#came back and realized i’d been sleeping in a tiny sliver at the very edge of a king sized bed

[baasthasthezoomies]

Guess where I slept?

[lyallblacklupin]

Sirius tries to remember Remus.

Post-Azkaban Wolfstar: Angst with Hopeful Ending.

Sirius is battling with his memory after Azkaban. 12 years of dementors torturing him, that had caused some real damages to his brain. He doesn’t remember people until they introduce themselves to him. Everyone is steering clear his way but Remus hasn’t given up on him yet.

These days are sickening. They make you feel so lonely and ugly. They tell you—no they scream at you that you don’t deserve anything. Know why? Because you don’t matter. You don’t exist. The most horrifying thing about those voices is that they can make you believe they are saying the truth. Like I did. And I still do, and believe me, it’s not good.

Life is just unfair is so easy to say, it’s just a slip of tongue as if you are consoling a group of people, like Madam Hooch used to when we would lose to Slytherins because they played dirty. However, realizing the fact how unfair life really is, is gut-wrenching. It forces you to become unlike yourself. It puts malevolent ideas in your head for the people who you love—or used to loved. I would go on and blame these walls, but then I’m questioning the universe that why did I have to be born here? The Grimmauld Place 12? And then I’m eventually answered; Life is unfair, you git, haven’t you get it yet?

The nights are terrible here, I hear Kreacher whispering to my charming mother’s portrait, I hear the floor creaking even though no one comes here, except they are invited by Dumbledore—which sounds weird because it’s my house but again, life is just unfair.

Right now, I’m struggling to sleep because there is a prickling fear sitting at the edges of my body. The fear of Dementors for taking the last of everything away.

I still have some good memories, like the one when James made me Harry’s Godfather. Harry’s big emerald eyes were streaming with fat tears until he was given into my arms. I can remember that I had gasped at the scene, and so did the others in the room.

“Oh Sirius! He was crying for like an hour! But he stops now!? I swear this is not a coincidence!” Lily said, but James had been quiet.

“Prongs?” No answer.

“Prongsie? Hey!” Because I caught him pressing his hand on his mouth forcefully, his face blotchy, and he didn’t stop sniffing. He was crying! “What? Like you—father and son both work alternatively? When Harry stops crying, he transfers his weeping mantra to you, and vice versa?”

“Shut up!” Before I said something, I let out an ‘oof’ because James shoved me in his embrace, sandwiching Harry in middle of the process. Harry was giggling with his tear-stained face. His laugh was like music to my ears. I didn’t mention that. I was in love with Harry. He felt like my own child. I never thought I’d feel this exuberance but there was, more than I expected. I was bad at displaying true affection in front of people, but I couldn’t help when Harry’s tiny and chubby hands brushed the collar of my jacket, utterly in awe with the feeling of material on his fingers, I completely forgot James was hugging me, and I managed to press a kiss on Harry’s cheek. He smelled like soft babies. I was in love with that scent. I wanted to hold him forever.

I can never forget that memory. It helps me cast a patronus. There is also something vague about that memory. There is someone too in the small crowd, behind me, other than James. I can remember there was the blonde girl, Mckinnon, and her best friend, Meadows-something. I struggle with names. Sometimes I forget—

“Sirius?”

—Remus’ name. I have to see or hear the person to see if I can remember.

“I’m in my room?” He calls me out every time for like the hundredth time he has found me in my bedroom, and yes, I am still in my bedroom. He won’t stop calling me out. Sometimes, he is very annoying.

“Oh yeah, Of course.” He appears at the doorway, leaning to his left, smiling weakly. He looks tired. He is short of breath. I want to give him a glass of water but my limbs are protesting.

“I could give you a glass of water, but I—just don’t feel like getting up.” I didn’t want to say that but I did because the expressions on Remus’ face are priceless. There is awkwardness written on his face with a hint of shock and sadness. There is nothing pretty about that, but it brings back an indistinct memory I enjoy that I cannot tell. I am disturbing. That’s another trait I have discovered about myself ever since I came back from Azkaban.

“No, it’s alright. I just had water. Not thirsty at all. I—umm…I brought you something.” He says, and then I notice a package in his hand.

“Hope it’s not something you and your werewolf buddies plays with.”

“Ha, no, I wish. But it’s something I needed to give you…from a very long time.” He comes and sits beside me. I had to sit up because I can’t let him touch me. I don’t know why but I am always scared of Remus Lupin, and it is my secret, “Here.” He gives me the package, and looks into my eyes. I try looking away but I couldn’t try harder.

“Happy Birthday.” He whispers, and it sends a shudder to my body. What is the date today?

I open the package, and there it is. A photo frame. It was a leather frame. Black. I am trying not to look at the picture so I distract myself by admiring the leather. And again, I remember Harry. But it is a forced visualization so it doesn’t last longer. I am very much aware of Remus’ presence. I am also getting short of breath now. I look at him and he is already staring at me. I smile at him, but he frowns. And then I frown, too. What is wrong? I saw his hand coming up near my face, and I bat away.

He is gawking at him with wide and horrified eyes, and a hurt expression.

“I—I’m sorry. I don’t…I just—I am sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know you don’t. But you eventually do.” It doesn’t come out bitter. He is smiling at me, but he isn’t done talking, “Sirius, I want to talk. It is eating me alive. Sometimes, I don’t think I am left with much longer in me…But, hey,” He reaches out but stops immediately, “Please…I—I want to talk to you about…Everything or anything. We can talk about us?”

“Us?”

“Yeah…If you want to,”

“There is no Us, Remus.”

“There used to be.” I snort, but he is frowning. I hate his frowns. Why can’t he just smile like a normal person?

“Like what? Did we snog? Or shagged once or twice?” I can’t recall any heterosexual experience, so I can’t say I have never done anything with a guy.

“Sirius, was that picture not enough?” He said with such sadness. And then I look at the picture.

And then I see it. There is a younger version of Remus Lupin, wearing a giant grey jumper, sitting on a library’s table. How decent. There is someone in between his legs, standing before him. It is a dark-haired guy, wearing a Gryffindor tie on his hogwarts’ uniform. He has his hands wrapped around Remus’ torso. A thick curtain of his long hair is almost concealing the half of his face, considering how much it is already buried in Remus’ chest. He squeezes gleefully which causes the younger Remus to erupt with laughter. The scene goes back and forth. And then I spot two people sitting in far distance. They were unmistakably James and Lily. They are the only people I recognize. Those two are cackling because how stupidly romantic the two boys are acting against each other. The picture keeps playing, and I focus again on the couple in the spotlight, and I realize that little Remus is trying to press a kiss on the guy’s forehead but the other person doesn’t stand still, constantly whipped his long hair—and then I freeze all of a sudden. Because I see it. The grey eyes, the long hair, and especially the scar on the left wrist, which still glows sliver in the daylight when I secretly stand in the balcony.

“That is us.” It comes out of my mouth even though I never expect myself to say it.

“Yeah, you and me. We were not just each other’s quick snog, or shagging partner. We go way back, Padfoot. Longer than James and Lily.”

“I don’t remember you…” It comes out as a whimper. I feel stupid and vulnerable.

“I’m sorry, Sirius. I’m sorry for what I did. I never apologized about this…I wanted to—“

“I don’t remember you…”

“—but I never really got a chance. I’m sorry I thought you could betray the Potters. I’m sorry that I kept myself believing for twelve years that it was you. But I swear to Merlin, I never stopped loving you—“

“I don’t remember you, Remus…” But he is not listening.

“—I used to hate myself for this. I felt disgusting that I still loved you. And then I melted myself in filthy thoughts. No one was there to judge me. I used to picture you all the time, sitting on the sofa waiting for me to come back from the muggle job you hated. I used to see you laying on the bed in the night. I used to imagine myself cuddling up with you. And some days, it was so real that we used to talk till dawn. We used to watch the sunrise together. October 31st used to come and go by, and we pretended it was just another Halloween and you used to say ‘Moony, you hate Halloween because some people dress up as werewolves, and you don’t get to wear a costume!’—“

I stop saying anything. I cannot tell that I don’t remember him because I do. His hand accidently rubs shoulder, and I am suddenly yanked to my happiest memory—Harry’s beautiful hands reaching my jacket—and the ‘someone’ is not just someone who is behind me, rubbing my lower back and laying his head against mine, because it was him. It was Remus Lupin. It is still Remus Lupin, I want him to be.

I cannot tell that I don’t remember him because I am starting to…and it’s a start. He keeps telling me how he spent the last twelve years, so I listen to him because my years were not in an open cage just like his. It was scary to be locked up for years and never to see the people you love, but it must have been even scarier to be free for years and never see the people you love. Remus Lupin has suffered too, and I can’t help but be there for him. 

So as he keeps rambling his stories about his undying love for me, I slip into his space, and wrap my arms around his torso, like I had in the picture, and bury my face into his chest. He is not warmer as he must have been in that picture but it calms me down because his heart is beating against mine, and I am happy to have him alive with me.

Thanks for reading! Stay magical!

[triggerlil]

Drarry, fluff, 27 please! 😍

This was so fun to write Rae!! Hope you enjoy :) 

--

Scorpius puffed out his cheeks, rolling a muggle toy car across the ground petulantly.

“What’s the matter, Scorpius?” Harry asked, laying on his stomach next to the blond boy. Toys were strewn around the room, the two of them having gotten up to large amounts of havoc while Draco did work in the kitchen. Scorpius had turned five recently, and had been a bugger to deal with, so Harry had agreed to come keep him occupied. Give Draco a few hours of peace to get through his ever-lengthening to-do list.

The world from the ground felt different, everything huge and looming, yet not in a threatening way. He tried to remember what it had felt like to be this small naturally, but could only dredge up images of mangled toy soldiers and dust. Laying down on the hardwood floor felt like the opposite. It was relaxing, his cheek resting on his crossed arms, glasses skewed, as he let Scorpius occupy himself. Occasionally, he would lazily turn a building block on its head, flick the bristles of Scorpius’ toy broom, but he was happy doing absolutely nothing.

Now though, it was obvious that something was on Scorp’s mind, his pale brows furrowed, tiny pink lips pursed in an imitation of his father.

“Why do you weave?” Scorpius asked, and Harry felt his heart soften.

“I can’t stay here all the time Scorp,” he said, “I have my own home.”

“Where?” It always surprised Harry how curious he was, he wondered if Draco had been the same, constantly badgering his stuck up parents with questions about the world and its many surprises.

“In a house, you’ve been there.”

Scorpius huffed, pushing the car harder into the floor, “wonewy house.”

“I live alone, but that’s why I come visit you and your dad.”

Scorpius looked at him, his grey eyes piercing, “Why don’t you wive with us?”

“Because this is your house, for you and your dad, he wouldn’t want me here all the time.”

“He would!” Scorpius insisted, “He’s sad without you!”

Harry raised an eyebrow, propping himself up on his elbows. “What do you mean, Scorp?”

“Papa is sad when you weave, and always dress up for when you come!” He said it as if this was it, the words that would convince Harry to move in. He could hear Draco sifting through paper in the kitchen, but then his chair scraped back, and his feet were padding towards the living room.

“Well I wouldn’t want your handsome dad to be lonely, now would I?”

“I heard that, Harry!”

Harry looked up as Draco entered the room, his hair swept back from his forehead, almost golden in the afternoon light streaming through the window. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing his pale chest and a small slice of silver peeking out from behind the fabric. That inch of torn skin caught Harry’s breath in a way it hadn’t before. 

He grinned. “You were supposed to.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, walking forward and sitting down cross-legged on the floor, carding his hand through Scorpius’ hair.

“What have you been telling Harry? Hm?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of his son’s head.

Scorpius shrugged, as if he would somehow get in trouble, and Harry laughed.

“He thinks I should move in, because apparently you’re lonely without me. That true, Draco?”

Harry wanted to bask in the pink blush that was creeping up Draco’s neck, the sliver of silver even more noticeable against his flushed skin. If Harry didn’t leave, if he never left again, would he be allowed to undo the rest of those buttons? See where the scars led, trailing down Draco’s chest and abdomen, potentially running farther, down his hips and thighs. If he asked to stay, would Draco let him?

“I just like hosting guests.”

“I didn’t realize I qualified as a guest.”

“Right, because you’re here so often, like a little vermin.”

“Says the little ferret…”

Draco pushed his shoulder lightly, a playful movement, something that should have been casual. Draco’s hand lingered on Harry’s shoulder, as if feeling the bone and muscle underneath, his eyes stuck on Harry’s torso. Was he wondering what would happen if Harry stayed? Was he wondering if Harry would let him put his hands under his shirt, feel his skin beneath his fingertips? Because he would let him, if he was allowed to stay.

Suddenly Scorpius lunged himself at Harry’s lap, nuzzling into his chest, pushing Draco’s arm away.

“I won’t gwet up,” he said, “unwess you stay!” He looked at his father with a devilish grin that Harry hadn’t thought a five-year-old would be capable of, and Draco rolled his eyes, now the petulant child in the room. Suddenly Harry saw the Scorpius in Draco, as he so often saw Draco in Scorpius.

“I’ll sleepover, if it’s alright with your father…” Harry grinned, looking at Draco over the top of Scorpius’ head, wrapping his arms around the boy and hugging him close. Being Scorpius’ favourite person after Draco and his late mother was about to have a lot of benefits.

“I suppose… if Harry would like to, he can sleepover.”

“I would indeed like to,” Harry smiled, “we could watch a movie, I make good popcorn.”

Draco rolled his eyes, he had bought a TV at Harry’s request, and watching him try and use it brought Harry endless joy.

“Are you going to get off my lap, Scorp?” Harry asked, and the glare that Scorpius shot his way reminded him so much of Draco in first year that he had to laugh, a full belly laugh, as he picked Scorpius up and swung him around the room.

Draco watched from the floor with a tender smile on his face, and it made Harry’s heart swell to know that it wasn’t just for Scorpius, but him too. He was sure of it, as he was now sure of many things. Such as that, although Astoria would always be a part of Draco, Harry could be too. He knew better than most that losing someone didn’t mean you were closed off forever. That grief’s edge faded with time, no matter how much it tried to stay alive, aching under your skin like an old friend. He also knew, with absolute surety, that he was in love with Draco Malfoy, and that Draco loved him too.

“Scorp, want to hear a secret?” Harry asked breathlessly when they had stopped spinning (though the ground kept going), and Scorpius giggled as Harry leaned into his ear, “I think I’m in love with your dad.”

Scorpius giggled wildly, sticking out his tongue at Draco.

“What did you tell him?” Draco asked, getting up to come over to them, “you’re filling my boy’s head with useless fluff. One day I’m going to wake up,” he pounced, ruffling Scorpius�� hair as Harry tried to keep him safe, “and he’s going to have a cotton ball for a head!”

“No! No!” Scorpius squealed, holding onto Harry’s neck for dear life, as Draco attacked the both of them.

“I am the fluff monster,” Draco roared, “I eat all fluffballs!”

“Save me Hawwy, save me!” Scorpius yelled, punching out his tiny fists in Draco’s direction. Harry couldn’t stop laughing. Draco’s eyes were bright, cheeks flushed, his face in a mask of comical aggression. He had rarely looked happier. Harry wanted to snapshot this moment and frame it, perfect domestic bliss, no end to the night in sight. Maybe Draco would let Scorpius stay up past his bedtime, watch a movie with a little more action, eat buttery popcorn with chocolate M&Ms (Draco’s favourite muggle snack), all while snuggled in between the two of them. Maybe Draco would let Harry put his arm around his shoulder.

Draco came forward, looking like a tiger ready to pounce, and then he slipped his arm around Harry’s waist, in between Scorpius’ tiny body, and pulled Harry towards him.

“You can’t escape me now, you little devil,” Draco growled, smothering Scorpius in kisses. Draco’s hand felt like fire through the thin fabric of Harry’s shirt, it rested so easily on his lower back, felt so natural.

“I want a group hug!” Scorpius yelled, trying to pull Draco in, and Harry shrugged. They wrapped Scorpius up, Draco’s arms encircling both of them, both hands pressed into Harry.

He poured every ounce of love he could into that hug, every bit of warmth and affection, and he prayed that Draco would feel it, would understand that he loved him, loved Scorpius, cherished every moment they got to spend together. He wanted to keep watching Scorpius grow; his first growth spurt, his letter to Hogwarts, teach him how to play Quidditch, how to cook, how to clean, how to live and learn and play and be himself. He wanted to help, in any way possible, to alleviate the challenge of being a single parent. He wanted… he wanted Draco. Wrapped up in the hug, Scorpius wriggling between them, Draco leaned back just enough to look Harry in the eye.

Harry was close enough to see the different shades of dark grey streaking his irises, the subtle changes in his pupil, the soft fade of his eyelashes from brown to blond, and the way he was searching Harry’s face, shifting his head to the side.

I love you, Harry mouthed, as Scorpius finally squirmed free from their embrace and dropped to the floor, running around them and shouting about popcorn.

Draco understood, he stepped ever-so-slightly closer, his eyelashes fluttering, hand moving underneath Harry’s shirt.

They closed the gap between them, love sparking on the tips of their fingers, Harry’s glasses bumping into the bridge of Draco’s nose. He smelled like lemons and lavender, his lips were soft, and Harry had been wanting this for so very long. 

“Ewwww,” Scorpius yelled, jumping onto the couch, but Harry barely heard him. He pulled back from their chaste kiss, brushed their lips together, lingering.

 “You can sleep in my room tonight,” Draco whispered, “if you want.”

“I’d like that,” Harry replied. How long will you let me stay, he thought to himself, because he wanted to stay forever.

--

This is also posted on AO3! 

My writing masterlist

[losingmymindtonight]

You should totally write a story about Peter being yeeted into a pool by a ghost

AN: Sometimes I write something and the only thing I can think of to put in the author’s note is just... “you get what you pay for and I’m free.”

Anyway, enjoy whatever the heck this is. I wrote a good few chunks of it on my phone in the vet’s office, so that’s the standard of writing we’re looking at here.

WARNINGS: drowning, ghosts, seizures

--

Peter had heard of sleep paralysis, but he was… pretty sure that this wasn’t it.

First of all, his spidey sense had been going off ever since they’d arrived at their hotel. And to be fair, the place was creepy. Plus, Tony pretty obviously agreed with him. He’d given the Victorian-esque decor surrounding the front desk one of his patented oh-god-kill-me-now glares, but had cut Peter off before he could verbalize a complaint.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know why. They were both holding their tongues for Pepper’s sake. She’d chosen the place because of it’s character, apparently, and she thought that staying somewhere with history would beat driving into the nearest city to find a Four Seasons.

Morgan, of course, had just enjoyed the gargoyles out front. Apparently, they were her new “friends.”

Peter was going to call an exorcist.

Or, actually, maybe Tony would have to call one for him, because he’d seen a decent selection of horror movies in his time, and it was never a good thing when one of the characters woke up paralyzed and staring down at a little girl sitting on the edge of their bed.

A little girl that most definitely was not Morgan.

Like he’d said, this place was creepy.

“Hello,” she said, and Peter just choked in response. He tried to ask who she was, what she wanted. More than anything, he tried to shout for Tony, but… but nothing came out. It was like there was a vice grip around his throat.

The little girl cocked her head to the side, a small, disconcerting smile on her face. “Will you play with me?”

Uh, no thank you, he thought, managing to struggle weakly on the bed, letting out tiny whimpers that would’ve been more than a little embarrassing if he wasn’t so sure that his heart was going to explode out of his ribcage, I’d actually really like for you to leave me alone to have my normal nightmares, thank you very much.

At first, he really had been 90% sure that he was dreaming. There was just… no way that this could be real. Now, though… he wasn’t so sure. He could feel sweat soaking into his t-shirt, could feel the sheets tangling uncomfortably around his ankles as he fought against the invisible force holding him silent and still. It… everything felt real.

It felt real, and that was fucking horrifying.

The little girl didn’t seem to need a response, and Peter had a feeling that the question wasn’t actually a question, anyway. Her smile didn’t fade, and she bobbed her head up and down, little pigtails bouncing as she did.

“I saw you playing with your sister, earlier. I want you to play with me, too.” Something sad fell across her face. “Nobody ever plays with me anymore. I’m all-”

His door clicked open, and the little girl stopped speaking, eyes darting over to the sliver of light falling over the bed. Suddenly, she didn’t look like a little girl anymore. Not really, at least. She seemed to be about Morgan’s age, and yet Peter had never seen that kind of pure, malevolent rage on her face before.

He hoped he never did, too.

“Shh,” she snapped, and Peter’s eyes slipped closed against his will, “you’re sleeping.”

Warmth melted through him, and his admittedly pitiful struggling stopped all at once. His breaths evened, gentled, and his head lolled off his pillow. His body felt asleep, but he was awake. He was awake.

“Pete?” Tony’s voice was safety and comfort and protection. “You have to promise not to laugh at me, but I… well, what do you and Morgan call it? My Dad Sense? Anyway, my Dad Sense was tingling. You alright in here?”

Thank god for the Dad Sense, he thought, and it tasted strangely like a prayer, if you save me, I will never knock you for it ever again. I promise. In fact, I’ve never been more serious about a promise in my life.

There were shuffling footsteps, and the mattress dipped as Tony settled down near his hip. Peter wondered if the little girl was still sitting there, too, or if she’d moved when Tony had.

Please leave. Please leave. Please, please leave.

A calloused hand smoothed over his face, brushing his sweat-soaked hair back.

“Oh, buddy,” Tony murmured, voice lowered in the soft-sweet way it always was when he thought that Peter was asleep. “Did you have a nightmare?”

The nightmare is happening, Mister Stark. As in, currently a thing. Please. Please. I’m here and I’m awake and I can’t move and I don’t know what’s happening to me.

“It’s alright.” But it’s not, Mister Stark, please, you have to help me. “I’m here now, yeah? Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you.”

It’s already happening. It’s already happened. Please, please-

“You’re really out of it, huh, kiddo?” Tony’s touch slipped away from his face, and his mentor started carefully working on untangling him from his sheets. “Did Morgan wear you out that much already?”

He found himself being tucked in, and the gentleness of Tony’s hands was a nearly comical juxtaposition with the terror filling up every inch of his body. Tony’s thumb brushed lovingly along his cheek as he moved his head back onto his pillow, his laughter quiet as he pried Peter’s hand away from the corner of the mattress, where he’d been trying to claw himself to safety.

“Sleep tight, m’kay?” Tony’s lips brushed against his forehead, and he wished he could cry. He wished he could do something. “And no more bad dreams, y’hear me? Iron Man’s orders.”

He stood up. The mattress sprung back, the floorboards creaked, footsteps moved away, paused.

An icy hand, a little icy hand, reached out and grabbed his wrist. The cold spread through him, slid up his arm, through his shoulder, up his neck, into his head. The world spun away, slow and lazy, like Mister Banner had just given him a huge dose of whatever pain meds he and Tony had synthesized for him and Mister Barnes.

Through the haze, he just barely caught Tony’s parting words.

“Love you tons, kid. See you in the morning.”

The door clicked shut, and Tony left him to his nightmare.

–

He… couldn’t remember when he’d started walking.

He couldn’t remember why, either, but he was holding someone’s hand. Or were they holding his hand? It felt like an important distinction, but thoughts were so heavy. So heavy and unwieldy and so obnoxiously hard to hold.

“We’re gonna go play!” A voice exclaimed. A high voice. A familiar voice, but not that familiar. It sounded like it was in his head, too. More direct and less sound wave. He didn’t know why that made sense but it did.

He didn’t know a lot of things.

They stopped in front of a building. It had flimsy glass doors, but there was a chain and padlock holding them shut. He felt a little bit like those doors. Flimsy and paper-thin and breakable. He’d never actually felt this weak before. Distantly, he could just make out a childish side of him, the side that found his current lack of control absolutely terrifying, whining and clawing and sobbing out for Tony.

He didn’t really know why, though. He didn’t feel unsafe. He just felt heavy.

The voice sounded again, somewhere to his right, and he knew that it was rude to ignore someone when they were talking to you but he felt so strange, so dazed, that the thought of turning his neck was just… too much. More than he could do, probably.

“They lock the pool during the nighttime so you’ve gotta let us in. Can you open the doors so we can play?”

He did. He barely remembered doing it, but he did. The chain snapped underneath his hands, and the voice giggled, bright and happy, and a cold grip re-found his fingers and pulled him over the threshold.

“I’ve always wanted a big brother,” the voice babbled, and he was distantly aware of the sound of the doors slammed shut behind them, even though he hadn’t touched them again. “You’ve been a good big brother to your old sister, but now it’s my turn.”

Sister? He… He had a sister. Yeah, that sounded right. She was important. He was supposed to protect her, he thought. Keep her safe. Her name was… something. Something nice. He liked her name.

They were standing in front of a metal safety railing, and the hand holding onto his tugged insistently.

“C’mon,” the voice urged, “you gotta climb over now.”

He did as he was told. The bars were cold, but so was he. He was… He was so cold. He hadn’t even realized until he’d thought about it.

God, he was freezing. It was an inside-outside freezing, too. He didn’t know that it was possible to feel ice crystals forming in your intestines but now he was pretty sure that it was happening to him in real time.

“Okay,” the voice said, cheerful, as if Peter wasn’t ice-burning, “now you’ve just gotta jump.”

He blinked his eyes open (had they been closed? Wait, how did he get here?) and took in his surroundings with numbed-out apathy. He was standing on the outside edge of a balcony. His arms were twisted awkwardly behind him, cold-stiff fingers wrapped around a metal railing, and there was a pool about a floor-drop underneath them. A covered pool. With clear plastic, maybe? He didn’t know. His vision was blurry, and his brain was mushy, and he didn’t remember how he got here.

“I can’t swim,” he said dumbly, eyelids drooping again. That seemed relevant, somehow. Like that was a thing that the voice should know.

He didn’t remember how he got here.

“I know!” The voice chirped back, and he guessed it wasn’t as relevant as he’d thought, because it sounded like the person who belonged to it was smiling. “But that’s okay. It won’t hurt, and then we can play together.”

He… He didn’t think that this was right, even though the voice seemed to think that it was. He didn’t want to jump. He didn’t want to be cold anymore, either. He wanted to go home.

He didn’t remember how he got here.

Had he climbed over the railing? He… He didn’t know. Why would he do that? He didn’t like heights.

He was scared.

“I want Mister Stark.”

The voice sounded angry, now, and Peter didn’t like that. He didn’t like making anyone angry, but he also had a weird feeling that jumping would make Mister Stark angry, and he didn’t wanna do that, either.

“I don’t want your dad. I want you,” the voice snapped, but then it softened. It had a tiny whine to it, and it reminded Peter a different voice of a different person but he didn’t know who they were. “Please? I don’t wanna be alone.”

Something slammed into the doors behind them, and even through the cold-blur, Peter kinda knew who it was before they were shouting.

“Peter?!” Tony screamed, words muffled through the glass. “Peter, look at me!”

He turned, ignoring how much effort it took, and blinked back at the man’s fear-struck face in a daze.

“Mister Stark?” He asked, and even though it felt like he was talking around ice, the moment felt like a gasp of clarity.

Oh, god. Oh god. Why was he up here? Why was he so cold? Why was he actually considering jumping into a-

Something grabbed his wrist and pushed.

He was in freefall. Air rushed past him, and the clarity slipped away like stability in, well, in a freefall.

He was so cold, so confused and unsure and so, so tired.

He hit the plastic hard, and then he was underwater. It was cold and loud and he thrashed and thrashed and thrashed, scared and numb and wrapped in ice and vice and parachute and pool cover and the distant buzz of Tony screaming for him.

At some point, he managed to break free from the plastic and clawed desperately up to the surface for a precious gasp of air, but then he was being shoved down, down, down all over again, and Tony was still screaming and Peter hated that he was making him sound so animalistic, so horror-fueled and afraid, but he didn’t know how to make it stop because nothing made sense anymore and he didn’t know where to swim, where to hit or kick or punch, and his vision was blotting out and his lungs were screaming, aching, desperately trying to force him to-

He gasped, and water rushed down his throat.

The world went quiet. Soft, almost. He stopped thrashing, limbs giving in, adrenaline throwing in the towel. It was nice. He guessed he understood what the voice meant, now. There was a peacefulness to this, a relief in losing touch. Tony’s shouts didn’t sound so sad anymore. He stopped processing the intent, only focused on how nice it was to hear his voice.

He only half heard the sound of shattering glass, only half heard the chaos of closer shouts, only half heard the huge splash of another body hitting the water a few feet away. He only half felt a new wave of water bob over his head, only half felt strong arms wrap desperately around his chest, only half felt his body be pulled up, to the side, over the lip of the pool and be settled down on cold tile.

He guessed he could probably breathe at this point, but he was so cold. So heavy. Waterlogged and undone. Maybe he’d just… maybe he’d just sleep instead.

“Peter,” Tony’s voice gasped above him, also sounding heavy and waterlogged and undone. “Peter, kiddo, don’t do this.”

“Tony, sweetheart, roll him over.” Oh, that was someone that Peter knew, too. He’d probably be able to recall her name if he didn’t feel about half a second away from slipping into oblivion. “We need to drain the water out of his lungs.”

Someone rolled him over, cushioned the side of his face so it didn’t bang against the floor. Hands rubbed at his chest, thumped at his spine. His lungs spasmed, stomach roiling like he was about to vomit, and it didn’t feel nice at all but then Tony seemed beyond happy about it, sobs of relief spilling out and his hands rubbed up and down his back, soothing and coaxing and Peter didn’t like how sick and tired he felt but he did like that. He liked that a lot.

“There you go, buddy.” Tony was crying. He was crying and choking and Peter felt really, really bad about that. “That’s it. Just like that. Cough it up. You… You gotta cough it up, Pete, you’ve gotta breathe.”

And he did. He gagged, coughed, gagged again as water and bile rushed back up his throat, burned through his nose. His first breath hurt like nothing else had ever hurt in his life, but he took a second because Tony was begging him to.

He didn’t remember how he got here.

Had he fallen into water?

“Shh, shh. That’s it. You’re doing so well, Peter. You’re doing so well.”

“Tony, we need to call an ambulance.”

“No, fuck. No. They’ll want to run blood tests and then they’ll figure out that something’s up with his DNA. And they’ll wanna know how he ended up in the pool, and if we tell them the truth then they’ll put him on suicide watch-”

Peter pried his eyes open, and the rest of Tony’s breathless speech seemed to die on his tongue. 

“Hey, hey,” the man murmured. His palm settled against Peter’s cheek, and the warmth was nice. It was so nice. He was so cold. “You’re okay, bud. I’ve gotcha.”

Something moved over Tony’s shoulder, by the pool edge, and Peter’s eyes lazily tracked the silhouette. It was a little girl, gray dress swaying around her knees, and he blinked. Stopped. Remembered.

He remembered. He remembered how he got there.

“T’ny,” he slurred, cold creeping up his neck, into his chest. He tried to grab a fistful of the man’s shirt, but he couldn’t move. All he managed was a weak twitching of his fingers. “T’ny, you gotta… ‘s a…”

“What, Pete?” Tony asked, eyes wide and wild. “What is it that you need?”

“No!” The little girl snapped, stomping her foot against the ground, flickering and blipping, aura bright and screaming. “No! You’re supposed to play with me.”

An ice-cold shock raced through him, like the opposite of lightning, and his eyes rolled back.

His eyes rolled back but he was still awake, just like earlier, because he remembered that now, he remembered all of it, but it also wasn’t just like earlier because his muscles were tensing and he felt his arms jerk inwards, felt his ankles drag against the floor, heard the little choking noises coming out of his own mouth.

He was going to die. She’d tried to drown him and that didn’t work so now she was doing this, and he was going to die.

At least Tony was holding him this time.

Tony, who was crying again. Tony, who’s shaking fingers were dragging desperately over his face. Tony, who’s voice cracked on every syllable but who refused to stop his comforting ramble no matter how often he tripped over himself.

“Oh, god. No, no, no. It’s-It’s okay, Peter. Everything’s gonna be okay. Mister Stark’s here and he’s gonna fix it, alright? It’s okay. I-Pep, call Banner. No, fuck, call Strange. Tell him to get his magical ass here yesterday. Pete? You still with me? I know it hurts but you’re safe. You’re safe, baby. You’re safe and I’m-I’m right here.”

He was so cold. Everything hurt. Something warm and coppery was filling his mouth, and he knew that that was wrong but then again he also knew that there were about a hundred other wrong things happening all at once, and everything was terrifying. He was supposed to be a superhero and superheroes weren’t supposed to be scared of stuff but maybe he wasn’t a very good superhero at all because everything was terrifying.

Something hissed to life by his head, and an orange light glowed through his eyelids. Tony was shouting at someone, using the I’m-not-actually-angry-I’m-just-scared voice that he did sometimes, when Peter or Morgan got into a mess that they shouldn’t have, and someone else was shouting back, and the clatter of voices was making his head hurt even more than it already did.

But then it all faded into quiet and Tony was talking to him again. He wasn’t yelling, either, which Peter liked because he really didn’t like it when Tony yelled at him. In fact, his tone was so soft that Peter could barely hear it through the blood rushing in his ears.

“You’re not allowed to die on me again,” Tony whispered, and Peter wished he could breathe. He wished he could promise Tony that he wouldn’t. “You’ve faced worse than this and come out the other side, Parker, so don’t you… don’t you dare die.”

Time didn’t seem to make sense for a while after that. For all Peter knew, he’d been seizing for ten years, or ten hours, or ten minutes, or ten seconds. The only constant, the only consistent thing, were Tony’s hands brushing something wet off his face and Tony’s voice running and running and running, until it turned into a while noise machine.

But then there was a shout, and a whoosh, and it felt like something was tearing out of him, like tags off of new throw pillows, like Velcro off of the Iron Man shoes he’d had when he was a little kid, and his consciousness tore away with it.

He wasn’t even awake long enough to appreciate the relief of his muscles finally going limp.

–

Peter woke up cold and confused.

He’d been in bed, hadn’t he? And this… this definitely wasn’t his bed. This was cold and lacking in blankets and… and…

And very not lacking in Tony Stark.

“-back to me now, Pete. I need you… I need you to show me that you’re still alive in there.”

He forced his eyes open, wincing at how badly they were stinging. His throat and chest hurt, too, and his whole body ached like he’d taken one hell of a beating. What had happened? Why couldn’t he remember?

“Huh?” He asked, blinking up at the blurry shape that he assumed must be Tony.

The man laughed, a little hysterical. “Very eloquent, buddy. Just… Just relax a second. We’ve been through a lot.”

Had they? When?

“Wha’ happ’ned?”

Huh. He hasn’t actually expected that to come out so slurred.

His vision was clearing, slowly but surely, and he could see just well enough now to make out the frown on Tony’s face.

“Don’t you remember?”

“No?”

A new figure was kneeling down beside him, and Peter wasn’t sure why that made him jolt, but it did.

“Peter,” Strange said, because yeah, that was definitely Strange. What was he doing here? Weren’t they on vacation? “This is very important. Is anybody else here besides me, Tony, and Mrs. Stark?”

He hasn’t actually noticed Pepper before, but he saw her now, kneeling just behind Tony and rubbing his back. Giving comfort to the comforter, he supposed, but Tony seemed too focused on him to notice.

“Why would there be-”

“Just look, Pete,” Tony ordered, voice frantic. “Please, just trust me and look.”

“Uh,” he glanced around the room, head aching as he strained his eyes, searching every corner for something that didn’t belong, “no? It’s just us.”

“You don’t see a little girl anywhere?”

Huh? What he hell was Strange talking about?

“No?” He shook his head, then regretted it when his whole body groaned in protest. “I mean, Morgan’s not here.” Adrenaline shot through him, and he tried to sit up, although Tony held him down pretty effectively. “Wait, is Morgan okay?”

“Morgan’s fine,” Tony said, face strained, “she’s fine. She’s asleep in her room. Please just lay back now, Peter. There’s only so many heart attacks a man can survive in a single night.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, although he wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologizing for.

“It’s not your fault,” Tony reassured.

Strange was quick to agree. “He’s right, Peter. Do you truly have no memory of how you got here?”

No matter how much he wracked his brain, nothing came up. He just remembered saying goodnight to Tony, changing into some sweatpants, and crawling into bed. There were no more memories after that, although there was a sneaking suspicion that he’d… that he’d missed something. Something important.

“No. I, uh, I just remember going to bed.” Peter caught Tony’s gaze, and held it. “What happened?”

“Shh,” the man said, and Peter hated it when he shushed him like that. It always made him feel small, and he only ever did it when Peter was asking a question that he didn’t want to answer. “It doesn’t matter right now.”

“It does.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Tony plowed forward before Peter could get another question in. “How do you feel?”

“Kinda like roadkill.”

Strange leaned closer. “But do you feel cognizant? No confusion, no sensation of someone else influencing your actions?”

That might be the most ridiculous question Peter had even been asked, and he’d been best friends with Ned Leeds for a solid ten years.

“Alright, alright,” Tony snapped before Peter could even begin to formulate an answer to that mind-bender, looking away just long enough to glare dangerously at Strange. “That’s enough. Let’s give him some space. No more questions, no more anything. Let’s just… we’re just gonna let the drowned kid breathe, alright? Jesus.”

Yeah, that would be nice. He’d just… He’d just lay there a second, wait until some of the pounding in his head receded, and then he’d-

Wait. Hold on.

Hold on.

Mister Stark had said… He’d just said…

“I’m sorry,” he tried to jolt upright again, but Tony’s grip stopped him, “I what?”

–

“Okay. So... So just let me get this straight,” Peter said, burrowing closer into both the comforter wrapped around his shoulders and Tony, who had yet to relinquish his grip on his shoulders since they’d gotten back to their hotel room. “You’re telling me that I got possessed by a ghost?!”

“Less possession, more influenced,” Strange responded, settling down on the coffee table in front of him.

Yeah, Peter thought, holding back a bitter laugh, like that makes it any easier to swallow.

“I was influenced by a ghost?”

“Indeed.”

“But… But why?”

Strange always seemed concerningly stoic to Peter, but the question brought a hint of sadness to his eyes.

“I had Wong delve into the history of the hotel while I dealt with the spirit. According to his research, this hotel has been operating since the late 1800s, but was purchased by the Campbell family in 1933. They had two children: Margaret Campbell, age four, and Philip Campbell, age sixteen. Margaret drowned in the swimming pool in March of 1934, three days after her fifth birthday. Since then, the hotel has reported at least eleven other drownings, all of boys between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Each story is similar. The victims go to sleep in their beds, sneak past their parents sometime in the night, and their bodies are found in the swimming pool the next morning. The deaths are usually ruled as either suicides or accidents.”

Tony’s arm tightened around him, and Peter was grateful for the anchor as he tried to process the barrage of information.

“I don’t understand,” he finally whispered, even though he thought that he might.

Strange watched him silently for a few seconds. In the end, it was Tony who spoke.

“She wanted him because of Morgan.”

“That would be our best guess.”

He swallowed. His throat still felt wrecked from, well, from drowning, apparently, even though he didn’t remember it.

“She’s been drowning kids who remind her of her brother.”

“Precisely.” Peter’s concern must’ve shown on his face, because Strange held up a calming hand. “But she won’t be hurting anyone else. I’ve laid her spirit to rest.”

Huh. Alright. If Peter didn’t already feel like he was in an episode of some random CW ghost hunting show, he certainly did now. “How’d you do that?”

Strange smiled thinly, then stood. His cape settled itself over his shoulders, waving a little as the sorcerer turned away. “A lesson for another time, perhaps. I’ll leave you, now. I imagine that Stark has it covered from here.”

Peter could feel the way Tony prickled at Strange’s dismissive tone. “I sure do, Dumbledore.”

Apparently, the sorcerer didn’t think that deserved a response, because he just opened a portal and stepped through without another word.

“You don’t have to be so mean to him, y’know,” Peter said, voice small. “He did save my life.”

Tony tensed, then forcibly relaxed. He set one of his hands on the back of Peter’s head and pushed his face into his collarbone. “Just go to sleep, kid.”

“Don’t you wanna go back to your bed?” He mumbled, voice muffled by the man’s t-shirt. He really kinda hoped that the answer was no.

“I have to watch you for dry drowning.”

“Oh.” Well, that was a relief. “Sorry.”

Tony sighed dramatically. “I don’t want to hear one more ‘sorry’ out of you until you’re 21, understood?”

“What if I actually do something that, like, I need to say sorry for?”

“Do you plan on doing something that you’d need to say sorry for?”

“I mean, no. Not really.”

“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Tony rubbed his back, and Peter could feel the tiny tremors still running through his hands. “Now go to sleep.”

To be fair, he did try. It wasn’t like he wasn’t tired. He was exhausted. Which, according to Strange, was a pretty normal thing to experience when a ghost possessed or influenced or whatever’d your brain.

It was just that the longer he sat there, the more he thought about it, and the more absurd everything started to seem. He... He couldn’t believe that it’d been a pool. She’d had him throw himself into a pool. Of all the places, of all the scenarios where his super-strength might’ve actually saved him, she had to choose a pool.

He was laughing before he could stop himself.

“Hey, Mister Stark?”

There was a pause in Tony’s response, as if he was considering whether or not Peter had gone insane. “Mhm?”

“Did you know that I can’t swim?”

Another pause. Then,

“I swear to god, Parker-”

[agent-cupcake]

Beastie and the Bard

Fire Emblem Three Houses - Dimitri x Reader (Chapter 2)

Here is the second chapter! I’m posting at school because I live the high life and enjoy doing whatever I can to avoid having to do homework... Yeet

Berceuse Sous la Lune Opus 2, No. 1

There was no comparison for the beauty of the day. Lush and lively, with the sun casting warmth and life upon every creature below, illuminating each vivid color of the world. But your days since arriving at the academy were filled with work and people, endless activity and motion. The time you did spend beneath the sun was while you were training with weapons, pushing your body to its very limits in an attempt to catch up with the others in your class. The rest was spent in the classroom, learning all that you could from Professor Byleth in regards to tactics and battle sense. Things most of your fellow students had learned early on in life. A background education of manners and music was not ideal for the knight you wanted to be, and thus your day had not a moment to spare for the slow appreciation of day’s beauty.

That left you to retreat to the sole consolation of the majesty of night. It was a time of dreams and mystery, perhaps a time more suited to your particular romantic nature should you not have had such a fondness for the light of day. The silvery sliver of moon hung as a beacon in the indigo sky, the stars winking from up on high. If anything, the air was a bit more cold than would be comfortable, but that only aided in the witching cast of the hour.

A sleepless night. And one, you decided when you found yourself unable to bear the silence of your tiny, isolated room a minute longer, that was very fitting for a bit of music.

Sitting shamelessly upon the cobblestone ground at the edge of Garreg Mach’s dark fishing lake with your lyre a comfortable weight in your arms, you began to test the strings. Aside from the audaciousness of the cold encouraging you to pull on an extra cloak before leaving your room, it also wasn’t very kind to your poor lyre. You probably should have practiced inside, but the fishing area was protected enough to grant you workable conditions.

The music began slowly. Just a few eclectic chords and notes, your hands caressing and plucking the strings with a forwardness that would probably embarrass any other lyre if you were not as well acquainted. You didn’t practice as much as you had when you were younger, having spent the better part of the last year and a half with a sword rather than with an instrument, but music was not something so easily forgotten.

Little by little, the notes unraveled to become fragmented melodies, which twisted together in something resembling a tune. It was as natural as breathing that your fingers decided upon the piece they wanted to play. For the moon and for the stars, for the collection of fish hiding beneath the surface of water, and perhaps for the goddess herself, should she wish to hear it. A song began to roll across the monastery's fishing lake, swirling in with the mist that had settled there before dissipating into the dark night sky. Out of respect for the somber night, it wasn’t one of the hero ballads or tavern jaunts you so enjoyed, but a lullaby. Simple in the way each note pushed into the next, easy to pick up so it could be passed from generation to generation, but resonant and sweet nonetheless. The lyre, when properly played, could have an ethereal flow to it. An eternal melancholy and sweet beauty, lending something special to the time favored tune. There were no words that you knew of, but you took the melody in a humming line for the chorus, your voice helping the lyre to weave silk from silence, and perhaps coax an overwhelming world to peace.

It wasn’t long until the short song pulled to its final farewell. Your breath held while striking the final chord, as if to savor the last of the sound, to hold on to the song that much longer. But it was temporary, and the lullaby eventually faded out to silence entirely. The breath, too, left your lips. A sigh of disappointment that it was over, but of contentment at having played at all.

“That was a lovely song.”

From your lips emerged an awful squeak of a cry, your head whipping to look behind yourself to the owner of the voice that startled you so. It took a moment, even with your eyes as adjusted to the dark as they were, to discern who it was that so menacingly loomed above you.

“Your Highness?” you asked, your voice trembling with nerves and shock. After blinking a few times to confirm what you thought you saw in the dark, you were sure that it was Dimitri that stood tall behind you. He was recognizable for many reasons, but especially for the bright blue cape slung across his shoulder. Even in the dark, it seemed to retain that unmistakable azure color.

He was, perhaps, the last person you expected to encounter, but you were glad it was him and not one of the patrolling knights. You let out a big breath of relief, glad that being so thoroughly startled hadn’t injured your lyre. Or worse, caused you to throw it into the dark water below. You truly didn’t fancy a swim at this time of night.

“Was I being too loud?” you asked.

“Not at all. I just came down from above,” Dimitri responded, gesturing in the direction of the stairs to the second story dormitories. “I am truly sorry for giving you such a fright.” He paused, then added, “When I heard the music, I wondered it might be the work of a siren luring me to my demise.” Dimitri spoke in a voice that was mostly serious. You thought, maybe, you could hear just a touch of playfulness in his tone as well, but it was far too dark to see his expression, and you didn’t know nearly enough about him to tell.

You weren’t sure if it was less believable that he’d make such a teasing remark, or that what he said almost sounded like a compliment. You weren’t sure what to do with the influx of excited nerves that twisted your insides, either.

It occurred to you that you hadn’t ever anticipated finding yourself in this situation, and that for all of the conversations with Dimitri that you had composed in your head, you were utterly uncertain of what to say in reality.

Maybe it would have been better to be approached by one of the scary knights after all.

“Ah, my apologies. That was inappropriate,” Dimitri said after your stilted moment of shy silence stretched too thin, his voice a bit awkward.

“No, no! It’s okay!” you said in a rush, scrambling for something to add, something that wouldn’t lead to any further bizarre misunderstandings or give away how utterly flustered he made you. “It’s not that at all! I was just surprised that you would say something so… Whimsical.”

“Whimsical?” Dimitri repeated, regarding the word with dubious amusement.

“It must be in the air tonight,” you said, pushing past your rush of fluttery panic and grasping for a subject change. “Speaking of that… What are you doing up so late?”

“I was unable to sleep. I thought I’d put the time to good use and train,” Dimitri answered.

“Training, Your Highness? At night?” you asked, surprised. Didn’t he do enough of that during the day?

“Yes, well, the knights leave the training grounds unlocked. I find it helps me clear my mind.” Dimitri allowed his answer to settle before asking, “As you mentioned, it’s quite late. Is there a reason you’re playing out here? Surely it would be more comfortable, to mention warmer, in your personal quarters.”

“I got a noise complaint,” you responded, your nose scrunching. That much was true, at least. The girl you shared a wall with had complained of your playing, although you found it to be a bit unfair considering her own nocturnal activities. At any rate, it was a convenient reason. “Besides,” you added. “It’s a lovely night.”

“I see,” Dimitri said, his frown made clear in his tone.

“Is that a problem?” you asked slowly.

“Not at all. I only worry about your safety. I don’t doubt the integrity of our fellow students or the diligence of the academy’s faculty, but...”

He didn’t need to finish that statement for you to understand what he was implying. You hadn’t even considered the question of safety. Before moving to Fhirdiad nearly two years back, you had spent your life sequestered on your father’s estate, allowed to do as you pleased anywhere you wanted no matter the hour. You had hosted many midnight recitals for the flowers in the garden and the moon in the sky. In Fhirdiad, you had access to a balcony that had become your refuge when the inside rooms became too claustrophobic.

But you were no longer in either of those places, and Dimitri had a point. Looking out across the romantically beautiful lake, into the lovely mysterious sky, you found it hard to imagine bad things happening. The night was truly a lovey time. Then again, it was also the time for those who lived in the shadows to enact their foul deeds, the time for those with intentions they wouldn’t dare expose beneath the revealing light of the sun to see them realized. You had read enough stories of such things to understand the inherent peril of the night.

“I didn’t even think of that,” you said with a sigh of disappointment.

“You could come to the training grounds to play," Dimitri offered quickly on the tails of your disappointed sigh. And then, as if embarrassed, he quickly continued, "That is, I wouldn’t mind if you did, and I doubt that anyone else is there at this hour to complain of the noise."

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother to you,” you said, albeit with a rush of butterfly-like excitement. Excitement over the offer? It wasn’t as if he was asking you out or something, in fact he wasn’t even really inviting you to spend time with him. It was an offer to simply share the same space. Then again, the two of you would be alone. At night. And he would get to hear you play. You were blushing at the thought, you could feel it, along with a sense of gratitude for the concealing darkness.

"You wouldn't be a bother at all," Dimitri responded earnestly.

“Then… That sounds good,” you said, forcing yourself to maintain a sense of normality. Carefully, you placed your lyre in her case - a velvet lined beauty that had cost nearly as much as the instrument itself - and latched it, overly aware that he was watching you.

The nerves you felt weren't an effect of your childish crush coming back to haunt you, you didn't think. Nor were they really any sort of crush at all, although you couldn't entirely deny such a thing. For the most part, your nerves came from the fact that Dimitri was more or less a stranger to you, albeit one you regarded in high esteem and with much awe. Being near him in the academy hadn’t lessened those feelings, only augmented them to fit a sense of deep admiration for a peer rather than an idol. Dimitri was aloof and cool, always focused on training and learning with steadfast attention. He was more skilled in lance combat than anyone you had ever seen, and didn’t allow himself to become caught up in distraction,

Not to mention that, while he made it a point to emphasize the idea that you were all of equal standing at the academy, Dimitri was still a prince. And then, as much as you’d like to pretend otherwise, there was his appearance and the matter of his sex. Under your father’s roof, you had never spent any time alone around boys when you were younger. Keeping you isolated from men had always been easiest for your father, maintaining you as an untouched jewel to be presented as pure to a stranger man in need of a bride. More recently there simply hadn’t been time to entertain the idea of courtship or marriage, even in a casual sense.

In short, you were hopelessly inexperienced when it came to boys. Especially attractive and royal ones that you looked up to.

Your only hope was to appear as anything a step up from disastrously awkward as you stood and brushed off your backside, lyre case in hand.

“Shall we?” you asked, maintaining your nervous smile. He hummed in assent, following your lead. A dozen different ice breaking sentences begged to be spoken as you walked at Dimitri’s side towards the training grounds, the words whirling and nervous. You were filled with an uncharacteristic amount of shyness, compounded by the dark and the quiet.

“Have you been playing very long?” Dimitri asked as you scaled the steps to leave behind the lake and all its lovely misty, moon-drenched beauty. The lawn you had to cross in order to reach the training grounds was outside a block of first floor dormitory rooms, shadowed by the tall stone buildings rising tall on either side, casting the both of you in thick, intimate darkness.

“Since I can remember. I love music,” you responded quickly, glad to have a reason to fill the air with words and trying most desperately to keep yourself from letting on how nervous you felt at his side.

“And yet you came to the Officer’s Academy,” Dimitri said. Not a question, not exactly, but holding the spirit of one.

“It’s really your own fault, Your Highness,” you blurted out unthinkingly, smiling despite yourself.

“My fault?” Dimitri sounded surprised.

“Ah… Yes, but not in a bad way!” you assured him, scorning your nervous impulsiveness in the same thought that you were grateful for its bravery in the face of your sudden timid streak.

“And how might that be?” he asked. You could recognize the playful tenor to his voice this time. You also recognized that Dimitri was looking at you, and that your face was hot with the nerves that writhed in your stomach.

“When I was young, my father was invited to a ceremony and reception at the palace for... Something, but I can’t remember what. As his daughter, I was brought along. It was unbelievably exciting, I had never been much of anywhere until that trip, but the part I remember the most is King Lambert and his son personally introducing themselves.”

“Really?” Dimitri asked in surprise. “So we’ve met before.”

“Yes, you kissed my hand and everything,” you responded, smiling fondly at the memory. Of course you had been enamored with him after that, what kind of girl wouldn’t have been after such a gentlemanly introduction? “Anyway, the entire affair left a pretty big impact on me. After that, the only stories I cared to know were stories of princes and princesses, kings and queens. Stories of heroism and noble deeds and all that.” You paused, remembering that part of your life so vividly, yet with such vague recall. An odd combination of idealized memory and unhappy truth. “Eventually I realized I didn’t want to just know and repeat and sing about these stories, but that I wanted to be a hero, too.”

There were other factors as well, but you had already told him more than enough without mentioning all of the tiresome details. You especially left out the part where you had spent a great deal of your late childhood in love with the mere idea of the prince you had met, wishing and hoping that he’d rescue you from the lonesome repression of your father's mansion.

“And how do you think the reality compares so far?” Dimitri asked. You couldn’t tell how he felt about your little story, and feared falling on your face should you try to catch a glimpse of his expression while walking.

“Well…” you let the word trail off as you thought about it for a moment. “You had long hair when I met you. Almost like a girl, actually. And you’re taller, obviously. But your eyes are the same. I think I must have told everybody I knew that the king and prince had the most beautiful blue eyes in existence.”

Dimitri laughed, although you could hear the edge of embarrassment. “That’s not quite what I meant, but... Thank you.”

“Oh! You meant heroism and all that?” you asked. That made more sense than what you had thought, and you felt a strong pang of embarrassment having given such a silly and revealing answer. “It’s different than I thought it would be. I trained an entire year before coming here, but I still feel so clumsy and useless when I fight. I want to have the strength to protect, to save those who are in need… But that’s awfully hard. I’ll stick with it though, Your Highness.”

“I’m happy to hear that. Not giving up and maintaining motivation are some of the most important steps in becoming stronger.” Dimitri paused a beat, continuing, “And by the way, there’s no need to address me so formally. We’re both students here at the academy.”

“Oh, right. Sorry… Dimitri.” His name came out awkwardly, although it wasn’t that being informal with him felt uncomfortable to you, not really. Unfortunately, old habits were hard to kick, and acknowledging titles was something your father had made a priority in your education. He had cared a great deal about titles, given that his own social standing was something he was all too aware of. He must have been rolling over in his grave to hear you address a prince by his first name. You weren’t sure how you felt about that.

Another bout of somewhat awkward silence fell upon the two of you as you approached the large structure of the training grounds. You didn’t dare break it, suddenly feeling quite sure that you’d made a fool of yourself by telling Dimitri so much. Perhaps he would find it odd that you would remember such an event, and especially that it would be so important to you, but there was no way to tell him that it wasn’t he who had created your dream, but some phantom concept of princes and knights that had kept you strong throughout those lonely years. Meeting him here, now, was only a coincidence, really. Still, there was no natural way you felt you could voice that, so you said nothing.

Besides, thinking of that ball always brought back a hollow feeling of wistful melancholy. That had been right after it was discovered that you had a Crest, leading your father to recognize you as his legitimate heir. You and your mother were moved out of your tiny residence and to his large country estate to begin training in manners and other feminine pursuits. You were only with him in Fhirdiad for that ball so he could establish you as his daughter, and to introduce you to various Kingdom nobles in the hopes of arranging a profitable marriage later on.

But as a child, you had known none of that. All you cared about was the beautiful clothes he bought you and the dazzling splendor of nobility, all of the people that were suddenly very interested in you and the stranger of a father who was suddenly showering you with affection.

The arrival at the large training grounds doors surprised you. Between the conversation and the memories it dredged up, it as it felt as if you’d arrived quicker than you should have. Dimitri opened one of the doors and stepped aside to allow you in first. A gentleman, even still. The warm light of several lit lamps greeted you from beyond, although not nearly enough to entirely chase away the shadows. You hadn’t seen the large training plaza so empty before now, the sight of it was almost eerie.

Dimitri let the door shut behind himself and crossed the room to where the training weapons were stored, While all of the iron and steel was held under lock, the wooden equivalents weren’t valuable enough to bother.

“Do you train at night a lot?” you asked, forcing yourself to shake off the tendrils of memory and the lose the veil of awkwardness as you trailed slowly behind him.

“Only when I find that sleep evades me," he explained, picking out a sturdy training lance and weighing it appraisingly. After only seconds, it was replaced, switched out for one you thought looked almost identical. Dimitri seemed satisfied with it, turning away from the weapons rack with the wooden staff in hand.

“Does that happen often? The sleeplessness, I mean,” you continued curiously. “Not that I’m trying to pry! I only ask because... I think I can understand, at least a little. Sometimes it feels like no matter how worn out I am, I can’t turn off my mind when I lay down.”

“It happens more and more often, these days,” Dimitri answered, his voiced layered with the tone of something deeper, the sound of genuine fatigue. Quickly, that tone was abandoned in favor of a brighter sound. “In any case, it’s a good excuse to work on my technique.”

You watched as he moved out into the training area proper, swinging the practice weapon around with a casual deftness that nearly took your breath away. Then he set his stance, a breath leaving his lips, and began to move.

It was easy to recognize the familiar stances and choreography of one of the most basic katas as Dimitri adopted its technique, engaging in a warm-up meant to refine different stances and lance techniques. The pattern only mimicked the actual movements of battle rather than serving any sort of usable attack, most of it done at an unnaturally slow pace to instill control and form. You’d always seen the exercises as impractical, a tedious task with no actual use. But you understood now where you had been wrong. While you felt clunky and awkward while following the exaggerated move set, where you had seem them as an annoyance imposed on you by your teacher, Dimitri performed the kata with grace and ease unrivaled. His body created a sort of art, each fluid movement leading into the next with a seamless ease.

Right then, your lyre case felt heavy, pulling on your shoulder and tiring out your fingers, your awareness focusing keenly on its presence.

Music was something you loved. To it, you were unquestionably devoted. But it was also something you were only allowed to do with your father’s blessing, because it was seen as an attractive trait in a bride. Having decent pitch and fingers clever enough to play an instrument were traits akin to those you'd use to upsell a fine horse.

Fighting, being a hero like in the stories you adored so much, was something your father had found most reprehensible. It was something you had struggled and fought to be able to do, and in the end your opportunity to pursue it and come to Garreg Mach only came at the expense of his life and a great deal of effort on your part.

Letting out a breath, you set the lyre case down in the outer ring of the training arena and took off both of your cloaks, letting them flutter like the broken wings of a butterfly to the floor. You hoped desperately that you weren’t intruding on something you had no business in as you approached the weapons rack and picked out a wooden lance. Unlike Dimitri, you weren’t sure what to look for to determine the quality of a lance. The sword was your main weapon, but Professor Byleth had said that he had hopes for you to become a Pegasus Knight, so learning to use a lance was necessary. The wood of the first one you picked up was smooth, a solid weight in your grasp. It wasn’t a weapon that would ever taste blood or see combat, but it was useful nonetheless.

Taking a deep breath, you turned.

“Dimitri,” you called, almost feeling sorry to stop him, but urged by something within you. He paused, lowering the lance to look towards you. Now that you were indoors, you could see him more clearly. Maybe that should have embarrassed you, but you found yourself too distracted, too driven to bother. “Do you mind if I train with you instead?”

His eyes flicked over to your discarded lyre case, then moved to your expression and the weapon you held. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

You smiled, nervous and hopeful and excited all at once. “Might as well, right?” But the casual words came out all wrong, a cover as you gathered all of the courage you could for a bold, brazen request. “I know I haven’t much basis to ask this of you, and doubtlessly I’m intruding so I must insist on clarifying that you have every right to dismiss me if you so wish, but, Your Highness-”

“Dimitri,” he cut in, forcing your nervous rambling to halt in its unraveling coherency. “If we’re to train together it should be as equals, don’t you think? We are striving towards the same thing, after all.”

A smile tugged on your lips, not a nervous grin or a shy expression to mask your doubt, but something true and warm.

“Of course, Dimitri,” you said, slower and less frantic. “So what I’d like to ask... Well, could you show me how to move like that?”

He didn’t answer right away, as if your request had surprised him. You hoped that was a good thing. “I suppose I can try.”

[knittingknerdy]

Machine Gun

Prompt/Summary: This is fic number 9 for @mrs-squirrel-chester‘s album challenge.  Almost there.  This one is for Tony Stark because I heard this song and instantly though of my little cinnamon bun who really, really needs a hug.  And some therapy.  A lot of therapy. 

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader

Warnings: none really

Word Count: 1987

Author’s Note:  Sorry this has taken me so long.  I haven’t felt well and it definitely makes it difficult to take the time to focus. 

Machine Gun song

Album Challenge Master List

“Why are you grinning at me like that?”  you ask, full of suspicion.  Tony only looked like that when he was up to something.  Which, for him, was a lot of the time.

“There’s only one bed.”  He grinned even wider.  

You had sent him up to inspect the rest of the safe house, well, safe apartment, while you connected to base.  It was rare for Tony to go on missions like this.  He wasn’t exactly low profile.  But he was exactly what was needed this time.

The party was being held by a long time Hydra associate.  No one really knew that, and the guy seemed to enjoy flaunting his status as a free man and Hydra agent under the Avenger’s noses.  So Tony was invited to this party and you came along as his guest.  It allowed you to slip away and steal some very valuable files from his computers.  

Unfortunately, their absence was noticed a bit too quickly for you and Tony to get away cleanly.  You knew you would be on the short list of suspects, so the both of you decided to take up residence in the safe house until extraction came.  Apparently the Hydra goons here were very well connected and the airport was covered too well for you to escape.  

“I can sleep on the couch,”  you sighed.  The couch looked hard at best.  When you sat on it, you quickly realized it was being held together mostly by the stains covering it.  

“Don’t be like that.  I promise to be good.”  Tony winked at you when you glanced at him over your shoulder.  “Come on,” he gestured for you to follow him. “We’ve been up for like 30 hours.  I’m used to that.  You aren’t.”

You thought about protesting, but realized you were so tired you didn’t care.  So you got up off the couch and followed him to the bedroom.  You felt a swell of relief that the bed at least appeared to be a queen size.  

“I know.  I was disappointed we don’t get to snuggle.”  You tried not to glare at Tony as you dug through the bag he had set on the bed.  After grabbing your clothes and some toiletries, you pushed past him to the bathroom.  

You stood under the hot spray and let it relax your muscles.  You thankfully hadn’t encountered a fight on your way out, but things were still tense.  You turned off the water as your eyelids began to droop.  

Tony took a shower after you, but you were asleep before he finished.  You barely stirred when he slipped in next to you.  

In fact, you didn’t wake until he began to thrash beside you.  It took a few moments for you to register where you were and what was happening.  When you had, you rolled over and quickly tried to find the reason for his distress.  Not finding anything immediate, you grabbed his shoulders and tried to rouse him.

“Tony!  Are you ok?  Are you-!”  You squeaked in surprise as Tony’s eyes shot open and he grabbed you around the waist.  

After a few moments, his eyes focused.  They finally settled on your face peering down at him.  A bit too close because of his arms locked around your waist.

“You’re much better looking than the green guy.  I wouldn’t have minded if you were there to kiss me.”  His words leave you confused.  

Finally it dawns on you.  “You were having a nightmare.  About New York?  Still?”  It had been several years since the Chitari rained down on the team.  

At the look of shame on his face, you wished you could take back your words.  It’s not that you thought he should be over it by now.  Aliens invaded and Tony nearly died saving everyone.  That’s a lot to get over.  But you thought he had been getting help.  You didn’t realize he was still having the nightmares.  

You pulled your hand up to his cheek and turned his face towards yours.  Mentally you cursed yourself for the unshed tears in his eyes.  “Sorry, that came out wrong.  I thought the nightmares weren’t so bad.”  

His dark brown eyes flitted across your face.  “Stress makes them worse.  Anxiety too.  And then I don’t sleep so I feel worse.”  The wrinkles on his forehead deepened and you realized how much he hated to admit that.  

“Hey, we’re going to be fine.  We’ll get out of here.”  You shifted to try to make yourself more comfortable.  When you looked back at Tony’s face, his pain was replaced by his trademark smirk.  

“If I had known you’d throw yourself on me, I’d have faked nightmares long ago.”  Tony winked at you as you rolled your eyes.  

“You’re the one who grabbed me.  Now let me up, I can catch a few more hours of sleep before we have to check in.”  You shifted again to try and slide off of Tony, but his hands held you in place.  You looked at him in confusion.  

His eyes had gone dark again, letting through a hint of the turmoil he kept in check.  “Would you, you’re comfortable, it would be easier to sleep.”  

You cut him off, “I’m not having sex with you to help you sleep, Tony.”

“No! No, just sleep.  Like this.  You’re like a blanket.  A sexy blanket in tiny shorts.”  

“Fine, but any groping and I’m kneeing you in the balls.”  You glared and hoped it would deter him.  You shifted slightly so that only your upper half was draped across his chest.  He was surprisingly comfortable and when Tony ran his fingers through your hair, you quickly dropped off to sleep.  

--

When you woke up, Tony was gone.  A quick search through the apartment found him digging through cabinets in the kitchen.  

“Good morning,” you say as you walk up behind him.  

“I’m pretty sure they replaced the coffee with weapons.  I’ve found 4 handguns, but no coffee.  That seems criminal.  I’m going to have to make a run for coffee.”

“We can’t do that, Tony.  Anyway, extraction is in an hour.”  You join him in rummaging through the cabinets.  “Did you sleep?”  

You saw him flinch slightly at your question before straightening up to look at you.  “I slept more than normal.  You make a good blanket.”  Tony winked at you.  

Judging by his response, you knew better than to push.  His normal amount of sleep was none, so you tried to console yourself that he got some at least.  

“Come on.  I don’t think there is any coffee.  We can make sure they have some waiting when we get back.”

“Ugh, fine.”  

--

Thankfully, the extraction went smoothly.  And there was plenty of coffee waiting for the both of you at the debriefing.  

The small sliver of vulnerability you had seen Tony display had set you on edge.  He put up a good front and he was an expert at deflecting people’s concern with a witty one-liner and wave of his hand.  But when you looked, really looked, you could see the cracks in his facade.  

You thought that if you made yourself available, tried to show him that you were there if he needed someone, Tony would open up.  What actually happened, was him shutting himself away even further into his fortress. When Tony did make the effort to talk to you, it was all edged in sarcasm.  

You had enough one day during a mission meeting.  Tony had spent the better part of the meeting explaining why you weren’t suitable for the next mission.  

“I’m well aware I’m not the best qualified for this mission, you don’t have to list every reason!”  You finally snapped.  “But Natasha and Clint are already out in the field.  So you just need to suck it up.”  

The room fell silent at your outburst, but after a few moments Steve concluded the meeting.  You caught Tony before he left, waiting until the room emptied out.  

“What the hell is your problem?”  You confronted him.

“I don’t know what you mean.”  He deflected.  

“Ever since we got back from our mission, you have been a dick to me if you’re even bothering to talk to me.  What did I do?”

He sighed in defeat.  “Nothing.”

“Did something change?  I don’t understand.”

Tony’s voice dropped so low you could barely hear him.  “You got close.  I don’t- it doesn’t go well when I let people in.”  

You were going to offer up some words of encouragement or sympathy.  Or maybe you could try to convince him that it wasn’t going to happen.  But before the words could leave your mouth, you knew that wasn’t what he wanted.  At all.  

“Is that all?  I thought you were jealous I looked better at the last party than you did.”  You smiled at him.  

Tony’s eyes narrowed suddenly, but then he returned your smile.  “Whatever,” he scoffed. “There is no way that is true, and I’ll prove it to you tomorrow night.” 

--

For this mission, you needed to arrive separately.  Tony was providing a much needed distraction as you stole more files and hopefully took out a few Hydra agents on your way out.  

“What’s a beautiful woman like you doing in a place like this?”

“That is the worst pick-up line you’ve ever used on me, Mr. Stark.  And you’ve used a lot.”  

“Then allow me to buy you a drink to apologize?”  

“No drink.  Let’s dance.”  

“Oh!  It finally worked.”  Tony exclaimed as you lead him to the dance floor.  He settled the two of you into a slow steady circle.  It seemed natural, but it allowed you to continuously scan the room.  The two of you were quiet for the whole song, both of you planning the next move of the mission.  You smiled gently as the next song started up.

“This song makes me think of you.”  You hum a few bars before the sings starts up.  

Tell me off in a letter Completely ignore me Getting high off of saying Why you don't adore me? Baby, please, I'm well versed In how I might be cursed I don't need it articulated

“I don’t-” You interrupt him by pressing your finger to his lips.  

“Shhh, just listen.”  

Locked and loaded You're practically floating away now In your fortress you feel like You're more or less safe now But let me say I don't mean harm Oh, but, baby, you'd be charming if you'd come undone Get back where you started from

Maybe nobody loved you when you were young Maybe, boy, when you cry, nobody ever comes Will you try it once? Give up the machine gun Machine gun

When you looked at him again, his eyes were hard.  “Tony?” you asked hesitantly.

“So you want me to give it up too?”

“Give what up?  I’m a bit lost.”

“Ironman,” he whispers.  “You think I should give up the suit.  I’ll have you know there aren’t any machine guns on it.”  

“Yes, Tony.  The trained assassin concealing no less than four weapons on her person wants you to stop saving the world.”  You rolled your eyes at him.  “I meant you should try letting people in.  Maybe stop shouldering the guilt that doesn’t belong to you.”  

Tony stared at you quietly.  “Where the hell do you have four weapons?”  

You rolled your eyes in exasperation.  “That’s your takeaway?”

“I listened.  I just got distracted.”  

You lean forward to whisper in his ear, “Well, if you promise to think about what I said, maybe I’ll think about showing you where my gun is.”  

Tony’s eyes widened in shock before his signature smirk fell into place.  Before he could reply, because you were sure he was dying to, you sauntered off.

 Pressing your finger to your ear to activate your comm, “Aren’t you supposed to be providing me with a distraction?” 

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