“Commander Fox” a familiar voice cuts through the silent world of the room“ Much to think about you have“

He recognizes the Jedi Master, Yoda, immediately. There was no one else the ancient green Jedi could be mistaken for.

“I prefer to not“ being around a force wielder was not high on Fox’s current list of things to do.

“Such Is life”

“With all due respect sir,” he can hear the petulance in his own voice but he has neither the energy nor will to rein it in “I didn’t ask for this life.”

“But given to you it was, nonetheless. Choices you must make with what to do with it.“

Fox is quiet and the small Jedi Master matches it until the door opens again and General Windu joins the pair. Fox meets his gaze and the Jedi nods solemnly.

“Much discussion Master Windu and I have had these last few hours-“

“So it’s back to Kamino then? Reconditioning or Termination?” Fox can’t hide the bitterness in his voice. He doesn’t want to. He wants the world -or at least the two Jedi in the room- to see his pain. To feel it like he was.

Yoda sighs and moves to him, walking stick clicking in time with his steps. He hops up on the cold metal table next to Fox in a way that makes Fox think that the walking stick was not really necessary. He fights the urge to move away.

“A great disservice has been done to you, Commander. No, Kamino is not where you belong, deserve punishment you do not.”

The words burn. Fox is trapped between relief and a slow simmering rage, one that demands he be punished for his inability to protect those most vulnerable. First Fives. Now Mouse. He failed because he was weak-

“Stop” General Windu’s voice is firm. The look on Fox’s face must read pure terror because the Jedi huffs softly, “I don’t need to see inside your head to know what you're thinking. It’s all over your face. Do you know the kind of power Sidious possessed? To fight off that kind of insinuation would have been nearly impossible and that was before the chip-“

“The chip?” Fox attempts to rise to his feet but three green fingers press down on his arm. He looks down at the tired, ancient face of the Jedi Master and sits back down. “What of the chip? What has it got to do in all of this?”

The answer is simple. Everything.

Fox sits in cold shock as the Jedi describe to him what they’d learned of Palpatine’s- no, Sidious’ plans for the clone army. He stops them once to go to the bathroom and vomit. It wasn’t just Tup and Fives and him. It was all his vode. The entire clone army programmed to turn on their leaders, their friends with the utterance of a single phrase. He thinks of the hints Bly had made about his Jedi when they’d last spoken.

For a moment it’s more than he can fathom, and he holds a hand up for quiet. The Jedi allow it. He gives himself a minute, just one, before he pulls himself together, before he sits up straight and pushes the anguish, hurt, and the dirty feelings deep down.

“What now?” The implications of what has happened are finally becoming clear “The Republic can’t know the truth. There’ll be chaos in the streets. They’ll turn against the clones entirely” Fox worries more for his brothers than ever before. If the citizens knew…

“Correct you are, Commander” Yoda agrees..

“It needs to stay under wraps. The only people that will ever know it was anything other than an sudden death by natural causes will be us and the others that were in that room. Skywalker, Captain Rex, and-“

“Don’t say her name” it comes out as a growl, “leave her out of this.”

“There she was, Commander. Secrets she must learn to keep.”

Fox’s nails bite into the palms of his hands, “you won’t-“ he can’t bring himself to say the words.

“We will not force thoughts into her head.” Mace clarifies. “From what I’ve heard of her I think she’ll understand our reasoning for secrecy. Her injuries will be said to come from a mugging. You’ll fill out the report. Wrong place wrong time”

Wasn’t that the truth.

Fox nods slowly, “and what of my brothers?”

“Come out the chips must.” Fox flinches when a green finger taps at his temple, “but uncomplicated and quick it is.”

“We will let it be known that the chips are faulty and to continue to use them puts the clones in danger of having unforeseen medical problems.” Mace’s eyes narrow as Fox scoffs. He raises a brow challengingly, “do you think they’d rather know that they were all ticking timebombs? That at any moment they’d be triggered into mindless killers? Pawns?”

A tense moment passes with the two men glaring at one another. Of course Fox doesn’t think that would be any better.

“We’ll begin rotating troops through the nearest medical units capable of removal immediately.” Mace explains. “We can have the entire Coruscant Guard done by the end of the week and it appears with minimal down time. A day, tops.” He explains.

A quick nod is all the acknowledgement Fox can muster. He doesn’t like the idea of keeping the Guard in the dark and he hates having them undergo any medical procedure even more. He wasn’t the only clone who had lingering emotions when it came to the medbay, not by a long shot.

“I’ll go first.”

The Jedi at his side makes an agreeable hum. General Windu nods.

“As I would expect a good leader to do.”

Fox isn’t sure how much he buys into their approval.

13 days earlier

The official story was that Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine had succumbed to a sudden illness. The holonews was ablaze with stories: from the official release to the tabloid fodder. Fellow politicians waxed poetic on him as a man and a leader, someone who stepped forward when the Republic was in its darkest hour to take control of the chaos.

It was said his last words were, “and sorry I couldn’t give more for my people and the galaxy.”

If Fox’s eyes rolled any harder he was sure they’d fly from his head and ping around in his bucket. Sidious was dead. He didn’t deserve the adoration of billions or the high honors of his burial. He was a hu’tuun. The skanah was better suited as feed for the carrion birds than the marble burial chamber he’s laid to rest in with military honors provided by clones he’d have used as weapons against the very Republic they swore to protect.

10 days earlier

Four days without Mouse and Fox feels twitchy. It’s been over a year since he’s gone more than two days without laying eyes on her. Knowing that she was recently released from the bacta tank doesn’t make it any easier. He’d not wanted to see her floating in the tank for a plethora of reasons, the least of which was his own guilt. That didn’t stop him from setting up a guard rotation at her door as soon as he was cleared to return to duty. It also didn’t stop him from demanding regular updates on her care from the kits he was setting up at her room.

Ryk had been present when she’d been taken out of the tank and said she’d seemed in good spirits as she’d slowly come too.

Wren had gently indicated that she’d love some company while she was on bed rest.

Rule had given him a look that screamed, ‘don’t be a scum sucking piece of nerf fodder.’ As he’d explained that Mous’ika had been asking for him.

She’d been asking for him. Even after everything she wanted to see him.

And he couldn’t do it.

He’d made his way twice to the nurses station before turning and making an excuse to leave.

He couldn’t look at her. Sidious’ words still swirled in his head. even though General Yoda had reassured him that he was no longer under the sway of the Sith, the thoughts still lingered.

You were supposed to use her to fuck your baser urges out.

She’s using you to obtain a foothold in the guard.

She’s fooled you all.

The underlying message was unmistakable.

Why would anyone choose to care for a clone?

Fox almost wishes the headaches would return so he could focus on the pain in his head vs. that dull empty ache in his chest, a black hole behind his rib cage, but he hasn’t had one since both the Sith Lord and the chip were removed from his life.

9 days earlier

Bail Organa is voted into the Chancellorship by an overwhelming number of his peers.

It’s the best choice, as far as Fox is concerned. With Senator Amidala announcing a leave of absence to give birth to the best guarded secret since the clone army, it’s the only choice Fox finds acceptable.

Not like anyone would ask his opinion.

Organa is a good man, even if he is a politician. He’s only ever looked out for the Republic, never given in to self indulgent whims, never taken more than he deserved.

Fox touches the fresh scar on the right side of his head gently as Holonet News continues to replay the new Chancellor's inauguration from earlier. Barely more than a week and everything has changed.

General Windu was correct, medical had been able to get through the entire guard in rapid fire. All of his men were sporting matching scars, many were more than a little curious as to the actual reason their chips had been removed. He’s both insanely proud and horribly frustrated at the theories being bandied about. Some far too close for comfort.

They can never know. Nobody can ever know.

But somehow Bail Organa knows.

He’s only had one meeting, early this morning before the inauguration, in private with the new Chancellor but he’d alluded to things that left Fox speechless. He’d known Bail to have friends in high places, but he hadn’t realized how high.

“Think he’ll do better than the last one?”

Thire hovers in the doorway, unmoving until Fox inclines his head toward the open seat across his desktop.

“Can’t be any worse.” There’s no humor in his tone but Thire huffs out a quiet laugh.

There’s a lag in the conversation, not like one has truly begun, and Fox takes a breath before setting down his datapad and flicking the holo off. “How long have we known one another?” He asks looking up at his lieutenant.

“Long enough.”

“So, you and I both know that you're here for something else and It's not just to make quips about the new Alor.”

“I suppose that’s true” Thire’s face gives nothing away. Fox liked that about the shock trooper. He was reserved, yes, but also pragmatic. A problem solver, not ruled by his emotions. Which was all well and good but something about the way he’s staring makes Fox feel like he’s the problem needing solving.

“Spit it out.”

“Go see her.”

Fox raises a brow in his vod’s direction. “Is that an order”

“Respectfully sir” the corner of Thire’s mouth quirks almost imperceptibly before it falls away.

The little shit.

In reality, Fox had known this one going to come from one of his men. He’d expected Rule or Hound, the more brash and aggressive boys, to be the ones but Thire is not a complete shock. He’d never seemed particularly close to Mouse but the lieutenant did play things close to the chest.

“She had a nightmare last night while I was on watch. Woke up crying your name.”

Inside Fox crumbles. No amount of talking to a psych droid was going to fix that feeling. No amount of time would make him feel ok about what he’d allowed to happen to the woman he loved. Thire continues.

“A clone's lot is not much. They decant us. They train us. They ship us out to fight in their war. We live, maybe. We die, more likely. Nothing is given to us.” Thire runs a hand over his head, fingers scratching at the crown. “Sometimes though, a di’kut like you gets a break. That woman in that bed cried in my arms. Talked to me like I was you for over an hour and I let her. You know why?”

Fox has to unclench his jaw, work past the jealous ache rising up in his chest to respond, “why?”

“Because it’s the closest I’ll ever have to feeling that kind of emotion. I’m not ashamed to say I pulled your girl into my lap, held her close and said soft things I didn’t even know I knew into her pretty hair until she calmed down. I was happy to pretend to be your atin’shebs but you know what the real kicker is, Vod?”

Fox’s hands are like vice grips on the edge of his seat, knuckles pale white as a shinies armor. The thought of Mouse hurting is one thing, but to have someone else be the one to comfort her? It tears at him. “What?” He asks through gritted teeth.

“When she calms down she says, “I know you're not him. Thank you for letting me pretend for a minute”.

7 days earlier

He pretends like he doesn’t know where he’s going. Like talking to the kriffing psych droid really had him so out of sorts he didn’t realize he was getting on a turbo lift and heading up three flights after his appointment.

He tries to act like he doesn’t know his feet are carrying him to the room with the familiar red and white sentinel outside the door.

Rule quirks his helmet before snapping to attention.

“Commander Fox, sir?”

“At ease Sargent.” It's late, well past visiting hours but the few sentient nurses and the droids assisting them make no move to rush him along. Perks of the armor.

Rule relaxes and glances through the small transparisteel window on the door behind him before turning back.

“She just had some medicine.” He explains, “pain was getting pretty bad again.”

Fox’s bucket hides his cringe, allowing him to outwardly remain impassive and aloof, his voice even as he asks simple questions about visitors and any possible issues arising.

“No problems here sir. I think I heard her Doc say something about discharge tomorrow. She’s doing ok” what isn’t said hangs in the air.

She’d be doing better if you were with her

“That’s good. That’s good” Fox agrees, readily avoiding the things left unspoken. “Have you been relieved for dinner?”

“I have a ration bar in my pack sir.”

“Do I need to say it?”

The sunny tone of Rule’s voice tells him everything he needs to know. He can imagine the shit eating grin that accompanies it. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean, sir?”

A quick glance up and down the hall shows nothing but gleaming white tile. No staff. No visitors. No one but Rule to bear witness to his moment of weakness.

“Take the night off Sargent. I’ll cover the watch.”

He stares at the emotionless visor for a beat waiting for his kit to argue, for him to make a smart comment.

It doesn’t happen.

Rule rolls his shoulders, stretching slightly as he makes his move past Fox. At the last second, Rule's hand shoots out, resting over Fox’s vambrace. The moment lingers without either speaking until Rule gently pulls the Commander in and knocks his bucket against Fox’s, pressing his forehead to his Commander’s.

Fox, claps a hand behind the sargents head and they sit there frozen for a moment in time, Rule offering more comfort in that one gesture than he’s felt in days. A Keldabe kiss to ease his fragile psyche.

“Alverde.” Rule offers quietly when the pair finally part.

“Sargent” Fox gives a minuscule nod. “Enjoy your night.” He watches the youngster head down the hall until he turns a corner and is gone from sight.

Fox manages to avoid looking in the room for five minutes exactly. He’s able to fight off the pull to enter it for another twenty. The draw of her is too much in the end and he finds himself slipping into her room before the first thirty minutes are even past.

The lights are low and the monitors and electronics surrounding her hum and buzz steadily. Everything is white and stark. His cyar’ika is nearly the same color as the sheet she lays under.

She looks small, and so achingly fragile Fox is afraid the weight of his look alone will break her. She shivers lightly and he lurches into motion, dragging the itchy comforter over her legs and tucking it around her shoulders. Her body stirs as his gloved hand grazes along her cheek.

He freezes as her eyes flutter open. Her pupils aren’t quite right. It seems to take her a moment to piece together what’s going on but when she does the realization that washes over her is visible.

“Fox” his name sounds like a long lost friend rolling from her lips. She struggles to sit up. A look of pain flashes across her face as she twists under the blankets.

“Stop that” he demands impotently, his gloves moving to press gently against her chest. “you’re going to hurt yourself.”

She blinks owlishly up at him in the way only a person on good pain meds can, like she doesn’t quite understand what’s been said and she’s not sure whether she should comply or question it. It’s somewhere between bemused and scared.

He cups her cheek in his hand, “easy precious girl.” He soothes. Mouse relaxes into his touch as his gloved thumb rubs softly. Her eyes flutter shut and he can feel the soft sound she makes against his palm.

This was already far past what he intended. He just wanted to see her, to prove to himself she was really alive and in one piece despite him.

Now, he finds himself already slipping into old habits.

More focused, her eyes open. Her hand slips up and grips his vambrace. Slowly she pulls his hand away from her face. She lets her fingers slip down into and through his. Her voice is thick with sleep when she speaks and Fox has to lean in to hear her.

“I knew you’d come”

Of course she had. Fox wonders if she knew him better than he knew himself. This was always going to happen no matter how many times he’d lied to himself. He pulls his hand away. Mouse’s hangs empty in the air for a moment before she sets it down over her chest.

The quiet burr and hum of the monitors around her are the only sound between them until he reaches up to his bucket and lets the seal pop with a soft hiss.

Her eyes scan his face as he sets the helm off to the side. There’s a question there he can’t decipher. “What can I do?”

A harsh laugh escapes Fox’s lips and Mouse frowns at him.

“I think you’ve done enough, cyar’ika.”

“Fox-“ it’s a scolding tone that holds no weight when she looks like a battered doll in a too big hospital bed. She closes her eyes when he doesn’t give in and offer her more.

The bed dips under his weight as he sits at the edge of it. “I just wanted to make sure you were, ok. Alright?” He holds back from touching her again. It takes an enormous amount of will.

“I’m ok, Fox. Because of you.”

It’s a lie. All of it. It can’t be anything else. “You're in a hospital bed,” he growls, pushing up to his feet and stalking toward the window. He can’t look at her. “You spent days floating in bacta. You-“

“I’m alive.”

“That’s not because of me.”

He hears the ruffle of sheets as he looks out over Coruscant. The lights of the buildings and speeders in the sky lanes, like stars in the polluted evening light.

“Fox-“ her hand touches his arm and he spins to steady her. Anger swells up in him.

“Kriff- Mouse, get back in bed” he orders lowly, “you’re going to get hurt.”

She sways gently on her feet in the too big hospital gown but her jaw is set, “will you listen to me?”

“Will you get back in bed?” Fox pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath before looking at her again. “Get back in bed and I’ll listen. Please.”

Mouse stands, arms crossed, glaring pointedly. Fox has had enough. Quick and smooth like a tactical insertion he scoops her up. Mouse makes a small noise as his arms slide behind her knees and his other arm cradles behind her shoulders. She breathes heavily as she looks up at him.

“You’re going back to bed.” He covers the small room in just a few steps. When he goes to set her down she slips her arms around his neck and holds on for dear life.

“I’m not getting back in that bed unless you come with me.”

“You’re not in the position to make demands.” But that’s a lie because, with him, she was always in the position to make demands. She just never had to.

“Please, Fox. I just want one good night. You can leave as soon as I'm asleep.”

It’s hard to say if it’s the tired tone of her voice, the smell of her skin so temptingly close, or just his own beaten down need to be close to her, regardless Fox gives in.

“The armor stays on.” He says as he settles into the bed, he tries to keep his boots off the bed the best he can. Mouse curls tighter against him. It can’t be comfortable against the plastoid but to look at her he’d never know. One hand rests along his jaw while the other wraps around his back keeping him from easily disentangling himself.

Fox can’t help himself as he slips one glove off and cards his fingers through her hair, stopping every so often to work out a tangle. Mouse sighs against him.

“Precious girl,” he hums lowly as her fingers trace along the stubble at his jaw, “go to sleep.”

“You're going to leave once I do.”

“Yes, that was the deal.”

“You’re not going to come back.”

Again, he’s struck with how well she knows him. “No, cyar’ika. I’m not.”

6 days earlier

His knuckles are wailing in pain and it feels so kriffing good. His hands, wrapped in protective tape are held tight and safe as he tenderizes the heavy bag in front of him. A low, guttural growl works its way up from his chest with each landed blow.

It’s the first time he’s felt in control in days. Even if it only lasted for his duration in the sparring rooms he didn’t care. When he closes his eyes he doesn’t see Mouse at the end of his blaster, the way her body recoiled and convulsed at the first shot. He doesn’t hear the scream that rips through her when the second bolt burns through her side. He doesn’t dwell on the voice in his head demanding the kill while Fox did everything to drag his near perfect aim away from center mass.

He pictures Sidious’ face on the bag and the pile of sloppy mash his fists were making it into. There’s catharsis in the exertion that a psych droid couldn’t give him.

“Commander, sir?”

Fox turns to see Hound stripped down to just his black under armor pants. He was a burly boy as far as clones went, thicker and more muscular through the torso, next to Hound, Fox looks almost lithe.

Fox pants lightly as he dips to grab a bottle of water and straighten back up. “What can I do for you?”

“I- do you need to-“

Fox watches as the man chooses his words carefully, finally gesturing first toward the mat.

“You wanna go a few, rounds? Looks like you could use it?”

A roll of tape is flipped through the air in answer. Hound catches it smoothly, giving Fox a happy grin as he begins wrapping his hands.

5 days earlier

There’s a neat hole in his wall, fist sized and fresh, less than a week old. Fox pretends like he doesn’t see Chancellor Organa eyeballing it with some amount of apprehension. What he can’t pretend is that a visit from the newly minted Chancellor to his office isn’t a surprise.

“Commander, you can drop the title with me.” The Chancellor says for the second time since his arrival.

“Sir, it’s frowned upon-“

“-not by me”

Fox huffs and closes his eyes to hide the roll of them. “Ok, fine. Can I get you something to drink? Some caf?”

Bail waves off the offer, “I won’t be long and it looks like you're woefully underserved.” He tips his head back toward the door and the empty desk.

A bristle of irritation tingles down Fox’s neck. “She was in the hospital. She was…” the words trail off. Part of protecting his little Mouse was keeping her involvement in the Sidious event quiet.

“I know, Commander.” Bail says quietly, “we share a friend on the council who’s made me aware of many interesting things.”

It feels like he’s being baited. He likes to think Organa wouldn't try to try to weasel information from him but his trust is a very delicate thing at the moment and he’s not willing to give an inch. His loyalty is to his men and the republic, after that only one other person had earned any devotion from him and that was not Bail Organa. At least not yet.

“If there’s anything I can do for her, anything she needs we can make that happen.”

Fox glances at the picture on his desk. It had come by courier earlier in the day. It’s been neatly matted and framed to be hung, a children’s drawing of a small green twi’lek child and him holding hands. He’d stared at it on his desk in silence for far too long before he felt something ugly bubble up. Now he had a hole in the wall. He hoped the picture would cover it.

Fox continues to look at the picture. He needs a second to pretend like he knows what Mouse needs. He doesn’t listen to the nagging voice inside of him saying it to him. He hates that voice, would smother it if he could.

“She needs time to heal.”

“I can make that happen.”

“Thank you.”

Earlier this day

“Senator Amidala” Fox greets the senator at the door, “this is a surprise. If I keep receiving politicians in my office I’m going to have to have it made more suitable.”

The senator gives him a bright smile, “it’s good to see you Fox.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, “it’s good to see you too Padmé.”

They were friends, of a sort. They’d seen enough together that Fox would gladly file her under battle buddies in his short list of friends. She looks lovely, as always, absolutely glowing. Her hand rests softly over the growing baby bump she was now proudly displaying.

“You look wonderful. Congratulations on the coming Ik’aad.” He offers gesturing toward her belly. His eyes linger and he remembers laying Mouse across his bed, placing kisses in a ring around her naval and imaging what it would be like someday when he-

Fox gives his head a quick shake and refocuses on the senator.

“Thank you.” He watches her eyes travel to the child’s drawing on the wall behind his desk before returning to him. “And how are you doing?”

“As well as can be expected. Chancellor Organa keeps a busy schedule and he’s insistent that I go with him. He’s got a lot of ideas and he asks my opinion. It’s different… but it’s nice.”

Padmé slips into the chair across from him.

“That’s wonderful” but she doesn’t sound like it’s wonderful. She sounds like she was here on a mission that he hasn’t been briefed on. He raises a brow at her. They’ve known each other long enough that she should know to just come out with it.

“We’re leaving for Naboo today. I want to have the baby in the lake country. It’s beautiful and peaceful.” She lets out a tired laugh, “and far away from the prying eyes of the holonet news.”

“They’ve been very… interested in you as of late” he offers diplomatically.

Another small laugh, “to say the least” Padmé sobers. “I just wanted to make sure you were ok with her going?”

Confusion must show on his face. Her?

Padmé frowns gently, the look of pity is out of place on her serene features, “you weren’t told, were you?”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to speak clearly.” Fox tries to bite back the tension but it slips into his voice.

She says Mouse’s name. Her real name.

“The Chancellor asked if we would take her with us. That she needed a place to finish recovering.” Padmé is watching his face. She’s trying to gauge his reaction.

He tries to give her nothing.

“She’s an amazing woman. She said if she went then she had to be useful. She’s going to be my assistant while I’m on leave-“

Fox holds up a hand. “She’s excellent at what she does. You’ll never be in better hands.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not her keeper. Mouse deserves to be safe and happy.” He shoots her a forced smile. “That’s not with me.”

Current

He had the rancor etched into his arm after Thorn had been killed in action on a mission Fox was supposed to have led. It was an inside joke they’d heard as shinies. Something about a Jedi and a rancor walking into a cantina. He can’t remember the punchline. It wasn’t funny anyways.

The Pantoran works the needle over his freshly shaven chest. Back and forth, outlining and filling. Pressing the ink into his skin to permanently mark him with another mark of regret, penance. Everytime he looks in the mirror, stripped down from his armor and his blacks he’ll see the reminder of what never was supposed to be, the thing that he went after when he knew it wasn’t allowed. The love that nearly destroyed the person he cared for beyond all others.

“So, this picture is pretty wicked” the Pantoran says conversationally. He glances back and forth from the reference picture Fox gave him, a partial hand print pressed against his armor, the fourth and fifth finger only partially visible and the heel of the hand smeared red. “Was it done in ink?”

“No. Blood.”

The Pantoran makes a sound of understanding. The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the quiet.

Seconds, minutes, hours it’s all the same as Fox sits still as stone in the chair, the press of the needle intimately familiar.

He thinks of Mouse on a shuttle to Naboo.

This was what he’d needed. Mouse far away, somewhere safe. Somewhere no one could hurt her. Where he couldn’t hurt her. No matter what he’s told he still doesn’t believe there isn’t something in him that can be persuaded, to be flipped on, that won’t harm her.

He needed to focus on his job, his men, the Galactic Republic. There was no world in which he and Mouse would work and it was better that she wasn’t there to know that.

“Alright, mate.” The Artist sets the gun down and claps his hands once before rubbing them together. “You’re all set. Why don’t you take a looksy in the mirror while I grab the bacta gel and a dressing?”

Fox nods and pushes himself up. His back is stiff from laying still and he takes a moment to stretch and twist before stepping in front of the mirror. His eyes trace the ink. It’s a perfect replica of the picture, deep vibrant red fingers pressing into his armor, only now pressing into his heart. A reminder of what happens when he becomes selfish. When he wants more than the greater design allows for.

“It’s perfect.”

[hoffmannwrites]

You Better You Bet

Previous - PART EIGHT - Next - Masterlist

Author’s Note: We are back in business BAYBEEE!! I posted a full detail update if you want to read that for all my juicy secrets. Thank you ever so dearly for being to patient and so kind. I can’t even fathom that so many people actually like this. It’s really crazy. Y’all are the best. Stay safe and stay home if you can. 

Pairing: Riverdale, FP Jones, and 19-Year-Old Reader

Description: A bet with Jughead leads to so much more than winning.

Warning: Language, Adult themes, Age Gap, Teenage drinking, Sex talk (but no actual hanky panky here), Wholesome female friendships, Pining, Brief mention of female masturbation

Song Inspiration:  Savage (Remix) by Meg Thee Stallion Ft. Beyonce (Nothing to do with the chapter, but this has been on repeat for 24 hours)

It’s been 7 days. One whole week since you last saw Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Second. The morning after your last little rendezvous proceeded much like that after the first, however when you finally returned home, you stayed there. No texts from a taunting Sweets. No follow up calls from the man himself. Not even a disapproving glare from dear old Juggy. A whole week had passed and nothing changed at all. It seemed to be that the entire world had forgotten you fucked FP Jones (many times). School crawled on as usual. Betty and Jug were off playing Holmes and Watson. Archie and Veronica were fucking on every expensive piece of furniture they could find. Cheryl bought a new red lipstick. Kevin decided that Spring Awakening was his latest Magnum Opus. Homeostasis achieved. Right? 

Wrong. Unfortunately for you, you couldn’t seem to pry your mind away from thinking about The Serpent King. You’d find yourself in the middle of a class, biting on your pen, absentmindedly thinking about the way his brown eyes looked right before he was about to...until someone called your name loud enough and often enough to snap you out of it. You’d get a shiver down your spine getting a flashback of his hands on your hips. The worst, though, was the smell of him. It followed you around and cling to your hair and clothes no matter how much time had passed. When the wind blew the right way or you turned your head quick enough, you’d get a strong gust of him that was enough to make you whimper. 

No one tells you this, but it sucks when someone you don’t particularly want to date is the best lay you’ve ever had. It’s not so much that you didn’t want to date FP, but you couldn’t. He’s more than double your age, and a father of 2 children (one of whom is your best friend), AND he’s the leader of a gang. Imagine brining that home to mom. As much as you didn’t have any feelings for him, you couldn’t very well track him down anyway. You didn’t have his phone number (and weren’t planning on trying to get it from anyone else) and a trip to the Wyrm alone again would look needy at best. Instead, you were stuck alone, rutting against your fingers or your pillows, chasing after a high that only FP could give you. 

Saturdays were for the boys, sure. But Sundays? Sundays were for the girls. Pops on Saturdays was a ritual of catching up and hanging out and making plans for the week. Sunday’s were for shit talking and chicken wing eating and face mask applying. This Sunday was extra special, considering you had bailed on last week’s event due to a mild limp and the overall body ache. When Betty and Ronnie showed up at your house, already in PJs with Twilight DVDs, buffalo wings, and the finest Champagne Veronica could steal from her parents’ liquor cabinet without being noticed, you knew this was just what you needed to get your mind off FP. 

Or so you thought. Soon the wings had been devoured, the Champagne bottle was emptied, and Edward was left sparkling in the sun. All that was left to talk about was the elephant in the room. “So (Y/N/N)... care to spill some sinful details to your doting BFFs?” Veronica inquired with a shit-eating grin. 

“I have no idea what you could ever be talking about, my dearest Lodge,” you replied, sad that your I-don’t-need-no-man bubble was being popped. 

“(Y/N), come on, girl. Even I want to know what happened.” Betty pleaded with you. 

“Betty just wants to know if big dicks and praise kinks run in the family. For her sake, spill!” Veronica teased, earning a bright red blush from Betty. 

And so you did. Perhaps it was the liquid courage, or maybe you just needed someone else to know it was real too. You told the girls everything- no detail spared- gossiping like a bunch of, well, teenage girls. 

“Fuck.” Betty was the first to break the silence after your monologue was over. 

“But he hasn’t called you?” Ronnie asked, indignant. 

“Nope.” you replied. 

“Men are such fucking trash. They can cum in you for 48 hours straight, but god fucking forbid they pick up a phone!” She continued her rant. “You should call him. Show him you’re more than just a two-night stand.” 

“By doing what?” you questioned. “Asking him to fuck again? Plus. It was just a fling. It was a bet. Remember? And I won. So it’s over now. Done. Finito. Terminado. Fertig. Ip-shay has Ailed-say.” 

“Oh yeah you sound real happy about that...” Betty giggled, pulling her knees up to her chest with a smile. You shot her a glare. “I’m just saying! Those Jones men are addictive. I think you should shoot your shot.” 

“How would I even do that? I can’t go to the bar AGAIN. People are gonna think I have a problem,” you deadpanned. 

“Well...it just so happens, that I am dating your paramour’s son. So it would be justifiable that I would have said paramour’s phone number, in case of emergencies.” Betty said, chin resting on knees. 

“It’s an emergency,” Veronica declared, holding out her hand for Betty’s phone. 

She obliged and soon your phone screen was looking up at you, with FP’s number in the contact line and a blinking line waiting for you to type out the perfect message. 

“Okay. What do now?” you asked, looking to your friends bug-eyed. “I don’t talk to people.” 

“How about ‘Hey it’s (Y/N). with a little smiley face,” suggested Betty. 

“OUH!! Or you could send him a nude!” proposed Ronnie.

Your brow furrowed and you turned to the brunette “...no....” you said, almost concerned for your friend‘s mental stability. “How about something...flirty. Something so he knows it’s me. Like an inside joke or something. OH. Wait i think i got it.” You tapped on the screen excitedly, like a child writing a letter to Santa. You showed the girls the finished message before you sent it. 

“Hey, Jones. You up for another round of pool? Promise I won’t make you dance this time.” 

With their approval, you pressed the little blue send button and practically threw your phone to the ground like it was a hot potato. 

You waited. 

And waited.

And waited. It felt like you were staring at the screen for hours before three little gray dots made their debut. You screamed. You couldn’t bare to look. Veronica did it for you. Men never made you act this nervous or childish. (Women did, but they had boobs and nice hair, so it was a completely different set of rules. Girls are pretty, yo.)

You heard it. The faint sound of a message hitting your line. Veronica picked up the phone and read the text quickly. “Bitchhhhh...” she said, handing the phone over to Betty. “Oh my god...” the blonde whispered into the palm of your hand, before handing the phone back to its owner. 

You read the screen. 

“Wyrm’s closed on Sundays, baby girl. But my door is always open for you. Don’t you practically live here anyways?” 

Somehow, all the air you had was sucked out of your lungs, while an anvil lifted itself off your shoulders.  

Taglist: @ragweed98 @reblogserpent @cassidyiscool @cyberbadman @ohhmyexo @anondunar @startwiththeridingcrop @colie87 @derangedcupcake @scintilla-morningstar @princess-east @xxghostnappaxx

[gauntie-o-dimm]

Dutch van der Linde | A Lesson About Ownership

Because a few members have been flirting with you during a heavy night of partying, Dutch has to set the record straight about to whom you belong.

Word count: 2900+ Warnings: Smut, swearing, alcohol abuse, semi-public sex 

The air reeked of drink and testosterone and Dutch van der Linde didn’t like it one bit. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy a good drinking-fest every now and then, and he was very glad that Sean McGuire had returned to camp right in time before being turned in to the authorities by a bunch of bounty hunters. No, something else was irking him till no end - the fact that said Irishman was trying to get your attention in a rather affectionate way. How dare he, Dutch pondered, after all he had risked for him! Was that a way to thank your superior?

But Dutch didn’t intervene just yet. He knew that you were loyal to him and wouldn’t give in to Sean’s fruitless attempts of wooing you. You were too kind - just waving him off with a small laugh and a light-hearted rejection.

The ‘stached man just sat there at a table, one hand clenched around a bottle of whiskey, the other balled to a fist underneath his chin, teeth scraping against his knuckles in an attempt to keep his cool.

“Ah, enjoying some alone time, I see.” there was no sarcasm in Hosea’s words, but a tinge of humor lingered. Dutch looked up to face his best friend for a second, taking in a sharp breath. The silver fox followed his gaze, eyes falling onto you, who was currently being coaxed for a dance on the giddy tune of Uncle’s banjo - you didn’t give in. 

“You know, she is right there and you are here sulking around. It’s not like there is nothing you can do. If anything, I’d say you were jealous.”

Dutch hated it that Hosea could see right through him - but they had been putting up together for decades, now. 

Yes, he was very possessive of you, but Mr van der Linde would never - ever - let his envy get the better of him, right? Sure, he wished he was the one over there making you laugh about some stupid joke. There was nothing else that would bring him more joy than to guide you onto the dance floor (just a small patch of grass, really), but something that he never wanted to show was weakness.

“It’s just a dance, you know.” Hosea muttered, taking a swig from his beer. “It ain’t like people are going to judge you for it. For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t pass the opportunity to share another dance with my Bessie if she was still here. Spend time with the one you love while you still can, Dutch. She ain’t gonna stick around forever, and you know it. You’re not stupid, but I sincerely pray that you won’t make the same mistake again, like with miss O’Shea.” 

Dutch’s teeth gritted together, ringed fingers playing with the half-empty bottle in front of him. He kept quietly observing the scene, a jealous pang shooting through his chest as he witnessed Bill joining in on the conversation, daring to put an arm around your shoulders in a friendly way - at least, that was what he was trying to make it look like.

No, Dutch van der Linde knew better - he had caught Mr Williamson staring at you several times. He didn’t like it at all that he was so close to you.

There was a change of tune, a song that would certainly make everyone want to dance - apart from Uncle with his chronic lumbago - and before Dutch could comprehend what was unfolding, you were already dancing with both Sean and Bill. Even though it was not a romantic dance to be shared between lovers only, Dutch felt a unpleasant twist in his stomach. Seeing you have fun with in one hand some beer and the other resting on Sean’s shoulder; something didn’t sit quite right with him.

Hosea stood with the notice of having to empty his full bladder, walking off towards the side of the camp and leaving Dutch to his thoughts. How long had the gang leader known you for? Seven years? Eight?

You were long part of the gang when Molly joined. He recalled how broken your eyes had looked when he introduced you to each other. It wasn’t until later that he realized why that had been the case. And yet, he found you difficult to fathom. You were still like this unreachable vixen that had been there with him for such a long time, he was your lover for at least a year now and still he barely knew anything about you. Or maybe Hosea had been wrong about him and Dutch was indeed stupid. 

He tilted his chair backwards as he witnessed Bill resting his hands on your waist, trying to get you a little closer to him. The gang leader knew that said man was drunk and currently knew no boundaries, but it was all the more of a reason to keep a close eye on the situation.  Karen had started hollering obscene things towards the two, yelling to rent a room in Saint Denis and have a hot foursome with both her and Sean, and that was the moment that something within Dutch snapped. Even the ladies around camp had forgotten who you truly belonged to. 

With a thud, his chair fell to the ground. He didn’t bother picking it up as he took large strides over to you and Bill, who looked like they were getting pretty cozy. 

“Hey Marion, get your filthy paws off my beloved!” he barked, immediately silencing the sound of Uncle’s instrument.

All eyes were on him now, and his were resting on Bill, who was gritting his teeth - Dutch knew how much he despised being called by his birth name.  “It’s just a fucking dance, chief!” Bill spat back, breath reeking of drink and tobacco. Dutch visibly cringed, not knowing why on Earth you had enjoyed dancing with this vagrant. 

“Dutch, love, we were just dancing.” you tried calming him down, putting a hand on his shoulder. He turned his gaze to you and you slightly gasped at what emotion was manifesting in his eyes. He was seething, grabbing your wrist firmly as he started to walk right through the crowd of gang members, pushing aside everyone in his way.

You couldn’t do anything else than follow like an obedient dog, trying to pry his fingers away from your arm. He got the hint, loosening it slightly. You weren’t the one wronging him after all. 

“It seems that the lot of you have forgotten something quite important! I know that I always say: ‘What is mine, is yours.’ However, that does not, and I repeat it does not... Apply to partners, be it touching her, flirting with her, trying to get into her pants.” 

Hosea had re-joined the ruckus and approached you and Dutch, trying to interrupt his speech by saying that Dutch was overreacting, but the gang leader didn’t give him the chance. 

“(Y/n) here, she belongs to me and only me. She is my girlfriend, my beloved, and you must be reminded about that! No one touches her but me and I will make sure that you lot will never forget that. I am going to fuck her so nicely right now that she will sing my name until dawn, and all of you, all of you, are going to listen to me do it. Do I make myself clear?” 

Hosea made a gesture towards young Jack, “But the boy.” Dutch momentarily eyed the young kid, rubbing his neck as he realized that he hadn’t taken him into account. From his pocket, he grabbed a wad of cash, throwing it towards Abigail, who was holding her hands over the child’s ears.

“You go to a nearby hotel, then, and keep the change for the inconvenience. The rest of you better open your ears really good.” 

At least he had the decency to wait until Abigail had left camp with her son, and it was a moment for you to collect your thoughts. What was he going to do to you? And why was no one talking back? Dutch was respected, but you figured even Hosea couldn’t crack through his thick skull right now. Instead the older man was standing a bit away, his eyes locking with yours for a moment as he shook his head slightly. In return, you shot him a helpless look, and he let out a sigh. There was nothing to be done about it now. 

You almost wanted to tell Dutch that you’d prefer it to go to a hotel room together instead, but you knew what he would say. How else would everyone hear that you belonged to him? You had to admit that the idea of it turned you on. The knowledge that in a few minutes you’d be whimpering underneath him made you clench your thighs together in excitement.  As soon as the light of Abigails lantern was invisible from between the trees, Dutch turned to the remaining members.  “So, don’t let me catch any of you turn away. Hosea, I trust that you will keep an eye out for me while I prove them something, alright?”  “Absolutely not, Dutch! You’re being a disgusting weasel!”

If someone else had been yelling those things at Mr van der Linde, they would’ve certainly ended up with a bullet between their eyes. But it was his best friend, so instead Dutch took a deep breath before responding: “No, I am being reasonable! I need to teach them a little lesson about boundaries if someone is in a relationship.” “Well, I am certainly not going to contribute to those filthy concepts of yours. If someone around this camp knows no bounds, it is you!” 

Dutch scoffed at Hosea before grabbing your arm again, taking you into his tent before pushing you onto his cot. The furs felt nice and slightly tickled your skin as you almost sunk away in them. Dutch turned to the opening in his tent and rolled down the flaps, tying them together firmly. 

“Do you want a romantic tune to be played, boss?” you heard Uncles voice from outside of the tent, who had already resumed the strumming on his banjo. You had to prevent yourself from laughing.

“Shut the fuck up!” Dutch barked loudly while gripping the front of your dress, practically tearing off the buttons as he bared your breasts. You gasped, throwing his hat to the side before you went to tangle in his hair the very moment he wrapped his lips around one of your exposed nipples. 

You arched your back into his mouth and he let out a low hum, roughly sucking on the small button that started to swell in his mouth. His moustache tickled, but you didn’t mind. The power behind his lips made your stomach tingle pleasantly when you realized what was in store for the rest of the night.  “Don’t hide those pretty sounds for me, but you certainly shouldn’t do it for them. They need to hear you, remember? And I am going to fuck you as long as it takes to get through to these thick-headed mongrels!” 

You whimpered at his words and the pressure his knee applied between your legs, your hips involuntary moving against him.  “Look at you being all desperate. You love feeling me in you, don’t you, darlin’?”  He slid his hands under your dress before taking it from you in a solid movement, leaving you in your bloomers alone. 

He eyed your exposed body for a few moment, his hands moving to rest upon your stomach. He slid them down, peeling your underwear off of you, and so you laid, completely nude whilst he was fully dressed apart from his hat. It made you feel even more vulnerable underneath his touch. 

Dutch gave an assuring smile, leaning down to press a few light kisses on your tummy and navel. You slightly whimpered, wriggling underneath his lips as he smirked, straddling your body, inching ever closer to your sex. 

But right as he was about to press his tongue between your folds, he pulled back, undoing his belt and coaxing his erection from his briefs. It was a familiar sight and he beckoned you closer, immediately telling you what to do.  And so you sat up, crawled towards him and took him in your hand. You collected some saliva in your mouth before letting a dollop of it fall onto his tip, covering his length in it as he grew stiff and ready for you. 

You moved your tongue around the head of his cock, catching the first few drops of his excitement from the slit on the top. Momentarily, he let you press a few open-mouthed kisses over the base before letting his hand slide in your hair, rings becoming tangled in the (h/c) locks. He grunted and rolled his hips forward, pushing himself past your slightly parted lips, forcing you to take him whole.

You slightly gagged, closing your eyes when tears appeared in the corners of them. Trying to keep a steady breathing, you swallowed around him, ignoring the lack of oxygen as you started to move your head. Dutch let out a moan, accompanied by a sound that came from you when he slid in even deeper and hit the back of your throat. It was wanton and saturated of lust. Everyone could hear you choking on his cock and the man in question loved every second of it. 

It was nearly as if you could feel their embarrassed eyes burn through the cloth of the tent, but the publicity of the act taking place only added to the sensation. You just hoped that the outlines of your bodies wouldn’t be projected like a shadow by the light of the candles around you. But then, if it were indeed visible... 

Your lover took two fistfuls of you hair and without any kind of warning, he started fucking your face. The sudden change of events made your airways become restricted. The fact that were looking more disheveled by the second 

You let out a gagging sound, for a moment believing you would either pass out or throw up, but Dutch pulled himself from your mouth, leaving you gasping for air, several tendrils of saliva connecting you to his swollen cock, tears and snot dribbling down your face. He smirked at you, rubbed some spit off your chin and gestured towards the bed. You obeyed, laying down and spread your legs for him.

For a moment, he lingered above you, taking off the remaining pieces of clothing that were still on your body. His skin was hot against yours, and as he pushed himself in, you moaned at the contact. He settled his arms next to both sides of your head and kissed you for a moment. 

“Love,” Dutch spoke softly, “You better don’t hold in those sounds, understand?”

You nodded, letting out a whimper as he began thrusting into you. Even though his movements were demanding, the sounds slipping out of you were sincere. You wrapped your legs around him, slowly unraveling underneath him. And Dutch’s eyes, they never left your face for a second, a satisfied grin tugging at his lips as he fastened his pace, the cot starting to creak underneath the force.

And with the increase of his thrusts, so did your breaths become uneven. You were sure that the gang members that had walked away in disgust could hear you on the other side of camp, including the person who was currently on night watch, even though you couldn’t remember if it was Javier or Charles, but it didn’t matter. What mattered is that you sang for Dutch, quivering under the weight of his body, inner walls clamping around him desperately.

Would he make you beg for your release? You murmured his name, letting it slip from your tongue like silk, only loud enough for him to hear. Something in his face changed, the possessiveness he had been mustering for minutes soon vanished like a thin layer of snow in the searing sunlight. He looked at you with complete adoration in that moment, before returning to his original, claiming self. 

“You’re mine, (Y/n)!” he grunted loudly, “Mine and mine alone!”  “Yes, Dutch!” “Say it! Tell me to whom you belong!” “I belong to you, Dutch! Forever! I love you! Only you!” 

And that was all he needed to hear to push you over the pleasurable edge of an orgasm. He was quick to follow soon, not even asking if he could spill himself in your depths. Your body arched into him and a whimper left your throat as he pulled himself out of you, seed dribbling down your thighs, and he allowed you to finish your orgasm with his index finger tightly pressed onto your clit. 

Dutch got up, passing you a clean piece of cloth that he had slightly dampened. He kissed your forehead swiftly before reaching for his boxers.  “Stay here, (Y/n).” he ordered, and of course you did as he said. Not that you could walk right now, anyway. 

He quickly threw it on before quickly slipping outside of the tent to see who truly was still watching. You heard his voice, muffled by the flaps of the tent yet audible enough to pierce through your bones like a knife through butter. 

“Is it now fucking clear to whom she belongs?!”  You could only imagine the flustered faces of the ones that were standing there. “If it isn’t, you should let me know. If anything is vague to your lot, just let me know. I don’t mind proving it to you again.”

[obligatorynasty]

I’ll Be the Fight to Your Flight, Baby. (Part 2)

Part 1: Here | Sequel: Here  

Read on: AO3 | WC: 18k | Please excuse any typos. 

Main Tags: BadBoy!Tony, SoftBoy!Peter, Highschool AU, NFF, TW:Mentions of Blood, TW:Mentions of Abuse, TW:Bullying, TW:Underage Drinking and Smoking, TW:Mild Homophobia, [see all tags on AO3]

-

~*1*~

Peter didn’t know how to feel.

When Tony threw the cafeteria doors open, the chatter of the room went silent. Though the whispers remained; all gossip about why the school’s most fearsome student was resting his arm around the most fearful student’s shoulders. It was strange for Peter to be the center of attention for something other than ridicule. Along with the shocked expression on Ned’s face, cliques of curious eyes glanced back and forth between the slew of tables. All looks filled with confusion and intrigue and – for a certain pair of brotherly bullies – absolute terror.

All the younger boy had to do was point. And he did, with a shaky finger and wary eyes, directing his unhinged – boyfriend? – to not only the guilty brothers’ table, but to Clint, Natasha, Bucky, and Sam’s as well.

“Is that all of them, baby?” Tony whispered, his face close enough that Peter could feel his warm breath tickling his surely flushed ear. The sensation sent chills down Peter’s spine – but in a good way – like the airy feeling he got in his stomach when Ned and MJ dragged him on roller coasters with giant drops.

Peter gave a demure nod, “Y-Yes.”

Tony’s wild eyes were breathtaking, especially paired with that mischievous grin and the way he cracked his knuckles like warning signs to his prey. Or the way he pulled off that signature jacket and draped it over Peter’s shoulders like he was staking his claim. Or the way he so nonchalantly quipped about not wanting to ruin the leather with some degenerate’s blood, so hold this for me, baby. I’ll be right back.

And Peter could do nothing but stand there – engulfed in the leather that smelled of cigarettes and pure, unfiltered Tony Stark – watching as the notorious bad boy reminded each and every student in the cafeteria of just how fearsome he could really be.

***

Tony’s rampage began with one stunned Clint Barton, ripped from his seat by a forceful grip on his collar. The irony of being thrown against the very spot he tripped Peter lost on him. Likely due to the wind being knocked out of his lungs as he careened towards the off-white linoleum tiles with a hefty thud and, subsequently, a symphony of startled gasps and excited chants of Fight! Fight! Fight!

Now, Clint wasn’t someone who would take a beating lying down. Peter had seen him fight before; win against people bigger than him and intimidate people smaller. So, when Tony dropped down and managed to get in three punches so quick and so forceful that Clint couldn’t react, Peter’s jaw dropped. Tony’s promise of not making it too bloody consumed by sight of Clint’s very bloody nose.

“What the fuck, Stark?!” It was Natasha – poor Natasha – trying to stand up for her partner in crime, not knowing she would be next on the rampage list. The second she stood from her seat, Tony released his hold on Clint’s collar, leaving it stretched out of place and watching Clint pitifully grasp his nose in pain. Then, Tony stood, facing Natasha head-on and flashing his smug, bad boy grin.

“What the fuck, Romanoff?” His words were laced with belittling humor and a wild brand of confidence that Peter couldn’t fathom.

“Don’t do that.” Natasha glared, her brows furrowing at Tony’s complete lack of fear towards her. “What the fuck did he do to piss you off?”

“He didn’t piss me off. Not directly at least.” Tony’s laughter was unnerving, “You see, your boy here managed to piss him off,” He pointedly said, as he gestured over to Peter, who was still standing by the doors with a bewildered look on his face. “And he belongs to me now. So, let’s say when he’s pissed, I’m just pissed by proxy.”

“You’re a fucking psychopath.” Natasha’s words were sharp, but Tony was sharper.

“Let’s ask then,” Tony leaned forward against the table, his palms down and his knuckles up like he was brandishing a bloodied sword, staring at Sam and Bucky with his intimidating glare. “Why don’t you two tell me, hm? Did Barton do something to Parker?” His question was brimming with venom, and thus, met with zero hesitation.

“Yes, he tripped him.” Sam stood, pulling Bucky to his feet as well and expressing so much fuck-this-shit-I’m-out energy that Peter had to stifle a laugh. “Me and Bucky are really sorry for our involvement in all of this, and we would very much like to keep all of our bones intact. Thank you.” Sam looked to Natasha, “Nat, you are on your own with this one.” With that, he was fleeing, towing Bucky behind him as they made their way out the cafeteria, muttering something along the lines of: People really out here fucking around with Tony Stark like he didn’t send just someone to the ER last year. What a bunch of idiots.

“Fucking cowards.” Natasha spat, rolling her eyes and giving an angry sigh when Tony smirked at her. “Fine!” She exclaimed, turning to Peter with forced sincerity. “Sorry,” She said flatly, and with a peeved grimace, before turning back to Tony with an expression that showed just how thoroughly done she was with the whole situation. “Happy now?”

But Tony didn’t answer her. Instead, he turned to Peter and smiled as he repeated Natasha’s sentiment. “Happy?”

Peter froze for a moment, his frazzled mind whirring into overdrive, trying to comprehend the weight of Tony’s question. It was like a wild animal asking the leader of its pack for permission to hunt. Like Peter’s answer was the only thing standing between Natasha and the full power of Tony’s wrath. So Peter nodded and mouthed a nervous, “Yes.”

“Wow, how lucky for you,” Tony said, giving Natasha a look so dark that it sent chills down Peter’s spine in the bad kind of way. “Don’t waste it, Red.”

Tony’s threat lingered in the way he carelessly stepped on Clint’s struggling frame as he made a beeline to his last targets: Thor and Loki.

“Don’t bring your violence over here, Stark.” Thor weakly warned, flinching up from his seat like a cornered animal, posturing in a final attempt to scare off its predator. His reaction was perplexing, especially since he was bigger than Tony. He seemed to have more muscles, more stature, more height, yet he still looked frightened. So, even though Peter’s natural response was worry, Thor’s fear and Tony’s unfazed smirk eased his concerns.

“I’ll bring my violence wherever I damn well please, Point Break.” Tony taunted, wasting no time in shoving both Thor and Loki’s lunch trays off the table, gaining him a resoundingly loud and drawn out Daammn! from the surrounding crowd of students.

Loki stood up next, posturing just like his brother, “You think we’re scared of you, Stark?”

“Oh, you will be.”

With that, Tony’s rampage continued. But this time, it was less controlled threats and more all-out brawl that summoned a flock of rowdy students, eager to watch the carnage.

Before the crowd grew, Peter managed to see Tony land two satisfying jabs to Loki’s face that left Thor scrambling to retaliate. It was all too surreal; the savage look in Tony’s eyes, the speed of his punches, the way he bobbed and weaved around his opponents’ hits like a trained boxer. All the people egging on the fight like spectators at the Colosseum; encircling them like Thor and Loki were the poor fools thrown into the lion’s den and Tony was head of the pride.

Soon, the fight was impossible to see. The students were so enthralled that they stood on tables to witness it. And Peter knew from the screaming and the general disregard for school policy that it would probably go down as one of those legendary Tony Stark fights. Peter’s body buzzed with curiosity. He wanted to watch too, but he found himself unable to move.

Remember, Peter didn’t know how to feel. His eyes traveled to Clint, struggling as Natasha helped him to his feet and clutching the spot on his abdomen that Tony used as a stepping stone. It was brutal, and Peter knew that. He knew he shouldn’t feel glad that Clint was hurt. He shouldn’t get excited about Sam and Bucky scurrying away like frightened mice. He shouldn’t enjoy the scared look in Thor and Loki’s eyes. He shouldn’t – he knew that – but he did.

Because Tony Stark was fighting for him, and that sort of thing just goes to a person’s head.

Peter was pulled from his thoughts by Ned, who was pushing through the crowd to reach his friend. “Dude! We need to go! Someone said Principal Fury was called.” He didn’t stop. He just grabbed Peter’s arm and dragged him through the cafeteria’s double doors.

The hallway was also beginning to swarm with students – kids leaving their classes in droves, trying to witness the fight for themselves. “Okay, so since when are you and Tony Stark friends?”

“Since like a half-hour ago?” Peter shyly admitted as Ned stopped with him in the hall, standing to the side so they didn’t get trampled by the rush of students.

“What?!” Ned practically screamed. “He’s beating the shit out of Loki and Thor right now.” He stressed, “For you, dude! For you! And you’ve only been friends for a half-hour?!”

“Actually, ‘friends’ might not be right either.” Peter nervously laughed, scratching the back of his head and giving Ned a guilty look.

“Dude, what happened?” Ned’s eyes went wide. “And please don’t say you sucked his dick for protection.”

“Whose dick are we sucking for protection?” It was MJ, exiting the flow of students, throwing her arms over Peter and Ned’s shoulders, interjecting on their conversation with her classic witty smirk.

“Tony Stark’s,” Ned laughed.

MJ joined the laughter, “Is that why Peter’s wearing this?” She tugged on the leather jacket still draped over Peter’s shoulders. “Did you swallow?”

“Oh my god! MJ! I-I didn’t s-suck his dick!” Peter’s face flushed red in his embarrassment. “I just- I mean, I guess…um- I belong to him now.” His voice cracked because that felt weird to say. He belonged to Tony Stark – someone that he barely knew – yet, instead of his usual urge to flee, his body craved to stay.

“I see,” Ned nodded. “First, the brutish show of strength, then-”

“The dick sucking.” MJ joked.

Peter crossed his arms, “No! I- He just- He made me cry – well, not directly – but then he patted my hair and k-kissed my forehead and, suddenly, I was just his, okay?”

“I think it’s romantic,” Ned nodded.

“I think it’s problematic,” MJ deadpanned.

Peter just shrugged, inching away from MJ’s hold. “W-Well, I think it’s my decision.”

“I’m just looking out for you, Pete.” MJ became defensive. “We can joke about sucking dick, but Tony Stark is fucking dangerous. We all know it. May I remind you that he broke that Hammer kid’s bones last year, he constantly skips classes, and he smokes.” She punctuated each point with a count of her fingers and ended her rant with a firm, “Say it with me: pro-ble-ma-tic be-hav-iors.”

“Okay, scratch the romantic thing,” Ned shook his head and stepped closer to MJ, physically signaling his position on the matter. “MJ has a point, dude. I’m on her side.”

“There are no sides!” Peter furrowed his brow and let out a frustrated huff. “You guys just didn’t see what I saw in him.”

“Dude, do you even hear yourself?” MJ rolled her eyes, “We’re talking about Tony – probably stabbed a guy – Stark. What could you have possibly seen in him besides gratuitous violence and penchant for starting shit?”

“I saw how kind he really is!” Peter exclaimed, furiously shaking his head, dismissing MJ’s level-headed red flags. Sure, Tony was violent, but somehow, Peter knew he must have a good reason for it. “I saw it, MJ. How caring he is. How he isn’t this fearsome bad boy everyone makes him out to be.”

And Peter’s sentiment was sweet – naive, but sweet – but, unfortunately for him, it was immediately undermined by one student’s passing words: Did you hear? Stark broke Loki’s arm.

“Hey!” MJ called out to the student. “Is that true?”

“Yeah, there’s a video and everything.”

~*2*~

After the chaos died down and students were herded back into their classrooms, Peter was sent to the Principal’s office. He didn’t know why – well, that’s not true, he had a guess – but he didn’t want to overthink it. Everyone was already looking at him funny. Whispering fables under their breath: That’s the kid that Stark broke Loki’s arm for. Wonder what he had to do to put Stark on a leash. Bet a little slut boy like him would put out for anyone. Shush! He belongs to Stark now. Don’t talk to him. Don’t let him hear you. He’ll sick Stark on you. Rumors were spreading. Fast. Painfully fast.

And the jacket wasn’t helping either. For a fleeting moment, the leather was comforting, but now, it just felt heavy. Yet, even as he ripped it off his shoulders, he couldn’t bring himself to leave it behind in the classroom. It was Tony’s after all. So, as Peter traveled down the hallway, he held the leather close to his chest.

The administrative office door was propped open, and the scene inside was shocking, to say the least. Sitting in a row of chairs, outside the Principal’s door, were a handful of Peter’s bullies; an annoyed Natasha, a bruised Clint, a bloodied Thor, and Loki, whose arm was tucked against his chest in a sling. Describing them as ‘pissed’ wouldn’t do their collective expressions justice, and – holy shit – did Peter want to run. But he couldn’t. So he stood by the door, clutching Tony’s jacket like a safety blanket. Awkwardly, and beneath the unsettling glares of his bullies.

As the minutes ticked by, Peter’s anxiety ran high. Principal Fury’s assistant was busy phoning a list of names – seemingly all parents arranging for their child’s pick-up. Peter wondered if he was on that list too? Did someone name him as the cause of the fight? Did Aunt May already know? God, he wanted to leave.

Then, Principal Fury’s door swung open and Tony stepped out beaming, despite the bruises on his cheek or the blood drying on his knuckles or the rip in his t-shirt. “Fury wants you next, Red,” Tony flashed the same unnerving smile as before. And, even though Natasha rolled her eyes, she still nodded to him before disappearing into the office.

Tony turned his attention to Peter next, “Hey, baby.”

Peter blushed at Tony’s nonchalant use of the pet name. He wasn’t used to it yet. In fact, he wasn’t used to Tony yet. In terms of confidence, Peter and Tony were on opposite ends of the spectrum. Tony knew what he wanted and expressed it, powerfully and without pause. Peter couldn’t even handle the pressure of wearing a jacket.

“Come out here for a sec,” Tony threw his arm around Peter’s shoulders and, despite Peter’s resistance or the protests of Fury’s assistant, he managed to lead him out of the office.

“T-Tony! Wait! S-She was upset. I should go back in.”

“She’ll get over it.” Tony shrugged and held out his hand expectantly.

“Um, right! Here you go.” Peter mumbled, glancing over the older boy’s battered hand before giving him the signature leather. “A-Are you okay? Your hands are-”

“I’m fine.” In one motion, Tony threw on the jacket. “I’m about to leave. Come with me.”

“I-I…um, but s-school isn’t- I was called-” Peter stammered, staring at Tony’s shoulders and the way they seemed broader in the leather. The jacket somehow perfected his strangely attractive – disheveled and slightly bloody – aesthetic, and Peter couldn’t look away.

“You were called? Oh – shit – I thought you were in there for something else.” Tony sighed, “Fury’s probably going to send you home too. I’m sorry.” Another rare Tony Stark apology.

“I-Is it because of the rumors?” Peter whispered, dropping his gaze to the floor.

“Rumors?” Tony’s brow raised as he placed a finger on Peter’s chin and tilted it upward to lock gazes. “What rumors?”

Peter gasped at the contact. Tony’s hand felt so warm – or maybe it was the heat flushing Peter’s face – he didn’t know, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he just let Tony touch him; let him idly drag his fingers across the length of Peter’s jaw; let him caress the underside of Peter’s chin; let him ghost his palm around the contours of Peter’s throat; anything. And judging by the satisfied grin that appeared on the older boy’s face, he was pleased with the pliant behavior.

“Don’t get distracted, baby,” Tony smirked, bringing his hand upwards to cup the side of Peter’s tinted face. “What rumors?”

Peter squeaked – yes, fucking squeaked – and who wouldn’t? Tony Stark was touching him and talking to him in that suggestive tone. And Peter didn’t think that simple touches like those could feel so good. Yet, here he was: feeling good. He took a shallow breath and answered, “P-People are saying that you- um… broke Loki’s arm for me.”

“What?” Tony’s grin fell, and so did his grip on Peter’s chin. “I did not break that bitch’s arm. He’d be in the fucking hospital by now if I did that shit.” Tony scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I just dislocated it a little, then I put it back – sometimes I don’t even do that – but trust me, if I wanted it broken, it would be broken.” Then, he paused, his eyes gleaming with a chilling excitement and the corner of his lips mischievously turning upward. “Why?” He whispered, “You want me to break it?”

Peter didn’t know how to feel. The calm way Tony said that should have alarmed him, but instead, the younger boy found himself mirroring the older’s excitement. His mind wandering through the possibilities of playing gatekeeper for Tony Stark’s ferocity. His body buzzing from its inherent power because Peter was fucking tired of being bullied in the high school cesspool. So, of course, the thought of enacting that vicious power gave him a heady kind of rush, but still, it was scary.

So Peter resisted it, shaking his head, “No, I-I don’t think that would be okay.”

“Whatever you say, baby.” Tony shrugged and shoved his hands into pockets. “But my offer stands.”

Peter gave a small nod and a hesitant, “T-Thanks.”

“Anything for you.”

Peter blushed at Tony’s casual and blind devotion. He couldn’t understand it. How this boy whom he never spoke a word to could risk himself so readily, especially if it landed him in Fury’s office.

“Wait, so if Principal Fury isn’t sending me home for the rumors, t-then why-?”

Tony let out a spiteful tsk, “Fury’s got this zero-tolerance policy for fighting. Everyone involved is going home on a day’s suspension except for you Stark. You get a week.” He dryly mocked Principal Fury’s voice.

“A week?!” Peter repeated with a gasp. “That’s terrible.”

Peter was right. It was terrible. Who would protect him from the scourge of retaliation? Sure, his bullies seemed to fall in line now – with Tony’s threatening presence ever-looming – but what happens when he leaves? Peter didn’t want to think about it.

“Y-You can’t leave for a week.” Peter’s eyes burned a little, the fear of being without Tony’s protection slowly seeping out of him and thoughts of taking Tony’s offer seeping in.

“It’s whatever. Even if I was here, I’d skip the classes.” Tony smiled, gently bumping his hand against Peter’s arm. “So, come with me. I promised to eat lunch with you after I cleaned up the trash in there.”

Peter dropped his gaze again, twiddling his thumbs as his nerves bubbled over. “I c-can’t. I w-was called and I don’t- I can’t-”

“Fine, fine, don’t make that face.” Tony brought his hand against Peter’s head, softly carding his fingers through the curls in that same soothing motion as before. “Here,” He pulled his phone from his back pocket and handed it to Peter. “Give me your number. If you get sent home, text me and I’ll come pick you up. Okay?”

“O-Okay.”

~*3*~

Just like Tony predicted, Principal Fury gave Peter a day’s suspension. Mostly because he refused to name the bad boy as the instigator of the fight, which was already a strange ask. As Peter recalled, everyone had a video of the brawl. Everyone. Even Ned and MJ sent him clips of it. Yet, according to Fury, whenever someone tried showing the school faculty the video, their device would be wiped clean by some virus called ‘JARVIS’. So, without any real evidence, Tony was safe from expulsion.

After the meeting, Fury’s assistant called Aunt May. She was upset – and rightly so – promising Peter a stern talking-to, a loss of privileges, and an early curfew for the remainder of the week. Unlike the other parents, she was too busy with work, so she told Peter to walk home and think about what you’ve done, young man. And he guiltily agreed, knowing that Tony would be driving him instead.

With a quick text, Tony was on his way; k baby, b there in 5mins.

Even the way Tony sent messages made Peter feel anxious, and that anxiety followed him down the halls, to his locker, and finally to the front of the school, where Tony was parked and waiting. His car was just like him; sleek and dressed in black with tinted windows so dark that Peter had to be inches away to see inside them. It was expensive too; low to ground, sporty with shiny chrome rims, and branded with a luxury logo Peter’s never seen before. And anybody who was anybody would know that this car was a perk of being Howard Stark’s son.

“Hey,” Tony smiled as he rolled down the passenger side window. “You getting in or what?”

Peter blinked himself out of his drifting thoughts, “Um, y-yes! Sorry,” He mumbled as he fumbled with the car door, threw his backpack into the foot space, and slid into the passenger seat with little to no grace. Noticing the warmth of the car first, the faint smell of cologne next, and Tony’s soft eyes on him last. “Your car is- um, i-it’s nice!” His voice cracked and his gaze flickered around the car, symptoms of the nerves that swarmed his body when his eyes would meet Tony’s.

“Thanks. Stole it from my dad’s garage.” Tony’s honest laughter cut through the nervous atmosphere Peter’s mind was fabricating. “So, where do you want to eat? Pick anything. Let me treat you.”

Peter blushed, his arms instinctively moving around his body in a self hug to soothe his stress. “You don’t have to do that.” He whispered, shaking his head. “You already did a lot for me today, and I- um, I want to treat y-you!”

“Wow, Parker,” Tony raised his brow but grinned, “You want to treat me?”

“Yes,” As Peter’s anxiety eased, his words became clearer. “Anything you want – well, maybe not anything – I guess anything under thirty dollars would work. What would you like?”

Tony let out a light huff of breath that ended in a sly grin that was nothing if not suggestive. “I can think of a lot of things that I’d want from you, baby.”

Tony’s confidence was showing and, just like that, Peter’s stutter was back and paired with tinted cheeks and bashful eyes. His brain processed the flirting but left him without a coherent output, so he settled for a frantic and embarrassing, “I-I-I…um- I- w-what?”

“I can show you exactly what later.” Tony ended it there, seemingly changing the subject for Peter’s sake, but his flirty smile remained. “Let’s just grab some pizza and head to yours. That okay?”

“Y-You want to come over to m-my place?” Peter’s grip tightened at his sides as he rambled. “You wouldn’t like it- I mean, my room isn’t- I’m sort of a nerd, so- No one really comes over, except for Ned and MJ, but they know- I just- I don’t know if you would-”

“Peter.” The smooth way Peter’s name fell from Tony’s lips was enough to silence his apprehensive chatter, but the eye contact was what did him in. “Is that okay?” Tony repeated.

Peter nodded, “O-Okay, yes, but y-you have to leave before seven.”

“Yes, sir,” Tony jokingly said as he revved the engine and pulled away from the school. “But why seven?”

“Oh, um…my Aunt May will be home by then.” Peter sighed. “And she’s pretty upset, so I shouldn’t have company.”

Tony audibly tsked, “Why is she upset? It’s not like you did anything.”

“I got suspended,” Peter stressed, crossing his arms and averting his eyes. “I’ve never been suspended before, especially not for being a part of a fight.”

“Oh, sorry,” Tony quietly said as he clutched at the wheel, keeping his eyes trained on the road. “You mad?”

“No, not really,” Peter shook his head. “Aunt May is mad – and I’m definitely going to get an ear full – but it was worth it. I think.” He explained, “Seeing you fight was- um, it was really cool, like watching a boxing match or something. You seem trained.”

Tony nodded, “Yeah, I kind of have to be.”

“For fights?” Peter questioned, his eyes drifting across the older boy’s scabbing knuckles.

“Yeah, my old man made me take up boxing when I was young.”

“He made you? Did you not want to?”

“It’s not that,” Tony shrugged, ending the conversation like Peter stepped on his toes.

Then, they drove in silence. An awkward and deafening kind of silence – filled with the hum of Tony’s engine and whoosh of the passing scenery – but deafening nonetheless. Tony seemed off, his lips pressed in a hard line and his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The peeved energy radiating off the older boy made Peter feel tense like he was a sweater fraying at the seams. And, despite his best efforts, Peter couldn’t stop the way his body shook underneath that nerve-inducing pressure.

Until Tony clicked on the radio, that is.

Sounds of high tempo drumming, shredding guitars, and strong voices overtook the silence. It was rock ‘n’ roll, and it brought out a silly side of Tony that Peter didn’t expect. As they swerved through traffic, the older boy confidently belted out every lyric, passionately singing at the top of his lungs with a bright smile. Headbanging with each beat, turning to sing to Peter at every red light. One hand atop the steering wheel and the other emphasizing the emotion of the song through a mixture of air-guitar strums, fist pumps, and rhythmic taps on the center console. Needless to say, Peter was sent into a fit of laughter that melted his tension into nothing.

“What?” Tony laughed too. “You don’t like my music, baby?”

“I like it.” Peter blushed and shook his head,  “Led Zeppelin is amazing.”

“Okay, excuse you, we respect AC/DC in this car.” Tony grinned, “I hope your pizza tastes are better than your music knowledge.”

~*4*~

As Tony parked the car, Peter’s heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest. He wasn’t nervous at the pizza place, where Tony’s arm was draped over his shoulders as they ordered, or during the ride here, where Tony’s hand found its way to Peter’s knee. Yet, something about being outside his apartment building forced Tony’s earlier words to the forefront of Peter’s frazzled mind.

I can show you exactly what later.

With something like that hanging in the space between them, Peter didn’t know what to expect.

The smell of Tony’s cologne intensifying snapped Peter from his thoughts. The older boy pulled his key from the ignition and leaned across Peter to grab a cigarette pack from the glove compartment  – and wow, he smells amazing, Peter thought as Tony hopped out of the car. The slam of the door prompting Peter to hastily scramble out of the car as well. He gripped his backpack against his chest with one arm and cradled the pizza box with the other, stepping out into the cool air.

“So, um, this is my apartment building.” Peter’s voice squeaked and he hated it.

“I see that,” Tony smirked, pulling a plastic lighter from his pocket to light a cigarette. “I’ll save my applause for the actual apartment.”

“R-Right.” Peter watched as Tony leaned against the brick of the building. He was handsome, even when inhaling death and sporting bloodied knuckles and torn shirt. “Um…T-Tony?”

“Yeah?” Tony asked as he exhaled a puff of smoke that quickly dissipated in the space around him.

“I- um, what do- are we- why did-” Peter mumbled, his mind cycling through mountains of questions he wanted to be answered but finally settling on, “Why me?”

“What?” Tony gave a perplexed smile as he took another drag and blew it from the corner of his mouth. “I told you already,” Tony took a final inhale of smoke, before flicking the cigarette against the concrete and exhaling a gray, “I like you.”

“B-But why?” Peter pushed.

“Does it matter?” Tony shrugged as he entered the building, stopping to hold the door for Peter, who frantically scurried inside.

“I-I think it does,” Peter added as he led Tony upstairs and down the hall, stopping by his apartment door to reach for his key, but he couldn’t quite reach it with a backpack and a pizza box to hold. “You said I’m yours but-”

Without warning, Tony dipped his hand into Peter’s pocket, slowly and with a gentle drag against Peter’s thigh. The younger flinched, the unexpected contact effectively interrupting all trains of thought, save for the one in charge of his blushing cheeks, and hitching breath, and tensing muscles. And those feelings only intensified as Tony hooked the keyring but left his hand lingering. Using a gentle touch to caress through the pocket’s thin inner fabric and stepping closer, pressing the warmth of his body against Peter’s back.

“You looked like you were having a tough time there, Parker.” Tony’s voice was close enough that his scent of smoke filled Peter’s senses. “Here, let me.” And, as Tony pulled the keyring out and unlocked the door, all Peter could do was grip his backpack a bit tighter and will himself back to a semblance of calm.

“Now,” Tony flashed a knowing grin. “What were you saying, sweetheart?”

And Peter simply shook his head because – fuck – being called sweetheart shouldn’t make his heart do that and it certainly shouldn’t make his dick do that. “N-Nothing, come in.” He whispered and practically dashed into the apartment, distancing himself from the captivating warmth of Tony’s chest.

The apartment was homey; perfectly sized for two with coffee table clutter, arrays of family photos adorning the walls, and faint aromatic remnants of Aunt May’s morning coffee and Peter’s accidentally burnt toast. To Peter, it was warm and familiar, but today, it lacked those relaxing effects because of one curious bad boy’s eyes surveying the space.

Peter placed the pizza box against the dining table, fetched two plates from the kitchen cabinet, and settled in a chair. “So…um- this is the apartment.”

“It’s nice,” Tony said as he gestured towards the photo wall. “My old man hates that kind of stuff.”

“Family photos? Same.” Peter smiled, a light laugh escaping his lips. “May refuses to take those down.”

Tony shrugged as he slid into a chair. “They’re not that bad. That one of you at the science fair is pretty cute.”

“Oh god, not the science fair one. ” Peter mumbled, tipping his face into his hands, hiding his embarrassment. “I looked so terrible that day. No one told me that my hair was sticking up like that.”

“The hair is the best part.” Tony laughed and flicked open the pizza box, grabbing a slice and slumping against the back of the chair.

“Okay, that’s enough about me,” Peter grabbed a slice as well, taking a tiny bite before continuing, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I d-don’t know.” Peter glanced at the photos again. “Have you ever done a science fair?”

Tony shook his head, “No, my old man says those are for kids that want to be placated by science, not challenged.”

“Ouch,” Peter jokingly remarked. “I’ve done the science fair every year since elementary.”

Tony laughed, “I’m unsurprised.”

“H-Hey!” Peter giggled. “At least I was doing something. What were you doing?”

“Nothing much,” Tony took a bite of his pizza and fixed his gaze on the floor. “My old man taught me lab stuff, I guess.”

“Lab stuff?”

“Yeah, like coding and shit.” Tony shrugged, “I don’t really talk about it.”

“Coding?” Suddenly, something clicked in Peter’s mind. “Did you code the JARVIS virus that Fury was talking about?”

“Virus?” Tony glanced up. “Is that what Fury called him?”

“Him?”

“Yes, him.” Tony rolled his eyes, but his expression beamed. “JARVIS is my AI.”

“That helps you not get expelled?” Peter smirked.

“He can do way more than that.”

And their conversation traveled from there. Over pizza slices, connecting on nerdy topics like programming JARVIS and the processing power of the Stark lab’s computer. And Peter, knowing the extent of Tony’s truant record, was pleasantly surprised by the bad boy’s brilliance. As their chat shifted to Tony’s delinquency, he talked fights, and scars, and riveting stories involving police stations. Then they tripped through favorite video games, books, TV shows, and movies. Peter explained why lego movies are worth the watch and Tony teased but promised to watch it with him but only if we’re eating popcorn and under a blanket, baby.

It ended once the clock hit five and the pizza box went empty and Peter’s homework could no longer wait.

“That’s fine.” Tony stood, grabbing the empty box and their two plates. “I’ve got this. Go start your homework.”

Peter nodded with a smile, “Thanks.” He grabbed his backpack and started toward his room, but panicked once he opened the door. The realization that Tony Stark would soon be in there hitting his peace of mind like a nuclear bomb. He threw his bag against his desk and tornado-ed around his room, cleaning up his embarrassment one neglected pair of floor boxers at a time. He didn’t need Tony seeing that picture of him at summer camp and he was sure his stuffed bear would forgive him for throwing it into the closet.

“Hey, I left the pizza box by the door, I’ll take it out when I leave so your aunt doesn’t suspect anything- what are you doing?” Tony paused in the doorway, shooting Peter a raised brow and an amused grin.

“H-Homework, obviously.” Peter nervously said as he shut his closet door and awkwardly crossed the room to sit at his desk.

“Is that right?” Tony repeated with crossed arms as he approached Peter, stopping just behind his chair. “Your desk looks awfully empty, baby.”

Peter shook his head, frantically grabbing notebooks from his backpack and placing them onto the desk. “I-It looks fine to me.”

“Sure, Parker.” Tony laughed and leaned forward to drape his arms over Peter’s shoulders, hugging him from behind. “Whatever you say.”

Peter flinched at the sudden closeness, his mind flashing back to his previous concerns about the speed of Tony’s affection. “Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“E-Earlier, I was saying that…um- you said that I’m yours, but what-”

“Peter, I like you.” Tony interrupted, gently tightening his embrace. “Simple as that. I fell for you today, and yes, it was fast – really fucking fast, I get it – but the point is that I fell.” He ended his sentiment with a swift kiss to Peter’s cheek. “Focus on that, baby.”

Peter cursed his body for its constant blushing and quickened heartbeats, but he smiled anyway. “O-Okay.”

After that, Peter did his homework in peace, while Tony resigned himself to the comfort of Peter’s bed, falling into a nap that lasted until the clock hit seven; lasted until Peter was whispering his name to ease him awake; lasted until they were hugging to say goodbye.

I had a great day today, Tony.

Me too, baby.

~*5*~

“I am so disappointed in you, Peter,” May shook her head as she stepped into her work shoes by the front door. This was her fourth parental lecture since yesterday night and it featured all the same points: Fighting? Really, Peter? Really? You’re lucky you got off with only one day of suspension. What were you thinking? You know better than this. No leaving this apartment, understand? I want you to do your chores and your homework and think about what you’ve done, young man.

“I know, May.” Peter nodded. “I messed up. It won’t happen again.”

“It better not.” May sighed, giving Peter a sympathetic smile as she pulled him into a tight hug. “Love you, and I’ll see you after work, okay?”

“Okay, love you too.”

With that, Peter was alone and turning around to head back into his room – resign himself to his punishments, do homework, think about what he’s done – but then, there was a knock. And, like any normal teenager, he squinted at the door as if it was his one true adversary, cautiously stalking towards it to peek through the peephole. Surprised to see, standing just beyond the threshold, a leather-clad Tony Stark.

Peter swung the door open, “W-What are you doing here?”

“Happy suspension day. This is a kidnapping.” Tony smirked, stepping forward to lean against the doorway. “Get your shoes, Parker.”

“My shoes?” Peter stared incredulously at the bad boy. “Tony, I have stuff to do- I can’t go anywhere- I-”

“Did you miss the part about the kidnapping?” Tony brought his hand up against Peter’s chin. “I’ll take you even if you don’t get the shoes, baby.”

Peter rolled his eyes but couldn’t hold back the smile that tugged at his lips or the feelings that tugged at his heartstrings. “O-Okay, hold on.” He ran into his room, donning shoes and a warm baggy sweatshirt. He didn’t know where they were going – with Tony, it could be anywhere – but that was part of his bad boy charm.

“I got shoes,” Peter announced as he sauntered out of his room and back towards the front door. “Now, where are we going?”

“Kidnapped people don’t get those kinds of privileges.” Tony smiled, watching as Peter locked the front door before throwing his arm around his shoulders. “Just follow me.”

Peter let Tony guide him out of the building and to a car he didn’t recognize. A gray sedan with chrome rims and, when the front windows rolled down, it revealed a car filled with people he didn’t recognize either.

They were all teens but not from Tony and Peter’s school. They seemed different; richer. The guy in the driver’s seat was burly with a letterman jacket and an innocent face. The girl in the passenger seat had a perfectly pony-tailed updo and air of class that matched her cashmere sweater. The taller boy in the back was a lot like Tony, sporting a leather jacket and an inherent coolness that made his smile seem sly. The shorter boy wore glasses and a plaid button-up that reminded Peter of himself.

“Took you long enough.”

“And I’ll take longer next time if you keep that up, Happy.” Tony laughed as he opened the backseat door and slid in, motioning for Peter to sit on his lap.

“Y-Your lap?” As per usual, Peter’s voice cracked under pressure.

“Hurry up, new kid, either you sit there or I do.” The glasses-wearing boy spoke with a seriousness that compelled Peter not to dwell.

Peter scooted onto Tony’s lap and he angled himself so that his legs sat between Tony’s and his back was slightly turned towards the door. He tried his best to position himself – modestly? – and prevent any accidental touches, but then Tony’s arms were around his waist and pulling him closer.

“Happy tends to drive a little crazy,” Tony whispered, his voice only inches from Peter’s ear. “So I’ve got you.”

“O-Okay,” Peter blushed as he leaned against Tony’s chest, easing against the warmth and slowly inhaling the fresh shampoo scent wafting from his hair.

“So, are you going to introduce us or should we fend for ourselves here?” The boy with the sly smile spoke.

Tony laughed, “Peter, this is Happy, Pepper, Rhodey, and Bruce.”

“Did he kidnap you all too?” Peter jokingly remarked.

“Basically,” Bruce joined the jest. “A suspension for one is a skip day for all.”

“A Tony Stark creed,” Rhodey said and Pepper readily agreed, saying, “Did you know the T in Tony is the same as the T in Truancy?”

Peter giggled, “Is that true, Tony?”

“No,” Tony smirked, giving Peter a light squeeze that made the younger boy giggle. “They just like me so much that they flock to me. Anything else they say is a lie.”

And as Happy drove, there was more laughter, and faces brimming with smiles, and lighthearted jokes thrown back and forth. It was easy for Peter to find comfort in this space, even while sitting in Tony’s lap. In fact, by the end of the drive, he was leaning against Tony like he belonged there; like sitting in his lap was second nature.

Peter peeked out the window as Happy parked the car. “The park?”

“Best place to loiter,” Tony said as he opened the door. “And smoke.”

“Oh god, remember when we smoked in your dad’s lab?” Bruce rolled his eyes as he hopped out of the car with the others following suit. “That did not go over well.”

Tony shrugged. “Better than how shit with him usually goes.”

Peter tugged on Tony’s sleeve and whispered, “You two were smoking in the lab?”

“Tony!” Pepper gasped, “You didn’t tell him?”

“Full disclosure, new kid,” Bruce smiled as he pulled a vape from his pocket.  “Me and Tony used to fuck – he’s got grade A dick, just so you know.”

Tony laughed and Pepper rolled her eyes. “I’m not as eloquent as Bruce, but Tony and I also used to date.” She pushed at Tony’s arm, “Tony should have told you before dragging you out with us.”

And Peter tried to play it cool. All shrugs and nonchalant expressions of how fine with it he was. Yet, as they began walking the path through the park, he couldn’t stop his mind from playing the comparison game. Pepper was beautiful – beyond beautiful – with long legs, poise, and an immaculate style that made Peter feel self-conscious his baggy sweatshirt. When it came to Bruce, confidence was in endless supply. He was shameless and, after just one conversation, Peter also found out how insanely smart he was. So, needless to say, Peter was feeling pretty low in the self-esteem department.

But leave it to Tony to turn that low into a high. “Walk with me?” He asked, but wasted no time in gathering Peter’s hand in his own. “You seem quiet now. Are the trees not doing it for you?”

“It’s not that. The park’s nice,” Peter shook his head and gently squeezed Tony’s hand. “I’m just too nervous for my own good, I guess.”

“That’s part of your charm, baby.”

Peter smiled, “I-I’m sure you’re just saying that, but thanks.”

“I mean it,” Tony brushed their shoulders together. “But there’s something else, isn’t there?”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “I-Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” Tony explained. “You made a similar face yesterday too. So what’s wrong?” He smirked, the same dark and mischievous smirk as before. “Do I need to put someone in their place?”

“No, I’ll be fine.” Peter laughed and moved to walk closer to Tony. “But um…actually, now that you mention it, can you drop me off at school this week?”

“Sure, not like I’m doing anything. Why?”

“Safety?” Peter shrugged. “I think people might do something to me if you’re not there.”

“Oh fuck, right. I didn’t think about that. Hold up,” He stopped on the path, letting the others walk ahead as he pulled off his jacket and draped it over Peter’s shoulders. “Here,” Tony smiled and cupped Peter’s face in his hands. “Wear this and no one will fuck with you and, if they do, I’ll kill ‘em.”

Peter smiled, but before he could say anything, Tony was leaning in – and holy shit, it was a kiss lean! He panicked and squeezed his eyes shut, his nerves erupting as Tony’s smell got closer and closer and – oh – he kissed his forehead.

The moment was sweet, but quickly soured a random passerby who felt the need to yell faggots!

“The fuck did you just say?!” Tony went from zero to beyond one hundred, snapping on the random man without a second thought.

“You heard me.” The man challenged, “What are you going to do about, huh?”

And things happened fast. Too fast for Peter to process. One moment, the man was standing and the next, he wasn’t and Tony’s fist was the culprit. Again, it was an outburst of violence that left Peter not knowing how to feel.

“Tony!” Peter gasped and reached his hand out, grabbing at the fabric of the bad boy’s shirt in a weak attempt at holding him back. “S-Stop it!” He shakily said, watching Tony carefully as the man scrambled to his feet, running off as Happy and Bruce jogged back over.

“What happened?” Bruce asked, his face full of concern.

“Tony hit him,” Peter whispered as he slowly let go of Tony’s shirt.

And, before anyone could get another word in, Tony was walking off, fuming like a smoking gun that failed to kill its target.

“Tony, man, wait up!” Happy ran after him.

“Don’t mind him. He’s always like that.” Bruce bumped his shoulder against Peter’s. “Either you get used to it or you end up like me and Pep.”

“I don’t want that,” Peter whispered, his eyes locked on Tony and his fingers fiddling with the hem of the leather jacket.

“Don’t want what?” Bruce raised his brow. “To deal with Tony’s anger issues? Same.”

“N-No! Not that.” Peter shot Bruce a stern glance. “I don’t want to be like you and Pepper.”

“Oh, wow! Okay.” Bruce laughed, harder than he has all day. “I can see why Tony likes you.”

“At least one of us does.” Peter trained his gaze on the floor. “I still don’t understand why Tony likes me.”

Bruce shook his head, “Tony is fucking unhinged. He’s a vicious fighter; a delinquent through and through, but he’s also sweet and uncomplicated. If you’ve given him the space to be anything other than, well, that,” He paused, gesturing over to Tony, who was slumped against a park bench with a cigarette perched between his lips. “Then he’ll like you. ”

“What do you mean?”

“All Tony cares about is being understood, and if you’ve given him that, he’ll protect you. Violently protect you..” Bruce placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “The question is whether or not you can handle that violence.”

“He’s not that violent.” Peter pulled his shoulder away, stepping back, his voice becoming taut. “He protected me. He stood up for me.”

“Look, Tony empathizes with people who can’t fight back.” Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “And sure, at first, you feel like he fights to protect you; to keep all the bad shit away; to stop bullies, but then he goes too far. He loses control and expects you to be his limiter. He wants you to be the one who tells him when to stop and when to go, when to hurt people and when to spare them. I couldn’t deal with that shit and, after everything that happened with Justin, Pepper couldn’t deal either.”

“Justin?”

“Yeah, Justin Hammer, the kid Tony put in the hospital.” Bruce sighed, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the rest of the group were out of earshot before continuing. “Long story short: Justin used to hang out with us but, during some party, he touched Pepper while she was drunk. Pep cried about it and Tony lost it. The next day, he broke both of Justin’s arms, fractured a few ribs, and left blood and bruises everywhere else.”

Peter crossed his arms and spoke under his breath, “Sounds like Justin deserved it.”

Bruce audibly tsked and flashed a knowing look. “That’s why Tony likes you.”

And Peter didn’t know how to feel.

~*6*~

The school day was always the same for Peter – bus, class, lunch, class, bus – and peppered in there was always a good dash of bullying.

But not today.

No, today, he wore Tony’s jacket. It was big on him; the sleeves covered his hands completely, save for his fingertips that peeked out the bottom when his arms were at his sides. The black leather contrasted with his blue jeans and his plaid button-up, but today, he wore it confidently because it was Tony’s way of protecting him.

From the moment Peter got off the bus, the jacket was like a force field. Not only preventing the usual teasing and ridicule from the nameless students but also managing to stop repeat offenders like Flash, who glared at him like he was going to say something but turned the other way instead.

And, with the power of the jacket, came the slight ego boost. The unbothered gait into the school, the comfortable smile as he forged the crowded hallways, the lack of fear, even as he rounded the corner to find Sam and Bucky standing at his locker. They made eye contact and gestured for him to come over and, on a regular day, Peter would probably run and hide; try his best to avoid his locker until absolutely necessary.

But, again, not today.

Today, Peter strolled over to his locker without even an ounce of worry – well, his hands were trembling in his pockets and he was already biting the inside of his lip – but he liked to think he was projecting a calm demeanor. “Yes?” Peter spoke softly, trying to keep his voice steady.

“We wanted to…um-” Bucky looked to Sam.

“To say sorry for everything.” Sam finished Bucky’s sentiment. “And, if you’re interested-”

“Steve is having a party at his house on Friday night.” Bucky chimed in with a smile.

Sam nodded, “And you’re invited, Parker.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. He was invited to a Steve Rogers party? Him; a nerdy, skittish, bullied nobody, who could only ever dream of being cool enough to go to a fucking Steve – famously popular quarterback – Rogers party. Like what the fuck?

“Really? M-Me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answered, lightly chuckling at Peter’s reaction. “You can bring a friend too if you’d like.”

“You in?” Sam asked.

Peter nodded, his eyes still wide with disbelief but his mind chalking it up to the power of the jacket. “Yeah, I’ll… um- I’ll be there.”

“Great, see you later, Peter.” Bucky waved as he and Sam disappeared down the crowded hallway.

“Okay, but are you actually going?” It was MJ, leaning against the lockers with crossed arms and a doubtful stare.

“MJ!” Peter flinched at her sudden appearance. “You have to stop sneaking up on me like that.”

“Like this!” Ned screamed, making Peter flinch even harder. This time he dropped his textbook and clumsily spun on his heel to face the source of his terror, and it threw MJ into a fit of laughter.

“Dude!” Peter exclaimed with a big smile.

“Sorry, couldn’t help it.” Ned grabbed the dropped book and glanced at MJ. “So, what are we scaring Peter for?”

“He got invited to a party full of assholes.” MJ pointedly said. “And he said he’s going.”

“A party?” Ned raised his brow, ignoring MJ’s concerns and shooting his best friend an excited look. “What party?”

“A Steve Rogers party.” Peter excitedly whispered.

“Dude!” Ned’s jaw dropped, “That jacket must be magic. Can I borrow it for the Calc test today?”

MJ rolled her eyes, “You guys are unbelievable.”

~*7*~

“Steve invited me to a party.” Peter rolled against the carpet, propping his head up against his arm and glancing up from his textbook. “It’s on Friday night.”

“Rogers did?” Tony asked, shifting against the sheets, peeking off the edge of the bed at Peter. “You going?”

“I think so,” Peter smiled up at Tony, idly fiddling with the pages of his notebook. “B-But I don’t want to go by myself.”

Tony smiled back, “Are you asking me out on a date, baby?”

“N-No,” Peter blushed. “Maybe.”

Tony smirked, “Well, I’ve got a thing on Friday night.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, my old man is holding this fucking investor event at our house. I’m not trying to piss him off,” Tony sighed. “So I can’t miss it, but I’ll show up at Rogers’ place after.”

“Okay,” Peter shrugged, “We can just meet each other there.”

“Just don’t get too drunk without me.” Tony laughed and sat up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. “Are you done with your work yet? We should play some video games or something before your aunt gets back.”

“You know I can’t.” Peter lifted his notebook. “I have to finish this.”

“Let me see.” Tony tapped the bed beside him.

“It’s this one.” Peter shifted up onto his knees and put his notebook on the bed. “I’ve checked it over and over and I can’t-”

“You rounded wrong here.” Tony pointed at the paper. “Take the ceiling, not the floor.”

“Oh?” Peter squinted, his eyes scanning across his work. “Oh! That’s it! How did I miss that?” He smiled, fixing his mistake and looking back up to Tony. “Wait, can you help with this one too?”

“I mean, that’s just all wrong. Give me that.” Tony grabbed the pencil and started making corrections. “You need to make sure you use the right function here and don’t forget the extra square on this one.”

Peter laughed, “I’ve been stuck on these for hours and you finished them in two minutes.”

“It’s whatever.”

“It’s not whatever. I really appreciate it.” Peter smiled, “I think smart Tony is the coolest Tony.”

“As opposed to what?”

“Naps-all-afternoon Tony?” Peter joked but gazed up at Tony with a look of concern. “Why are you always so sleepy?”

“I don’t sleep well at home.”

“Why not?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tony whispered as he brought his hand against Peter’s cheek. “I just sleep better here.” His hand moved to Peter’s chin, drawing a slow line from the spot just below Peter’s lip to the hollow of his collarbone. “Because the bed smells like you.”

“Tony,” Peter gasped, realizing too late what kind of position they were in. He was on his knees, and if he inched sideways, he would be between Tony’s legs. His face went hot and, judging by the smile that worked its way to Tony’s lips, his blush was apparent.

“Yes, baby?” Tony’s voice was full of tease as he brought his hand back up to gently tap his fingertip against Peter’s bottom lip. “You want something?”

“I- um…I-” Peter froze, watching with bewildered eyes as Tony leaned in – yet another kiss lean! So Peter instinctively tensed, his eyes flickering shut as his nerves took hold of his reactions once again.

And Tony stopped just before their lips touched.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Tony whispered, shifting upward to press a quick kiss on Peter’s forehead before pulling away. “Here,” Tony grabbed the pencil again. “I’ll help you with the rest of this and then we can play some games. Deal?”

“Deal.”

~*8*~

The next day was different.

Tony was quieter – angrier? – Peter couldn’t tell, but he knew it had to be caused by the small bruise darkening on Tony’s cheekbone. It was a rare sight; a mark on the face of the undefeated bad boy. And Peter wanted to ask about it, wanted to know if Tony was okay, but the silence was suffocating. In the car, the older boy didn’t say a word – no playful flirting, no rock ‘n’ roll jam session – just silence. So, Peter followed suit, letting his nerves go wild as they made their way to his apartment.

As usual, once Tony parked, he reached for his pack of cigarettes and got out of the car. Peter hastily made his own exit, keeping his eyes trained on Tony’s expression. The older boy wasn’t just quiet, he was outright irritable. That was made clear by the scowl twisting on his face. He was clumsier too, and frustrated with the smallest things, like accidentally dropping a cigarette into a sidewalk puddle or his cheap lighter refusing to spark. He was all huffs and grumbles and refused to say a word.

With a new cigarette perched between his lips, Tony furiously pulled at the spark-wheel. Once, twice, three times, but it just didn’t catch. Peter wanted to say that Tony could smoke in the apartment – Aunt May was bound to have a lighter sitting around somewhere – but the Tony’s furrowed brow and waning patience was just as suffocating as his silence.

So, again, Peter remained silent.

It was only after what seemed like the thousandth, or millionth, flick of the wheel that Tony finally spoke, or rather yelled. “Fuck it!” He exclaimed as he spiked the lighter against the sidewalk with enough force to shatter the plastic. The outburst made Peter’s shoulders jump and his gaze drop to the concrete.

“Let’s go,” Tony mumbled, paying Peter no mind and stuffing the cigarette back into the pack before stomping his way into the building.

This part was also very different. He didn’t hold the door for Peter. He didn’t pester Peter about having fun before studying. No video games, no TV, not even one of those intimate chats he loved so much. He just went right into Peter’s room, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed against the middle of the bed.

For a short while, Peter didn’t bother him. He sat at his desk, pulled out his notebooks, his laptop, and textbook, and started his homework. Yet, he couldn’t finish the first problem, or the second, or the third. His brain refused to focus because it was tethered to everything happening with Tony. All of the older boy’s sighs, the soft clicks of his tongue, the shuffle of his leather jacket against the covers as he tossed and turned. And, while Peter still couldn’t find the courage to speak, he couldn’t keep doing nothing either.

Tony needed him, so the homework could wait.

Peter slowly stood from his chair, careful to keep it from making noise as he approached the grumbling mess on his bed. His nerves were screaming, and his heart was beating so fast and so loud that he could hear it in his ears. And his hands were shaky, and his throat felt tight, and his mind taunted him with replays of Tony’s standoffish behavior; the silence, the irritability, the sudden outburst.

Yet, despite all that, Peter still scooted up onto the bed, sitting just below the pillows with the side of his thigh only an inch away from Tony’s hair. And wow – Tony’s hair – Peter has never touched it before, but he found himself instinctively carding his fingers through it. Gentle and soothing pats, just like Tony does to him.

And Peter watched with wary eyes as Tony flinched but immediately settled into the touch. That wordless way of relaxing was all the encouragement Peter needed. So, he continued, rhythmically dragging his fingers through the short locks and smiling as the older boy moved to rest the back of his head in Peter’s lap.

Peter kept his right hand in Tony’s hair, but placed his left against the older boy’s chest, idly drawing circles on his t-shirt. The moment was long, but Peter didn’t mind. He continued until Tony’s eyes were closed, and his brow wasn’t furrowed, and his scowl had gone away.

Then, Peter found his voice. “What happened?” He softly whispered, gently skimming his fingertips across Tony’s bruised cheekbone.

The question made Tony’s brow knit, but the soft caress of Peter’s hands relaxed it away. “My old man.” He paused, letting out another sigh, “He found out about the fucking suspension and the fight and he-” Again, Tony paused. “He just did what he always does.”

“What?” Peter’s eyes started to sting and his hands started to tremble, as did his breath, “Y-Your dad did this to you?” He could barely get the words out. His mind was bombarded with flashes of every moment where Tony avoided questions about his dad and his time at home. How could Peter miss those signs?

My old man made me take up boxing when I was young. My old man hates that kind of stuff. No, my old man says those are for kids that want to be placated by science, not challenged. Better than how shit with him usually goes. Yeah, my old man is holding this fucking investor event at our house. I’m not trying to piss him off. I don’t sleep well at home.

And it was too much, so Peter cried.

“Hey, don’t cry, baby.” Tony finally opened his eyes, staring into Peter’s teary ones and reaching up to castaway the wetness trickling down his cheeks.

“B-But he- To you, he-” Peter tried to hold back his sobs, biting the inside of his lip and training his eyes on the ceiling to prevent more waterworks. He was supposed to be comforting Tony, not the other way around. “It’s w-wrong. That he d-did this to you.”

“I know,” Tony hummed.

“He’s- He’s your dad. He should never do that.”

“I know.” Tony grabbed Peter’s hand, intertwining their fingers.

“He’s supposed to care about you! He’s-!”

“I know.” Tony lifted Peter’s hand and pressed a kiss against it. “But it’s okay. Don’t cry about it. I don’t even cry about it.”

“Tony, that’s-” Peter shook his head. “Then I’ll cry for you.”

“Peter-”

“It’s okay to be scared, Tony,” Peter whispered.

“I- yeah, I know.” Tony nodded, gently squeezing Peter’s hand. “Thank you, baby, but let’s not talk about that right now.” And, for the first time today, he grinned. His voice was less somber; less grumbly; less full of frustrated huffs. Instead, it was more Tony or, rather, more flirty. “I don’t want to kill this mood.”

“This mood?” Peter let out a small breathy laugh and sniffled, “I’m ugly crying, and you’ve been quiet and angry all day. There is no mood.”

“Yeah, I know, but-” Tony paused, seemingly struggling to find the right words. “It’s just- you’re touching me and you don’t usually do that, so-” Tony laughed too, and it was just as breathy as Peter’s. “I’m – fuck, I don’t know – I guess I’m just excited?”

“Excited?” Peter repeated, and Tony answered by gesturing to the front of his jeans, where a clear bulge had formed in the black denim, right beneath the zipper.

Peter’s face went hot, and he stopped his touches because, suddenly, he was attuned to the mood as well. Not only that, but his mind – the same one that secretly admired Tony’s eyes, and Tony’s lips, and Tony’s broad shoulders, and Tony’s smell, and Tony’s everything – yeah, that mind – it made Peter’s own excitement start to stiffen. After all, he was alone in his bedroom – on! his! bed! – with Tony Stark and, fuck, he couldn’t stop glancing at Tony’s zipper. “I- You- You’re-?” Peter stuttered.

“Yeah,” Tony’s voice was more hesitant than usual. “Is that- I mean, are you… okay with it?”

Peter nodded, his flushed face getting redder with each little dip of his chin, “Y-Yes.”

“You sure?” Tony asked again, and Peter nodded again. His big brown eyes darting to his desk, and to his dorky posters, and to his messy bookshelf, and to literally anything else because any spare glance at Tony made his nerves erupt beyond his control.

Tony smiled as he sat up, moving to sit beside Peter and leaning so their shoulders brushed against each other. “I know you get nervous around me.”

“What?” Peter’s voice squeaked. “N-No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. So I’m just going to ask this time.” Tony gave a slight laugh – a nervous laugh, really – as he ran a hand through his short hair and made a look Peter could only describe as cautiously eager. “Can I kiss you, Peter? On your lips this time.”

And, again, Peter nodded because his words never worked when he wanted them to. His body was a bashful, shaky mess, but he was also excited so he shifted against the bed, facing Tony before closing his eyes. And he gasped when Tony’s hand cupped his face and gently caressed the space beneath his ear. And he couldn’t see when Tony leaned in, but he could feel the heated closeness and the warm breath tickling his lips and soft bump of Tony’s nose against his own. He could feel the way Tony angled their heads, each slightly tilted to the right. He could feel the experimental brush of Tony’s lips against his own, so Peter pushed, pressing their lips together in a tender first kiss.

It was sweet, not too wet or too dry, and full of emotion that could make hearts hurt. Peter could tell that Tony had kissed before because, when Peter thought it was time to pull away, Tony deepened. Sucking on Peter’s bottom lip, coaxing his lips apart. This was wetter, Peter thought, but he didn’t hate it. No, in fact, that earlier excitement was now fully hardened and pressing uncomfortably against his jeans. And the way Tony kissed him – now confident and brimming with passion – it didn’t help.

Then, Tony licked into Peter’s mouth, and Peter had to catch a sound in his throat. He didn’t know what the sound was – a moan, a whine, or, oh god, was it a mewl? – whatever it was, he stopped it. There was no way he was going to make needy sounds in front of Tony. He would die of embarrassment, he was convinced, but – fuck – Tony’s other hand was against his thigh now.

So Peter had to stifle another sound – multiple sounds, actually – as Tony’s hand slowly trailed upward. Dragging his fingertips against Peter’s inner thigh and stopping just before Peter’s zipper.

That’s when Tony broke the kiss.

Peter’s head was reeling, and his breaths were heavy because breathing while kissing was oddly difficult. And his face was all but boiling under his endless nerves, and the intensity of Tony’s gaze, and the arousal that bubbled at his core.

“Can I touch you here, baby?” Tony whispered against Peter’s lips. His fingertips grazing Peter’s smooth cheek as he squeezed the inside of his thigh.

And the sultry way that pet name rolled off the bad boy’s tongue sent a wave of goosebumps across Peter’s skin. It was all too much for the younger boy to handle – the kisses, the whispers, the touches – so, he gave in to his urges. “Yes,” Peter whined, all needy and high-pitched as he gripped at the bottom of Tony’s jacket like a lifeline.

“Wow, are those sounds for me, baby?” Tony playfully grinned, and pressed his hand against Peter’s zipper, happily watching the younger boy squirm beneath the touch.

Peter gasped, his body instinctively tensing at the spark of pleasure that rushed his senses. Sure, there were two layers of clothes between Tony’s hand and Peter’s budding erection, but it still felt amazing. He nodded as a desperate Mhmm fell from his lips and he used all his willpower to keep his hips from grinding up against Tony’s hand. “Tony,” Peter moaned, his half-lidded gaze bouncing between Tony’s hand and Tony’s lips.

Then, they were kissing again. It was deeper; eager; hotter and somehow, Peter found himself being pushed down by the strength of Tony’s hold. His back fell against the sheets and Tony hovered above him. Their mouths unbreaking as Tony’s hand worked at Peter’s jean button, and then his zipper, and soon, Tony was tugging at the waist of the denim.

The sensation of Tony’s trail of kisses from his mouth to his neck was one thing, but thoughts of Tony’s hand stroking him bare were enough to reduce Peter to a breathy, whiny mess.

Tony paused to kiss the spot just above Peter’s collarbone, sucking hard enough that a dark red mark was left in his wake. He pulled away, then, admiring his work paired the aroused expression on Peter’s face. He grinned, his voice playful as he whispered, “You like that, baby?”

Did Peter like this? Yes. He unequivocally liked this. He fucking liked this. He didn’t think the word ‘like’ could even begin to convey how much. So he lifted his hand from the sheets, bringing his fingertips to Tony’s cheek, down his neck, over the collar of his t-shirt, across his chest, and beneath the loose fabric of the bottom hem. He kept his eyes locked on Tony the entire time, watching the small hitched breaths and the barely noticeable flinches as he skimmed his hand up Tony’s shirt.

And just as Tony hooked his finger in the elastic of Peter’s boxers, and Peter parted his lips to answer, the sound of the front door opening rippled through the apartment.

“Peter!” It was Aunt May’s voice. “I’m home early! Are you here?”

Fuck, May’s back. A collective expression shared by both boys that killed any and all arousal.

“Yes! Hold on, I’ll be right there!” Peter yelled back, frantically adjusting his clothes and hair and – oh god – he smells like Tony and his shirt didn’t quite cover the hickey on his neck and why the fuck is May home so early? “What do we do?” He whispered in a panic.

“Relax,” Tony smiled, letting out a small laugh. “I’ll just go say hi.” He calmly said as he adjusted himself in the mirror before starting towards the door.

“W-Wait, Tony-  I’m- I’m still grounded!” Peter whisper screamed, but that didn’t stop Tony from walking out into the living room, so Peter had no choice but to reluctantly trail behind the bad boy.

“Peter, who’s this?” May asked as she took off her jacket and shoes.

“I’m Tony, ma’am.” He stepped forward, extending his hand. “Tony Stark.”

May smiled and shook his hand, “Nice to meet you, Tony.” She said, flashing Peter an all too familiar you-are-in-so-much-trouble look.

“May, I-” Peter stepped forward. “I can explain.”

“Yes you will, but it can wait until later.” May crossed her arms, “Now, young man, what on earth happened to your face? Sit down,” She guided Tony to a dining chair before disappearing into the kitchen and emerging with a bag of ice wrapped in a towel. “Here, hold this against it.”

“It’s nothing.” Tony shrugged, taking the ice bag with a thankful smile.

May propped her hand against her waist and nodded, “Well, if nothing keeps happening, you come and tell me. Understood?”

“Um-” Tony looked taken aback but, despite his confusion, he nodded, “Okay, yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, and you’re staying for dinner.” May smiled as he turned to place a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I want to get to know my nephew’s boyfriend.”

Peter blushed, “May!”

~*9*~

“Dude, are you sure you’re allowed to be here?” MJ asked as she pulled the car against the curb in front of Steve Rogers’ house. “It doesn’t look like your kind of thing.”

MJ was right. The bass-heavy hitlist was loud enough to hear through the glass of the car window. The lawn was littered with red cups, silver cans, and cars parked carelessly on the grass. Partygoers loitered on the front porch puffing smoke that reddened the whites of their eyes. This party was a far cry from the small movie nights Peter shared with best friends.

“I was invited, MJ.” Peter rolled his eyes, shuffling begrudgingly in the passenger side seat. He knew what she was asking – will you be okay here, Peter? “Tony is coming too, so I’ll be fine.”

“Of course he is.” MJ sighed, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “But he couldn’t spare some time to bring you here himself.”

“He had something to do with his dad.” Peter dropped his gaze into his lap.

“That doesn’t excuse him,” MJ’s voice was firm, unmoving. “And let’s be honest here. You wouldn’t have been invited if he hadn’t brutalized half of the people in there. Bullies don’t become friendly after being put in their place. They become vengeful. He should be in there with you now!”

“MJ, I’ll be fine!” Peter snapped because, even now, he didn’t know how to feel. Tony was violent – he understood that – but he couldn’t stand the constant reminders. “Stop talking about Tony like that!”

“Like what?” She challenged. “Like the guy he is. A violent, privileged asshole like the rest of them, who fights people for no reason, and who’s probably just using you fo-!”

“MJ, stop! You don’t get to talk about him like that! You don’t know him!”

“Oh?” MJ tilted her head and scowled. “And you do? After one fucking week? You think you know him?!”

“Yes! I do!” Peter nearly screamed. “And if you can’t trust me on this one, then just fucking leave!” He threw open the door, moving to get out.

MJ’s face softened and she reached to grab his arm. “Peter, wait! I didn’t mean-”

“No!” Peter put his hands up, silencing her completely. “You don’t get it, MJ!” He paused, biting the inside of his lip, holding back his anger. “You just don’t.”

“Fine, you’re right.” MJ sighed, squeezing the steering wheel and letting her head fall against the headrest. “I don’t get it! I don’t understand why my best friend, who was being tortured last week, would start hanging out with his torturers!” She sighed once more, her hands falling into her lap. “But I do trust you, dude, so I’m sorry. I’m just worried. Something about this whole thing seems off.”

Peter mirrored his friend’s sigh, “I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s just a party and, like I said, Tony will be here soon.”

“He better be.” MJ nodded. “Please be safe.”

“I will.” Peter stepped out of the car, flashing a bright smile. “And I’ll be sure to prepare a full report on the inner workings of a Steve Rogers party. Tell Ned.”

MJ laughed, “You tell him, dork.”

Peter joined the laughter, his anger nowhere to be found in the lighthearted exchange. “Thanks again, MJ, for the ride and the worry.”

“Anytime, dude. Call me if you need me.” With that, MJ rolled away, leaving Peter to fend for himself in the unfamiliar landscape of a high school party.

Peter ascended the porch stairs. The front door wasn’t locked or pulled shut and, even if he knocked, he knew no one would hear it over the music pumping from inside. So he took a deep breath and entered the fray. The house smelled of beer breath and fruity vapor laced with the pungent undertones of high-inducing grass. It was dark and foggy and significantly hotter than the brisk outside air. The main entrance was packed with people chatting in groups. Nobody familiar, but the litany of eyes sizing him up said that they knew exactly who he was.

Panic hit quicker than Peter thought it would as he politely excused himself through the crowded hallway. His unmistakable nerves rattling through his body with each careful step. Eventually, he made it to the kitchen, where the only light poured from the dim yellow bulb illuminating the stovetop. The beer smell was stronger here, so was the presence of variously sized glass bottles filled with brown and clear liquids.

“Parker!” It was Sam’s voice. “You made it!”

Peter spun on his heel. Emerging from the crowds was a very stumbly Sam Wilson, who reeked of beer. Behind him was Steve, whose hand was resting against Bucky’s waist.

“H-Hi!” Peter blurted out. “I… um- I just got here.”

“Are you the kid everyone’s talking about?” Steve asked, stepping forward and throwing his other arm around Sam’s shoulder. “Stark’s new owner?”

“I guess,” Peter nodded. “B-But I don’t-”

“Have you had a drink?” Steve asked. “You should have a drink.” He turned to Bucky, pressing his forehead into Bucky’s hair. “Can you get him a drink, babe?”

“Sure.”

And, within minutes, Peter was cradling a beer. The condensation left his palms wet and the taste left his expression in disgust. Beer was nasty, but Steve, Sam, and Bucky were compelling and their ability to attract an audience was even more so. They rallied cheers and chants of chug, chug, chug as Peter downed his first beer ever. The rush of being the center of attention outweighing both his clear mind and the terrible wheaty aftertaste of beers two and three.

It was when Bucky poured the shots that Peter finally asked for a break, but again, they were compelling. So just this one shot, Peter, and then we can go play some games with everyone. The vodka was lava down his throat, warming his body and adding to his haze. With Steve’s hand patting his shoulder and Sam’s impressed look because – damn, Parker can actually hold it down – Peter didn’t mind the teeth-numbing lightheadedness or the floaty instability.

After Sam grabbed a full bottle of vodka and Steve took a case of beer from the fridge, Peter was whisked away. Towed along by Bucky as the group pushed their way through the hall and into a room away from the crowds; Steve’s room.

But inside was a nightmare.

Sitting around the room – some on the bed, some on the floor – with drinks in their hands and smirks on their faces were Peter’s bullies; Clint, Natasha, Thor, and Loki.

“Hey boys,” Natasha greeted them with a smile.

“We have the re-up.” Sam joked as he took a spot on the floor, pouring vodka into Natasha and Clint’s cups as Steve handed beers to Thor and Loki.

Peter froze and yanked his hand out of Bucky grasp, his fight or flight instincts screaming at him to turn and leave. “I-I shouldn’t…um- I can’t be in here.”

“Wait a second, Peter.” Bucky placed a hand on Peter’s back, stopping him from leaving and guiding him to a spot on the bed beside Natasha. “They have something to say.”

“Yes, we apologize, Parker,” Thor said, tipping his head and raising his plastic red cup. “We were out of line that day.”

“Yes,” Loki agreed. “My brother and I regret our behavior.”

“Yeah,” Clint nodded. “Same here, Parker.”

“It’s the same for me, Peter.” Natasha placed her hand on Peter’s back. “I hope you can forgive us.”

Peter was baffled. Even in his tipsy haze, he could see how unexpected this was. His eyes wandered across the group; the gentleness in Natasha’s eyes, the seriousness in Clint’s, the lack of spite in Thor and Loki’s. They seemed genuine? It was strange. “Is t-this why you invited me?” He asked, glancing over to Steve.

“Yeah,” Steve shrugged. “These guys wanted a chance to apologize and we-” He gestured to Bucky, Sam, and himself. “-wanted to hang out with you.”

Peter let out a small laugh, feeling less resentment than he thought he would – maybe it was the buzz of alcohol – he nodded, “Okay, yeah, I’ll forgive you.”

“Fantastic,” Natasha smiled and clasped her hands together, “Now, let’s play some games.”

The first drinking game was simple. A word game that punished those who fumbled their answers and Peter was good at it. The unopened can of beer he held onto was proof of that.

The next game was more of the same. Never Have I Ever in a room of people who have done it all. Peter won by saying he never had a threesome, which took out Sam, Bucky, and Steve all at once. It was funny; in fact, it was hilarious. He found himself giggling with Natasha like she wasn’t the girl who would trip him in the halls. He was bantering with Clint like he was never hurt by him before. He was cracking jokes with Thor and Loki like they never teased him. He was comfortable in a room filled with people he thought he hated and he couldn’t help but laugh.

During the third game, Peter drank half his beer, but Steve and Bucky had it far worse.

“Guys, I have to tap out.” Steve groaned, falling back against the bed. “I’m drunk drunk.”

Bucky laughed, his voice slurring as he crawled to lay beside Steve, “If you’re drunk drunk, I’m drunk drunk drunk.”

Steve joined in on the hysterical laughter. “Well, if you’re drunk drunk drunk, then I’m dr-”

“Okay, you’re both pretty,” Sam interrupted with a smirk. “If they’re out, I’m out.”

“That’s fine,” Natasha shrugged, standing from the bed and gesturing for the rest of the group to follow. “Come on, guys, let’s go play some more in the other room.” She grabbed Peter’s hand, guiding him to his feet. “You too.”

And Peter followed them – Natasha, Clint, Thor, and Loki – to another room across the hall; a guest bedroom, perhaps.

“Hey, Parker,” Thor spoke, his voice a bit taut. “Is Stark coming?”

Peter nodded, still fiddling with his half-empty can. “Yes! He said he would meet me here.”

“I see,” Thor nodded as he bumped his elbow into Loki’s side. “Then maybe we shouldn’t play this game tonight.”

“Or maybe you should stop worrying, brother.” Loki snapped.

“What game?” Peter squinted, holding up his beer can. “Another drinking game?”

“Yeah, another drinking game.” Natasha placed her hands atop Peter’s shoulders. “Trust me. You’ll love this one.” She smiled, taking Peter’s can away and placing it against the dresser as she guided him to the closet door. “All you have to do is go in there.”

“What?” Peter scratched his head. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Again, Natasha smiled. “We’ll explain the rules once you’re in there.”

“O-Okay,” Peter mumbled as he took a step into the closet, letting Natasha close the door behind him. It was a walk-in closet that was dark and empty, save for the few boxes stacked on the top shelves. “Alright, what are the rules?” He yelled through the door, but no response. “Hello?” He yelled, but again, no response. He jiggled the doorknob; locked. “Hey, guys? Are you there?” He knocked on the door this time. Still, no response but he did hear whispering.

Stark is on his way. This is so stupid.

Suck it up, brother. Stark nearly broke my arm.

And he fucking stepped on me.

Sit out if you want, Thor, but we’re doing this.

“Guys, I don’t like this game,” Peter spoke through the door, trying to maintain his calm but his palms became clammy and his fingers started to tremble and dread crept its way up his spine. “Can you guys just let me out?” He bit the inside of his lip. “Please.”

Peter flinched when the door swung open. A glimmer of hope rippled through him but it was quickly overshadowed by the dark expressions on Loki and Clint’s faces. Chills ran through him next as his body screamed, Flight. Now. And he tried running between them, tried slipping through their bodies, tried escaping but he couldn’t. Clint grabbed his arm and yanked him into the closet, holding him still despite his frantic thrashing. Loki taunted him – Serves you right, Parker – the merciless laughter burning Peter’s ears. Natasha played lookout, her smile was replaced with a scowl and her words a spiteful: This is what you get for sicking your dog on us, Peter. It was when Loki punched him that his urge to run morphed into an urge to survive.

This wasn’t the first time Peter’s been beaten up. The first was in middle school when Flash punched him hard enough to break his nose. So, when the punches continued, Peter knew to turn his head with them and relax his jaw. The second time was during a spring break school trip when he was pushed onto the ground and kicked hard enough to fracture a rib. So, when Clint threw him against the carpet and the sting of kicks burned at his sides, he used his arms to shield himself.

Peter learned from these experiences to tuck his head, bring his knees to his stomach, endure. But it hurt; more to his pride than to his body. And the laughter was louder, especially when Peter opened his eyes to see their smug grins searing into him. How could he be so foolish? How could he trust them? How could he forgive them?

When it was over, Peter was crying and no amount of biting his lip could stop it. He clenched his teeth and scrambled to feet, and didn’t bother to look back as he sprinted out the door.

Even in the party-fueled frenzy of the hallway, Peter didn’t stop running. His body buzzed with an intense need to put as much distance between himself and his bullies as he could. His eyes were burning from all the tears. His heart hurt and his mind was filled with flashbacks of every single time he endured their torture.

So Peter ran, and the only thing with the power to stop him was the sturdy chest of Tony Stark.

“Peter?” Tony’s voice cracked, his hands cupping Peter’s tear-stained, bruised cheeks. In the soft glow of the porch light, his eyes were a blend of rage and concern. “What happened to you? Who did this?”

Peter sobbed, clutching his sides where his skin felt the most tender and dropping his head against Tony’s chest. As the tears waterfalled down his cheeks and his frame trembled, he cursed at himself. “I’m such an idiot, Tony. I-I shouldn’t have come. I’m-”

“It’s alright.” Tony wrapped his arms around Peter, surprised when he winced. “I’ll handle it. Just tell me who did this to you.” He brought a soothing hand to Peter’s hair, gently threading through the curls despite the anger quaking through his body. “Please. Just tell me.”

Peter could barely get the names out through the tears, but once he did – a shaky Clint and Loki did it – Tony’s whole body tensed and his expression was overcast by a bloodthirsty cloud. His wild eyes were just as breathtaking, but there was no mischievous grin. Instead, his lips were pressed into a hard line, scowling with the rest of his face as he cracked his knuckles like he was loading a gun. And the way he pulled off that signature jacket and draped it over Peter’s shoulders was more cautious, showing his control even as he walked through his fiery rage. There was no nonchalant quip, no fanfare, just a firm voice saying hold this for me, baby. I’ll be right back.

This time, however, Peter didn’t just stand there. He followed Tony inside, leading him to the room where it all happened, wanting nothing more than to see that notorious violence turned on his cruel bullies.

The collective look of shock was satisfying, but the way Tony gripped Clint’s collar, yanking him to his feet and punching him in the jaw, was even more so. The punches continued; rapid hits to the face that happened within seconds of entering the room. Blood started dripping from Clint’s nose and mouth, and before anyone could say anything, Clint was falling limp against the carpet.

“What the fuck, Stark?!” Natasha screamed, moving to put herself between Clint and Tony, trying to stand up for her partner in crime.

Tony grabbed her by the shirt as well, “Did you hit him?”

“What?” Natasha snapped, struggling against the hold. “Let me go, you fucking psychopath.”

But Tony’s grip only tightened, his eyes conveying a murderous energy. “I said, did you hit him?”

Natasha froze like a deer in headlights, “No.”

“Then stay the fuck out of my way.” Tony spat, pushing Natasha aside and delivering a sharp kick to Clint’s torso before turning his attention to Thor and Loki.

“Don’t bring your violence over here, Stark.” Thor weakly warned, flinching just like before; just like a cornered animal.

“Don’t be afraid of him, brother.” Loki stepped forward between Thor and Tony. “If you touch us again, Stark, then we won’t be so nice to your plaything next time.”

“Next time?” Tony repeated with a balled fist and a menacing expression. “You should worry about your own fucking next time.” Then he continued, grabbing Loki by the collar and landing the same kind of rapid punches he used on Clint. These, however, were focused on Loki’s eyes that swelled and turned dark red as Tony unleashed hell through his fists.

Though, Loki didn’t just take it. Even in his arm sling, he threw his own punches and shoves. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t enough. Tony tackled him to the ground, his onslaught unceasing. That is, until Thor stepped forward to try and stop him.

Peter wouldn’t have guessed that Tony carried a knife. Yet, as Thor moved forward, Tony pulled the butterfly knife from his pocket, flipping it open and pointing it at Thor like a promise, not a threat. It was enough to make the whole room hold their breath.

Except for Peter.

No, Peter knew it was time to intervene. Time to tell Tony to stop. Time to be the limiter. Time to step forward, place his hand over Tony’s, and ease the knife away because it’s okay Tony, let go, give this to me, let me take this.

And the weight of the knife was easier to bear than he thought.

“See, Stark? That’s why you can’t have playthings. They hold you back.” Loki laughed despite the blood dripping from his nose, or the press of Tony’s knee on his torso, or the shocked expression on his brother’s face. “Honestly, what a fucking bitch you are.” Loki taunted.

Break it.

“What?” Tony asked, his eyes flashing to Peter, who didn’t realize he said that aloud.

“I said, break it.”

And the sound that followed was gruesome. A chilling snap from the leverage Tony gained in pushing Loki’s arm backwards across his knee. A clean break, paired with screaming, cursing, and a litany of uncharacteristic tears from a pair of brothers. Then, a coherent threat from a fed-up boy who stutters too frequently. “Touch me again and I’ll have him break the other one.” A promise dipped in venom and punctuated with the tip of the blade poised just inches away from Loki’s face.

This time, Peter knew how to feel.

His eyes traveled to Clint, struggling as Natasha helped him to his feet. It was brutal – Peter knew that – but he was glad. Glad to see that Clint was hurt and Natasha was scared. Excited by the blood and bruises created in payback. Enjoying the scared look in Thor’s eyes and the pain in Loki’s. It was wrong  – he knew that – but he didn’t care. He let himself feel it this time.

Tony took back the knife and pocketed it before taking Peter’s hand in his own. “Let’s get out of here.”

Peter let Tony lead him out of the house and into the car, where they sat in silence for as long as it took Tony to calm himself. It wasn’t awkward or deafening or suffocating, it was just peaceful silence and Peter found solace in it too. A moment to reflect on the dark part of himself that bubbled over amid the alcohol-fueled confidence and the vengeful pain of his assault. A moment to notice he wasn’t crying or trembling. A moment to realize that he threatened Loki; that he chose fight, and it worked.

It was a satisfying moment.

Tony, on the other hand, seemed to take on Peter’s nerves in full. His breath was heavy with sighs and his hands were shaky as he frantically wiped the blood that stained them into the black of his t-shirt. “I’m sorry, Peter. I shouldn’t have- fuck, I did it again. The fucking knife. I- Are you mad? Please don’t be mad.” He dropped his head in his hands. “I couldn’t stop myself. I just- I was so mad seeing you crying and I-  fuck, Pep and Bruce were right about me. I’m-”

“I’m not mad, Tony,” Peter whispered as he reached his hand out to card through Tony’s hair.

“But I-?”

“You fought because I let you fight.”

“But that shouldn’t be your responsibility, Peter. Bruce hated me for that. I can’t-”

“I’m not Bruce.” Peter was firm. “I’m not Pepper either.”

“Peter-”

“Everyone keeps telling me about how violent you are. How you’re this dangerous bad boy that I need to steer clear of, but they’re wrong.” Peter grabbed Tony’s hand, interlocking their fingers. “When I look at you, I see a sweet misunderstood guy who drives me home from school, helps me with my homework and does the dishes after dinner. The guy that sings in his car and worries about his friends. The guy that chooses to use his strength to protect the people he cares about.”

“Peter, that’s nice, but-” Tony paused, inhaling a deep breath. “It doesn’t change the fact that I can never control myself.”

“That’s why I’m here. I’m yours, but you’re mine too. I’ll control you.” Peter squeezed Tony’s hand. “And, yes, breaking someone’s arm is bad – really, really bad,” Peter giggled. “But I’m worse for asking you to do it. I’m worse for liking it.”

“You liked it?” Tony smirked, holding their interlocked hands up so he could press a kiss onto the back of Peter’s hand.

“Y-Yeah, it’s weird.” Peter blushed, averting his gaze. “I’m weird.”

“You’re not weird, baby,” Tony whispered against Peter’s hand. “I liked seeing you too. Seeing you threaten the trash like that,” He smiled, pressing kisses down Peter’s wrist. “Seeing that knife in your cute hands,” His final kiss was wetter. “And seeing that look in your eyes when you did it.”

Peter’s breath caught in his throat, “Um…we s-should- let’s go back to my place.”

“What about your aunt?”

“May is out on a date. She’ll be gone for most of the night.”

~*10*~

When Tony and Peter entered the apartment, the atmosphere between them became torrid. Each interaction heated by the thoughts of what they went there to do. Kicking off their shoes with flushed faces, stripping off their jackets with lingering eye contact, walking down the hall in a suggestive silence. Their already rapid heartbeats ramping into overdrive as they breached the threshold into Peter’s room. The only light pouring from a small lamp on the desk and illuminating their excitement for each other.

Peter was nervous, but Tony was brave. The bad boy sat against the edge of the bed with a tantalizing smile dancing on his lips as he looked Peter up and down like a meal; undressing the younger boy with his eyes like a man starved. He licked the length of his bottom lip and grabbed the hem of his black shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift motion, letting the fabric pool against the floor. “Come here, baby.” He whispered, holding his hand out.

And Peter stepped towards him slowly, taking in the captivating shirtlessness and the unmistakable arousal it caused. He slid his hand into Tony’s, allowing the older boy to pull him closer, guide him to the space between his legs. It was there that Peter’s body buzzed with desire. All of the thoughts whirring through his mind painted over by his lust for Tony Stark.

Tony placed his hands against Peter’s thighs first, dragging upward over the dips of his waist and underneath the bottom of his shirt. Freely dragging his palms across the smooth skin, but stopping when Peter winced.

“S-Sorry,” Peter mumbled, his hands ghosting over his waist. “I’m just- the bruises are still tender, so-”

Tony shook his head, “Don’t apologize.” He whispered, keeping his eyes locked on Peter’s as he pushed the younger’s shirt up and pressed a kiss beneath his belly button. “I’ll be real gentle for you, baby.”

“Tony,” Peter nervously gasped, the simple kiss sending fiery tingles throughout his body.

Tony smiled, one hand caressing the back of Peter’s thigh, the other tugging gently on the fabric of Peter’s shirt. “Can you take this off for me?”

“Okay,” Peter whispered as he grabbed the bottom of his shirt and pulled it over his head, jostling his brown curls as he dropped the shirt against the floor. His creamy skin was splotched in dark bruises that ran down his arms and sides. And with once glance at himself, he gave a quiet laugh, “It looks worse than it feels, I swear.”

Tony’s expression turned somber, “I’m sorry for not being there.” He said, pressing more gentle kisses against Peter’s navel, carefully outlining one of the bruises.

“It’s okay, Tony,” Peter placed his hands in Tony’s hair, dragging his fingertips to the nape of his neck and leaving them resting on his shoulders. “Don’t apologize.” He smiled, his face a rosy pink as he lifted his knee, swinging it across Tony’s lap and sliding downward. “Can we- um… kiss again?”

As Peter straddled him, Tony inhaled sharp because he could feel the brush of Peter’s zipper against his own. He wrapped his arms loosely around Peter’s waist, dipping one of his hands in the younger’s back pocket and positioning the other on the side of Peter’s thigh. “Yeah,” He breathed out as he eagerly leaned forward, pressing their lips together in an open-mouthed kiss.

Peter moaned into it, dropping his weight until the space between their chests was nonexistent. His hands naturally threaded into Tony’s hair and his eyes fluttered closed as he succumbed to Tony’s practiced kissing. Letting the older boy’s tongue dip into his mouth; letting his teeth softly pull at his bottom lip. The moment felt electric, especially when Tony’s hand moved up his thigh, cautiously skimming across the tender bruises and stopping against his nipple, rolling it beneath his fingertips.

Goosebumps rushed across Peter’s skin at the touch. He inched back, breaking the kiss and staring down at Tony’s hand like it was magic. “That feels different when you do it.”

“When I do it, hm?” Tony flicked the soft nub, watching with a playful grin as Peter flinched. “You touch yourself here, baby?”

Peter nodded, his hands gripping at Tony’s shoulders as the pleasure pooled, causing his erection to stiffen painfully under the restrictive denim.

Tony scoffed as he pinched at the nipple hard enough to pull a surprised gasp from the younger boy. “Use your words, baby.”

“T-That’s not fair,” Peter dropped his head against Tony’s shoulder, hiding his surely red face. “You said you’d be gentle.”

“That was gentle, sweetheart.” Tony pressed a kiss against Peter’s neck. “I could’ve been much rougher.”

“Rougher than that?”

“So much rougher than that,” Tony whispered against Peter’s ear.

Peter shivered and turned his head to whisper back, a low and fervid, “Can you show me?”

And without warning, Tony clutched the underside of Peter’s thighs and stood, lifting the younger boy, who gasped in surprise and reactively locked his legs around Tony’s waist. Then, Tony turned and slowly lowered Peter against the sheets, positioning himself between Peter’s spread legs. “Let’s start by getting rid of these.” He said as he popped open the button and zipper and tugged, pulling the jeans and boxers together.

“B-Both?” Peter’s eyes when wide and his hands shot down to cover his now freed erection.

“Yes, both.” Tony gave a soft laugh as he finished pulling the clothes off, tossing them aside. “Move your hands, baby. Let me look at you.” And Tony watched intently as Peter moved his hands away. He watched as Peter’s chest flushed just like his face does. Watched the cute way Peter’s erection twitched in the open air. It was a fucking mouth-watering sight.

As for Peter, his mind brimmed with want, and nerves, and Tony. This was his first time being completely bare in front of someone else; someone whose half-lidded eyes were intense with longing and whose fingers were making their way to his mouth.

“Open,” Tony commanded and Peter obliged, parting his lips and letting the older boy’s fingers slide into his mouth. “Good, now suck.”

And Peter did; closing his lips and sucking, massaging the pad of his tongue against the two digits. He tried to keep his eyes trained on Tony’s but sometimes they would wander downward, across the contour of the older boy’s muscles and – fuck – suddenly, Tony’s fingers pushed deeper, probing the back of his throat, making him cough.

Peter’s hands shot up, pulling Tony’s fingers from his mouth. “W-What are you doing?”

“Showing you how deep I want to shove my dick.” Tony grinned as he nudged his wet fingers against the head of Peter’s erection, mixing the saliva and pre-cum before smearing them down the shaft. “That okay, baby?”

Peter breathed a harsh, “Y-Yes.” A wave of pleasure rocking through his body at the touch. His hips jolting upward and his head lolling back against the pillow, moaning as Tony began his torturously slow strokes.

“You look so fucking hot, Peter,” Tony whispered, leaning down to lick Peter’s nipple; kiss it, roll it between his teeth. “Looking like you’re about to come when I’m barely touching you.”

Tony’s compliment went right to Peter’s head, adding to the pleasure tightening at his core. If he was honest, Tony was right. Alone, he usually got there fast but, with Tony, he was getting there at light-speed. Already teetering on his edge from the blend of sensations. He was one quick stroke away from spilling all over, so he moaned a shaky, “I am.”

And nothing prepared him for the abrupt lack of touch and the intense desire it left in its wake. Peter’s hips flinched upward, chasing Tony’s hand as it pulled away, leaving him in a needy haze. “What- why did- no, Tony, I was there- I-”

“I know, baby,” Tony pressed a kiss to Peter’s forehead. “But you don’t get to come until I say so.”

Peter whined, pouting up at the older boy, with distressed and horny eyes, “Can you say so now?”

“Fuck, you’re so cute,” Tony smiled and sat up, shifting his weight to his knees. “But not yet, sweetheart.” He whispered as he undid his jeans. His toned body flexing in the dim light as he pushed his jeans and boxers down slightly, freeing his hardened length and nudging it against Peter’s.

Peter had to actively prevent his jaw from dropping. Tony’s dick was big – actually, bigger – it made Peter’s length seem small. It even felt different; it was thicker, harder and, maybe his feelings and arousal created bias, but to Peter, Tony’s dick was fucking perfect. A shiver ran through his body at the thought of it in his mouth.

“Having fun?” Tony interrupted and Peter froze, blushing when he realized that he’d been grinding his hips up, desperately rubbing their dicks together from the moment they touched.

“I- um.. s-sorry, I-” Peter stammered, bringing his hands up to hide his embarrassed expression.

“You, what?” Tony laughed quietly, ghosting his hands across Peter’s thighs. “Speak up, baby.”

“I- I just- I wanted to touch it,” Peter muttered through his hands.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m going to let you touch it all you want.”

Then, Tony repositioned them. He stood and guided Peter to lay with his head tipped backward off the edge of the bed. The bed’s height was ideal for this, he thought, as he aligned the head of his erection with Peter’s lips. “Open,” Tony commanded but, this time, Peter hesitated.

“Tony, I’ve never- Just- go slow, okay?”

“Okay,” Tony nodded, gently brushing his fingers against Peter’s cheek. “I’ve got you, baby.” He smiled when Peter parted his lips, “Good, now take a nice deep breath for me.”

And Peter did; inhaled deep as Tony pushed forward, pressing his dick into Peter’s mouth until it couldn’t go any deeper. Peter gripped at the sheets and squeezed his eyes shut, listening to the pleasured groans that fell from Tony’s mouth. And even though Peter was struggling to hold his breath, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it.

Tony pulled out slow – a string of saliva connecting the head of his dick to Peter’s lips, dripping against Peter’s face. “Breathe,” He whispered and watched Peter’s chest expand before pushing forward again. This time, he went even deeper, pushing passed the back of Peter’s mouth, causing a small bulge to show through his neck.

Peter coughed, his drool spurting out around Tony’s dick as he reactively pushed Tony’s hips away. He gasped and coughed again, turning his head to let the excess saliva drop against the floor.

“You okay?” Tony asked, dragging his hands through Peter’s hair. “Was that too much?”

“No,” Peter turned his head back. “I want it harder.”

Tony’s breath hitched, “Yeah?” He squeezed his hand, grabbing a tight handful of Peter’s curls, making the younger boy whine. “You want it harder, baby?”

As Peter opened his mouth to answer, Tony was pushing forward again, quicker than before, plunging deep enough to see the shape of his dick in the contours of Peter’s neck. And he held himself there, indulging in the pleasure of the younger’s fluttering throat, before pulling out half-way and pushing back in. He repeated this in quick succession, occasionally pulling out fully so Peter could catch his breath.

“This hard enough for you, sweetheart?” Tony teased, keeping his dick plunged inside so all Peter could do was moan around it.

And Peter loved it. The feeling of being used and the sounds of Tony’s ecstasy. He thought it would be difficult – controlling his breath while having a dick shoved down his throat – but once he fell into a rhythm, it was easy. And, soon, Tony’s dick was at its thickest, pulsating and leaking pre-cum. His orgasm was close and the way he talked about it made Peter feel hornier than he has in his entire life.

“I’m going to come all over you, baby. You want that, hm? God, you’re so fucking perfect, Peter. Look at how well you’re taking me. You’re so good, baby boy. Fuck, keep your mouth open for me-”

Tony pulled out as he came, groaning deep and shooting lines of cum against Peter’s open mouth and chest. And Peter’s never tasted cum before but he swallowed it like it was nothing, his throbbing arousal completely overshadowing the gravity of the situation.

“Tony, me too. Please.”

“Of course, baby.” Tony smiled, shifting their positions so Peter was sitting on the edge of the bed and Tony was on his knees between Peter’s thighs.

Peter’s whole body shook when Tony started sucking. The pleasure hitting him like it was a tsunami and he was the beach. The way Tony dragged his tongue against the underside of the shaft made Peter’s nerve endings tingle with fiery sparks of euphoria. And when Tony bobbed his head low enough to take it all, Peter swore he fell into delirium. “Tony, I’ll come- I’ll- I’m-!”

Yet, just as Peter took a step towards orgasm, Tony stopped. He gripped at the base of Peter’s length, viciously yanking him back to the edge, preventing his climax for the second time that night. But before Peter had time to complain, Tony was pulling him down and pinning him against the side of the bed.

Tony stared into Peter’s eyes and started stroking again, “Go ahead, baby, you can come.”

Peter immediately averted his gaze, unable to handle the embarrassment of suddenly being so close. “But Tony, I-”

Tony scoffed and lifted his idle hand to the underside of Peter’s jaw, forcing the younger’s eyes back to his. “It wasn’t a question, baby.” He whispered, squeezing his fingers against the sides of Peter’s throat, “I told you to come.”

So Peter came; a breathless scream falling from his lips as a tremor shook his body and his cum oozed all over Tony’s hand. It was an overwhelming pleasure – nothing like anything he’s felt on his own. And as he floated down from his sweltering high, Tony released his throat and leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead.

“Are you okay, baby?”

“Yeah, are you?”

“Yeah, that was amazing.

“Yeah.”

And for a while, they stayed there, bodies pressed together in a content embrace, sticky from their passion and audibly panting from their ardor, but content nonetheless. Basking in the feeling of their intimate moment; an exchange of sweet nothings, a soothing caress, a medley of soft giggles. A litany of playful kisses, a cascade of fingertips carded through messy hair, a breathtaking empathetic chemistry. All topped with promises of tomorrow and the days after, where they belonged to each other.

-

The relief I felt after finishing this is insurmountable. Apologies for being a flaky hoe, but I hope you all enjoyed the read. Leave me a comment or feel free to hop in my asks. Let me know how I did. 

Shout out to my muses: @ultimatelyshippingthegays @benhardysdrumstick ❤️

Thank you for the amazing ideas. A bitch did her best. Love you all!

EDIT: Read the sequel here.

[ggfj84]

Summary: When Keith, the Marmoran heir, is almost pressured into an arranged marriage with Prince Lotor, Black Paladin Takashi Shirogane offers a way out - to bond with him. This is the story of the rest of their lives. A story in eleven parts.

Chapter One

Keith remembered the moment he fell in love with Takashi Shirogane.

He’d met the warrior known as the Black Paladin, the leader of the elite Galactic Coalition tactical squad known as “Voltron,” almost two decaphoebs ago on a joint strike force that included members of the Blade of Marmora. They’d hit it off well enough that Kolivan assigned Keith to most of the joint missions with Voltron.

But Keith never believed there was any ulterior motive other than successful missions. It wasn’t until Lotor of all people, the Crown Prince of Daibazaal, stood before the Galactic Coalition that Keith’s cheeks burned and his stomach twisted.

“For far too long, Daibazaal has been divided. The Royal House of Sincline and the Blade of Marmora have never been outright in their opposition, but the Blade of Marmora offers two senators for Daibazaal while my mother and I serve as the remaining. As per tradition, I propose that our forces join through mating bonds—the heir to my mother’s throne and the heir to the Marmora leadership. In this way, Daibazaal will have a united front before the Galactic Coalition.”

Sitting in the Daibazaal delegation’s booth behind Krolia and Kolivan, Keith found himself unable to breathe. His mind couldn’t quite grasp what Lotor suggested. Did he just propose, or was he demanding Keith’s hand in bonding?

Kolivan rose to his feet in a dramatic fashion, looming over the rather tall Lotor. “The tradition has not been honored in almost three hundred decaphoebs, and Daibazaal has provided a separate but joint front during that time. There is no need for this archaic tradition to be upheld today or in the future.”

Lotor remained calm and collected. “Other than it is against the Coalition’s bylaws to allow more than one fraction from a planet representation in its chambers. It is why Daibazaal enacted the tradition – ”

“—that required our people to hand one of our own as a hostage.”

“Such exaggeration, Leader Kolivan.”

“Perhaps Prince Lotor would wish to join the Blade,” Krolia offered as she formed a protective barrier between Keith and the royal delegation.

Lotor’s nose wrinkled. “Surely you jest.”

“As must you if you believe we’d allow you to lay a hand on my –”

Three loud raps thundered across the platinum and white chambers, which housed the representatives of the Galactic Coalition. From her position at the front of the coalition chambers, President Ryner slammed her glimmering gavel, made of starlight, against the podium. Her blaring voice resounded across thousands of ambassadors. “Order! I demand order from the Daibazaal delegation.”

Kolivan growled in Lotor’s direction but didn’t speak again. Keith just sat in their booth, stunned and gasping. He was suddenly very grateful for Marmora’s tradition of unbonded Blades wearing masks even when not in battle. It offered him privacy as Ryner continued, “While I do not agree with the traditions of the Daibazaal delegation, that was the agreed-upon accords. You may submit a proposal to revise this clause, but if the delegation cannot come to an agreement at this session, the Galactic Coalition must uphold the current accords.”

Ryner was going to make him bond with Lotor?

“There was an amendment to the accords in the 232nd congress,” Kolivan read from his tablet, voice tighter than Keith had ever heard it, even when proposing to Krolia. “If the Marmoran or Galran heir is already betrothed, then no such alliance must occur.”

Lotor’s lips quirked up as he glanced back at Keith. “I have neither accepted nor made any propositions – other than for the Marmoran heir’s hand, of course.”

He punctuated the statement with a wink. Keith was going to be sick.

“Madam President,” a familiar but forceful voice thundered across the Galactic Coalition’s floor.

Ryner slammed the gavel once more and gestured toward one of the smaller boxes along the side of the chamber, raised high above the delegation’s floor. “The Coalition recognizes Paladin Shirogane.”

Keith gripped the side of the Daibazaal delegation’s booth, sucking in dry heaves and trying to calm his breathing. It wasn’t that he detested Lotor. In fact, he held a great deal of respect for the Galran prince and even shared his company at more than one coalition or Marmoran function. But to be bonded to him, to share the rest of their lives together—Keith couldn’t fathom.

Not to mention, Empress Honerva offered her people little in the way of comfort or luxury. She barely spoke to her subjects, whereas Kolivan and Krolia lived among their people and provided aid and guidance wherever needed. He couldn’t imagine what living with Honerva and Lotor would entail, let alone any “princely” duties he might have.

And Keith didn’t want to think about the consummating, which was surely necessary in a royal bonding. Neither the bonding nor the consummating was on Keith’s to-do list this morning.

He barely heard Shiro’s thundering words over his own loud gasps. “My apologies for the delay in announcing, but Blade Kogane, son of Leader Krolia and adopted son of Leader Kolivan, accepted my request for his hand almost three phoebs ago. We are to be bonded next decaphoeb.”

Keith’s eyes dart up to find the Black Paladin, Takashi Shirogane, standing in Voltron’s designated booth. As the leader of the Galactic Coalition’s task force, Shiro was required to attend all coalition functions, but he didn’t interject unless giving a report. He usually wasn’t allowed to speak, as simply an arm of the coalition and not a delegate himself.

Keith fell back in his seat, mesmerized by Shiro in his formal uniform – a white jacket with a black strip across his shoulders, three gold bars to designate his leadership rank, tight pants that led to calf-high boots, and a glowing purple-black bayard strapped to his waist. With his chin high and eyes focused, he easily stood shoulder-to-shoulder with any member of the coalition. In fact, he did – with Princess Allura of Altea, who sat in the box next to him, dressed similarly as a member of Voltron and the Altean delegation.

Shiro’s eyes never wavered from Ryner’s, and Keith found himself breathless. Shiro was willing to give the rest of his life to Keith? It made no sense. They were acquaintances, friends Keith dared to think, and though they have laid down their lives for each other at one time or another, Keith never imagined Shiro would be willing to bond with him.

Perhaps he, like Lotor, had an ulterior motive.

“I see,” Ryner said, crisp and firm. Her sharp eyes set on Keith. “Does Blade Kogane confirm said bonding arrangement?”

Keith’s eyes snapped to Shiro, whose finally sought his. His smoky eyes were calm but earnest, reminding Keith of all their battles and interactions. Shiro was strong, both physically and mentally, and though he was clever, he wasn’t underhanded or cruel. If he sought to help Keith, Keith believed him.

Despite respecting and perhaps even liking Lotor, Keith couldn’t say he trusted the Galran prince.

“Yes,” Keith replied and turned to Ryner. “Paladin Shirogane is to be my bondmate.”

Lotor, if nothing else, was versatile. “Then perhaps Blade Kogane and Paladin Shirogane would do us the honor of finalizing that bond here and now, so as not to belabor the union regarding this topic.”

Surely Shiro had a family on his home planet of Earth who would wish to see his union, and Keith knew his brother and sister Blades would want to celebrate his mating in the traditional five-quintant ceremony as per Marmoran custom. Instead, both families would be denied such a celebration, and Keith found Shiro watching him, gaging Keith’s reaction, before addressing Ryner.

“If it pleases Madame President to force us to hasten our arrangements, refuse our families the common decency of witnessing our union, and secure Blade Kogane’s bonding to me and not the over-eager heir of the House of Sincline, then we will relent to Prince Lotor’s request.”

Keith hoped, prayed, and waited for Ryner’s response, which only came after a quick conversation with one of her aids. “We will yield to Prince Lotor’s request and hold the ceremony now.”

Bile rose Keith’s throat. Kolivan whispered apologies that were not his to give and Krolia promised she would somehow make this right. Neither calmed his nerves as he was ushered to the front of the coalition’s chambers.

Then Shiro—dashing, handsome, kind Shiro—stepped before him. He was gorgeous by Terran standards with short black hair, styled bangs that swept across his nose, and a sun-kissed complexion that refused any blemish. His tunic clung to his biceps and abs like a second skin, and Keith wondered how the cloth didn’t rip every time Shiro moved.

Shiro let out a tiny, bracing sigh and took Keith’s hands. He leaned forward to murmur in Keith’s ear.

“Hey. No need to look so glum.” Shiro couldn’t see his expression; Keith was still wearing his mask. “We’ll get out of this like we’ve done all our battles. Together.”

He sounded so self-assured, so light-hearted, and when he squeezed Keith’s hands, he flashed a shaky but true smile. It prompted Keith to ask one whispered question, “Why?”

Shiro jerked a shoulder. “Why not? I could do worse. I know you could.”

Kolivan proceeded over the ceremony, a quick exchange of vows that weren’t personalized in any way. Krolia stood behind him, along with Lotor, while Princess Allura and another paladin, a Balmeran with an orange headband and yellow armor, bore witness behind Shiro. Hunk, Keith remembered from their shared missions.

As Kolivan finished and urged them to complete the bonding with an embrace, Keith’s palms grew cold. His breathing hitched, but instead of leaning down to seize Keith’s lips – even though the mask – Shiro let go of Keith’s hands to cradle his cheeks and keep his head still for a forehead kiss.

And that said it all. Shiro let Keith take control of their relationship – whatever it would be now. He wouldn’t force Keith into unwanted activities or demand something from him he couldn’t give. Instead, Shiro gave Keith his affection and allowed Keith to decide what to do with it. He would defer to Keith, not the other way around.

Just before Shiro’s lips were to seal their union, Keith dropped his mask and for the first time, saw Shiro without any filters. Shiro’s eyes widened considerably as they swept across the long, dark bangs that framed Keith’s purple skin, the two-toned braid that unfurled from his throat and now rested upon his shoulder, and purple marks upon his cheeks, just like his mother. His eyes, a vibrant indigo, glistened with flecks of silver, gold, and stardust.

Shiro’s smile turned soft, gentle, and infinitely sweet. He whispered, “Hi,” before kissing Keith’s forehead.

And that was the moment Keith fell in love with his bondmate.

To Be Continued...

If you’d like to read the rest, chapters 1-10 are currently on AO3! Just search my name - ggfj84. Thanks! 

[victor-of-latveria]

A Worthy Challenge

Earth had been subject to a cornucopia of oddities during its history. Secret kingdoms, invasions, and wars had painted a unique tapestry in the multiverse. Dimensions and timelines would fluctuate at a whim by the actions of men who did not know the full scope of their power. It was a history and a world that only he, Doctor Doom, could manage. But in all of his years with dealing with Atlanteans, gamma irradiated monstrosities, gods and demons, this would perhaps be the first time he could see a crisis beginning to form.

The energy readings earliest connection point was in Manhattan. He quickly eliminated that a fool like Richards was already dealing with raw multiversal energy. He had hoped to send his own machines to read it when a unique individual came to Latervia’s border. He claimed to another Captain Marvel, but he did not resemble the Kree soldier or any of his affiliations. The man seemed just as confused and instead of wielding alien technology, the man was knowledgeable in the mystic arts. Still, he used his power for brute force and energy blasts. He may have been strong, but Steven Strange, the man was not.

Having successfully stopped the attack and sending the fraudulent Marvel away, Doom had moved himself to his war room to assess the scope of what was going on. Lined with hyper advanced technology the world could not even fathom, Doom had made sure that his defenses would be top of the line for his nigh impregnable fortress. It was here that he could see the extent of the crisis at hand. 

The first of these multiversal energy signs began popping up in Manhattan, then Westchester. Soon the globe had reports of people vanishing and being replaced by foreigners, not noble and vile. After several scans of from his satellites and Doom was able to see the same residue of multiversal energy clinging to these people, such as the Captain he had faced earlier.

“Boris.” Doom called out. His trusted servant came at once, never too far away and relieved that Latveria’s ruler had returned victorious from the intruder. “The city’s defenses must be doubled. We must send a patrol squad and see if our citizens are all accounted for.”

The world was focused on the larger populous. Figures like the Avengers, X-Men, and higher profile individuals would be the first to be noticed. The smaller ones, the citizens of the world and beyond, would be overlooked. If something had managed to penetrate his land’s defenses, to actually steal any Latverian man, woman or child from their homes, Doom would see to it that whoever was responsible would pay dearly.

Boris obeyed, moving quickly to see that Doom’s commands were met. Doom was already working on his plans. The man he had fought used magic in a very foreign way and was powerful. If this was one of several champions this foreign world had to offer, than he would need to arm himself with the best countermeasures. As he surveyed the computer monitors, something flashed for a fraction of a moment. To an untrained eye and mind, it could have been a flicker of the monitor. Doom had neither. With the world erupting into chaos and anomalies cropping up all across the world, it was foolhardy to assume anything was a coincidence. Doom inspected the screen closely. His firewall security appeared to be fine with no detection of any errors. Still…he best be sure.

“Computer, scan for any unauthorized access to our main database.”

“Scanning…” Doom waited, his eyes glued to the monitor. Only a few had access to his personal database, which contained a number of Latervian secrets and plans. He had made sure to encrypt the files and protect the computer security to his exact specifications. Many would covet such information but time and again, Doom had blocked even the supposed best of the Avengers and the Fantastic Four from his database.

“Scan complete. One unauthorized user detected. Shall I expel the user?”

How curious…Someone was sneaking around his files and doing so silently. It quickly eliminated the possibility of someone Doom was familiar with to be doing this. It wasn’t flashy or bombastic enough to have any hint of Stark, Xavier or any of Doom’s other foes. It was more than likely one of the visitors snooping around. Perhaps this would prove interesting and educational.

“Begin to track the signal to its source” Doom stated, regaining his composure. “Quietly of course. We wouldn’t want our guest to know their unwanted quite yet. Create a package to send our curious friend, and be sure to bring their progress up on the main screen. Keep me notified of the trace as well.”

The war room table projector flickered, setting aside the world map that marked all the recent appearances and vanishing. A new globe took its place, hovering and slowly turning as the trace activated. The main monitor was now showing his personal files, all encrypted and monitored. Doom would be alerted when anyone tried to access them and if necessary, halt their progress. However this hacker had not stumbled across any of his traps…

Doom couldn’t help but feel charmed by this fascinating mind. It was very different from what he was used to dealing with.

“Master, the signal is not in Europe.”

Doom said nothing, continuing to watch the screen with morbid curiosity. Each file contained vital information for ruling Latveria. Manufacturing and trade routes, war plans to send his robotic servants and the proud soldiers of Latveria would need them. Even his recent designs on the Doombot models were part of this so he could continue his continued conquest of peace. There were many tantalizing options for this hacker to look over. But what would they choose?

“North America confirmed.”

“Continue to triangulate the signal.” He could see that there was finally some silent activity. Doom watched as the someone was attempting to hack into his machine blueprints and components. The Doombots were there, but so were his more advances such as the modified Time Platform and his Titanium Armor. A host of valuable information was behind these encryptions and not a single tripwire was being undone. Doom was certainly impressed, knowing if he had not been paying attention to the monitors, he likely would not have known this hack was even happening.

“Source of signal located in New Jersey. Continuing to triangulate the signal. The package is ready.”

New Jersey? Doom couldn’t help but feel some modicum of relief, knowing it wasn’t in Manhattan. He continued to watch as tripwire and traps were avoided again and again by this hacker. Their skills were exceptional. It was a pity that they were likely from this other world. They would have been valuable under his guidance.

Surprise hit him when the monitor flickered once again. The file had opened. Project names and blueprints were available to someone other than a Latverian citizen. For a brief moment, Doom wondered if he should cut the feed now. Any second this person saw their plans was a second an enemy of Latveria could undo his glorious conquest.

The games had to come to an end eventually.

“Triangulation complete. Awaiting orders.”

~ ~ ~ 

Barbara Gordon had to count her blessings, even if she was sucked into another world. The technology was thankfully close to her world’s level. The names on the tech didn’t say Kord or Wayne, usually saying Stark or Hammer. The learning curve was hardly an issue and given enough time, Barbara knew she could handle any monitor and keyboard at her disposal.

Instead of her clocktower, Barbara had to set up a temporary base in the back of “Lee’s Crazy Computers!”, a computer store that was eager to move their wears quickly. After a quick cover story about a local library upstate wanting to buy several computers, local librarian, “Ms. Amy Beddoes” was doing a stress test on the computers and modem before placing an order she had to. In reality, if Barbara wanted to find out what was going on and what world she was in, she was going to use every trick in the book and gather all the information she could. This was the first time she had even been to another world, but Bruce had been on enough multiversal adventures to find two surefire ways to determine the history of the world: the introduction of superheroes and any significant Joker kills.

In place of Superman, Captain America, the Human Torch and Namor were the first superbeings of note. Events already played out different during World War Two when they showed up, but there was no hint of any Gotham City or Joker. She began to compare and contrast, jotting down notes and names. There was no Gotham City, but New York housed several superhero teams and practically stepped on each other. In place of the Justice League, there was a team called the Avengers.

Yet in every search she did, one country and one man kept coming up: the leader of Latveria, Doctor Victor von Doom. According to her search, Doom was a super genius whose accomplishments would make Lex Luthor blush. He was responsible for dozens of crimes but saved due to his diplomatic immunity, magical feats, and his technological prowess. He was astonished and knew what had to be done.

Getting into Latveria’s database was hard enough and even harder to sneak around undetected. The encryptions were top notch and she had used every play in the book to make sure she hadn’t been discovered. With Doom’s schematics at her fingertips, she could look them over, print them out, and go from there. If she could get enough information from Doom’s database, she could either use this as a bargaining chip with the Avengers or perhaps even find a way to barter this information leak to have Doom send her home if the information she had gathered was skewed. Bruce had told her enough times to not always judge the world on the loudest voice.

As Barbara went to scroll down, the monitor glitched. She froze, staring cautiously at the screen. Was the modem taxed from the long distance hack? Tentatively, she clicked the sidebar, only to realize the screen was moving at a snail’s pace. After another second, everything came to a halt. Her heart seized, realizing what this meant. Barbara looked around and reached for the modem line to tear it out of the computer, but it was too late.

The once colorful blue/grey screen went completely black. Three words in green appeared in the middle…and then again a few inches to the left, and again right. It began to replicate itself again and again. Soon the screen was littered with the same three words.

Doom is Absolute. 

She’d been found out. Not only was she booted, but Doom had sent her a virus that had fried the modem by clogging it with the message. It certainly spoke to how vain and smart Doom was to destroy a computer with only three words.

Barbara shut off the monitor, glancing around to make sure no one saw what she had done. She had names of projects but that was all. She sighed, shaking her head. Whoever Doom was, it was safe to say he wouldn’t be happy that he had been hacked. She’d need to play it safe until she found a way back home. This world had now had its first encounter with Oracle, and she had just met someone that was her relative match…for now anyways.

[connorstolltheshow-blog]

Breaking Ice and Locks

Connor needs some medical attention whilst he makes a new friend, Lina.

Connor woke up in the infirmary. He hadn’t expected to get so hurt on his arrival, but he was happy that there were at least nurses around to help him out. The last face he saw was Percy’s, damn had he got old. Well actually, they were all getting old. He looked around him, taking in the surroundings. With a groggy groan, he called out to the girl who sat on the bed next to her. “You seem grand.” He said with a laugh, flinching as his body hurt. “Better than I’m going anyway.”

Lina looks over at the man who called over to her. She was getting her wound checked out, the nurse clicking her tongue at her. She seemed to need stitches to make sure that it would stay closed. “Got stabbed with a spear during a cave in. What about you?” She said casually. She wasn’t sure who he was but he was definitely new. “You’re not from New Rome.”

“A cave in sounds horrible.” He shuddered, remembering the brief time of the Labyrinth. “Also, stab wounds suck.” Connor hadn’t really been stabbed before, just scratches and gashes. “No, not from New Rome. I’m actually here visiting.” He said, wincing as he moved to make himself more comfortable. “Who stabbed you?”

“We got out after a few hours, but it wasn’t great. It was kind of eye opening in a way,” Lina replied not overly bothered by the whole cave in situation. She hated how it happened but she couldn’t change anything. “Why would you visit in the middle of a war?” She couldn’t fathom the idea that he would pop in at a time like this. “Don’t know. Happened while the cave was collapsing.”

Connor returned to the center of his bed and looked up at the ceiling. “I didn’t know there was a war going on. Nobody knows I guess.” He shrugged. He was becoming restless and with a sigh he tried to sit up. A few moans later, he was sitting upright on the side of the Infirmary bed. “Sounds terrible to be honest. Accidental stabs. Gross.” He slid off his bed onto his feet and his knees almost buckled beneath him, but he refused to give in. “As for me, I’m brand new.” He life through the pain, wanting to be released from hospital and go find Percy.

“Well, someone better tell them. Maybe we’ll even get reinforcements if we do,” Lina said lightly, even though she did want the reinforcements, she knew that a good amount of those from Half Blood were younger than those who lived in New Rome. They didn’t need more kids fighting this war. “It was even grosser when we had to burn the wound closed using gunpowder. Fun fact, flesh doesn’t smell good when it’s burnt.” She looked at him with her eyebrows raised. “Get back into bed. They’ll make you stay here longer if you don’t.”

Connor shrugged. “If the Greeks come here, who’s going to protect Camp?” It was a simple reason, and he knew that way too many of the kids there had already been in one war too many. He remembered the losses from previous wars, he didn’t want people to go through that. “I’m here now, so I may as well help.” He took the others advice and sat back down into the bed, but refusing to lay back down, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. “As for flesh being burnt, I know.” He winced, remembering the smell too clearly for his liking. “What were you doing in the cave in the first place?”

“Better them there anyway. Children shouldn’t be near here until things are safe again. They’re younger there, aren’t they?” Lina asked, curiously. She had never been there, she never planned to go. “What happened to you that had you burning flesh?” She was oddly curious about the whole situation. “We took the imperial gold mine from the Romans for a moment.”

“Yeah,” He pursed his lips, “They pretty much are. I’m one of the eldest there now,and I’m not that old anyway.” Connor said with a shrug. It had always been that way, bringing in young kids to safety, and finding it hard to leave as the years pass. Although it had become rather loney, being older meant you found it harder to relate to this kids. “Oh, I’ve never had to burn my own flesh, but I’m smelt it before on the battlefield, defending Olympus, the attack on Camp Half-Blood, nasty stuff.” His eyes lit up, actually, if you looked into them, you’d probably see a small twinkle in them. “A whole Imperial gold mine? Here?” His imagination ran wild with the things he’d be able to buy by selling that gold. “Where?”

“Yeah, well I’m considered pretty young here, at twenty six. So we sincerely don’t need anymore kids on the battlefield. Got enough teenagers getting hurt out there.” Lina had seen so many teenagers laying down their lives for this. She knew she had done the same at their age, but now it made her feel ill. “I had smelt it before too, battlefields, but knowing it’s your own flesh makes it kind of worse.” She said, thinking back to how she had thrown up right after she had gotten it done. Her eyes narrowed at him,”No. The cave in has taken out a main entrance, the entire system could be unstable, not to mention swarming with Romans.”

“Oh, no. Not that I wanted to go, I was just wondering. We don’t have a mine back at camp, so I’m interested, that’s all.” Connor lied with a weak smile. “Hm, so you’re from New Rome then? A Roman on the Greeks side? That’s pretty interesting. Aren’t you afraid of what would happen after the war?” As much as she has helped the Greek forces, he doubted she could go back to her old life and still be accepted wholesomely. “Do you come from a position of power?” He asked, there was something about her that made him think she was a leader of some sort. Damn, he really should have done some more research before coming over. “I’m Connor by the way, Connor Stoll.”

Lina’s eyes were narrowed on him,”Okay. If your curiosity takes you there, know you’re probably going to get arrested by the Romans.” She didn’t need anyone near that cave, not when they had lost so many people just a little while ago. “Yeah, I was in the Legion for eleven years before defecting. I was the centurion of the fourth.” She shrugged, her face emotionless, but her shoulders tense. “I won’t get my job back, my career in politics and the Legion is over, I’m not trusted anymore with them. I’ll have to figure something else out. I’m sure the potion shop needs someone to work there.” She didn’t want to give up teaching, she wanted to keep helping, but at this point it was looking rather unlikely. “Kolina Valla. Call me Lina.”

“I’ve been arrested once already.” Connor sighed, “Not even a minute in a new city and I already have a criminal record.” He couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m sure I can take care of myself, unless they devise a new way to keep me in prison that doesn’t include locks.” Hopefully they wouldn’t realize he couldn’t unlock cursed locks. Or perhaps they already knew due to their own children of Mercury. “Ah, a Centurion. You’re speaking to a camp counselor, same thing.” He shrugged. It was in a way but it also wasn’t the same at all. “A potion shop doesn’t sound terrible, I guess that means you’re a child of the goddess of magic?” He asked curiously. “Nice to meet you Lina.”

“Everyone on this side has a record, I mean even Blossom’s been arrested before and she pets chipmunks for fun. So you’re not in bad company.” Lina said lightly. “You know how to pick locks? Always wanted to learn how to do that. Probably would have come in handy when they had me in cuffs.” Honestly, things would have gone so differently, if she had been out of the power cuffs. “I mean, in the way we take care of younger people, but I was also in charge of a large amount of the army New Rome had.” Camp counselor didn’t really match up to centurion in Lina’s mind. “Trivia, yes. Things could be worse than working in a potion shop. Might work on breaking cursed objects too, who knows?”

Connor grinned at that, petting chipmunks for fun. “Yes, I do know how, but that’s not what I did.” He shrugged. He had learnt to pick locks a long time ago, second nature now, but luckily his father had granted him with a gift. “I can unlock them without even touching them, just need a little concentration, that’s all.” He listened to her explain Centurion, he, along with Travis, had led their cabin in the battle of manhattan and the attack of camp half-blood. They just didn’t have official war armour or heavy military training. Connor furrowed his eyebrows, he hated having to know the different counterparts for the gods, now it sounded like he was going to have to remember who was who again. “Hey, maybe I could help you with the cursed objects part. I can uncurse cursed locks, but it’s pretty difficult.”

“Well, Blossom lead a rally about Greek Pride and peace. So of course, the backward government that New Rome is decided to punish her for it. The chipmunk petting wasn’t why she got arrested” Lina was still rather annoyed about Blossom getting arrested. She was annoyed about how Blossom was treated in general. “Want to teach me how to? They always put me in power inhibitors so I can’t even use my magic to get them off.” She tilted her head at him, now that was interesting. “I haven’t heard of that before, I’d love to see what extent that goes to. I wonder how powerful the curses can be and you still open them.”

“I could probably pick locks in my sleep, teaching someone how to do it though, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to.” Connor paused, “but I’ll definitely try. Power inhibitors sounds like a pain in the ass.” He didn’t have many powers like children of Hecate or Trivia, but if he did, he’d hate to have them stolen from him. “We can try, although we could probably only do one cursed lock a day.” It took so much from him, with Travis around, it was easier. But right now, he’d have to do it on his own, which, he was capable of doing.

“I’m pretty good at picking things up,” Lina assured him, even though she had the vague feeling that picking a lock was going to be harder than she expected. She’d always used her magic for that type of thing. At least while she was on bed rest, she’d have something to do. “It’s like someone taking away a limb, a part of me was missing when I had them on. It lasts for a little while too. You don’t get it back right away.” She subconsciously rubbed her wrists, thinking over the feeling again. “I enjoy working with curses and cursed objects, so that is quite an interesting power you have.”

“Thank you.” Connor said with a grin and a nod, just as he did so, a nurse walked in and scolded him for sitting up. He groaned and lay back down into the bed as the nurse did a few checks. “I guess the lock picking skills workshop is going to have to wait until I’m released from here.” He rolled his eyes as the nurse said that his medication might make him feel drowsy. “They always say that, but I honestly never feel any difference.” He said to his new friend. As the words came out his mouth, his eyelids felt heavy. “Aw shit, this stuff is like edibles, they doesn’t do anything until they hears you talking shit about them.” He said, finding it harder and harder to stay awake. “I -- It was nice meeting you though, I’ll see you around.” And with that, he fell into medical induced sleep, which was probably better for his health, he wouldn’t have been able to keep himself in bed if they hadn’t knocked him out.

[peterjonesparker]

Hi! Excuse me, I don't know if you still takes prompts but I love what your posts and I was wondering if you could write something about Michelle having troubles at home and Ned and Peter not noticing until it gets really bad because she's good at hiding things? Thanks!

so this has sat in my inbox for so long because michelle struggling/being sad is so hard for to me to write. but i hope this is okay!

(also, this includes the death of a parent to cancer and the grief that follows. i will also say as a disclaimer that i’ve been fortunate enough to not have lost a parent so i’m unsure if i’ve accurately represented this. i’m sure i can’t even begin to fathom how hard that loss is, so i’m sorry if i’ve not done this justice.)

when the doctor comes out of the operating room with a heavy heart and tells her family that they couldn’t save her father she didn’t realize she’d be losing two parents

her father had been struggling with prostate cancer for the past year. she’d always known he wasn’t going to make it, but part of her had hoped

about a month ago when things really got bad, her mother started to check out. she spent every moment at the hospital and her older brother had to drive to drop off clothes and food for her mother, who’d taken leave from work

and when her father finally passes after a long and slow death, her heart cracks open and she feels as if her whole world has been turned upside down and she’ll never orient herself again

and it only takes her a few days to realize her mother is gone too

she immediately starts throwing herself into work. as a lawyer, she’s paid by the hour. so she just…keeps working. she comes home when michelle is getting ready for bed and leaves as michelle is heading down to make herself breakfast

her mother pays the bills but she’s never around anymore

so michelle, her older brother, and younger sister become their own family because their mother isn’t there for them

but it’s hard

michelle is just starting her second semester of sophomore year. her bother is a senior and is waiting on college acceptances. her sister is struggling at school and her teacher had sent a letter home talking about the possibility that she had adhd

in the time when they need a mother, a parent, her mother leaves them

michelle has taken to dropping her sister off at school because she found out that if she doesn’t, her sister will skip and go to the park where their father would take them on weekends

her brother doesn’t talk to her anymore. she tries to ask him about college or class or his friends, but he remains silent and steely. she leaves him sticky notes around his room, but they’re always torn down

and she has to be there for herself. making breakfast, lunch, and dinner. (she and her brother switch off for dinners.) she gets her sister to school and then gets herself there. she goes through all her classes like a robot and sits alone at lunch. she goes to decathlon practice and leads the team, solemn and distant as a leader but it’s not as if anyone suspects anything has changed

she picks her sister up from school, where she’s spent most of the day crying and lashing out at teachers. when they get home, her brother is not back. she suspects he finds comfort in his friend jonathan, but she doesn’t bring it up with him. he’d only dismiss her like he does when she asks him anything

michelle has never felt so alone in her life. she goes through the motions of being a human, but everything starts to slowly deteriorate

and when mj reads about grief, it doesn’t take long to realize why she spends several hours in her bed crying before she can finally fall asleep. why she wakes up feeling as if she’s slept only twenty minutes. why food tastes like cardboard. why she can barely bring herself to even pick up a book let alone read one

things start to feel meaningless and she knows that this is technically how she should be feeling

but

it fucking sucks. it especially sucks that she is completely and totally alone. her mother isn’t there. her brother won’t talk to her. her sister is raging a silent war in her heart. michelle exists on autopilot. she goes through the motions and then goes to bed. nothing excites her anymore. and she worries it won’t ever end

and then it’s the beginning of junior year and she feels the same way. her brother left for college silently, without many words from their mother to comfort him. he’s gone across the country. she suspects to escape. her sister is entering 8th grade and she’s now got an “attitude problem”. teachers understand she’s lost her father, but they still don’t have patience when she yells and distracts from the class and she ends up in detention more often than not

and then mj is running their house. she makes meals for herself and her sister. she does the laundry. her mother pays the bills and gives them money, but she doesn’t help

and mj’s starting to lose it. because with her brother there, at least the burdens of running the house were shared. at least she had someone to do chores and make dinner and just…exist so she didn’t feel so alone in control

now she’s alone

completely and entirely alone. trying to raise a thirteen year old girl when she herself is only sixteen

and then her grades start to slip. and her teachers ask her if everything is okay and she has to say yes. and she has to put on a smile and just say things are stressful and she’ll do better. and she had to run decathlon. and everything gets worse because now when she comes home and has to cook dinner and do the chores and do her homework, she’s exhausted from pretending to be fine all day long

and then one day she collapses at school as she’s walking to lunch

and she wakes up with a massive headache in the nurse’s office

the nurse just smiles down at her gently, telling her she hit a chair on the way down. the nurse gives her some advil and tells her that she can stay here for the rest of the day if she’d like and that the boy who carried her here is waiting outside in the hallway and should the nurse let him in?

mj says yes on autopilot because she says yes to everyone now

she has to take care of everything and make sure things are in order

and then peter parker walks in, holding her backpack and the jacket she’s been holding in her arms when she’d fallen

and he takes in the blue bags under her eyes, the grease in her hair, the permanent frown her mouth is always in, the glazed over look in her eyes

“are you okay, mj?”

no. no she’s not. she’s alone and she’s holding the entire weight of the world on her shoulders trying to keep any semblance of a family she has left together. and she’s tired and she’s stressed out and she misses her father. god. she misses her dad and his laugh and his smile and they way he’d hold her when she cried and how he’d read her bedtime stories even when she was fourteen

and she misses her mom. she misses the breakfasts they’d have when they were the only ones up and how her mother would read her excerpts from books she was reading and suggest poems and short stories and novellas. she misses how her mom would scrunch her nose and run her hand over mj’s hair and kiss her forehead

she misses her brother and the way he’d surprise her and lift her up from behind, spinning her around as she shrieked. she missed his cocky smiles and the way he’d give her fist bumps when she did well on tests and she’d miss when they’d sneak down to the kitchen in the middle of the night and eat ice cream until their giggling woke up one of her parents

and her sister. she misses her carefree smiles and the way she’d flip her hair over her head and roll her eyes when she thought someone said something silly. she misses the way her sister would gently knock on her door and ask her for help on her homework or to explain to her this book she was reading in class. or how her sister would come into her room sometimes while michelle was reading and just…lie down on her

she misses her family. she misses not feeling alone all the time. she misses getting to be a kid who didn’t have to cook and do laundry and take out the trash and clean the bathroom. she’s only sixteen for christ’s sake

and then it’s all too much and tears start leaking out of michelle’s eyes and she takes a deep breath and tries to stop them but she can’t. the tears keep coming and then peter’s eyes are widening in shock and he looks panicked and michelle can’t do anything but continue to cry silently

it’s all so much. it all hurts. she can’t do this anymore. she’s so tired

and then peter wraps his arms around her and she gaps because she hasn’t been hugged in months. she hasn’t really even touched anyone other than brushing by her sister in the hallway or in the bathroom. and it’s so much and it’s warm and she leans into him. she starts sobbing and wraps her arms tighly around his shoulder because he’s a person and he’s there and it feels nice to be held because it feels like she’s a little less alone

and when the bell rings to signify the end of fifth period, she startles and pulls back from him. and there are still tears sliding down her cheeks but his eyes are vulnerable and sad and warm and gentle and she just pulls him back to her and he stays there for the rest of the day. she knows it’s too much. to hug him for a whole hour but she’s been so deprived of any form of human comfort that she allows herself to be greedy

she stains his sweater with her tears and his neck is slightly wet and some of his hair sticks there but he doesn’t say anything. he just rubs small circles into her back and her breath hitches every so often because it feels nice and she starts to get tired and she just wants to sleep and she thinks she might actually be able to fall asleep

and then the bell that signifies the end of the day rings and peter pulls back and he’s about to say something when he must notice the absolute terror in michelle’s eyes because oh god, she’s going to be alone again

and then: “do you want me to take you home?”

and she just nods. he holds her arm as she jumps off the bed in the nurse’s office and he helps steady her when her legs shake. the nurse stops them on the way out and gives michelle a slip of paper and smiles warmly at her, telling her to be safe and take some advil if her head starts to hurt

when mj looks at the paper, it’s an appointment time with the school’s therapist

and she stuffs it into her pocket when she notices peter looking at her with those piercing brown eyes

and they don’t stop by their lockers. “i got ned to handle things with the teachers. you don’t have to go to school for the next couple days if you don’t want to and you have extensions for your homework assignments for the next week.”

“what about you?”

peter smiles gently. “ned knows my locker combination and where i live.” and michelle feels that panic swell in her chest again because he’s going to go back to his house and leave her alone in hers at some point

so she chokes out the words as best as she can but her voice croaks and cracks a bit. “could you stay with me? tonight?”

and she doesn’t want to look at his face, but he wraps his arm around her shoulder and tells her that he’ll call aunt may and ask

and then he takes her to the subway platform and goes with her to pick up her sister, who raises her eyebrows suspiciously when she sees the boy with mj

but peter just smiles, extends his hand, and introduces himself. “peter parker. pleasure to meet you.”

and he chats with her sister on the way back to their house and michelle doesn’t say a word. just listens idly as peter tells her about why the empire strikes back is, objectively, the best star wars film and her sister snorts and counters that rogue one was iconic

and then peter gets out some pasta from their cabinet when they get to their house and chats with her sister while he starts cooking up penne and cooking some turkey to put in pasta sauce. and michelle just sits at the kitchen bar and sips on the large glass of water peter had put in front of her and when there is a lull in cooking or conversation, he’ll walk over and stand next to mj so their shoulders are touching and she can hear the steady breaths he takes

he sets the table with her sister and then michelle is sitting next to peter, eating pasta and listening to people talking at the dinner table. peter’s got his hand resting against hers where it sits on the side of her chair and she links one of her fingers with his because this one point of contact is her anchor right now

and her sister tells peter he’s a good egg and bounces up to her room, smiling. genuinely smiling. and those are so rare. only happen when michelle does something stupid like burn toast or when michelle tells her about something flash did. and peter’s just talked to her about star wars and the video game braid for a few hours and suddenly she’s smiling. he didn’t have to wring it out of her like michelle has to

and then he clears the table and takes mj to her room. and she lies down on her bed and feels uncomfortable but peter just climbs on it and wraps his arms around her so they’re spooning. and she starts crying because her mom used to hold her like this when michelle had nightmares

and peter just whispers reassurances into her ear until she finally falls asleep

and when she wakes up the next day and peter is gone, she panics. but then she hears the rattling of dishes and pots downstairs and finds that peter’s trying to cook an omelette

“this always seems so much easier when may makes them.” he laughs when michelle comes over to inspect his work

she chuckles lightly, feeling less like a zombie than she did yesterday. the sadness is still gripping her heart tightly and holding it captive

but

it’s loosened a bit and it doesn’t feel as if the world is crashing in on her

when she checks the time she sees it’s seven thirty. and her sister has school, oh god.

but peter speaks first: “may took your sister to school. she doesn’t start work until nine am and she wanted to help.”

michelle blinks a few times, not quite understanding. and then: “she also called into the school and i don’t have to go in today.”

she lets out a deep breath and starts crying again and peter’s eyes widen and he walks over to her quickly, pulling her into a hug and whispering in her ear again. and she pulls back a few moments later, apologizing. “i’m sorry it’s just…” and she doesn’t really even know herself but it’s all so overwhelming. “thank you. i’ve been doing everything alone.”

and peter smiles at her, pulling her into another quick hug. “i’m so sorry.” he whispers against her hair and she feels his breath against her neck. “i remember feeling like the world ended when ben died. i can’t imagine how i would have made that without may being so strong.”

and michelle just grips him tightly and cries into his shoulder again. the omelette burns and peter curses but michelle laughs.

“have you ever had egg in a basket?” mj asks, grabbing a loaf of bread from the fridge and pulling out two slices

peter raises one eyebrow, “egg in a basket?” his voice is dripping with suspicion and she cuts a hole in the middle of each slice of bread and throws the pieces at his head. he dodges them easily and opens his mouth wide, scandalized.

“it’s going to be better than your burnt omellete, i’ll tell you that.” and he laughs and the sound is so happy and carefree and she wishes she felt like that

but then her heart beats a little faster in her chest and she turns away to hide the slight blush on her cheek and she feels semi okay for the first time in a year. and then he rests his hand on hers and she looks up at him, eyes wide

“you don’t have to do this alone.” he smiles gently. “may wants to help. ned wants to help. the team wants to help. you don’t have to do this alone.” and her eyes start to water and she pulls him into a hug. “you’re not alone.”

and for the first time in a long time, it feels as if maybe he’s right. maybe she isn’t alone.

[southsidedrake-blog]

through the dark.

The day everyone else must have learned what 'being in love' really meant, Spencer must have been out sick. (A rarity in and of itself). The very notion made her skin crawl; the words always felt hollow, empty. Alex saying it to her meant nothing - she felt cold inside, as if an ice bath had been thrown on her. How could this boy say he loved her when he turned around and slept with her twin, someone bearing the same exact name? How narcissistic was it that they both engaged in that?

And how could she trust what 'love' was in the first place? If Mary had ever been serious about a man, her daughters had never known it. Cece's father was reportedly a kind man, someone she couldn't bear to destroy with the news of an unplanned pregnancy. "A man of the cloth," she nodded once, as if Alex and Spencer could understand at the age of 10 what that truly meant. And their own father was only spoken of in angry fits, drunken tirades; "you want to know about your family? About your father? Why don't you go ask your Aunt Jessica about him!"

As if either of them were willing to do that. The Dilaurentis family wasn't any better than the Drakes. It seemed as if the bad blood ran through all the women in its fold, from Mary and Jessica down to all four of their combined daughters.

Spencer had the most chance at getting out. She wasn't a fool, she played her cards right. Cece was content to stay in Riverdale, manipulating the rest of the Serpents to her whims and demands. Faux power, really, getting off on the mere fact that others fawned over her. And Alex - there was something wrong with her, Spencer knew that. She knew how close Alex tried to mimic her, that she went around pretending to be her despite the fact that they were both too old to think it was cute anymore. Her intentions weren't pure - and maybe they never had been - but once upon a time, Spencer had wanted nothing more than to think she had a built in best friend.

It was fairly obvious by the age of 18 that that was just never going to happen.

Instead, her best friend was a boy, someone whose heart she was dragging through the ringer every day. While Spencer didn't know what it meant to be in love, she could only assume it was something like what she felt around Caleb; a little bit happier, a little bit freer. Someone to confide in, to be around. They argued and they fought and they kissed and made up and no one made her feel half as safe and warm as he did.

But Spencer, being Spencer, fought against it every step of the way.

She'd be leaving in less than six months, and while she'd only be an hour train ride away, the distance already felt like so much. Caleb would never leave Riverdale, or the Serpents. He was even more a legacy than she was; while her mother and aunt had been through the same initiations she and Alex and Cece had all been through, Mary was hardly a leader. Caleb, however, was the next rightful leader. Jamie Doyle, a theif and a drunk and a liar, had somehow managed to charm the Serpents under his own rule, and Caleb, one day, would probably follow suit.

(It was a terrifying thought, sometimes, the idea of being a Serpent forever. The ink on her hip proved her place in the fold, showed that she was just as strong as any other female in the gang, but this was temporary for her. The southside, the gang, even Caleb - everything was temporary. It had to be.)

But while Jamie could prove himself to be a decent leader, he was a shit father, and repeatedly kicked Caleb out whenever he so desired. Sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes in broad daylight, sometimes while Spencer was right there grabbing Caleb's hand and pulling him out with her. He always sobered up, always let Caleb come back, but Spencer knew - one day, he wouldn't. One day, Caleb was going to have to find a place of his own.

But for now, they could speed through the night. The winter air was sharp on their skin, Spencer wrapped up in her own leather jacket as she hid her face in Caleb's shoulder, her legs tight around his waist as she held onto him, a backpack full of clothes and essentials strapped to her back as they left Riverdale far behind. He didn't stop driving for nearly three hours; the gas light yelled at them, and a $20 got them a small room in a shitty motel for a few hours sleep at least, the two of them curled up under a threadbare blanket before they hit the road once more.

They ended up in Vermont, a small town with nothing more than a gas station and a struggling pub with some spare rooms above for rent. It was the perfect place to hide away for a couple of days, and Spencer footed the bill knowing they'd manage their money back before the end of the weekend.

Sure enough, Saturday night brought in a few more biker types, an older bartender who had no qualms about serving them Jack and Cokes whenever Spencer leaned far enough for him to see her fuchsia bra, and some old country music on the jukebox. Together, they could con anyone; they were young, they were hot, and Spencer could play dumb better than most. Enough to pretend to lose all their money, at least, before ponying up one last big bet - "If I win, you owe me $500," she countered, the biker laughing as she trailed her fingers against his bicep, standing on her tiptoes as he asked what he'd get when he won. "If you win, I'll let you bend me over the bathroom sink and fuck me til I scream."

It was enough to hook them in for one more game, Caleb sitting on a stool with a beer in his hand as he watched. And while her competition was surprisingly tough - enough that she almost worried about having to make good on her promise - she had always been creative, and as she won, Caleb laughed, spinning her around until the room spun around them, the alcohol and scent of his soap making her dizzy as the old man paid up their tab.

"God, you were amazing," Caleb muttered as they stumbled up the stairs to their room, his hands already on her hips and his lips pressed against her shoulder, biting down against her throat. "They all kept trying to see up your skirt, you know."

"I don't care," she murmured back, dragging him towards her for a kiss, open and wet and needy as she pressed her chest against his own, their feet trying to make their way to the door. They had to admit defeat for a moment, breaking apart enough for Spencer to turn around to unlock their room, Caleb's hands immediately traveling up her shirt as she did, pressing his hips against her ass as she let out a shaky breath. It took her a moment to actually manage the door, but when she did she dropped everything they had in the doorway, Caleb kicking it closed behind him as she took his hand and led him towards the bed.

"I want you," she whispered, kissing his forehead, his jawline, nipping at his ear. "All of you."

Caleb didn't hesitate; he dipped low to kiss her stomach, biting the skin near her hip as he pushed her shirt over her head, hands exploring her bare skin. In the past few weeks, she'd finally let them touch more, to see skin against skin, to make the other fall apart against themselves, but there had always been a line she couldn't cross. Part of it had been Alex, sure, not wanting to sleep with more than one guy at a time. But most of it had been her own insecurities, wondering if Caleb would leave her the second she put out, if he only stayed because she kept him at bay.

How she could have ever thought that, she didn't know; Caleb adored her, in ways she didn't even know were possible. If she didn't already have her acceptance to Columbia, if she didn't have a chance at making something of herself, she'd tell him they never had to go back, that they could change their names, hit the road, hustle pool all over the country and fuck in every state.

(A part of her still wanted to give him the choice.)

Everything felt so much bigger than it ever had before; it wasn't as if Spencer was a virgin. While she had waited longer than both of her sisters - Alex had been the  youngest at 12, while sex still felt foreign to Spencer and uncomfortable to even fathom, much less with an 19 year old like Alex had done - she was still only 14 the first time she tried her hand at it, giving herself to Toby, a nice junior at school who didn't understand the way of life the Serpents really led. And by the time she had her own initiation - only a year later, at 15 - that was another four she had to sleep with, all while her sister experienced twice as many right next to her. (And the jealousy that had curled up inside of her when Caleb's name was drawn for Alex instead of her, Spencer knew that she'd hold him at bay for months for that. He had no choice, not really, and his eyes had stayed focused on her the entire time, but - still. It was never supposed to be Alex, not with Caleb. He was supposed to be the one thing that was exclusively Spencer's.)

But she and Caleb had never crossed that threshold together. And there would always be a little part of her that kept him at bay, her fear of what he felt for her, her fear of what acknowledging it would truly mean, but she was tired of fighting. Of fighting herself and what she felt, at fighting him off when she wanted him as bad as he wanted her, at fighting Alex and her attempts to steal Caleb away from Spencer.

Caleb was hers. And she was damn sure going to make sure he knew it.

She pushed him on his back as she slipped her own shirt off her head, unsnapping her bra and letting it fall to the side as his palms immediately kneaded her chest. She bent over to suck the skin on his collarbone, biting down enough to leave a mark, her teeth indented in his skin as she lapped gently at the mark as if to seal it. He groaned, his hands moving up her thighs, pushing her denim skirt up until he could see a flash of the red lace underneath, his fingers pressing against it to make her squirm. A touch she still wasn't used to, but one she knew she could become addicted to; he teased her through the fabric for a few minutes, Spencer rocking her hips against his hand, grinding against his hips as she felt the tightening in his own jeans that told her he was as turned on as she was.

"Take it off," he growled, and she didn't have to be told twice; she rolled off of him to wiggle out of her remaining clothes, Caleb working his own clothes off, tearing his shirt off over his head and kicking his jeans off before hovering over Spencer, placing almost chaste kisses across her shoulders and chest as she spread her legs for him to settle between. Her hand reached out for him, thumb sweeping over the head of his cock before she stroked him loosely, enough to tease, to torment, his strength waning as he fell to his elbows, trying to keep from crushing her.

"Caleb," she whispered, bending her knees to cradle him between her, "I want it. I want you. Please."

He looked as if he might question her, but instead she swallowed whatever questions he had with a kiss, angling her hips so that she could brush her own clit with the head of his cock; a brief thought of a condom ran through her mind, but she didn't bother. She didn't want anything between them, just wanted to feel the two of them connected as one, wanted to feel him spill inside of her, have him feel every inch of her cunt wrapped tight around him.

When he finally did slide into her, letting her hand guide him to her, her back arched and her breath caught. The only guy she'd been having sex with was Alex for almost two years; to finally feel Caleb was completely different, his girth bigger and she needed a moment before she could finally exhale again. "You okay?" he asked, though she could tell it took everything in him to give her that space, that second to adjust. So she kissed him in response, digging her nails into his shoulders as she hissed at him; "move," and he did as she asked, pulling out enough to feel the hot drag of his cock slipping away from her before he thrust back in, Spencer groaning aloud as he did.

"Fuck," he croaked, and Spencer chuckled as best she could, wrapping her legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper inside of her and it was his turn to groan, Spencer biting down on his throat as he did until they managed to find a rhythm that worked for them both. He tried to hold himself over her, but she could tell how strained he was, especially when she directed a hand between her thighs, pressing his thumb against her clit and demanding him to rub it, telling him she needed it.

"Please, Caleb, just a little - " she shuddered, biting down on her own lip as his fingers tweaked her clit lightly, her hips arching farther than they had before before she could finish her sentence. "I want to scream for you, make me scream."

"Don't have to ask me twice," he laughed, and the sound was enough to make her vibrate inside and out. She could feel her skin tighten, but the edge she wanted was still just too far away, and she had to push him off, both of them groaning when they separated until he realized what she was doing. He willingly laid back on the bed as she straddled his hips, grasping him in her hands before she could slide down, her head falling backwards when she did. She needed the control, to move her hips as fast or slow as she wanted, and with one hand on her clit again and one reaching up to touch her chest, twisting her nipples and kneading her between his fingers, she could feel it coming so much faster.

"Just like that, baby," she choked, her body tightening up as her stomach twisted, her cunt closing as tightly as she'd ever felt it before. She had to stop moving when it hit her, her nails digging into his abdomen as she held herself upright; his name came out in a whimper, her voice carrying through the hallway she was sure, but he kept going, holding out on her and riding through it until she was able to focus again, his hips still moving them until she was rocketing towards another orgasm.

"Come with me," he managed, his own voice hoarse and desperate, hands moving towards her ass as he moved her on him, pulling her when she was too shaky to move herself. "C'mon, babe, you got one more in you. I know you do."

She nodded; it didn't take more than another minute, tops, until she could feel him start to explode inside of her, triggering her own release. And this time she did let out a small scream; her head falling back as she tried to let everything she was feeling come out. It was so much more intense than she'd felt before, and when she collapsed on top of him, she was sure she could hear the blood rushing through his veins as well as her own.

It took a few minutes before they managed to catch their breath, his cock still buried inside of her as he managed to brush her hair out of her face, her chin propped up on his chest as she smiled at him through her daze.

"Worth the wait?" she teased, and he laughed quietly, running his hand over his own face before nodding.

"You're always worth it."

[cheesedoodlesurprise]

Dragon Age 2 Rant

Someone brought it up in some random Facebook Group and it got me thinking that I should finally just put it down in words.  

Dragon Age 2 is so horribly underrated that it hurts.  

The game gets so much hate that people didn’t understand what it did right

–BUT let’s get this out of the way fast: The below rant does NOT include the Level Design.  The same 4 locations used over and over.  There is no excuse for that.  It is bad and it should feel bad for it.  However much the points i will make can also be transferred over to this failure as well, that is just warping a point to excuse lazy or rushed design.

The people I have spoken to tend to cite one main example of its failure as a Role Playing Game(barring the above shit level design) and that is simply that it fails due to its action-style gameplay when compared to the original Dragon Age:Origins.  And I understand that.  There’s two radian wheels(unless you have a computer) and you’re running around and there’s not really much Party Maintenance like it had in the original.  It is not what a traditional RPG should be, and the party direction system was not the best(it reminded me way too much of Kingdom Hearts and Donald’s proclivity to use mega-elixers every time he loses one bar of mp unless you jump in there and hit him with the no-no can) especially when you realize that capitalizing on Condition Statuses is a main feature in felling your enemies.  It is just a gross departure from what a Role Playing Game should be, compounded by the fact that this was the Second Installment and it was already deviating so much from the turn based-lite party management norm.

The answer to this is simple.  Think back to the beginning of the game.  What happens?

The Hawke family gets attacked by a big fuck-off dragon and the story immediately cuts to Cassandra giving Varric shit for telling her something as stupid as “A Dragon Appeared” and you see that this whole game is now a narrative work; a retelling of events by someone being interrogated.  

Not just anyone, A FUCKMOTHERING BARD!!!!

Have YOU ever played a tabletop with someone rolling a bard?

You can’t believe a word they say, because the truth is boring and never makes for a good story.  So when asked what they did when separated from the party, instead of ‘Oh, there was a goblin so i stabbed it in the back” you’re told of a daring battle with a Bugbear King, where after felling the horrid beast, you found the princess he was holding prisoner and after releasing her from her bonds, she then had you free her from another trapping: that of virginity.

The point is this: Bards Lie.

If you take nothing else out of not just this long, badly punctuated, rant, take that.  Bards Lie about everything and anything.  It is who they are.  The story is all that matters.  So what is a Bard to do when being tortured by a bunch of Zealots, demanding knowledge on what to expect when they track down and try to kill one of your best friends?

Punch. That. Story. Up!

You make what originally is just a standard-if not slightly above average-fighter look like a whirling dervish of death to any who would cross him.

That’s what makes the story so well, this isn’t just an unreliable narrator, it is THE MOST unreliable of narrators.  One that tells you, right off the bat, that a lot of this never even happened.  You never know what really happened to Hawke and his Band of Merry Murder.  So, yes, the gameplay is a lot more action-oriented and you don’t have nearly as many combat options(especially if you are a mage) but it’s punched up to 11 the whole time because the person conveying the story is giving it all a nice sheen of ‘this is what happens when people cross them.”  You are not watching the Story of Hawke in this game.  You are watching VARRIC’S story of Hawke.

But that only answers the main issue people have with the game.  The change in controls.

What I never got is this: How can you rip on an RPG about its controls?  They are just mechanics, nothing more, and I have to say Bioware games always kinda sucked at their Turn-Based-But-Not-Really Mechanics.  KOTOR had a lot of issues and the crux of it was the clunky interface and squad controls.  I would love to have a party on a set it and forget it mechanic and not having to constantly pause the gameplay to switch over to one of the characters because they chose to not move out of fire.  How is that better than a little bit of AI that will give your party even SOME autonomy?  Because if you wanna talk about immersion, a character who is, in the narrative of the story, talked up as the quickest cutpurse on this continent and can never be caught by anyone but for some reason can not even fathom the idea of moving away from a giant spike pile he can see on the ground and instead walks right through the damn thing and kills himself is example 1:3 under the definition of Ludonarrative Dissonance.

….My point is this: Combat in Traditional RPGs is kinda trash to begin with and the main reason you play them is not combat.  It’s story.  The story is the big pull.  And this game has story falling out its ass.  It suffers in some places, sure, with what you can tell is rushed design and you are pigeon holed in a lot of places.  Case in point:I was a Mage who hated Blood Magic but put a lot of faith in the Apostates, so when every time you choose to help runaway mages and they come back and, whelp, looks like they are Blood Mages now I was so VERY angry at the game.  Livid.  I honestly don’t think people who played Rogues or Warriors and got DEEP into their characters(@meonlyred, I’m looking at you) can really match that level of anger and disappointment in the story of a game.  No matter what I try, these people just kept failing me.  

But that is the point.  I got so invested into this story that I was disappointed in 1s and 0s.  Here I was, trying to change the whole of Kirkwall by action alone: proving that having Magic does not mean you will become a monster(and, yes, i HATED the goddamn teaser trailer because in it, HAWKE USES GODDAMN BLOOD MAGIC JUST BECAUSE THE FUCKING BULL MAN WAS TOO MUCH FOR HIM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) and yet every one I was putting faith and and having others trust my judgement on have been utterly betraying that faith and trust.

Because this land never functioned on the same as me.  I was the outsider.  The Fereldan immigrant, assuming that this world will function the same as the one I left.  Granted the land I left also had a jihadist attitude to my way of life, this new one in Kirkwall had a civil and social structure completely Foreign to me.  There was no way to change the way they viewed the world because I was just one person.  One Outsider, no matter my lineage, who couldn’t change anything.  This land was going to burn itself no matter what I did.  

And that was the point of Varric’s Story.  Hawke wasn’t the cause of the things that doomed Kirkwall.  The Expedition, the one that found the artifact that corrupted everyone?  Hawke just helped with the last leg of its setup.  They would have got it together eventually.  They would have found it.  Bartrand would have found it regardless.  And Anders still would have…. You know what, let’s save that shit til the end because I don’t want to upset myself early.

Anyway…. All of this would have happened no matter what(maybe a few things would have changed slightly, but not by much) Hawke did, but he was still in the middle of it all.  I know a lot of people like their stories to be centered around them, but those can get boring. Let’s use Fallout as an example: The Sole Survivor, wandering the wastes of The Commonwealth? When you spend your first 100 hours farming Duct Tape instead of finding your son, you come out to be an asshat.  But The Courier?  NOPE!  He was just a guy living in this world.  He isn’t the center of any story, really.  He is just a guy out for revenge, but he has no idea where to get it so him wondering around and dealing with random crap isn’t nearly as a disconnect as the game before or after it.  They are really fun and enjoyable protagonists.  Heck, one of my favorite Final Fantasys is 12: the one where you are NOT the main character of the story.  Thats the Sky Pirate and the Princess.  You are just tagging along for the ride, experiencing their story like a good audience surrogate.  

The only reason you are always being thrust into the middle of everything is because the Powers of this Town are throwing you at them.  The Qunari menace?  You are asked(told) to go deal with it, and it all blows up in your face because of someone else.  Hell you even tried to STOP the hellscape to be with Anders(that motherfucker) by being a good person and talking to him.  But nope.  He had his crappy agenda and nothing you could do would stop it.

….you know what, sure let’s talk about it now. That whole ending arc just pissed me off to no end.  There is Anders killing the ONE person in this whole city trying to hold everything together and treated people with even an ounce of trust and faith JUST TO PROVE A POINT THAT SIMPLY BY DOING IT DISPROVED HIS GODDAMN POINT!  

“Mages aren’t evil so I’m going to kill the beacon of peace in this whole shitty city which will lead to EVERY GODDAMN MAGE to just flipping a ‘whelp guess i’m an abomination now, time to murder everyone, weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee blood magic is fuuuuuuuun!’ switch and I guess completely dismantle my entire point.  It’s a good thing Hawke stabbed me for being a fucking idiot” and then you come across the Mages who are holed up to protect themselves but, wouldn’t you know it, their leader turned himself into a Tentacle Death Monster and now you have to kill the one mage who had your back and was a beacon of not being a dickhole.  

All of this just constant “Mages are all evil dicks, lets torch them all’ just upset me so much.  I was playing the entire last part of the game with a giant grimace.  Angry at this whole damn city and making me kill all these people I tried to make better.

Yes, me.  I got so deep into this game(if you read up, I dropped the possessive pronoun a bit when talking about the story) that I was upset that they were betraying MY expectations of them as people.  Not Hawke.  By this time I got way into the game and imprinted.  

No matter what faults it has, in the end its story caused me to become so engrossed with it that even when it took a turn I did not like, I was so invested I was still hooked and responding to it as if it were happening to me.

I know it was a long rant that just sort of cut off, but Anders will do that to me.  Hell, I hated what he did so much, I even tried making a toon to romance him so I could see if there was more dialogue options or how it would shape with him actually having a loving relationship and nope! He still acted the same.  Just pleaded more for me to understand.  

I STILL had to gut him.  I was still so damn pissed off at him I had to kill him even as a character romancing him!

[nothe: wrote this up at work when I was bored so there is a very good chance I have odd stops and idea changes due to the nature of writing something while also having to work  on projects so it may be updated frequently]

[orionsangel86]

Hey tumblr people, friends, SPN family,

You may have realised that my blog has become the virtual version of tumbleweed rolling through a desert in recent weeks/months. I noticed on checking my blog recently that I have had an influx of new followers which I think is predominantly thanks to a shout out from Shirley (@destieldrabblesdaily) which I am infinitely grateful for because I consider her one of the best blogs in the SPN fandom. It is for that reason among others that I feel pretty damn bad about not being around recently to share in your speculation, meta and general love for the show.

I haven’t said much since the finale, or even about the finale. I never wrote an episode review for any of the last 3 episodes of season 12. (still haven’t seen 12x21 and don’t plan to) I guess I just want to explain why.

In the past few months SPN has been losing its grip on me, I guess I always thought this would happen one day as it always has in the past with other things that I have falling in love and obsession with until I just… well… get over it. Usually its when a show finishes or movie franchise ends though, rather than whilst it’s still going on. I haven’t felt that itchy desire to constantly check my dash, or write meta or obsess over speculation for the show lately at all. I tried re-watching season 12 and I just couldn’t maintain my concentration. I instead started watching other shows – American Gods is fantastic – and getting out a bit more as well. Tumblr kinda sucked me into this pit where my social life pretty much dried up and became non-existent. Though in all fairness, tumblr also got me through a pretty nasty stint of depression.

I keep hoping that this will be temporary, that perhaps when season 13 comes to our screens that I’ll jump right back in, but I’m not so sure. I guess I’ll watch it, but I don’t know how much I’ll participate in fandom in the future. I want to, I still have that desire to get involved but I don’t have the energy or desire to write meta about the actual show right now. I guess I kinda feel like everything is already being said by the other fantastic meta writers on tumblr and my opinion isn’t really needed.

The thing is, I am tired of SPN. I am tired of the game they are playing with us. I say this, knowing full well that they are dangling destiel in front of us like a carrot dangled in front of a donkey, so close but still so far. Eventually we will get our carrot – of this I am almost certain – but they sure as hell will continue to put us through a bunch of utter crap before we get there.

This is what I am fed up with. I did start re-watching season 12 and I just can’t fathom some things that drove me crazy. Like why when we were first introduced to the British men of letters, it was two strong women who ruled the screen, but by the end, it was another two generic white men to add to our already generic white guy cast. They could have written it in so many different ways to how they did.

Billy’s death pissed me off, so did Alesha’s and Tasha’s. By the time they took Eileen from us I was fuming. Then when they went and wrote off Rowena with an off screen death only told to us in description form I had given up.

On top of this they continued to write scenes of non-con, scenes of violence against POC and women that could easily be avoided whilst maintaining suspense and drama, a dodgy plot point centering around a women fighting her right to choose against the white men trying to take that choice away from her, and on top of it all, fucking Lucifer still being a big part of the show when his character should have died at the end of season 11. His entire story this season was so boring I wanted to skip most of his scenes. I hated HATED his character.

I’m sorry to be negative. The show did some wonderful things this year that I am so happy about. Dean’s story arc was wonderful. His confrontation with Mary in 12x22 had me in tears and I screamed FINALLY out loud as he opened up and admitted things that he has kept inside for his whole life. Dean held this whole season together he really did. The emotional plot was wonderful, it’s what kept me around until the finale because I could see Dabb’s plan for the characters emotional development so clearly in the subtext and later text. Well, until 12x19 for Cas because after 12x19 I don’t understand a fucking thing Cas did and I bloody hope he really has been mind wammied by Jack all this time because otherwise it doesn’t make a lick of sense for his character development.

Ultimately, what season 12 did that was GREAT was threefold:

It built up Dean’s emotional development to its climax where he has finally let Sam ‘go’ and admit the years of abuse he suffered under John, as well as admitting that he was a parent to Sam rather than a brother. Dean’s entire story throughout the whole series has been building to this point and it was WONDERFUL to see.

It built up Sam’s story in the same way, in that he was able to finally break free from under Dean’s wing and accept his own responsibility and place in the world as a whole – as a leader and hero – rather than something tainted and wrong. Season 12 signalled the end of Winchester toxic co-dependency and I was HERE FOR THAT.

It gave us destiel. Now, I say this with certainty guys, although I know it is still contested. Consider it my parting gift to you. Destiel is real and we are going there. Season 12 basically gave it to us because it did things that it cannot now backtrack on. I have never been more certain. Even AFTER 8x17, after Dean’s confession, after “He’s in love… with humanity” and “it was all about saving one human” even after 11x19 and our Hunting Husbands, I still had a whole bunch of doubt on the topic. Now though? I don’t see how it is possible to watch 12x10, 12x12, 12x19 and now, the end of 12x23 without being like “hang on a freaking second – what the hell actually is going on with these guys?” Destiel is gonna happen. This is my speculation for you. Cas will be brought back but he will be brought back wrong and probably under Jack’s control and will walk away from Dean – still crying at his feet – all cold and emotionless as if Dean was nothing to him. Dean will then stop at nothing to get him back. I predict that will happen around the mid-season finale and it will be a big moment for destiel. Another 8x17 but more intense perhaps? Another ‘crypt scene’ but this time with a love confession from both sides? Guys I see it. I can’t not see it now. The one thing season 12 did was take away my doubts. Destiel is real and it is happening and I am pretty sure we will get there by end of season 13.

The problem is, this is no longer enough for me. Even if Season 13 starts with Cas coming back to life in some spectacular beauty and the beast moment which ends in a kiss and a cut to their wedding day… its still not enough anymore. I can’t watch this series just for a ship. I can’t keep going for the fucking carrot dangling in front of me when my hoofs are bleeding and raw and my back is breaking from the weight of all the shit I’ve been forced to carry. The carrot isn’t worth it.

I used to adore this show. Not for destiel, but for the stories, the mythology, the characters and their colourful world of Supernatural things. Now, the characters are slowly reaching peak development and I am getting fed up of watching them get beat down. I want them to have their peace, their happy ending. The stories are no longer fresh and exciting. They are Lucifer and his ridiculous Nephilim baby/not baby.

I am also so fed up of Cas’s story not making sense, of him being controlled or brainwashed or forced to do things he hates. Of his absence when it makes no sense (like when Claire is involved and not a word is spoken about him) or of writers writing him so off key that he comes across idiotic. (thanks Bucklemming). I can’t keep watching the writers butcher this character I adore with all my heart.  

I am so so happy for Wayward Sisters and I will support it with all my might. If only because these writers need to UNDERSTAND that they cannot keep killing off the female characters on this show like they mean nothing. Its just heartbreaking to think that we will never get Charlie, Eileen, Rowena, Billy, Alesha or any of the other female characters who have been wrongly killed off in Supernatural join the female cast of this spin off. I’m excited for Wayward Sisters more than I am for Supernatural right now, because Supernatural is just a massive disappointment for me.

I am sorry I feel this way, its been eating at me for a while. I think it’s the reason I have taken this break. I just can’t put all my time and energy into something that feels toxic to me. I live in fanfic at the moment because it is the characters I adore without the awful truth of canon – even if occasionally canon does still give us those fanfic moments – it’s the other moments that are the issue.

*sigh*

I’m sorry. Part of me desperately wants to hold on with all my might, to come back and throw myself into speculation and meta and all the stuff you guys are so awesome at, but another part of me is so so bitter its preventing me from feeling any joy from it.

Maybe when season 13 comes on I’ll forget this post and just start this blog up again. I certainly miss talking to the bloggers on here I consider my friends, I just feel that without contributing to anything I have no purpose on Tumblr, and I don’t want my negativity to affect anyone else. So in the meantime, this is goodbye. I may still visit and reblog stuff occasionally, but I won’t be writing anything for a while. A long while probably.

It’s been fun Tumblr, but from now on consider this an extended hiatus. Perhaps I’ll see you in the Autumn… perhaps this fleeting romance is over for good. I won’t know until I know. As for Supernatural, I have said my bit. Expect Destiel along with a side of bitter disappointment. Wayward Sisters will be amazing though. So long as they don’t let Bob Singer or Bucklemming anywhere near it that is.

[thedancemostofall]

notes on eating

Ruby Tandoh on Sugar

The idea of a monolithic, wondrous, dreadful sugar would hardly have made sense to medieval cooks. Sweetness was not a category, but a seasoning

In many cultures, this sugar-salt symphony is still foundational. “The food I grew up eating every night — that is to say, Persian home cooking — is all about balancing the plate with sweet and sour, salty and rich, crisp and soft,” says Nosrat. “Fresh and dried fruits — pomegranates, sour cherries, dates, raisins — all regularly found their way onto our dinner plates. So I have always been drawn to a little sweetness in my food.”

How has sweetness — something we are evolutionarily programmed to like, for survival — come to stand in for sex and escapism and hedonism? Humans are metaphor machines, and our mouths are liminal places where food and words mingle, where hot dogs, tagliatelle, and Nigerian puff puff meet “my name is,” memory, and “I.” True synesthesia — the blurring between one sense and another — is relatively rare, but its logic pervades our language, so that trumpets might sound hot, or sadness taste sour. One study found that honeycomb toffee tastes less sweet when eaten whilst listening to a “bitter” soundtrack than when eaten whilst listening to a “sweet” soundtrack. And our senses don’t just crisscross randomly — “How come silence is sweet but sweetness isn’t silent?” one paper asked.

https://www.eater.com/2018/8/6/17631452/ruby-tandoh-sugar-history-kara-walker-will-cotton

Taffy Brodesser-Aknery on Losing it in the Anti-Dieting Age

About two years ago, I decided to yield to what every statistic I knew was telling me and stop trying to lose weight at all. I decided to stop dieting, but when I did, I realized I couldn’t. I didn’t know what or how to eat. I couldn’t fathom planning my food without thinking first about its ability to help or hinder a weight-loss effort. I went to a nutritional therapist to help figure this out (dieting, I have found, is its own chronic condition), and I paid her every week so I could tell her that there still had to be a way for me to lose weight. When she reminded me that I was there because I had realized on my own that there was no way to achieve this goal, I reminded this wonderful, patient person that she couldn’t possibly understand my desperation because she was skinny. I had arthritis in my knees, I said. Morality and society aside, they hurt. I have a sister with arthritis in her knees, too, but she’s skinny and her knees don’t hurt.

I went to an intuitive-eating class — intuitive eating is where you learn to feed yourself based only on internal signals and not external ones like mealtimes or diet plans. Meaning it’s just eating what you want when you’re hungry and stopping when you’re full. There were six of us in there, educated, desperate fat women, doing mindful-eating exercises and discussing their pitfalls and challenges. We were given food. We would smell the food, put the food on our lips, think about the food, taste the food, roll the food around in our mouths, swallow the food. Are you still hungry? Are you sure? The first week it was a raisin. It progressed to cheese and crackers, then to cake, then to Easter candy. We sat there silently, as if we were aliens who had just arrived on Earth and were learning what this thing called food was and why and how you would eat it. Each time we did the eating exercise, I would cry. ‘‘What is going on for you?’’ the leader would ask. But it was the same answer every time: I am 41, I would say. I am 41 and accomplished and a beloved wife and a good mother and a hard worker and a contributor to society and I am learning how to eat a goddamned raisin. How did this all go so wrong for me?

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/08/02/magazine/weight-watchers-oprah-losing-it-in-the-anti-dieting-age.amp.html

Oprah- how did i let this happen again?

"How Did I Let This Happen Again?"   Photo: Matthew RolstonFour years ago, when Oprah managed to get down to a trim and fit 160 pounds, she thought she'd hit on a foolproof formula for permanent weight loss. Then life—in the form of a thyroid problem and a killer schedule—intervened. Last year she was back up to the 200-pound mark and knew something had to change. After a desperately needed time-out to reflect and recharge, here's what she's learned, what she's doing differently, and what's next.You know how bad you feel when you have a special event, a reunion, a wedding, a bar mitzvah, and you wanted to lose that extra 10 to 40 pounds, and you didn't do it? So the day comes and now you've got to try to find something to wear that makes you feel halfway decent, and you have to figure out how to hold in your stomach all night and walk backward out of the room so no one sees that your butt keeps moving even when you stop. Multiply that feeling by a million—make that more than 2.4 million for every Oreader—and you'll know how I've felt over the past year every time I had to shoot a cover for O. If you're a regular subscriber, you'll notice you've not seen a head-to-toe shot all year. Why? Because I didn't want to be seen. " In 1992 I reached my heaviest, 237 pounds. I was 38. Then, four years ago, I made it a goal to lose weight, and I appeared on the January 2005 cover (left) at a toned 160 pounds. I thought I was finished with the weight battle. I was done. I'd conquered it. I was so sure, I was even cocky. I had the nerve to say to friends who were struggling, "All you have to do is work out harder and eat less! Get your 10,000 steps in! None of that starchy stuff!" Bam! Karma is a bear of a thing. So here I stand, 40 pounds heavier than I was in 2006. (Yes, you're adding correctly; that means the dreaded 2-0-0.) I'm mad at myself. I'm embarrassed. I can't believe that after all these years, all the things I know how to do, I'm still talking about my weight. I look at my thinner self and think, "How did I let this happen again?" It happened slowly. In February 2007, at 53, I started to have some health issues. At first I was unable to sleep for days. My legs started swelling. My weight started creeping up, first 5 pounds, then 10 pounds. I was lethargic and irritable. My internal clock seemed totally out of whack. I began having rushing heart palpitations every time I worked out. Okay, I've never loved daily exercise, but this was different. I actually developed a fear of working out. I was scared that I would pass out. Or worse. I felt as if I didn't know my own body anymore. After many trips to various doctors, I received a diagnosis. I had hyperthyroidism (an overactive thyroid that can speed up metabolism and cause weight loss—but of course didn't make me lose a single pound) and then gradually started moving into hypothyroidism (a sluggish metabolism that can cause fatigue and weight gain). My doctor prescribed medication and warned me that I must "learn to embrace hunger" or I would immediately gain weight. Believe me, no part of me was prepared to embrace hunger. It seemed as if the struggle I'd had with weight my entire adult life was now officially over. I felt completely defeated. I thought, "I give up. I give up. Fat wins." All these years I'd had only myself to blame for lack of willpower. Now I had an official, documented excuse. The thyroid diagnosis felt like some kind of prison sentence. I was so frustrated that I started eating whatever I wanted—and that's never good. My drug of choice is food. I use food for the same reasons an addict uses drugs: to comfort, to soothe, to ease stress. I switched doctors and still gained weight. At one point I was on three medications: one for heart palpitations, another for high blood pressure, another to moderate my thyroid. Who knew this tiny butterfly gland at the base of the throat had so much power? When it's off, your whole body feels the effects. [For more information about thyroid disorders, see The Truth About the Thyroid.] I followed my doctor's orders to the letter (except for the part about working out). I took the prescribed medication religiously at the same time each day. Being medicated, though necessary, made me feel as if I were viewing life through a veil. I felt like an invalid. Everything was duller. I felt like the volume on life got turned down. I realized this to some extent, but I wasn't fully aware of the effect of the medication until I had a conversation with my friend Bob Greene. He'd given up lecturing me about working out and eating well, but we were walking together one day and he said, "I think something's wrong. You're listless. Your movements are slower, even when you're just doing normal stuff. Twice I've told you something and you don't remember it. There's no sparkle in your eyes. I think you're in some sort of depression." Me—depressed? I hadn't thought I was, but definitely something was off. I felt like the life force was being sucked out of me. I always had an excuse for being tired. It took extra effort to do everything. I didn't want to go anywhere, and I didn't want to be seen any more than I had to. I could oversee a show and a magazine that tell people how to live their best lives, but I definitely wasn't setting an example. I was talking the talk, but I wasn't walking the walk. And that was very disappointing to me. Immediately after that conversation with Bob, I called my doctor. "All this medicine is making my life feel like a flat line," I said. So my doctor slowly weaned me off it, except for one aspirin a day. (By the way, never suddenly stop taking prescribed medication, especially heart and blood pressure medication, without checking with your physician.) That choice was the beginning of my road back to health—and back to myself. Regaining my footing hasn't been easy. What is true for every one of you is also true for me: Life's responsibilities don't lessen just because you aren't feeling your best. In my case, the show literally must go on. Many days I didn't feel like going to work, but sick days aren't an option when more than 300 audience members have bought plane tickets and arranged babysitters so they could come to a taping. I think I hit bottom when I wanted to stay home even from a show as fun as the one we did with Tina Turner and Cher in Las Vegas. I was supposed to stand between them onstage, and I felt like a fat cow. I wanted to disappear. "God help me now," I thought. "How can I hide myself?" Later, as I was interviewing both of them about their ages (at the time, Tina was 68 and loved being older; Cher was 61 and didn't), I asked myself, "Who's the real older woman here? I am." They both had more energy than I did. They didn't just sparkle; they glittered. At the close of our 2007–2008 season and the beginning of my summer hiatus, I still had other commitments. I make at least four trips each year to check on my girls in South Africa. No matter what continent they're on, a group of 150 schoolgirls is a lot to manage. By the time I left South Africa, I knew I needed some time to do absolutely nothing. In July I was able to take a break. I went to sleep and woke up whenever I pleased. I sipped soy milk, downed vitamins, snacked on flaxseed, and allowed my body to restore itself. Some days I exercised by walking with my dogs in the hills of Maui; gradually I started working out on the treadmill, at first with a heart monitor to make sure there were no palpitations (it was a black box smaller than a BlackBerry, which I wore on my belt). By the end of the summer, I felt I could do a full hour of cardio without dropping dead. Next I tackled the food addiction, which is ongoing. As far as my daily food choices go, I'm not on any particular program. I've gone back to the commonsense basics we all know: eating less sugar and fewer refined carbs and more fresh, whole foods like fish, spinach, and fruit. But in order not to abuse food, I have to stay fully conscious and aware of every bite, of taking time and chewing slowly. I have to focus on being fully alive, awake, present, and engaged, connected in every area of my life. Right now. What I've learned this year is that my weight issue isn't about eating less or working out harder, or even about a malfunctioning thyroid. It's about my life being out of balance, with too much work and not enough play, not enough time to calm down. I let the well run dry. Here's another thing this past year has been trying to teach me: I don't have a weight problem—I have a self-care problem that manifests through weight. As my friend Marianne Williamson shared with me, "Your overweight self doesn't stand before you craving food. She's craving love." Falling off the wagon isn't a weight issue; it's a love issue. When I stop and ask myself, "What am I really hungry for?" the answer is always "I'm hungry for balance, I'm hungry to do something other than work." If you look at your overscheduled routine and realize, like I did, that you're just going and going and that your work and obligations have become a substitute for life, then you have no one else to blame. Only you can take the reins back. That's what I'm doing. These days I've put myself back on my own priority list; I try to do at least one hour of exercise five or six days a week. As I work out, eat healthfully, and reorder my life so there's time to replenish my energy, I continue to do the spiritual and emotional work to conquer this battle once and for all. My goal isn't to be thin. My goal is for my body to be the weight it can hold—to be strong and healthy and fit, to be itself. My goal is to learn to embrace this body and to be grateful every day for what it has given me. In 2009, dare I, dare all of us give ourselves all the love and care we need to be healthy, to be well, and to be whole? I know for sure that for each moment of this brand new year, I'm gonna try.

https://www.oprah.com/spirit/oprahs-battle-with-weight-gain-o-january-2009-cover/all

The unhealthy truth behind “wellness” and “clean eating”

I spoke about this purity fetish to Nigella Lawson, whose guilt-free approach to eating helped to reconfigure my attitude to food when I was at my most vulnerable. "I despair of the term 'clean eating,'" she said, "though I actually like the food that comes under that banner. ['Clean eating'] necessarily implies that any other form of eating—and consequently the eater of it—is dirty or impure and thus bad, and it's not simply a way of shaming and persecuting others, but leads to that self-shaming and self-persecution that is forcibly detrimental to true healthy eating."

Our diets become a moral issue when this is the food culture we foster, and gluten is just the start of it. "I wish people would recognize [this] before saying, 'Hey, try this cool elimination diet—you've got nothing to lose,'" lamented Alan Levinovitz when I asked him about this modern cult of elimination dieting. "Nothing to lose? No, there's a lot to lose."

https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/jm5nvp/ruby-tandoh-eat-clean-wellness

Why we fell for clean eating

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/aug/11/why-we-fell-for-clean-eating