#here's hoping an actual good night's sleep might help and i will have brainpower for writing tomorrow????

[rubiesintherough]

alrighty, gonna lurk for a bit before sleep. feel free to reply to any of the starters listed here,  and / or, like any of the meme calls i just posted.  or you can also  reply to this post  with the name(s) of muse(s) you want memes from if i didn’t post their meme call??  whatever you vibe with, fam.  hmu, i might be slow writing right now, but i do wanna interact... even if it’s just through sending memes / plotting / posting starters / etc.   have a g’night, everybody.  i promise imma try to do some writing tomorrow... gonna sit my ass down and get a few replies done??  *fingers crossed*

[themadlostgirl]

When It’s Cold (7)

*I have a vague inclination of where this story is heading. I went into this without an ending in mind so we’re letting go of the wheel and seeing where it takes us.*

~~~

After I showered and got changed I went downstairs. Felix had made an easy lunch of sandwiches and popcorn and set up the living room to play whatever movie I wanted to watch. I chose a nice comedy and sat down next to Felix.

Images of what we had done this morning still danced shamelessly in my head. How could Felix sit there so calmly? All we were doing was watching a movie, something we did quite frequently, and yet I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight. Even the slight touch of his thumb mindlessly stroking my arm was sending me into a tizzy.

I was hoping that after our escapades this morning that I would be cooler and more collected around Felix but it was ten times worse. I had gotten a taste and now it was all that I wanted. All I could think about. So again, how was it that Felix was sitting there so calmly? How was he not as infuriatingly turned on and jittery as me?

I kept my focus on the movie and my mind moved away from anything dirty as I started laughing at the group of dinner party guests running about a huge mansion in a paranoid craze on the TV. I made a joke to Felix about how if we ever hosted a dinner party it would most likely end up just like this. Hopefully with better food since that entree looked like a creamy, lumpy mess.

“Naturally,” Felix said, “I mean what kind of dinner was that supposed to be? Barely an hors d'oeuvre, a bland soup, skipped salad and appetizer completely and then served a gross main course, then no one partook in dessert. It’s a complete disaster!”

“You seem very passionate about this.” I chuckled. “Is there a guide to big fancy dinners in those cookbooks of yours?”

“Yes actually,” He shrugged, a tint of pink in his cheeks, “I get bored easily so reading about dinner etiquette is a step up from nothing.”

“Oh, so you know a lot about big fancy dinners?”

“Am I to suspect that you want me to make you a big fancy dinner now?”

“Well why not? I’ll even take a bit off your plate and make dessert so you don’t have to.”

“So all I have to do is make the other five courses, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Does this mean you’ll dress up for me too? Since it is supposed to be such a fancy feast?”

“Want to see me in a dress?”

“That one Yvette was wearing would look very nice on you.”

“You mean the maid uniform with the short skirt and stiletto heels?”

“Or something,” He laughed as I hit him upside the head.

“Would you get dressed up too? I think you’d look rather nice in a suit.”

“I don’t know, those ties look awfully constricting.”

“Yet the bust that pushes my boobs up to my ears is less constricting?”

“Okay, how about this,” Felix pulled me into his lap, “You buy a nice dress that you like, I get to wear something comfortable, and one of these nights I’ll make you that big six course dinner.”

“Candlelight and rose petals too?” I teased.

“Don’t push it,”

“Fine, fine,” I kissed him.

I wouldn’t go on about how excited I was at the thought of having a grand dinner. Sometimes Felix flourished on meals but this was going to be a whole event. It even gave me an excuse to buy a pretty dress. Something I didn’t really need but secretly kinda longed for. I know that per our arrangement that Felix was going to be dressed more comfortably which no doubt meant casually but I still would have liked to see him in a suit. I’ve seen him in his Neverland clothes, I’ve seen him in modern era clothes, and I’ve even seen him naked at this point. Dress clothes were the only thing that was missing. Maybe I can cram him into a suit a different day.

We cleaned up from lunch and I decided that the day was still young, I was going to go into town and look at dresses. I wasn’t gonna buy anything but I was gonna peruse. Try some things on. Figure out what I like. Cause I’ve never had a need to buy a dress before, I certainly didn’t have the funds for it before. But now I had to find out what I liked and what looked good on me.

I rode into town on my bike and entered the clothes store Felix and I had gone to the day after we found the mansion. I headed over to the dresses and started looking at the different styles and colors they had. There were a lot of options and I wasn’t sure where to start. I decided to just grab whatever was my size and headed to the dressing room.

I have no idea how long I spent trying on dress after dress and contemplating how I looked in all of them. I didn’t like anything too tight or short and with any low cuts anywhere. Big bold patterns also weren’t really my style. I like the skirts that swished around me when I spun and hit near my knee. I know I said I didn’t like anything low cut but I was finding that I liked anything that showed off my shoulders and collarbones and if it happened to dip in the front a bit that was fine too.

If I got something off the shoulder though then I’d need a bra that could be worn strapless which were none of the comfy ones I had at home.

I put all the dresses back on the rack and made my way over to the underwear section. As I was looking for a good strapless bra, just in case I decided to get a strapless dress, I accidentally wandered into the lingerie section of the underwear. I had never understood the obsession with these flimsy things of satin and lace. I guess they were more for looks than practicality.

Would Felix like if I wore something like this?

I shook the thought from my head and dropped the panties back with the others. I need to get out of here before I fall into the horny mess I had just crawled out of. I left the store without buying anything and got back home. Felix was sitting in the dining room with three different cookbooks and a notepad spread before him as he scribbled down dinner ideas.

It was cute to see how seriously he was taking this dinner. I came up behind him and looped my arms around his neck. “How is the meal planning going?” I asked.

“Well enough. There are a lot of recipes in here and I’m having a bit of trouble organizing it all. I’ve already bookmarked five recipes just for soup that I have to choose from.”

“Want my help?”

“Thanks darling, here, look at these recipes and tell me which sounds best to you.” He slid the notepad over to me.

“Hungarian Mushroom Soup,” I circled it, “Sounds different and like I might like it. I know you also really like mushrooms so how about that?”

“Mushroom soup it is.” Felix flipped the page over, “And now I have about a dozen ideas for appetizers.”

“Oh dear,” I laughed. I sat down next to him as we filed through recipe after recipe. We had to call a quits as it got late and we needed to get dinner for tonight. We decided to order out and Felix left to pick up some pizza. We didn’t trust anyone to deliver to us since we were still worried that someone would force us out of the mansion if they found out we had commandeered it.

The house felt entirely too big without Felix around. That was expected since it was a huge mansion but still. Without Felix then it was just me in a big house with nothing to do and no one to talk to. I went to the window and looked at the sky. It was quickly growing dark and I could see stars start to peep out as the sun set. I found the star that lead back to Neverland. My time as a Lost Girl seemed so far away now.

I wonder how much Felix misses Neverland. I know we talked and he said that he would stay with me whether I chose to go back to Neverland or not if the choice was given. But that didn’t mean that he still didn’t miss it. Neverland had been his home for years. Then he gave it all up because I asked him to follow me.

I will forever be thankful that Felix came with me. I don’t know if I could have survived this world with my sanity if he hadn’t been along. It was in these moments when I was alone in this house and it was so painfully quiet that I came upon a realization. I like quiet but I do not like silence. I enjoy being left alone but I do not enjoy solitude. This house, this mansion, as grand a blessing it may be, would be just as cold and harsh as the forest if I didn’t know that Felix also resided within.

It is such a strange thing to be so attached to someone. I never feared loss. My whole life had been plagued by it. Lost my family. Lost Pan. Lost Neverland. And yet, not a one of those bothered me as badly as the thought of losing Felix did.

Felix came home and with his return my troubled thoughts ran away. We sat down to eat our pizza and watch another movie. I was starting to nod off but Felix made sure to get me up to my room before I fell asleep this time. Felix bid me goodnight with a quick kiss before returning to his own room. It pained my heart to watch him leave. I guess I thought that after this morning we could have spent tonight together again. Seeing as how embarrassing the wake up call had been though it was probably for the best that we were separated. We were just starting our intimate relationship after all. I didn’t want to push too far by demanding we sleep in the same bed together.

One day though. One day.

~~~

Today had been amazing as far as Felix was concerned. It had started rough but the rest of it had turned out far better than he could have ever imagined. He thought that things between you and him had taken a bad turn that morning when he explained that he desired you. It was one thing to know that you desired him in private but it was another to admit it directly.

Then you showed up in his doorway. You opened your heart up and told him that you wanted him too. You didn’t want to run away from this growing intimacy between the two of you. Then you said you wanted to give him a handjob and he nearly popped a blood vessel. You and your wide eyes full of trust, lust, and curiosity.

It took every ounce of his remaining brainpower to help guide you along his body. The feel of your small soft hand wrapped around him, your lips on his chest, your voice softly pleading for him to cum. He was lost to you.

As nervous as he was having you touch him in such a way it was nothing to the pure excited terror that occurred when it was his turn to please you. You trusted him so easily to make you feel good and he wanted nothing more than to meet, maybe even exceed your expectations. Inch by inch your body had been exposed to him. Something he had envisioned a hundred times before finally laid out before him and he was allowed--nay--encouraged to touch all of it.

Listening to the noises you made as sparks of pleasure lit your body was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. His hands shook slightly as he held you and he prayed that you didn’t notice how nervous he truly was as his hand slid beneath the band of your panties. The feel of your slick arousal as he rubbed your clit was nothing compared to how it felt to have your hot, wet, cunt clench around his fingers.

He was making you feel good. You were moaning his name and begging him to do more. It was far better than any fantasy he had created in his head. He watched your face closely as you came and made sure to burn it into his mind. You were just so beautiful when in the throws of pleasure. He would have kept you there in his bed all day but after your reaction to his comment about devouring your pussy he figured he should slow things down.

It was hard not to show how much he wanted to drag you back to the bedroom while you were watching the movie but he knew that you probably needed the breather. He said he was gonna go at your pace so he wasn’t going to try anything until you told him it was okay.

The dinner planning helped take his mind off of it. He had been thinking about making a fancy dinner like he had seen in his books for you one day. Seemed that day was coming sooner than expected. If he was gonna make you a fancy meal then he was gonna do it right. You had been gone for so long in town that you had missed his initial frenzy as he tore through the cookbooks and combed over every recipe at least three times trying to figure out what you would most like, what would impress you.

It felt like there was a lot riding on this. He was able to whittle down his ideas a tad and that’s when you showed up again with your innocent smile and warm laugh. His anxiety eased and he breathed easier having you next to him again.

When night fell and he said goodnight to you he meandered back to his room. His big, dark, cold, and lonely room. He thought of how it felt to fall asleep next to you and wake up beside you. He didn’t realize how big his bed was until you weren’t next to him and in his arms.

It wouldn’t be a big deal if he asked you to sleep next to him, would it? It wasn’t like he was inviting you to his bed for anything explicit. He just wanted to fall asleep next to you again.

After about an hour of tossing and turning unable to fall asleep Felix had enough. “I am risking looking like a desperate idiot,” Felix muttered to himself as he swung out of bed and went to his door. He pulled it open and was shocked to see you waiting on the other side.

“Oh hi,” You said, the hand you had raised to knock quickly dropped back to your side, “I was um...I was wondering if you were still awake.”

“I am,” Felix said. No shit! She can obviously see you are awake, genius. Felix’s mind chastised him. “Did you need something?”

“I was--well I had been thinking--I was wondering if you--” You were stammering, your gaze lost to the ground as you tried to find the right words to say.

“Do you want to know why I am up?” Felix asked, deciding to take pity on his poor girl.

“Uh...yes?” You said, finally peeking up at him through your long lashes.

“I was coming to see you.” He told you, “I couldn’t fall asleep and I was wondering if I could tempt you to spend the night with me.”

“Really?” Your eyes widened in disbelief and glee.

Felix smiled. “Yes, really,” He laced his hand with yours, “Was that something you’d be open to?”

“Yes!” Came your immediate reply. “I mean um, yes, that sounds very nice.”

“Come here little girl,” Felix pulled you inside and gave you a kiss. He tugged you along over to the bed and let you nestle yourself in. He got under the covers as well and reached out to grab you and pull you next to him. Your head tucked under his chin and your body melted against him.

“Goodnight, darling,” He whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Goodnight, Felix,” You sighed happily. It wasn’t long after your soft snores filled his ears that Felix fell asleep as well. The warmth of your body curled against him banishing the loneliness of his big empty bed once and for all.

---

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[dwaynepride]

fading light of the setting sun

summary: dwayne tries to be there for reader in the aftermath of douglas hamilton.

words: 3,421

warnings: spoilers for 4x08, 4x10, and 6x10, nsfw, female reader

tags: @stanathanxoox​​ @pageofultron​​ @6adb0y​​ @thegoodlonelydalek​​ @consultingdoctorwholock​​ @starryrevelations​​ @thebeckyjolene​​ @diaryofafan17​​ @specialagentlokitty​​  

a/n: this is part 2 of a 2-part fic. both parts are based off of ‘setting sun’ by lord huron

PART 1

Tell me, when did I lose your love?   Was it him you were thinking of     All those nights when you made me swoon       Making love beneath the moon?

Dwayne is certain that his blood must be on fire.

He can barely breathe. Lost the ability to think just as soon as your hands ran down the skin of his chest. They left behind such an impression that Dwayne knows he’ll feel your touch for days afterward. And your hands - they never left his body. Even now, he feels them; one on his shoulder for leverage, the other on his back, nails digging into his skin.

In all honesty, Dwayne is shocked he’s lasted this long already. Your first little moan of his name realistically should’ve made him cum alone. That look in your eye after he’d gone down on you should’ve put him out of commission. You’re dangerous and you don’t even know it.

And yet, Dwayne is still rocking against you. A hand gripping his backboard while the other is tangled in the sheets. He might’ve been able to keep his own orgasm back before, but it’s getting so much harder now. Every deep thrust, every single time you cry out, every wriggle of your hips - it’s starting to become too much. Dwayne’s face is buried in your neck, eyes screwed shut, focused on keeping himself at bay until you cum. Just one more time.

“You’re so fucking good, sweetheart. So good for me. Wanna hear you cum again,” he mumbles in your ear. Honestly, it took all his brainpower to even speak.

But he’s a quick learner. He’s picked up how your legs tighten around his waist whenever he starts goading you on. Dwayne notices it even now - the nails in his back scouring even deeper. Your moans getting higher. A growing tenseness in your body that tells him you’re getting closer for the second time tonight.

He bets that Hamilton could never have made you cum twice in a row.

So he picks up the pace. Goes even deeper and Dwayne knows he hit a fucking perfect spot by the way you suddenly cry out. It nearly sends a shiver down his spine, but he pulls his focus back in. “You close, honey? Gonna cum for me again?” He pants out. God, it’s getting hard to talk....

Your head bobs in a desperate nod. And it only takes two more thrusts of his hips before you’re cumming around him. Clinging to him just as tightly as Dwayne clings to you. Reveling in the feel of his body moving against yours, and this time, he really does shiver when you start moaning out loud.

“Fuck, fuck- god,” you’re choking out the words. It only serves as initiative for Dwayne to keep going. “Fuck- Douglas! Oh my god...”

He was on the very edge. About to follow you over and cum with a groan of your name and it would’ve been about as close to heaven as Dwayne could be. He could almost taste it.

But he stopped. He had to. It was a raw, sudden shock that made Dwayne stop moving his hips. And when he pulled his face away from your neck, eyes coming up to see your face, your eyes weren’t even open. Clearly still lost in your own pleasure, but Dwayne doesn’t look away. His limbs are trembling from the sudden halt of his orgasm - or maybe it’s because you’d just cried out Hamilton’s name.

Slowly, your eyes blink open with tiny smile gracing your lips. A sight that surely would’ve warmed him before. You see his face, outlined with the moonlight that filters in through the window.

And instantly, you realize why Dwayne looks like you’d just shot his dog.

He lets out a shaky exhale, and finally moves away. Pulls out and climbs off, tugging the sheets to wrap around his waist. Dwayne not even sure what to say. What can he say?

So you’re the one who speaks, instantly sitting up and leaning toward him. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you tell him. Voice tight and keening and not something Dwayne likes to hear. “I just- it just came out. I didn’t mean it, Dwayne. I’m so, so sorry.”

For a moment, he doesn’t look at you. It would hurt a little too much to see you, right now. His chest feels like its been cracked open, and Dwayne finds that his limbs are still shaking slightly. He feels like he might just start screaming. And maybe he should have; maybe it would’ve made him feel better. But when Dwayne finally looks over to you - sees your sad and torn up expression - he knows he’d be physically incapable of shouting at you. Doesn’t want to make you feel worse.

Dwayne knows you’ve gone through a lot with Douglas. Gone through a terrible heartache. Maybe it’s unfair to expect you to be able to completely drop all your feelings for Hamilton - as much as Dwayne thinks it should be easy.

You’re still adjusting, he tells himself.

It’s difficult, but he offers a tight smile. Raises a hand to rest along your cheek. And when Dwayne leans in, you follow his lead, and he kisses you softly. “It’s alright. I’m not mad,” he says lowly.

Now, it’s your turn to be speechless. Perhaps you were expecting Dwayne to be furious with you. But honestly, he can’t just force you to stop loving Douglas. He’ll just have to work harder to help you get past him.

Your own hand comes up, curling around the back of Dwayne’s neck and tugging him closer. Prompting him to lie down, and he follows you readily. Settling in beside you, Dwayne presses a small kiss on your shoulder. A little peace offering, despite his churning stomach.

Slowly, your hand runs back down the length of his body. Fingers following every curve and line over his chest and stomach, and it isn’t until you reach his happy trail does Dwayne catch on to your plan.

You knew he hadn’t cum yet. You’re trying to make things even.

But he’s just not in the mood.

His hand catches yours before you can reach him, and to keep from hurting you further, Dwayne brings it up to press a kiss against your wrist. “Actually, I just wanna get to sleep - if that’s alright with you.”

Your eyes flash with surprise in the lowlight, but you don’t argue.

And that night, Dwayne falls asleep wrapped around you, chest to back, with his face hiding against the back of your neck. Wishing he could get the sound of your voice out of his head.

-

Were you dreaming of his touch?   When you couldn't get enough     Was there truth in the songs you sung?       Little girl, you're not so young.

There’s no real attempt in trying to play any semblance of a song. Dwayne doesn’t even try - he simply lets his fingers trail over the keys in any way they want. He’s much too preoccupied to think about playing anything.

Danny was safe. He knew that. The young man was home with Loretta and Dwayne fulfilled his promise to find and save him.

Shockingly, none of that makes him feel any better.

Dwayne hears the doors open, but he doesn’t look up to greet whoever came in. Can’t be bothered. His gaze sits on the piano keys, his mind going over the events of the day.

Though, your voice helps ground him - just a little. “I know you guys finished up early today, but I wasn’t expecting anybody to come over yet,” you speak up. Voice bright and chipper and everything Dwayne is not.

You don’t know about what happened to Danny. Unaware of the lines Dwayne had just crossed so readily.

He can’t find the words to respond with, and that’s what prompts you closer. This time, when you speak, there’s a careful concern in your tone. “Is everything okay, Dwayne?”

This time, he shrugs. And usually, Dwayne might’ve brushed off your question. This was not your burden to carry. He knows you’ve been going through a lot - he shouldn’t just dump it all on you. And yet, the weight of it is too much. He sighs. “I did something today,” he says lowly. “Something I shouldn’t have done. It was for a good reason, I guess, but it scares me that I did it.”

You’re quiet, but eventually, he hears your footfalls come toward him until your sitting beside him on the piano bench. And as your hand comes to settle on his shoulder, Dwayne reflexively exhales. Truly, it’s amazing what your touch does to him.

“I know you’ve had a hard few months. With your job and the bar and...” you trail off. And Dwayne nearly flinches when you finally say his name, “and Douglas. But you’re one of the best people I know. You’re a good man, and I care a lot about you. I wanna be here for you, if you need me.”

Immediately, his head swivels around to look at you. Meeting his eyes, you offer a smile. Hoping it would lighten his mood, a little.

Dwayne is not so naive, though - not naive enough to think that perhaps, your words went deeper than how they sounded. That maybe, despite the scars that Douglas left behind, you’d feel for him even a fraction of what he feels for you.

Dwayne knows you care about him, but not in the way he wants.

Still, this day wore him down. His heart is heavy, soul tapped dry, and you’re right there. It’s natural to lean in, loop his arms around your waist and push his face into the crook of your neck. Your arms come around his shoulders, hands running up and down his back. Despite everything, Dwayne feels a bit more at ease. More at home, even if he knows it’s not really his.

His eyes fall shut, exhaling against your skin, and he just lets go. “I love you,” Dwayne mumbles. Barely audible to himself.

“What’d you say?” You ask him.

“...Nothing.”

-

Well, I could never betray your love   You had me, heart and soul     You might never have known it, girl,       But I was all yours.

Sometimes, the universe loved to test Dwayne Pride.

He knew this, of course. It feels like his entire life has been a test. An experiment of how much he can take, how he handles it all, and what happens after.

But even the universe goes too far, sometimes.

Dwayne rubs his hands over his face, leaning back in his chair for just a moment. After everything he’s done and sacrificed and risked to put Douglas Hamilton in jail, he might be going free. The team has been scrambling to try and figure out who his partner could be, but there may not be enough time. His trial is only in a couple days.

Talking to him with Gregorio resulted in nothing but a screaming match. It seems Dwayne hasn’t been able to quite stifle his burning hatred of the man.

His attention breaks from his thoughts, however, when Dwayne hears your voice calls his name. Hands falling away, he looks up to see you marching right into the office with a perplexed Roy peeking in from outside. You looked very worked up. Dwayne stands to come around his desk.

“When were you going to tell me?”

He blinks in surprise at your harsh tone. “Tell you what?”

“About Douglas. That he’s appealing his trial? He might get out of prison?” You shoot off each word like a bullet as you walk up to him. Your eyes are wide and angry and searching for answers and Dwayne can barely meet them.

He knew he probably should’ve told you before. Sat you down and explained it before you heard from the media. But it was too hard a conversation to have. Thinking about it made his blood boil, and Dwayne was aware of your lingering feelings. Honestly, he didn’t know how you’d take it.

He scrambles for an answer. “I’ve been busy, sweetheart-”

“Busy trying to keep him in jail, you mean.”

Your words throw him back, a little. Dwayne’s eyebrows knit together in a frown as he nods. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks.

“Dwayne, if he’s trying to appeal his case, then that means he’s innocent,” you tell him. He can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “That you made a mistake.”

It’s difficult to nail down a singular emotion that he’s feeling. Confusion, mostly, of why you’d think Douglas was innocent. Maybe a little hurt that you’d be so quick to turn on him. And there’s anger in his stomach, too. That you’d believe Hamilton over him.

“I didn’t make a mistake,” Dwayne says with a shake of his head, his tone growing a bit harder. “Douglas is guilty, sweetheart - he’s making a deal-”

“Don’t call me that.” You’re looking real angry, right now. Mimicking Dwayne’s hard frown. Though, he suspects he can’t begin to match that hot look in your eye; it almost makes him look away. “You hate him so much, you’ll let him rot in jail for the rest of his life. Do you know what I’ve been through? Trying to come to terms that Douglas might not have been who I thought he was?”

You’re almost yelling, now. Dwayne’s shifts his weight, and he wants to cut in to try and calm you down. But you’re not stopping. “I’ve been trying to push down my feelings because every time I look at you, I just think about Douglas and I feel so damn guilty about what happened. And you won’t even admit that you could’ve gotten it all wrong!”

By now, his anger had deflated. And he’s just watching you with sad, cautious eyes. All these months, Dwayne had just hoped that maybe, if he’d been there for you, those feelings might start to fade. That you’d move on, eventually.

But now, learning that those feelings only brought you guilt and shame....

Dwayne felt like he might throw up.

He steps closer, reaching out and putting a hand on your arm. But you pull away from him. It’s like a punch to the gut. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I truly am. I never wanted you to feel guilty, and I’d never do anything to hurt you. But believe me when I say that Douglas Hamilton is guilty. I’m completely sure of that.”

Your eyes fall shut and you step away from him with a shake of your head. Dwayne watches the tears well up in your eyes. How you’re starting to slip away from him, and he starts getting desperate. Grasping at anything that will keep you here. He could pull you to his desk; show you the evidence he has against the former Mayor. But he can’t move. He can only speak from the heart.

“I love you.”

Within a second, your eyes connect with his. Wide, pink with tears. A breath caught in your lungs, but he keeps going. “I have for a long time now. I love you so damn much, and it never mattered to me that you weren’t ever really over him. Because I wanted to be there for you. And I needed you with me. I love you, and that’s why I’ve always tried to protect you.”

He can’t breathe. Can’t move. His hands tremble slightly as you take in his words. And for a moment, Dwayne feels hope rise in his chest. Maybe you’ll believe him finally. Maybe you’ll see that your love for Hamilton has been blinding you, and that Dwayne was right. Maybe you’ll hold him and kiss him and apologize for things that you really don’t need to apologize for because Dwayne has already forgiven you.

But then you take a step away from him. Your head shakes, eyes falling away, and Dwayne feels like his chest has just been cracked open. “I can’t do this, Dwayne. I can’t. Not anymore.”

His body is numb. Mouth dry. Mind blank.

“Maybe there was a time where I felt- thought I felt something for you. But it’s too much. Every time I look at you, I just see the person who took Douglas away from me.”

You say nothing else, because everything’s been said already. A tear falls down your cheek as you finally turn away from him and walk out.

The last Dwayne sees is you wiping away a tear. A tear he caused.

-

I know I’ll never reclaim your love   And that’s just how it goes     I ain’t the person I was this morning       When the sun rose

“428 West 27th. New York, New York. 10012.”

Hearing Eddie Barrett recite that address felt like being dipped in ice cold water. Dwayne barely had time to listen to it - understand it - before Eddie speaks up again. “Laurel, right? That’s where your daughter lives?” He asks. A rhetorical question.

Dwayne doesn’t respond. Doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. He just keeps the barrel of his gun pointed at the other man, daring him to try something. And Dwayne still had hopes that he’ll be able to take him in. That his team will show up.

But the son of a bitch keeps talking. “4702 Perrier Street. New Orleans, Louisiana. 70115.”

And instantly, Dwayne gets nauseous. His gun suddenly weighs about thirty pounds heavier and he has to lower it. Has to grip it tight to hide the light tremble of his hands.

“That’s Y/N’s address, if I’m not mistaken,” Barrett tells him calmly. A light smirk comes to his face and Dwayne wants to beat it off of him. “Though, I don’t think she stays there, too often.”

“Stop,” Dwayne finally utters out.

“From what I’m told, she’s takes a lot of visits to the State Penitentiary. Visits a man - what’s his name?” Eddie pauses, as if feigning to remember.

Dwayne has to remind himself to breathe. To think past the slow boil of his blood and the sickening churn of his stomach. He won’t give Eddie Barrett what he wants. “I said stop.”

“Oh, that’s right. It’s Douglas Hamilton.” Dwayne grits his teeth at the mention of that name. “But I’m sure she comes around her apartment sometimes.”

It’s a reflex to stop closer to Barrett. Raise his gun just slightly. Stare into the eyes of the man who’s staring right back, so confident in his control. “You think I can’t get to them? No matter where you put me? You think I don’t still have people willing to do anything I ask?”

Problem is, Dwayne doesn’t doubt that. Not for a second. Maybe Laurel might be safe. Maybe she could be a little too far out of Eddie’s grasp for him to reach and maybe her boyfriend can protect her. But you? Well, you’ve already made it clear to Dwayne that you wanted nothing to do with him. That likely means his protection, as well.

He couldn’t let Eddie play him like this. Dwayne raises the gun to point at him once again. “I’m bringing you in,” he forces out. Hoping his voice sounds solid and confident - anything other than how he feels.

“Christopher LaSalle and his brother were just a small taste of what I’m capable of,” Eddie muses out.

Dwayne shakes his head fervently. “I’m not one of your followers.”

“No. Worse. You’re someone who actually believes he’s in control. But I will drag you into the chaos and this will never end.”

All his crazy, pretentious words start to become white noise. Something Dwayne can’t fully focus on, because he’s not naive. He knows Eddie isn’t just bluffing. He knows the power he has and Dwayne may not be able to stop him, even in jail. But then Eddie says something that snaps something inside of Dwayne. Says something that he can’t block out, even if he tried.

“And I’ll start with that woman you love so much. Her blood will be splattered all over the walls, and it’ll be your fault-”

Three gunshots fill the air, one after another. They silence the white noise.

Seems like protecting you is just gut instinct.

-

I know I’ll never replace your love   And that’s as hard as it gets     So I’ll be taking a life this evening       When the sun sets

[bird-on-a-wire20]

the courage of my convictions

Pairing: Finan/Uhtred

Summary: The idea of something between them is a thought that Finan's kept buried deep, to be resurrected for only the most desperate of nights.

Notes: Written for Round 3 of the @tlkfanficfest from the prompts In Vino Veritas and Modern AU.

"Alright, here we go, watch your step." Finan grabs Uhtred's arm as the Dane stumbles, barely catching himself, his shoulder bumping the light post. "Christ, Uhtred." He hooks Uhtred's arm over his shoulder and leads him over to the door to the apartment where Finan lives. 

Uhtred mumbles something mostly incoherent. Finan knows he probably should have cut Uhtred off a while ago at the bar. 

"Just, lean against here," Finan says, slipping Uhtred's arm off his shoulders as he leans his friend against the wall next to the door. "Let me get this fuckin' door unlocked." He could have taken Uhtred back to his own house. Finan's is closer, and Finan would rather sleep in his own bed than on that shitty couch Uhtred has in his living room if he's honest. 

Slowly they make their way up the stairs and into Finan's apartment. It's pretty small, but what do you expect for London these days, especially his salary. The place he'd lived with Sihtric had been bigger. But, he and Eahlswith had decided to get serious and wanted a home of their own. That left Finan stuck finding something close to work and also affordable. 

"Okay, let's get you in bed," Finan says, all but dragging Uhtred across the flat and into the bedroom. 

"You're so good to me, Finan," Uhtred says, with a surprising moment of clarity. "What would I do without you?" Uhtred asks as he plops down at the end of the bed. He's shaky at best, and Finan sighs laughing as he helps Uhtred slip off his sneakers. 

"You'd probably go home with Brida and repeat that mistake again." Finan teases. Uhtred doesn't deny it but groans slightly and falls back onto the bed, his sock feet still on the floor. Tossing Uhtred's shoes to the side, Finan toes off his own boots and heads to the washroom to have a piss. He's feeling a little buzzed, but not as much as Uhtred, now snoring on Finan's bed. 

He washes his hands and heads back into the bedroom, stepping out of his jeans. Uhtred hasn't moved an inch. Cursing, Finan tucks his hands under Uhtred and heaves the Dane up until he can slip a pillow under his head. It's at that moment that Uhtred's eyes pop open. 

"What are you doing?" Uhtred asks with confusion and whiny irritation in his voice. "I'm comfy." 

"I'm getting you up on the pillow, you git." Finan curses, pulling out the quilt from under Uhtred's deadweight body and throwing it over him. 

He shakes his head and goes around to the other side of the bed, pulling back the quilt just enough. As soon as he lies down, Finan realizes he forgot to take paracetamol, but he's just not fussed enough to get back up. The bed is just too damn comfortable. He's almost asleep, his consciousness giving in to that cottony drunk feeling when Uhtred mumbles something and turns his body toward Finan. 

"What'd you say?" Finan asks, looking over at Uhtred. His eyes are barely open, but he's got this almost serene look on his face. 

"This bed smells like you." 

Finan laughs, amused at Uhtred's observation. "Well it's my bed, be weird if it smelled like someone else." 

"I like the smell," Uhtred says, pressing his face against the pillow and inhaling. "You always smell so good." Uhtred's voice is a little breathless, husky. Under any other circumstances, Finan would brush it off, chalk it up to Uhtred being drunk. However, he's still looking at Finan, almost apprehensively. Then his hand is flat against Finan's chest, and Finan inhales sharply. Uhtred's hand is surprisingly warm through the thin cotton of Finan's t-shirt. He tightens his grip on the material as he leans close, his forehead against Finan's temple. 

"Uhtred…" Finan doesn't know what to say, other than his name, and he's not sure it's a plea to continue or a warning to stop, because this is something they haven't even danced around. The idea of something between them is a thought that Finan's kept buried deep, to be resurrected for only the most desperate of nights. Otherwise, he'd spend every waking moment second-guessing every interaction they've ever had for signs that aren't there. His friendship with Uhtred meant too much to risk that. 

The Dane lets out a shaky breath, and heat floods Finan's body at the warmth of Uhtred's breath against his neck. "I just need…" Uhtred's words are quiet, his voice slightly desperate as his fingers fist Finan's shirt tightly. 

"What?" Finan asks. He feels like he's run a marathon, and he wonders if Uhtred can feel how fucking fast his heart is beating. "What do you need?" 

"You," Uhtred says, on a breath. Finan's dick twitches, and he's suddenly aware of how hard he is in his boxer briefs. He wonders if Uhtred feels the same. If he's suddenly as panicked and desperate and needy as Finan feels. 

"Yeah?" Finan asks, tentatively, turning his head to find Uhtred absolutely and completely passed out. "Jesus Christ." He lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, uncertainty welling in his chest. He can't decide if he's relieved that Uhtred might not remember what happened tonight, or disappointed for the very same reason. 

To his surprise, Finan sleeps peacefully that night, and it's the flush of the toilet that rouses him. It's still early because the loft is a hazy blue. The sun not yet risen but just threatening to crest the horizon. Beside him, the spot where Uhtred slept is empty, and Finan feels all the emotions of last night come crashing back. For a moment, he contemplates turning over, pretending to sleep, and hoping Uhtred will just leave before he thinks he's awake. It's a cowardly move, but Finan's done it before. Except he doesn't have time because the bathroom door opens, and Uhtred saunters out in just his boxers, his hair pulled into a bun. 

"Oh, hey," Uhtred says when he sees Finan is awake. He scratches his chest, and Finan's fingertips ache to wonder what his skin feels like on them. 

"Alright?" It comes out half garbled, but it's the only sound Finan can make as he's trying to use most of his brainpower to threaten his half-hard dick into submission. 

Uhtred nods and seems to hesitate for a moment before climbing back into bed. Finan keeps his eyes staring at the ceiling, but he can feel Uhtred looking at him. But he's just brave enough to look. What if Uhtred's looking at Finan like he wants to devour him? What if he's not? 

Finan rubs his hands over his face. Once, twice, three times. 

"Are you freaking out right now?" Uhtred asks, and Finan turns to look at him through his fingers still on his face. He's sitting up in bed, his back against Finan's headboard. He's playing with his necklace, fingers holding onto Thor's hammer. 

"No..." 

Uhtred laughs and reaches over to pull Finan's hands away from his face. "You're freaking out. You look terrified." 

Uhtred's casual laughter irritates Finan and sits up suddenly, swinging his feet off the bed until he's sitting on the edge. "It's not that fucking funny." He snaps, and he's about to get up when a hand touches his back, curving up over his shoulder to stop him from standing. "Finan." 

Finan looks over his shoulder to Uhtred. He's moved to kneel in the middle of the bed to reach him. He's still shirtless, and a piece of his hair is falling along the side of his neck. Finan can't help but feel a growl brewing. 

"Finan," Uhtred says again. He's more insistent this time, pulling on Finan's shoulder until Finan allows himself to be turned around, so they are facing each other on the bed. Uhtred's hand hasn't left Finan's shoulder, and he fidgets slightly with the seam of the t-shirt as they stare at each other. "I didn't mean it like that..." 

Uhtred drags his hand along the curve of Finan's shoulder, calloused fingers running up along his neck to tightly cup the back of it. But it's Finan who makes the first move, lifting up on his knees, so he's the same height as Uhtred. 

"Are we doin' this?" Finan asks, reaching out to curve his hand over Uhtred's shoulder, his thumb rubbing in the dip just below it, skating over the soft skin. 

Uhtred nods. He leans in, his nose bumping against Finan's nose, his mouth ghosting over the corner of Finan's mouth before their lips finally find one another. Their kiss is soft and slow, hesitant as they lick into each other's mouths. Finan groans as Uhtred's teeth nip at his bottom lip. He wraps his arms around the Dane, closing every millimeter of the distance between them. 

They fall back onto the bed, Finan's body above Uhtred, his hips fitting into the space between Uhtred's legs. With just their shorts between them, Finan rolls his hips, his cock rubbing against Uhtred's belly until Uhtred shifts. Suddenly, it's their cocks rubbing against each other. They both groan, their kisses becoming more urgent and frenzied. 

"You feel so fucking good," Finan growls against Uhtred's jaw, their mouths finally separating to breathe. "Is this good?" It's probably a bit desperate to ask. Uhtred nods, his hands sliding over Finan's arse to pull him even tighter against him, grinding his body up against Finan's. 

"Yes, for you too?" Uhtred pants and Finan nods. He bites gently against Uhtred's neck, following closely with a soothing lick of his tongue, and he revels in the noises Uhtred makes when he does both. 

"I want you to touch me," Uhtred pants, his mouth roaming over Finan's jaw, down his throat to nip and suck at the skin where his neck meets his shoulder. 

This all feels a little bit surreal to Finan, like having one of the best wet dreams of his life. Because he never expected this, though he had thought about it enough. But now to have Uhtred actually beneath him, to feel the warmth of him, the length of his cock hard and urgently rubbing against Finan's, it feels unreal. 

"How? Show me." Finan reluctantly pulls away, sitting back on his knees to watch Uhtred shimmy out of his shorts. His cock looks as hard as Finan's feels beneath his own shorts, and Uhtred wraps a fist around it, slowly stroking himself from base to tip. The slit at the top already glistening. Uhtred touches himself for less than a minute before Finan is pushing down his own shorts, his cock springing free as he grabs it with a rough practiced tug. He feels a desperate need to relieve the pressure building, though touching himself does little to subdue the insistent throbbing in his cock, the ache in his balls.

"Do you want me to…?" Finan's voice trails off, but Uhtred is nodding, and he fists his hands into the sheets when Finan wraps his hand around Uhtred's dick. 

Finan couldn't even say the number of times he's touched his own dick, but feeling Uhtred in his hand makes him feel like he's never touched one. He's so hard, but his skin is surprisingly soft, and Finan slowly strokes his hand up and down, reveling in the noises Uhtred makes as he does so. And fuck if he isn't warm as hell. A bead of pre-come pools at the slit and Finan swallows hard, his jaw almost aching to feel the weight of Uhtred's cock, and there's a weight to it, in his mouth. But Finan's not sure of the protocol that happens when you go from best mates to handjobs to gagging yourself on his cock. Instead, he rubs the pad of his thumb over the head, drawing the wet down to the sensitive spot where Uhtred's flesh is tight, below the head. It's a spot that Finan himself loves to have touched, and he tentatively rubs over it with the tip of his thumb. Uhtred moans loudly and thrusts his hips up as his eyes plead longingly at Finan. 

"Do that again," Uhtred begs, and Finan complies before the Dane is even finished speaking. 

Slowly he finds a rhythm, a series of strokes and touches that have Finan forgetting his own raging hard-on. He spends all his focus and energy on making Uhtred fall apart below him. Uhtred's mouth is slightly open, cheeks ruddy, and chest heaving. Finan leans back over him, his hand never stopping as he kisses Uhtred long and deep. 

He jumps when he feels Uhtred's hand circle his cock. He's had hookups in the past, but none of them come close to how it feels right now, as Uhtred fits their cocks together, his fingers intertwining with Finan's as they hold each other. 

Finan feels out of control like he can't remember which way is up or what year it is, or anything other than that he thinks he might be in love with Uhtred and he absolutely is about to come. 

"Christ, I'm already there," he grunts, not stopping and only pressing down harder against Uhtred. "I don't think I can last much longer." 

"It's okay. It's good. Fuck, Finan, it's so fucking good. You're so fucking good." 

And that's how Finan comes, with Uhtred telling him how good he is, how much he wants, how this isn't going to be something that happens just once. He keeps thrusting against Uhtred, his dick incredibly sensitive until Uhtred comes as well, hot and wet and sticky. Their hands and cocks and bellies are covered in their come, but Finan collapses half on to Uhtred, his face burying into his neck. Uhtred’s skin is warm and damp and smells like Finan's sheets mixed with a scent that is inherently Uhtred. And all of it makes Finan feel a little more brave for whatever comes next. 

[vagrantblvrd]

jeremavinwood supervillains?

Oh, friend, I know I should aim for the Totally Serious take on your prompt?

And yet. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So.

Let’s say in this AU superheroes and of course supervillains are A Thing.

Everyone knows about them and there are fans of both and it’s not a big deal to anyone there.

Ryan’s this computer/tech-type guy looking for a job and he just so happens across this job opening online, right? One of those job listing sites and it’s just odd/quirky enough to stand out from the rest of the listings he’s browsing through one day.

Has more character to it, and also job perks/benefits. The only thing it he’d have to move cities for it, but he’s not all that attached to the one he’s living in at the time and decides sure, why the hell not, you know?

So Ryan applies for the job and doesn’t think too much about it. One of those ones where it would be nice to get, but not something he’s banking on or has any real investment in, and in the meantime he gets all these interviews and the like for the others openings he applied for.

Nothing that sounds promising once he gets the chance to talk to hiring manager/whoever, and he’s getting - not worried, exactly, because he’s got enough in the bank and various investment things he can afford to turn them down when they offer him work.

And then, just when he’d forgotten about the weird job listing he gets an email.

Again, kind of weird? All Dramatic and the whatnot, but he figures maybe this guy is just Eccentric or whatever and is just interesting enough Ryan takes the job. (This feeling in the back of his head that the guy’s got to be part of the supers world, which is a first for Ryan, but whatever. He was getting bored of the usual thing anyway, so yeah.)

Takes him a few weeks to deal with everything where he’s living at the time and get out to the new job.

Thank goodness it comes with a place for him to stay until he can find something more suited to him if he likes and so on, right?

Only thing is, by the time he gets to the city the guy who hired him is nowhere to be found.

Ryan gets to the address he was given, which isn’t much to look at from the outside. Looks like an old warehouse the guy bought, maybe big aspirations and such hoping to turn it into the home of the business he started that he told Ryan he needed a computer/tech guy to help get off the ground.

Still, the code Ryan was sent works for the keypad on the front door and when he gets inside the place is still pretty unimpressive?

Ryan walks around and makes a face because it’s kind of a dump. All this trash and debris and bits and bobs that add up to a mistake on Ryan’s part, but then he bumbles into some activation device/panel that activates the AI that’s been keeping an eye on the place.

Because, wouldn’t you know it?

The guy who put out that job listing Ryan that caught Ryan’s eye is, indeed, part of the whole supers world.

A supervillain, as it may be, and Ryan is just ??? and then !!! as he realizes this, the AI spinning up from the dormant state it’s been in since its creator went and got got by the local police.

Which  is something  Ryan finds out when he asks the AI where his supposed employer is, because this is super weird and all?

Turns out he got pulled over thanks to a dumb traffic violation, which turned into an Altercation the local superheroes got called in on and now the guy’s kist really, really dead.

Headlight out and cop pulling him over to tell him to get it fixed and he’d let it slide this time, but the supervillain is on the high-strung side of things and flipped the fuck out resulting in the city’s superheroes stepping in to help bring him in and all because massive property damage and so on and all because he couldn’t keep his cool when faced with a traffic stop.

(Which explains what all the street detours and cleanup that made traffic into the city a nightmare Ryan didn’t think too much about since there’s always a mess with all the supers around. Not like he knew his new employer was involved in it or anything.)

Anyway, the AI has been given all the information on Ryan - loads more than what Ryan put on his application or told the guy over the phone and in video calls, but uh, the whole supervillain thing kind of explains all that away.

Turns out Ryan’s been given clearance to get into the bunker under the warehouse which is where the supervillain was doing all his Plotting and Scheming.

Not a major name yet, but he around long enough to have the kind of money to put into a Proper Supervillain Lair. (Including the Mad Scientist Lab and while it hasn’t been fully installed just yet there’s an area for a shark tank, so that’s cool.)

Ryan is kind of weirded out as he gets a glimpse of these half-finished Schemes and Plots all over the place (improving on them in his head before he catches himself and moves on to explore the rest of the Lair) and is like hmm, okay then, because what else is he gonna do

AND THEN.

Once he’s looked around the whole place - or the areas he’s cleared to go - the AI directs him to a living area and the suite that was meant to be his before he found a place of his own.

It’s late and also been a hell of a day - hours spent traveling and then discovering he inadvertently became a henchman and all that and hey, the bed actually looks pretty comfy?

So he goes to sleep and figures he can decide where to go from here in the morning, right?

Do the right thing and call the authorities to come and check the place out and go back to looking for a normal job. (Assuming the local authorities don’t think he was in on the supervillain’s whole deal the entire time and throw him in jail.)

The next morning he makes a call to the local police and realizes pretty damn fast they’re what you might call overzealous? Rabid, maybe, the way they immediately think he’s making a threat as opposed to informing them of this potentially Very Dangerous supervillain Lair and asking them to deal with it so he can get back to his uneventful life?

He hangs up the moment he realizes they think he’s Totally Evil and Must Be Stopped and is just ??? because what now?

And, you know, the AI is just, “Well...” and then one of the screens in the command center Ryan was making his phone call in lights up and all these protocols and contingent plans pop up as to how to secure the warehouse and bunker it’s built over in case of discovery and such.

Ryan stares at all of it for a moment because talk about your over the top supervillain bullshit? But there are some reasonable ideas in there he can tweak and all that and anyway, not like he’s got much planned for himself as is, so...

Okay, right.

Maybe he makes an attempt to get in touch with the city’s superheroes first to hand the Lair and all that over (or tip them off, whatever), but he gets pretty much the same response the cops had, so he decides to go with fortifying the Lair’s defenses and suchlike.

And then ~*MONTAGE*~ in which Ryan ends up pretty much renovating the place from the top down.

Tearing out walls and such and old t-shirt and sweats and rewiring and halfway through he realizes he doesn’t know as much about that shit as he thinks he does so he calls in an electrician?

Which.

Yeah, he knows, but apparently the supervillain had a whole list of - at the very least - neutral parties - in the whole construction and such business . (Who else would build the superhero bases/supervillain Lairs for the supers who weren’t big enough to afford their own people and couldn’t do it themselves? Really.)

Anyway, that brings Michael into the picture who looks around at the Lair and what Ryan’s manages to do in the time he’s been there and is just.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, let me take care of this,” and so Ryan has a surly/cranky electrician rewiring the whole Lair and such while he deals with other matters.

And that’s, like.

Distracting because the aforementioned ~*MONTAGE*~ with the old t-shirts and sweats and it gets pretty hot in the Lair (that’s a thing Ryan needs to call in more experts for later, because yeah) and some days he’ll check on how Michael’s doing and he’ll do the thing where he wipes sweat off his forehead with his arm and Ryan is suddenly in a romcom and anyway.

Distracting.

So off he goes to deal with the computer/tech guy shit while Michael grumbles and growls. (Ryan will be back later for lunch, because Michael needs to eat too and he knows the good takeout places in the city and if they sit and chat and suchlike it’s not a big deal or anything, you know?

Really.

Anyway.

They’re working on getting the place up and fully functional before any cops or superheroes bust in, but it’s a lot of work, you know?

And in the meantime life goes on and one night the AI (that Ryan has taken to calling E.D.G.A.R. because some totally Ryan reasons about it kind of sort of being in a hole, what with its core being located in the Lair which is indeed underground and all that and also an acronym I don’t have the brainpower to go into at the moment but it definitely totally lame and/or nerdy) alerts him there’s an intruder.

Ryan is ??? because who the hell - and then !!! because what if it’s the authorities???

But no, no.

Ryan goes to the command center and watches the security feeds to realize there’s a goddamn thief slipping through the Lair’s corridors.

Michael’s there watching too because either E.D.G.A.R. called him down there after realizing he’s Important to Michael (has been given all the clearances and such that Ryan can give him while he works on cracking the ones the supervillain who hired him still has up so he can gain full access of the Lair and its amenities) and so on.

Anyway, the two of them watch this little thief get past several security measures before E.D.G.A.R. finally manages to pin him down in a room. All these lasers and other deadly traps and only an idiot would try their luck.

So of course there’s this moment where it looks like the thief is giving serious thought to doing just that before he obviously decides better. Huffs and pouts and looks directly at the hidden cameras watching him to scowl at Ryan and Michael who share a look because what the fuck, right?

They go to the room the thief is caught in - E.D.G.A.R. disengaging traps as they go, just enough to keep the thief pinned but not put them in danger - and the little bastard is annoyed.

British accent and clearly not from around here (or not that long, at any rate) and what the hell does he think he’s doing?

To which Gavin is like, what the hell do they think they’re doing, hmm? Last he heard the supervillain that had hired Ryan had set this place up, and when he went and got got the payment Gavin had been promised for a little job for him fell through and Gavin, okay.

Figured the bastard wouldn’t mind that much (couldn’t do anything about) Gavin coming in here and picking up a few things he could sell off to someone else to make up for the money he never got paid for services rendered.

But, oh, look.

Someone just happened to come along and set up shop in the abandoned Lair like it was finder’s keepers and mind letting Gavin go now?

Ryan’s kind of ??? because hell if he knows what to do, right? Doesn’t really want to keep Gavin locked up here even if it might be a smart thing to do (no telling if he’d go running off to the authorities the moment they let him out and all) even if there are cells on a lower level.

Michael looks a little like he’d like to pretend he never saw Gavin, leave him pinned in here and go back to sleep and fuck if it’s any of his business what happens to him, but Ryan knows better.

And anyway, anyway, Ryan’s not actually a supervillain or a loyal henchman or whatever. He’s just some poor bastard who applied for the wrong job and got in waaaaaay over his head.

So.

He tells E.D.G.A.R. to disengage the lasers and traps keeping Gavin in place and points towards the Mad Scientist/gadget lab Gavin was clearly headed towards. Tells him to take what he wants, but if any of it gets used against him or Michael or the authorities come sniffing around he’ll regret it, you know?

And then he heads off presumably to go back to sleep. (Really he goes back to the command center to see what Gavin will do now, but shhh.)

Michael grumbles at Gavin, but when it comes down to it it’s not like he has any say here, so he actually goes back to bed.

Gavin dithers for a moment sure it’s a trap? But when nothing happens for a bit he shrugs and goes to root around the Mad Scientist/gadget lab for stuff he can sell.

E.D.G.A.R. keeps an eye on him, but Gavin’s not about to test his luck and gets what he came for and leaves as quickly as he can.

But then, okay, but then.

He gets curious, he does.

Sells off the gadgets and whatevers he stole and does some poking around.

Already knew about Michael being one of those neutral parties people in this city are always hiring when their superhero base/supervillain Lair needs repairs or what have you, but Ryan?

Nothing about him being involved with any supers or even any criminal business ever.

Does some more digging and eventually finds a profile for Ryan on one of those job sites out there and kind of dies laughing when that leads him to the job listing that caught Ryan’s eye way back when from the supervillain.

And then, okay.

He’s just all-over curious about Ryan - definitely could have killed Gavin or locked him up or whatever and didn’t. And then there’s Michael, surly bastard that he is, but not too hard on the eyes and anyway, anyway.

He goes and breaks back in to the bunker/Lair.

This time E.D.G.A.R.’s not quite prepared for him, because Gavin’s good at what he does, but he’s not completely blindsided.

Asks Gavin what he’s doing as Gavin bypasses security measures and crawls through vents and whatever else to get to the Lair proper. They have a pleasant little chat and by the time Gavin gets to the command center Ryan’s there with a bemused expression because it’s the middle of the night and what even is going on right now?

Michael’s over at a console grumbling about something because insomnia and some new tangle of a problem and might as well deal with it now, right?

Ryan’s likewise trying to crack another firewall or other doohickey keeping him from gaining complete access to the Lair and such and seriously, Gavin, what the hell.

To which Gavin is just, “Have you tried *insert cool hacker stuff here*?”

Ryan is “What?”

Michael’s swearing stops and his head pops up and even E.D.G.A.R. is Quiet because ???

Gavin rolls his eyes and huffs and pushes Ryan aside to do some hacker stuff on the console he’s working at for what he mentioned to work. Cheerful little chime and more of the Lair/E.D.G.A.R.’s abilities and the whatnot unlocking for Ryan.

And then Gavin’s like oooh, because there’s a lot of fascinating stuff there and before long he, too, joins Ryan’s little motley crew of who even knows anymore.

Which is just aggravating because Gavin is an absolute troll and a terrible human being and Ryan Suffers when he and Michael team up against him, he truly does.

Just like.

Gavin’s relentless Questions and his Bad Science just to fuck with Ryan and that goddamned little chuckle/chortle of his when he’s being a little shit.

(Also, also, the way he gets Michael so freaking riled up and laughs like it’s the best damn thing, okay.)

ANYWAY.

Yeah.

So now the three of them are just living their weird little lives getting the bunker/Lair up to snuff when some guy rings the warehouse buzzer one day.

Short guy, horrible fashion sense.

None of them have any damn idea what he’s doing there? But when Ryan goes to talk to him they find out he’s there in response to a job listing for security.

Someone to patrol the warehouse and not ask too many questions about anything odd he might hear or see or whatever. (Not in so many words, but read between the lines and all and it’s the same damn thing.)

Anyhow, Jeremy’s like.

“Oh, that sucks,” when Ryan tells him the guy who was supposed to hire them both was not only an actual supervillain but also super, super dead, and sorry, but not looking good for the job Jeremy was expecting to find.

Ryan feels bad about it, given he’s more or less claimed the bunker/Lair for himself (and the other two idiots), but -

E.D.G.A.R. who’s patched into the comms and the earpiece Ryan’s got in suggests it might not be a terrible idea to have someone  keeping an eye out for any trouble coming there way.

Like.

E.D.G.A.R. is monitoring things for them, but never hurts to have an extra pair of eyes, you know?

And hey, Ryan was in Jeremy’s shoes not too long ago himself, so of course he agrees, and then Jeremy joins them in their weird little lives.

At that point Michael’s more or less done with the major work to get the bunker/Lair running, fusses with stuff because he doesn’t want to leave. (Got too attached to these idiots and all.)

Gavin’s goes off Thieving every so often, but he tends to come back to the bunker/Lair to help Ryan out or pester Michael and he’s not worried about being ~betrayed for whatever reason.

Jeremy’s just like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and has no problem with patrolling the warehouse in the day and then going down to the bunker/Lair to fuck about in the Mad Scientist/gadget lab with Gavin who’s had another one of this Brilliant Ideas.

Or maybe hanging out with Michael as he fusses/tinkers with some project or other and bitch about whatever, possibly with a beer or one of the strays he sneaks in. (There are so many at this point. Cats and kittens and a puppy or two, and Gavin is totally an enabler and Ryan is just SIGH because he’s not an actual monster, dear God.)

Sometimes he bounces Evil Plans back and forth with Ryan as Ryan works on gaining full access to the bunker/Lair - roughly 90% there - that are really just horrible ideas the like you come up with your idiot friends you know will never happen/work but are fun to play around with.

And all through this these idiots are developing the FEELS for one another, but it’s like, “Oh, they could never like someone like me,” or “They’re totally head over heels for that other person, everyone can see it but them,” not realizing they’re all the kind of idiots who are in love with each other and oh God, the romcom shenanigans that come out of.

Absent-minded flirting that gets awkward when one of the others walks in. Fond smiles and indulging one another and all that goodness. Accidentally bumping into one another in passing.

And, okay, sparring.

Michael’s kind of a brawler, so he does okay.

Gavin’s usually too fast/clever to get caught, but even he’s got some moves packed away in that head of his. (Meg insisted, because Gavin’s one of her idiots.)

Jeremy’s got some martial arts training, boxing, handful of other shit under his belt.

Ryan...fuck.

He’s like.

Joe Average or whatever.

Except he knows how to throw knives, what the fuck? (And other little surprises here and there, because Ryan.)

Still.

Jeremy and Michael become Concerned about the other two idiots, which leads to these little training/sparring sessions.

People getting thrown and pinned and all kinds of close quarters contact and flirting and innuendo and it’s just A Lot, okay?

The good kind.

Gavin pestering Ryan for knife-throwing lessons while Michael and Jeremy heckle them like assholes, and just.

Yesssss.

And then!

Shit goes wrong, in that the superheroes of the city and the authorities (who aren’t all as Noble or Upstanding as they pretend to be) manage to catch Gavin when he’s away from the bunker/Lair which sets off this whole chain of events that results in a Dramatic Battle.

Because thief!Gavin is a known presence in the city, has a record and the superheroes/authorities take advantage of that fact. Lean on the whole bit where Gavin’s got these trust issues relating to past “partners” and employers that fucked him over and how does he know this Ryan and the others won’t do the same too?

(Obviously they wouldn’t, and Gavin knows it, but these assholes don’t and they’re kind of ruthless about it.)

Meanwhile the others are going a little bit crazy trying to find Gavin once they realize what happened.

Ryan finally breaks through that last bit of bullshit keeping him from gaining full access to the bunker/Lair and E.D.G.A.R.’s full range of abilities he can command and then it is on.

Full-on fight raging through the city (carefully though, because property damage and potential casualties and what I’m saying is Ryan and the others do what they can to keep it all to uninhabited areas/lead out of the city and the whatnot.

Whole thing with the Drama and Action and attempted Heroic Sacrifice the others shoot down real fucking fast because what the fuck you moron?

And then the superheros/authorities having to beat a retreat when it becomes clear they just might out themselves as complete bastards if they keep pressing.

Ryan and the others go to ground at the bunker/Lair - which, by the by, the superheroes/authorities still don’t know the location of, and just.

Put the pieces back together.

Realize if the superheroes/authorities seem to think they’re the the bad guys then guess they’ve got no other option than to become the bad guys. (Honestly, the longer Ryan stayed in the city and saw how things were, the more that seemed like the only way to go, you know?)

And that means they’ll need someone to help keep the bunker/Lair up and running and Michael mentions some people he knows that could help with some of the stuff they unearthed when Ryan got full access. (This asshole of an engineer among them, even if he’s a bit overqualified for some of this.)

Gavin has his own contacts, and Meg’s got a major network of her own she’d be willing to use to help them out.

Jeremy knows some people too, and anyway, where else would he go?

Ryan?

Fuck, who even knows, is the thing.

E.D.G.A.R. is on his side, and that’s not a little terrifying after realizing how vast his reach is.

Global satellites and orbital strikes spring to mind, because those are actually a thing he has access to and the supervillain behind all this could have been a truly terrifying figure if he hadn’t gone and gotten himself killed before he could set things in motion. (Also? Robot armies, although there’s really just that one prototype down in that secret lab, but still.)

Some shenanigans and kerfuffles with the superheroes/authorities from time to time and the slow - painfully so at times - realization that they all totally have FEELINGS for one another, and then, like.

More romcom situations before any of them act on it, by which point the entire city knows they’ve got FEELINGS for one another and there are fan pages and groups and whatever else about it because of course there are.

And also, at some other point in come Geoff and Jack, part of a federal agency created to deal with the whole supers nonsense and pretty much Tired who realize Ryan and the others aren’t Totally Evil and idk, but!

At some point Geoff gets ~captured by Ryan and them and is just Very Tired as they try to figure out what the hell do do with him?

Obviously idiots and something else going on here and he’s just too old for this shit, and then shenanigans, I guess???

[notapaladin]

so say you’ll stay with me tonight

Because Acatl deserves to be in love, and I felt like cheering myself up by writing fluffy smut.

Also on AO3!

-

Tizoc is—regrettably—still Emperor today. Acatl’s trying very hard not to let it bother him, but it’s hard not to when the man is coming up with plans for a grand new renovation of the Great Temple and he doesn’t dare bring up all the excellent magical reasons why it may not be a wonderful idea. (Aside from the risk of exposing Coyolxauhqui’s prison to moonlight if the support scaffolding is driven too deep, all the wards will have to be remade and thousands of sacrifices procured, and there’s always the chance of the boundaries weakening with their largest anchor disrupted. Instead of bringing any of this up, Quenami—whose actual job this is—is smugly thinking only of his own prestige, which doesn’t help either the Fifth World or Acatl’s mood. Acamapichtli, of course, remains just this side of useless.)

It’s late by the time they get out of that meeting, and all he can think is that he does not want to spend one more second within the palace walls. He wants his own house, and his own mat, and his—

Well. He wants Teomitl.

In general he doesn’t want to be alone, but in specific he wants Teomitl—wants to wrap his arms around him, hold him close, kiss that soft and smiling mouth. They haven’t put words on what they are to each other, they’ve made no promises, but Acatl knows his own heart well enough to tell when so, so much of it has been given over to someone else. His (lover? friend?) is somewhere in the palace, but he hasn’t seen him all day and he’s seriously debating the idea of going to look for him. Of finding him wherever he’s been spending his time, pulling him aside, telling him…

I want you.

I missed you.

Come home with me.

The idea of that makes his face heat. They’ve stolen plenty of time together, but never has Teomitl spent the night at his house. (He doesn’t count that time after Axayacatl’s death. He’d been asleep for that, and also still so deep in denial that he wouldn’t have been able to find his way out with a tall ladder.) To do that now would be...well. His eyes have been opened, and he’s fairly sure they wouldn’t be spending too much time sleeping.

“Acatl!”

He jolts; he’s been so lost in thought that he didn’t even hear those impatient, beloved footfalls approaching from behind. Something in his heart clicks and settles into warm contentment as he turns around. “Teomitl,” he says, and adds—because it’s the truth—“I was just thinking about you.”

Teomitl doesn’t quite blush, but his smile goes measurably warmer around the edges. He looks good all in red and white, with gold earflares and a simple gold lip plug that draws Acatl’s eye to the curve of his lower lip. “And I was just looking for you. Are you all done for the day?”

“...Unless some emergency beckons, yes.” He really hopes it doesn’t. Duality, just give him one night.

“I’m glad.” And Teomitl draws closer to walk in step with him, their hands almost brushing. “Heading home?”

He nods, and then takes a breath. “Walk with me?”

Teomitl beams, and somehow he falls even deeper in love. “Of course.”

They’re quiet for a while. Part of him is still on a low boil after spending so much time with Acamapichtli and Quenami, and he doesn’t want to ruin this pleasant stillness by unleashing his fury. Besides, walls in the palace always have ears, and he’s sure it would get back to Tizoc somehow. So instead he walks in silence, feeling the warmth of Teomitl’s body in step with his, and he thinks oh, this is nice. (It could be nicer. They could be holding hands. But they have to be discreet, still, and so he can’t risk it.)

(Gods, he wants to see Teomitl crowned.)

It’s not until they leave the palace that Teomitl says, “So. Tizoc’s still going ahead with his...refurbishment.”

Acatl grimaces. “Indeed.”

“Didn’t listen to any of the reasons why he shouldn’t.”

He bites his lip. “...I…”

Teomitl turns to look at him; at first he’s frowning, but then understanding dawns. “...I see.” He looks like he wants to say something else—probably something angry—but all he does is sigh, shaking his head. “I tried too, you know, but he’s only thinking of his legacy and not what it might do to us. It’s probably for the best that you didn’t say anything; he’d think we were conspiring against him.”

Acatl considers this. Looks at him.

Teomitl looks mildly offended. “I did say I’d give him time.”

“You did.” And he slides his fingers against the back of Teomitl’s hand to show he’s not upset, nor holding a grudge. He’d meant it, after all, when he’d said there was no need for apologies between them. It has the desired effect, because Teomitl’s eyes grow warm and bright.

And then he leans in and murmurs, “Unless you’d rather I not.”

“Teomitl,” he huffs, but he can’t be mad. Teomitl’s smiling, after all, and it’s the one that means he’s not entirely serious—that says yes, he might still kill his own brother on Acatl’s orders, but it’s far more important to him that Acatl has asked him not to. “Please don’t.” After a moment’s thought he adds, “At least warn me and Mihmatini first when you do.”

Now Teomitl’s really smiling, though it’s somewhat rueful. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. You know that.”

“I do.” He angles himself as he walks, so that they’re nearly touching, and lets the tenderness he feels color his voice. I trust your words. I trust you. I know you, my heart. And he’s suddenly more than mildly annoyed that they’re still in the Sacred Precinct, because the way Teomitl looks now—softly pleased, eyes shining—desperately makes him wish he could kiss him right here. If he were braver, he thinks he might even risk it; he knows where the shadows of the temple gates will hide them from prying eyes, and he knows how sweetly Teomitl presses against him when he’s pleased.

Though he says nothing, it must show on his face, because Teomitl takes advantage of the camouflage provided by their billowing cloaks to firmly lace their fingers together. His voice lowers, rich with promise. “We should eat dinner before we reach your place, shouldn’t we? Unless you want to cook. I hope you are; we’ll need our energy.”

He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s blushing. “I. Um.”

“Well?”

“...I leave a pot of stew on the hearth in the morning.” It’s a habit he’s gotten into since Tizoc’s begun these building preparations; they often go long enough that he’s ravenous by the time they’re over, and utterly unwilling to expend any more brainpower on exactly how to fill his stomach. It’s hard to overcook stew, after all. “Though I don’t know if it will be to your taste—”

Teomitl smiles at him. “Acatl. You know my feelings on your cooking.”

He finds himself smiling back. “I still think you flatter me far too much.”

Teomitl pokes his side teasingly. “And I think you underestimate the effects of a meal made with care and devotion by a man I trust above all others in the Empire. I’d eat what you made if it came out as charcoal.”

“Well, hopefully this won’t be that bad.” Honesty compels him to add, “It may be a bit spicy. I wasn’t expecting company when I put it all together.”

Teomitl huffs, “I can handle spice!”

He makes a mental note to serve plenty of flatbread on the side.

-

It’s not far to his home, and the stew—mostly beans and corn, with a long-simmering and very tough haunch of dog from an earlier sacrifice thrown in to cook until tender—is just about done when he takes it off the fire. Teomitl clearly wants to help, but after a moment’s searching forces him to realize he has no idea where Acatl keeps anything, he takes himself out to the courtyard with a terribly put-upon sigh. It’s adorable. Acatl wants to kiss his cheek.

So when he sets down their bowls, he does. Teomitl promptly blushes, which is so terribly endearing that Acatl has to kiss him again. On the mouth this time, which turns long and lingering before Teomitl slowly pulls away. “Mmhm. Not that I’m complaining, but what prompted this?”

He really only needs one hand to eat, so he’s free to settle the other at Teomitl’s waist and revel in the way the man nestles against his side. (It’s no longer surprising that Teomitl is so tactile, but it will always—always—be delightful.) “...I missed you.”

Because he had. Every time Tizoc had opened his mouth, he’d thought you are unworthy of your crown. Every time Quenami had worn that supercilious smirk of his, he’d thought Teomitl would never let you get away with that. He’d felt himself alone, and he’d wanted his lover by his side. Now that he is, there’s something going soft and warm in Acatl’s chest. They’d definitely be kissing again if it wasn’t for the stew, which he knows won’t be nearly as good cold.

Teomitl presses a kiss to his cheek, which makes him blush in turn, but then he’s applying himself to his dinner. Acatl waits as he takes the first spoonful.

To give him credit, his beloved doesn’t flinch. But he does turn red, and when Acatl hands him a piece of plain flatbread he shoves it into his mouth as though his life depends on it. When he can talk again, his voice is a little rough. “That’s—not bad.” And then, ruefully, “I should have expected that.”

“Mm.” He thinks briefly of seeing whether there’s anything else he could serve, but he knows Teomitl will turn it down. Even now, his lover thinks his own limits are mere suggestions.

It’s a quiet meal. Teomitl settles more firmly against him as they eat, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, and the promise of it makes him shiver. I won’t be suggesting he go home tonight, he thinks, and knows it for the truth. The silence between them feels good—feels comfortable—but though he doesn’t want to spoil it, there’s something he knows he has to say.

The sun is setting, bathing them in twilight. Their bowls are scraped clean, even Teomitl’s. (With the aid, Acatl can’t help but notice, of several cups of water and all of the flatbread.) Teomitl himself is resting his head on his shoulder, looking utterly content with his lot in life. Warm, calloused fingers are tracing slow circles on his thigh. Even the air feels peaceful, with just enough of a breeze to keep them cool but not enough to raise the dust. As Acatl takes a deep breath, he realizes he’s not afraid. Maybe he should be—maybe this is too much, he’s moving too quickly—but he isn’t. Not with his man by his side.

“I love you,” he whispers, and it comes out so quietly that at first he doesn’t think Teomitl’s heard him.

Then Teomitl smiles, soft as the dawn, and breathes, “I love you, too.”

Then they’re kissing again, and this time it’s much less sweet. There is some restraint—while Teomitl’s not precisely shy, he’s well aware of Acatl’s vows—but it’s the easiest and most natural thing in the world to be tumbled backwards on the mat, to have strong hands buried in his hair, to feel the heat and the faintest suggestion of teeth in each press of Teomitl’s mouth down his throat. And yet, for all that, there’s still a gentleness to it, because he’s loved. And better than that, he’s respected. If he asked Teomitl to stop, he knows he would.

He doesn’t think he’s going to ask Teomitl to stop. He arches into another kiss, letting his head fall back, and breathes, “We should...nnh…” Words fail him, because there’s a featherlight press of lips to his collarbone and it’s a lovely little spark of pleasure.

“Mm?”

He shivers in anticipation, seeing the warmth in his lover’s eyes. “Let’s go inside.” He swallows. “If you want to continue this.”

Teomitl pulls back a little to look at him. The smile on his face turns teasing. “Oh, I do. But it’s getting late, and you should sleep.”

He’s suddenly very, very aware of his lover’s weight on him—of the way they’re touching, pressed together from very nearly the waist downwards, and how the building heat in his blood is moving with purpose. He shifts, rolling his hips a fraction, and feels Teomitl twitch in response. “I’m not that tired.”

Teomitl grins, all wicked hope. “Want me to help you with that?”

He sucks in a breath. I took vows, comes his first thought. But it’s followed fast by a second, stronger one—I don’t care. So instead of answering in words, he pulls Teomitl into a hungry, searing kiss.

He’s honestly not entirely clear on how they manage to get inside. While he’d be glad to kiss Teomitl forever, his lover is the sort of impatient man who comes up with plans; they’re barely on his sleeping mat before Teomitl’s scattering their cloaks and working at the knots to their loincloths, letting his hands roam shamelessly over every inch of bare skin. Acatl’s not idle; though he might kill something for a light so he could at least see the unveiled glory that is his naked lover, he’s free to map out the lay of the land with his palms.

And gods, but Teomitl melts into each touch. If he were the jaguar Acatl sometimes thinks of him as, he might even be purring. Experimentally he draws his nails down Teomitl’s back, and is rewarded when he moans into their kiss. “Mmm…”

Then there are warm, calloused fingers trailing down his chest, and he can’t quite muster up the ability to feel smug anymore when they find one nipple and start toying with it. “Oh, gods,” he gasps—he hadn’t thought he’d be sensitive there, but Teomitl is very effectively proving him wrong. He’s been half-hard since the moment his loincloth hit the floor, and Teomitl’s hands are getting him the rest of the way there. It’s even better when Teomitl moves to straddle him, half so they can grind against each other and half so his free hand can skate down the plane of his stomach.

Their eyes meet, and Acatl feels himself flush at the look in Teomitl’s eyes, the one that says without words that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he speaks, his voice is soft. “You feel perfect.”

“Flatterer...mmm…” That one hand is sliding lower, shameless, and he wriggles a little to press their cocks together. He wishes again for light, but smoothing his hands over the solid muscles of his lover’s back and down over his frankly glorious ass will have to do. Teomitl must enjoy it, because his whole body trembles—and then Acatl’s being kissed, long and slow, and he arches with an utterly wanton groan.

“Love you,” Teomitl breathes when they pull apart. “Tell me how you want me to please you.” Acatl has to blush a little at that—it’s hardly as though Teomitl ought to need instruction, when he’s so hard against him—but well, he is asking. He’s owed an answer.

Still, saying it out loud makes him squirm. “...Touch me.” He rolls his hips, and his lover’s eyes spark fire. He doesn’t need to say anything else; Teomitl takes him in hand, and the friction that had been merely good builds into something he can fall into, something that sends pleasure coiling through his veins.

“Like this?” Teomitl’s setting a steady pace, fingers rippling; he needs his other hand to brace himself on the mat, bringing him in range to punctuate his words with a hungry mouth on Acatl’s collarbone. It scatters Acatl’s thoughts to the four winds; helpless, he scratches down Teomitl’s back again, and this time the vibrations of his lover’s moan sinks into his skin.

More, he thinks, and yes. He barely recognizes his own voice when it leaves his mouth. “Nngh, yes—no, wait, wait, I want to—” It’s not a want but a physical need, bone-deep, that has him working his hand between them to wrap around both their cocks at once. Teomitl’s roughly the same size but a little thicker, all rock-hard heat under his palm, and when he squeezes it pulls the most amazingly wrecked noise out of him.

“Oh,” Teomitl gasps. In the darkness, his eyes are wide with stunned hunger; his hips shudder, rocking in unconscious little circles like he’s not sure whether he should be letting Acatl set the pace or not.

“Have to feel you,” he pants. All that stroking had been pleasurable, yes, but he needs to feel it properly when Teomitl falls apart against him, under his hand, sliding past his own cock with each thrust. He wonders, briefly, how it would feel with Teomitl inside him—but then Teomitl’s hand leaves his shaft to slide lower, and the first purposeful caress to his balls makes him whine.

“Hah.” It’s more of a gasp than anything else; even the attempt at a self-satisfied smirk is erased in the next instant, because Acatl leans in to nip at his throat and grinds his hips up, a firm stroke making their cocks pulse in his grip. “Gods, keep doing that—”

“Mmm,” he hums against his lover’s skin. “Is this how you like it?” There aren’t words for the feelings coursing through him, lust and the mounting lightning of his own pleasure mingling with a fierce joy that he’s the one doing this for Teomitl, that it’s his mouth and hands that are pulling such sweet sounds from his lover. A little more, he thinks. A little more. I need to see your face.

He gets his wish a moment later; no doubt Teomitl has a warrior’s stamina, but it can’t last against the way Acatl’s handling him. He gets increasingly vocal as he nears his peak, wordless cries ringing in the night air as Acatl bites at his shoulder. When he mouths a red mark into the thin skin at his collarbone, Teomitl nearly sobs. “Yes—yes, gods, Acatl—” Then he’s coming, hard and fast and all at once, spilling himself over their hands and bodies, and his voice cracks into a desperate keen.

It’s perfect. He’s still unfulfilled, but he almost doesn’t care. Almost. After a moment where Teomitl’s catching his breath and he thinks he might have to seek his own pleasure, his lover is grinning hot and hungrily down at him and oh gods, now that he’s not distracted by what Acatl’s doing with him he proves merciless. He settles back on his haunches, freeing both hands to squeeze and stroke and pump Acatl’s throbbing flesh, and all Acatl can do is take it. “Nnnh, Teomitl, please…”

“That’s it,” Teomitl breathes, and if it wasn’t so awestruck it would be a royal order. It feels like a royal order, feels like the words of the gods themselves when he growls, “Come for me, Acatl-tzin.”

He does. He can’t do anything else. It’s shattering knife-edge pleasure that pulls all his thoughts out of his head; for a small eternity, he can’t even feel his own limbs, lost in the white-hot spasms of his own release. Awareness filters back in slowly; there’s Teomitl slowly petting his thighs, there’s his hands settling at his lover’s hips. And there, shining in the darkness, is Teomitl’s tender gaze.

“...Duality,” he manages breathlessly. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but thank You. Thank You for this gift.

“We made a mess,” Teomitl murmurs—and then, with a downright wicked smirk, drags his fingers through it and slowly licks them clean.

Spent as he is, it still makes Acatl’s cock twitch. He has to close his eyes lest he do something that...well, something that seems like a very good idea, to be honest, but his body is letting him know he’d regret it later. He’s not that young anymore. “Teomitl.”

“You taste good.” It’s almost—almost—innocent.

He draws in a shuddering breath. “I need to recover, damn you. Give me a moment before you do things like that!”

“I just wanted to clean us up, but you’re right.” Teomitl kisses him again, slowly, and he can taste himself on his lips. “I won’t tease, love.”

Love. He smiles at that, feeling his face warm. “You’d better not, after being so concerned about my sleep schedule.” It comes out as more of a mumble than anything else; he’s forgotten how draining orgasms can be, especially on a full stomach after a long day. Sleep really is sounding very tempting.

“Mmm.” It’s a warm, utterly contented hum. Even when Teomitl pulls away to clean them both up properly with a cotton towel, he doesn’t go far; indeed, the cleanup itself is slow and tender and interspersed with long, gentle kisses.

Acatl responds as best he can, but he really is very tired. When Teomitl slides his arms around him, it’s all he can do to nuzzle into his chest. “Mmhm.” He feels boneless. Weightless. Teomitl is stroking his hair, and he never wants it to stop. “Teomitl...”

Teomitl’s arms loosen. “I…” he begins.

He knows what Teomitl’s going to say—I should go, I shouldn’t be here in the morning. He knows he’s not going to let that happen. Not after the night they’ve shared; not after the love they’ve shared. “Stay.”

Teomitl stays.

[cagestark]

Could you please write about Tony being jealous after Peter spends too much time sciencing with Bruce?

Sorry if you didn’t want so much angst. Hope this is okay

Read here on AO3.

Warnings: alcoholism. Unhealthy behaviors all around. But it does have a hopeful ending I think. 5.7k

Peter is elbow deep in his paper on NASA’s Fermi Gamma-ray Space Telescope when he gets that tingle, like a finger being dragged up his spine. It sets all his hairs to standing, heart pounding. He is not alone. Keeping perfectly still, he holds his breath to better listen and scans what little of the kitchen he can see without moving his head. But the breaths—so quiet, he can barely hear them—are coming from behind him. The person is still, seated, unthreatening.

He relaxes, twisting on the stool at the island. “Hey, Nat. I didn’t hear you come in.”

She is the picture of poise, perched in the armchair across the room. Peter still isn’t quite used to seeing her like this. In private, she is very different from the woman he first met on the tarmac in Germany with the chic hair and tight, dark outfit. Not relaxed, per se, but maybe as relaxed as the assassin can be, dressed in loungewear, face clear of makeup, her growing hair plaited back. It must be a huge sign of trust for her to show this side of herself, but Peter has been told that he always looks for the best in people.

“Peter,” she greets coolly. Her legs cross, slowly, the dragging of nylon loud. He thinks she might be trying to seduce him. The Avengers already know that he is gay, but maybe old habits die hard. His internal character assessment almost causes him to miss what she says next: “Are you aware of what you’re doing?”

Peter blinks. He points at the paper scrawled with notes. “Actually. Not really. I’m working on this paper for my Physics class, see. But we’ve been discussing gamma-rays and there is something about electromagnetic—”

“I mean with Bruce and Tony,” Natalie says.

His face puckers into a comical expression of confusion, glancing around the kitchen like the two scientists might actually be there without him knowing. “Uh—nothing?”

She looks unimpressed. “You’ve been spending every day with Bruce in his lab or up on the roof.”

Does she think that something is like, going on with Peter and Dr. Banner?

“We’re looking for signs of gamma radiation in thunderclouds. There was a big study last month that found gamma-rays preface some lightning strikes—” Natasha’s flat, unmoved stare stops him before his rambling monologue can truly begin. He swallows, throat dry, feeling some sort of dread in his gut, though he doesn’t know why.

Why is she being so cold to him, right now? It’s reminiscent of the stress dreams he used to have after Tony first offered him the position with the Avengers, dreams where he moved into the tower only for everyone to ostracize him and ignore him, dreams where Tony and Steve would sit down with him and say, Sorry Pete, it isn’t working out, you don’t mesh well with us, and may we please have back your suit?

“What is it?” Peter asks, trying to be brave. “Have I—did I do something?”

Natasha sighs, lifting herself from the armchair gingerly like she is twice or thrice her real age. She crosses the room and he has to force himself not to move away. The tingle is back, and this time, that primal spider-instinct inside him feels threatened, like he is bug beneath an incoming shoe. A large black stiletto maybe, with the Black Widow insignia on the bottom like a target for where his tiny body ideally will be smushed.

But he overrides the instinct and swallows down the fear: this is Natasha. She wouldn’t hurt him.

She does box him in, though, coming into his space and bracketing him with her arms, palms flat on the marble countertop behind him. “Tony doesn’t like me, much, Peter. Surely even you have noticed that. I once broke his confidence in me, and now I work very hard to make that up to him. You could say that a part of my reparations involves looking out for him.”

“That’s really nice of you,” Peter says, polite but firm. “I like to look out for Mr. Stark too. Excuse me—could you give me some space?”

After another moment, she pulls away. “You’re too smart to play dumb. Stop hurting Tony.”

Then she is snatching an apple out of the fruit bowl and strolling out of the room, not even leaving the scent of perfume behind. Peter feels baffled enough by the conversation to wonder if maybe the entire thing hadn’t been a hallucination. There’s no feasible way that Peter could be hurting Mr. Stark—he’s barely seen the man all week, since Peter has been so busy being tutored Bruce for his physics class.

Still, it takes him a long ten minutes for his senses to stop feeling like he’s in danger, and by then, he has completely lost his train of thought for outlining his paper. Sighing, he closes the book.

-

“It’s just going over my head,” Peter admits. It’s the weekend, when any other college student would be out on the town. Not many college students have the option of hanging out with the Avengers though, so. You know. Peter isn’t totally lame. At this time on a Saturday evening, most of the core Avengers are occupying their floor in the Tower. Peter has his own room there, with sheets that are royal blue and soft as silk and a picture on the wall of Tony presenting him with his Stark Industries internship certificate. “Every other aspect of physics is cake to me. Chocolate cake, even.”

“That’s his favorite,” Clint supplies helpfully. He’s playing cards with Nat and Tony at the other end of the island. Natalie is the best bluffer, but Tony can count cards in his sleep, so the odds are pretty evenly stacked, he’d say.

“Yes, it’s my favorite—! But as soon as gamma-rays come in, it’s like my brain shorts out. I failed the quiz over these, and it’s throwing off my curve. If I don’t ace the paper, I’ll freak out.”

“Cheer up, kid,” Tony says. There is an amber glass at his elbow, even though it was whispered very quietly around the tower a few months ago that Mr. Stark was working on getting sober. Peter guesses that it isn’t going well. Now that he looks closely, the man doesn’t look well at all: thinner, grayer, sadder. His dress-shirt collar is rumpled. That’s so not Mr. Stark. His voice is a warm vibrato that Peter feels in his bones: “Take a break. We’ll deal you in. No one is good at everything.”

“What are you bad at?” Natasha asks, maybe flattering him, maybe teasing.

The smile Tony gives her shows too much teeth to be friendly, eyes hidden behind his tinted glasses that he is wearing more often than not these days. “I’m bad at plenty of things, Miss Rushman.”

“He’s right, Peter,” Bruce says. They’re at the other end of the island, both of their shoulders aching from hunching over Peter’s textbooks for the last hour and change. “This is pretty advanced stuff. Difficult enough for scientists who are in this field to grasp. You said that this isn’t the focus of your major? Then I wouldn’t stress over it.”

Peter is stressing though. MIT has been tougher than he thought it would be, and he still worries that his success in high school was just him being a big fish in a small pond. Suddenly the pond is bigger: a fucking ocean. He feels like algae on the waves, tossed to and fro compared to some of his classmates.

Glancing up, he catches Natasha’s eyes. She is watching him, face blank, but he can’t help but feel that there is a silent message in her eyes. Seeing her unfriendly disposition makes him remember the conversation they had the day before—the one where she threatened him, in vague terms. Against his will, his eyes flicker to Tony. The drink beside his chips is empty now. His elbow is propped on the table and his chin rests in it, one shaking thumb running over the edge of his cards. He looks lost in thought. Sad thought.

“Maybe you’re right,” Peter says slowly. He closes his book. “Go ahead and deal me in, Mr. Stark.”

And that makes Tony sit back in his seat in surprise, glasses slipping down his nose to show pleased though bloodshot eyes. He grins—not one of those shark-grins he gave Natasha, but a real one. A smile. It makes butterflies spread their wings in Peter’s gut. God, he’s had a crush on the man for, like, ever. But Mr. Stark is a crush so unobtainable that Peter’s never even had to stress over it. Never had to stress about the juvenile stuff like does he like me back or what can I do to make him notice me. He’s just able to melt in it, enjoy his attraction and idol-worship. It’s all very sexually frustrating and uncomplicated.

Tony pulls back the stool at his side and pats it invitingly. When Peter sits down, he can just barely smell the bourbon on the older man’s breath. Tony then asks: “Bruce, do you want in on this, too?”

There is a difference in the way the billionaire asked Bruce to play when compared to when he asked Peter, but Peter can’t put his finger on what it is. Something about the tone, the inflection... Under the countertop, Tony’s hand comes to rest on Peter’s knee for a moment, squeezing warmly. But then it doesn’t move, just rests there, burning a hole through Peter’s jeans. It prickles, but this is a different kind of danger, he thinks. He’s so busy trying to remember how to accomplish basic human functions like breathing and swallowing that he completely misses Bruce’s response—a kind no thanks. Then Tony’s thumb is moving, brushing the outside of Peter’s leg in a few slow, firm strokes, and Peter feels a dangerous stirring in his pants. The hand starts to slide up his leg—

Then the hand is gone. His blood is still rushing south, propelled by his hammering heart, but it’s like all his senses beside touch come rushing back the moment Tony removes his hand—Clint is dealing, cards whispering over marble as he passes them out, Natasha and Tony are bickering though Peter doesn’t yet have the brainpower to decipher what about. His knee is still burning hot, and it tingles for the rest of the night.

But he doesn’t think it’s his imagination that the entire evening is lighter, smiles and laughter flowing more freely, and when Mr. Stark gets up to get a drink, he comes back with water.

-

From then on, Peter’s image of Mr. Stark begins to change. Mostly thanks to the patchwork of knowledge Natasha feeds him in passing moments—when they encounter each other in the hall going different directions, when she is running on the treadmill beside him in the gym, when she passes behind him at the kitchen island for another apple, or, like today, an orange.

“He only drinks when he’s sad,” she says in his ear.

Peter starts to look for that as an indicator to Mr. Stark’s mood: times when it’s late at night and he walks in on Mr. Stark standing alone by the window looking at the view of the city, shaking hand clutching a drink that rattles when he sets it down to avoid Peter seeing it. Nights when Tony passes through the living area, glancing at the group gathered around (almost always Clint and Nat watching television, and Peter and Bruce talking through Peter’s homework), rejecting their offer for him to join with a quiet, just passing through, before grabbing a bottle from the kitchen and disappearing into the elevator. If Tony drinks when he’s sad, then he is often sad.

Peter thinks it’s safe to assume that when Tony isn’t drinking, he’s happy—or at least neutral. And taking into account the poker tournament from a few weeks before, Peter begins to notice that he himself seems to make Tony happy.

The knowledge weighs down his shoulders…but mostly, it makes him feel full of helium, light and bouncy, liable to lift off the ground and break through the atmosphere should he not hold on to the world around him. Peter makes Tony happy. For some reason.

“Everything he does is for other people,” she pants, trying to keep up with his enhanced abilities in the workout room. Peter himself is sweating from the break-neck pace he’s adopted on the treadmill, but he doesn’t need to focus to run, so instead his mind is far away.

Natasha is absolutely right. The topic is a sore spot. Peter knows that there were cutting words exchanged between Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers at the beginning of their relationship when the super soldier accused him of selfishness. It’s obvious how little they knew each other then, because even now he sees the fondness Steve has in his eyes for Tony, the gratefulness he exudes and goes out of his way to express to the billionaire. Tony funds the entire Avengers Initiative. He lets them live expense free in his home, feeds them, clothes them, patches them up. Scraping by with his Aunt for most of his life in a tiny apartment in Queens has made Peter keenly aware of all the things he has in his life now, solely thanks to Mr. Stark. And the older man doesn’t bat an eye at it.

And alright, Tony is a billionaire. Those expenses probably don’t scrape the surface of his wealth. Yet there are many other ways his altruism is expressed, ways only Tony Stark could express them. When Peter’s suit was malfunctioning in the wetter-than-usual New York springtime, Tony didn’t sleep for three days while working on it. Got to make sure you’re safe, kid, he’d muttered. Wouldn’t get a bit of sleep otherwise. Tony hadn’t even delivered it in person so that Peter could thank him, just left it neatly for him outside his bedroom door.

There were other things, of course. Providing Bruce his own lab and the resources to expand his research. Once he sat for a portrait at Steve’s insistence, and it was the stillest he’s ever seen the billionaire be. Mr. Stark makes it his personal responsibility to enrich the lives of those around him—he even seems to enjoy it—

“Did you hear me, Peter?” Natasha asks.

Peter stops the treadmill, jogging while it slowly decreases the pace. He’s been a thousand miles away, or several stories away, rather, down in the lab with Tony. “Sorry, I didn’t.”

“I said—what does he have for himself? What does he want for himself?”

Then she is gone, ponytail bouncing as she disappears towards the showers, a towel over her shoulder. Tony has everything. He has an inordinate amount of money at his disposal. What he could possibly want for?

The questions haunt Peter for the rest of the night, even as he spends the evening in Bruce’s lab while the man reads over his paper on the Fermi Telescope. Peter is anxiously squeezing a stress ball—carefully, though, because last time he truly squeezed one, it crumbled in his hand—when Tony appears in the doorway. He’s dressed in what Peter knows to be his lab-attire: comfortable, cheap t-shirt, jeans that are wearing through at the knees. The man’s hair is un-styled, free from gel, and it looks so soft—

“Hey, Pete,” Tony says. “Bruce.”

Bruce doesn’t even greet him, still reading Peter’s paper. He does lift a hand though.

“I brought the LVC permits for you, fresh off the government’s press.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Bruce says absently.

“What are you doing up here, Pete?” Tony asks, putting the papers on a nearby lab table. There’s something in the older man’s voice—something. But Peter’s never been good at stuff like that: deciphering looks, or tones, or subtextual clues. On instinct, he scans the man’s face, trying to determine his mood. It doesn’t look promising, the circles dark beneath his eyes, the frown lines deep. Even when he smiles, it looks tired and sad.

“Just having Bruce look over my paper, Mr. Stark.”

“When are you ever going to call me Tony, kid?”

Peter laughs a little. “Never, probably,” he jokes.

Tony doesn’t look like he thought the joke was funny. He gives a half-hearted wave goodbye and then disappears. Peter is at the perfect angle to watch him through the glass door. He stops outside the elevator and hits the button, leans his head forward to press his forehead to the doors, the picture of dejection. There is an uncomfortable knot growing in Peter’s stomach.

What could the man who has everything possibly want?

Bruce glances up ten minutes later after flipping to the last page, glasses a little askew. “Was that Tony I heard?”

-

The days afterwards, Natasha seems more disgusted with him than usual. Her occasional comments about Mr. Stark have stopped, and Peter laments the loss of help, because he feels no closer to understanding what she wants from him or what’s wrong with Mr. Stark.

Peter spends his nights laying in bed, restless, staring up at the ceiling to avoid listening to the distant movements of the Avengers around him in their own respective rooms—he didn’t need to know so much about Steve and Bucky’s after-hour activities, thanks very much—pouring over his interactions with Natasha.

What do you think you’re doing with Bruce and Tony? she had asked. And what was Peter doing? He’d been spending much more time with Bruce lately trying to grasp gamma-rays. Usually his time was spent equally divided between patrolling, school, homework, and spending time down in the lab with Tony. Of those things to take the backburner, it had been his time spent with his idol-cum-crush. Was the man feeling neglected?

Peter rolls out of bed. He’s tempted to put on his suit and go into stealth-mode, but instead, he tiptoes out of his room in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, using all of his enhanced senses to make sure he doesn’t encounter any other Avenger on his way to Natasha’s room. When she opens the door, she looks like he’s the last person she ever wanted to see on the other side.

“It’s late,” she says. Peter slips through the crack between her and the door anyway, but he figures if she truly wanted to keep him out, she might have tried. You know. At all.  

Her rooms are as large as Peter’s, tastefully decorated. He notes that the only personal decorations in the room involve the Avengers: the group photograph taken of them and a few drawings of Steve’s, framed carefully.

“I’ve been thinking about all of the things you said, and I still don’t get it. I don’t know what’s going on—I see that there’s something wrong but I don’t know why and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Natasha sighs, already opening the door to usher him back out. “Everyone needs everything spelled out for them. It’s late, and I’m tired. Tony likes you. You like Tony. Quit choosing Bruce over him, or I’ll have to spend the next few weeks finding an incredible foreign benefactor willing to sponsor Bruce’s work only if he relocates overseas. That takes a lot of work Peter. A lot of work. Now get out, and fix this mess.”

He doesn’t even hear the real door shut in his face, because he’s too stunned by the metaphorical door that has been shut in his face. He gapes at the hardwood, eyes unseeing, all of his senses growing dim as he focuses his brainpower on the words that just spilled out of Natasha’s mouth.

Tony likes you. You like Tony. Quit choosing Bruce.

Peter lays awake the entire night. He can’t spot Natasha’s angle, can’t determine why she’d want to lie to him that way. Surely she has some sort of motive that Peter can’t see—he’s not a super-secret-spy type. Espionage and subtext aren’t his forte. She could probably run cryptic circles around him, and Tony once jokingly said that Natasha wouldn’t even sneeze unless she wanted someone to say bless you. So what is this? What is she doing to him? Hoping to embarrass him? Maybe she thinks that he’ll make some grand gesture, some romantic monologue to Tony and he’ll be so crushed at the subsequent rejection that he’ll leave the tower and stop Avenging altogether.

When sunlight is coming through the tinted windows of his room, he has not slept a wink, and has the throbbing headache to show it. His paper is due by 11:59 PM, and he still has a few revisions he needs to make. The other quizzes on gamma-rays and other electromagnetic radiations weren’t much better than the first, and all of his hopes for maintaining his perfect grade point average are riding on this one paper.

He dresses, only able to find mismatched socks, and takes the subway to make it to class on time. He’s there until early afternoon, and by the time he arrives back in the Tower, his stomach is growling painfully and he’s emotionally at the end of his rope. Why hadn’t he taken a gap year before starting school like Ned had? Maybe a year older, Peter would be more capable of handling all that is on his plate. As it is, he feels like a waiter balancing one-too-many glasses of water. Failure seems imminent.

As soon as he is in the tower, he cracks open his laptop and begins to finish the revisions Bruce advised him on—but then the word count is just under what the professor asked for, and now Peter is scrambling for extra content. His senses alert him that someone is coming, but he knows the length of the steps to be Tony.

“Hey Pete,” Tony mutters, looking like he just woke even though it is nearly three in the afternoon.

“Hey Mr. Stark,” says Peter. “How are you?”

“Has this coffee been here long?” Tony asks, pointing to the half-full pot. His hand is shaking.

“I’m not sure, to be honest. I just got here.” Peter frowns to himself, fingers hovering over the keyboard even his brain feels like a train stuck on the same track. He has to say something to Mr. Stark. Has to. “Hey—um. I wanted to say. While you’re here—”

His mouth dries up as Tony turns to give him his full attention. The man is always so courteous, stopping whatever he’s doing to listen to what Peter has to say. It’d be impossible not to notice that the man has a problem with interrupting, talking over other people. But it’s never been that way with Peter. He stops. He listens with a kind of single-minded intensity that makes the younger man flushed. That much focus and attention feels like a laser beam directed at him, about to dissolve him into goo.

“—I wanted to say. That I hope we can hang out again soon.”

Tony leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. For a guy in his 40’s, he’s still fucking fit, biceps thick and strong, core toned. “I hope so too, kid. I’ve—missed you.”

Peter melts, heart aching in equal parts joy and sadness. “Maybe tonight? If you’re free. I could come down to the lab.”

Tony feigns like he’s thinking it over, knuckles rasping against his chin. “What about your—” he waves a vague hand at the laptop on the countertop. “I don’t want to come between you and school, Pete. I’m not very good at being a responsible role-model, but even I know that your education is important. That should be your focus.”

“Don’t worry about it. How does seven sound? I’ll finish this up, get it turned it, and then I’m all yours. I mean—we can—you know. Hang.”

The older man has that look he always gets when Peter’s mouth runs away from the rest of his consciousness: equal parts amusement and endearment and exasperated fondness. “Sounds good. You know where to find me.”

Peter does know. He does. The knowledge weighs on him for the next four hours that he spends staring at his laptop, writing a sentence just to destroy it, flipping frantically through the notes that Bruce gave him. Not meeting the word count means that he will automatically lose 10% of his grade, no matter how good the paper might be. But it’s like his brain is drawing a blank, all cylinders firing emptily.

By the time he is done, it ten PM. The hours ate him up like quicksand. His head aches with exhaustion, eyes burning from staring at the glow of the laptop, but he rushes into the elevator, eyes filling with tears. Surely Tony will understand why Peter is late. But it still makes him feel like shit.

“To the lab please, FRIDAY.”

The elevator moves without any verbal confirmation from the AI. By the time the doors open, he realizes he’s made a mistake. The lab is dark and quiet, lacking the usual soundtrack of classic rock hits. When he grasps the handle, it doesn’t turn. He’s too late. Mr. Stark was probably so angry that he went straight upstairs to the penthouse. If Peter were to follow, the door would probably be locked against him, refusing him entrance—

The door beneath him opens, automatic lock clicking open. Peter nearly falls through as it swings inward, his enhanced senses being his only saving grave. The lab is even more eerie from the inside, because it is all right and all wrong mixed together. The smell is comforting. The darkness is unsettling. He knows this place like the back of his hand when it is lit, but suddenly it is an entirely foreign place as he wanders through, carefully feeling his way, unsure why he hasn’t turned around and left yet.

Lights come up, blue dots like holographic breadcrumbs on the floor. FRIDAY. Where is she leading him, and why?

The lights circle on lab table, and when he comes close his eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness to see why. Mr. Stark is there, slumped over the lab table. Peter would say that he is asleep except for the stench of alcohol and the empty bottles beside him, faceless in the dark. Sad sentinels watching over their king.

“Oh Tony,” he says. His heart feels too heavy for his ribs to hold. He puts a hand on the man’s shoulder, gently trying to rouse him. It doesn’t work. Even when he whispers the man’s name in increasingly louder increments, the man doesn’t stir. Throat closed up tight in the fist of fear, he gently presses two fingers to just under the man’s jaw—

Tony jerks away from the lab table, striking out at Peter. His aim is off, so his knuckles barely glance against the younger man’s chest. The force of the failed punch tips over the chair and Tony nearly falls to the floor—would, if Peter weren’t there to catch him. Still he struggles against a foe he doesn’t recognize.

“Getaway—”

“Mr. Stark—it’s me, Peter.”

Mr. Stark blinks, eyes moonish in the dark. He squints. “Pete?” he asks, voice thick.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m so sorry that I’m late.” He guides the man back to the chair and searches for one of his own, finds a stool with wheels and rolls it over so they can sit side by side. Tony is swaying dangerously even just sitting.

“’s okay, Pete,” Tony says. “You were with Bruce.”

“What?” Peter cries. “No, I wasn’t. I was working on my paper, remember? Just like I told you in the kitchen? Why would I be with Bruce when I had—” he just barely catches himself before the words a date slip past his lips, “—when I had plans with you?”

The laugh the older man gives is mirthless, slumped over the table. With every shaking breath comes a cloud of acrid liquor. Peter has never understood how Tony could drink that stuff, alcohol with so much burn and no sweetness or sourness. “Why wouldn’ you be with Bruce, kid? I get it.”

“I don’t know what there is to get,” Peter says gently. He knows from his minimal experience with drunk people that drunkenness heightens emotion, and they can be as likely to lash out in anger as they are to burst into tears. Without his suit, Mr. Stark probably couldn’t hurt Peter even sober, but he doesn’t want the man to hurt himself.

“No, no, Bruce ‘s a great guy. He’s a great man. Better man th’n me.”

Peter gapes, even if Mr. Stark isn’t even looking or couldn’t even see him through the darkness. Because, what? Seriously? “Mr. Stark, you’re like the greatest man I know. I don’t—I don’t know anybody who I, I admire or look up to the way that I do you.” That answer is maybe a little too honest, but he can’t help it. This vulnerability, this sheer pain coming from the man who has held Peter’s heart between his palms since he was just a little boy. It’s a terrible thing to witness, and he’d do anything to change it.

“You’re a good kid,” says Tony. He reaches with a hand like he wants to pat Peter on the head but loses strength far before then.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Mr. Stark.”

Tony laughs again in that terrible depreciating way. He rests his forehead in his palm, staring down at the lab table. “Trust me, Pete. I know.”

“Why have you been so upset lately?” Peter asks smally. “I’ve been worried.”

“Didn’t mean to worry you, honey.” The name makes Peter glow, even if its slurred in that terrible, sad voice. “I guess ’ve been—going through some stuff.”

“Like what?”

The exhale he gives is long and loud in the quiet lab. “Adult stuff.”

“What, like, erectile dysfunction?”

The sound Tony makes is indignant. “No you little shit.” It’s said with unbearable tenderness and fondness though, until it almost feels like a caress instead of an insult. “Just, you know, your general everyday average feelings of inadequacy and unbearable loneliness.”

“You’re too hard on yourself Mr. Stark. I mean what I said. You’re the greatest man I know and I—I like you a whole lot. I know you’re having a tough time. But I’m here for you. And I know that you don’t think I’m strong enough, but you can lean on me. I can take it.”

When Tony stirs, lifting his head from his hands long enough to glance at Peter, his cheeks are wet, tracks of tears that just barely catch the light. He could almost mistake it as his mind playing tricks on him, but the man’s shoulders begin to tremble like his hands when he hasn’t had a drink, and Peter gets off of the stool so quickly that it goes rolling in the other direction.

Peter wraps his arms around Tony, pulling his head to his chest like a mother might hold a baby to her breast. There are no sounds, no sobs or whimpers, but the shaking lasts forever it seems. Then all at once the man melts, soft and languid. When he pulls away a hairsbreadth, Peter’s shirt is wet where his face was pressed.

He turns his head and leans in again, this time resting his temple on Peter’s abs. The younger man barely resists carding his fingers through Tony’s hair—just lets one hand gently rub at his back instead. When he speaks Peter can feel the movement on his stomach. “You’re too good f’r me, Pete. I’m so sorry I’m like this. Hated seeing you spend so much time with Bruce ‘cause I’m just a jealous old pervert. A fucking drunk, just like Howard—”

“Don’t say that.”

“’s true, kid.”

Peter swallows, struggling to gather courage. But if he can’t ask questions of Tony now when the man is drunk and possibly unlikely to remember them, when the man is too relaxed to lie, then when can he? “Why—why are you a pervert?”

All the breath seems to go out of Tony in a hot rush of air that Peter can feel through his shirt. “C’mon kid. You have to know.”

It does all make sense then: Tony’s recent behavior, Natasha’s cryptic comments.

What does he want for himself, she had asked.

Carefully—so, so, so carefully—Peter lets his hand drift up the back of Tony’s neck and slide into his hair, dark waves that are soft and free of product. It feels like silk under his fingertips, so fucking intimate. If this is all he gets of Tony, then he’s going to savor it, sear it into his memory. Blunt nails scratch gently at the man’s scalp and he purrs. He groans, the vibrations sinking through cotton and skin and muscle deep into Peter’s bones. “God, Pete,” he says. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” Peter gasps. He’s hard, 0 to 60 in the blink of an eye, heart hammering, struggling to draw in breaths. “I won’t, Tony.”

“Never stop,” Tony groans softly. “You are the most important thing in my life, kid.”

And then the man is asleep, snoring breaths into Peter’s abs. It takes a while, listening to the gentle breathing, for Peter to calm down. “FRIDAY,” he croaks. “Unmute.”

“Thank you, Peter,” she says. “May I turn the lights on? I’m afraid boss might need some assistance getting to his room tonight. Would you be of service?”

“Yes. To all counts, FRIDAY. Thanks.”

“You are welcome.” A pause. “And thank you, Peter.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he mutters, hoisting the heavier man up. There’s no use putting just an arm over his shoulder—Tony is out cold. Instead, Peter scoops him up, grateful for his enhanced strength, and begins the trek to the elevator.

In the morning when Tony wakes, Peter will be there waiting. With some water and aspirin.

Because they need to talk.

[xxx-cat-xxx]

When All is Said and Done

So...this is not the Irondad story I promised you. This is my 4.5th Tony vs. Migraine fic, this time featuring Bruce as caretaker. My only excuse is that plotting the other fic is making my brain cells tired and I needed some wwp (whump without plot) and Science Bros fluff to compensate.

Hope you enjoy it nevertheless.

Major thanks to @whumphoarder and @twentyghosts for beta reading ❤

___________________

“How bad is it?” Bruce asks the moment the front door shuts behind the last of their guests.

“Huh?” Tony is leaning casually against the wall, trying not to squint too hard against the bright entry lights. He lightly massages the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.

“The headache you think you’ve been hiding so well from everyone tonight. How bad is it?”

Tony lets his hand drop down in surprise. “It’s nothing. I’m just peachy, worrywart.”

Bruce snorts. Then he reaches across the entryway and dials the light down a few notches. Tony inwardly sighs from relief. 

“Let’s go to bed early, yeah?” Bruce suggests softly. “I know you’re just peachy, but I for one am tired. Clint’s wilderness survival stories almost put me to sleep on the sofa. I’m gonna clean up the kitchen and then turn in. ”

Tony has a bunch of bots and probably the highest paid cleaning staff in the whole of New York to take care of the mess left behind by the ever-hungry Avengers. But he knows Bruce is uncomfortable with anyone working for him, so he doesn’t protest, just follows the other man into the kitchen and tries his best to help with putting away the leftovers. 

However, the aura obscuring his left field of vision and the slightly blurred quality of the world don’t really make things easier. When he drops a knife onto the ground next to the drawer for the second time in a row and barely misses his own toe, Bruce finally intervenes. “Okay, that’s it. Bed, now.”

“I’m good. Stop mother-henning me,” Tony bites back a groan when he bends down to pick up the cutlery and the pressure in his head compounds. He has to stabilise himself against the cupboard and take a deep breath before he can get upright again.

“Tony.” 

That’s the tone that gets him, always. The one that tells him Bruce can see right through his facade and openly wonders why Tony is even still making an effort to keep it up. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he concedes. “But don’t come at me later that I’m not doing my fair share of housework.”

Bruce shuts him up with a warm look. “As if I would ever.” 

Tony lets himself be led into the bedroom and groans when he sinks down into the mattress. He feels actually dizzy now, which only increases the nausea building in his stomach. Bruce helps him change from jeans into sweatpants and removes his dress shirt, then gently pushes him into a horizontal position. 

Lying down doesn’t really do anything for the pain in Tony’s head, but at least he can bury his face in one of the pillows and shut out whatever light is left in the room.

Bruce goes back to finish the cleaning and then disappears into the bathroom for a while before joining Tony in bed. He starts circling his fingers through Tony’s hair, lightly massaging his scalp. Tony remembers how weirdly intimate this felt the first time he did it, when he told Bruce that painkillers don’t work for his migraines and the other man offered to try out a different method. Now it’s become a familiar routine, a thing they’ve done a hundred times over the years.

Tony tries to switch off his brain and concentrate on just lying still and relaxing under Bruce’s touch, but he’s kind of terrible at it. It’s hard, so hard, because even now there’s a million ideas buzzing in his head, a never-ending list of projects and potentially world-improving programmes, intermingled with upgrades for Dum-E and Veronica and his armour and inspirations for what to get Bruce for their anniversary. 

The longer Tony is lying down, the more unsettled he gets. He’s not actually that sick; after all, he’s worked through so much more than a stupid migraine. Annoyance at himself bubbles up in his chest, for being unproductive, for wasting time in bed like this. 

Bruce seems to catch on to this. He turns over and rubs his fingers along the line of Tony’s forehead. “What’s up? I can feel you thinking. It’s like an electric hum.”

“Don’t want to be useless,” Tony scoffs. “I hate being useless.” 

“Tony, you’re never useless to me.”

“Hmpff.”

“Okay, fine. Without your headache we would still be sitting on the porch with the others and I would be pretending to have fun playing stupid card games while secretly just wanting to be alone with my books. So, personally, I am pretty happy about the timing of your migraine.”

“Not convincing,” Tony grumbles, but he has to smile. Then his sluggish brain catches on to the implications. “Wait, you’re saying that’s why everyone left early? So Steve didn’t actually have to repair his washing machine?” 

“I doubt he even knows how to do that,” Bruce admits with a smile.

“And Natasha’s date -”

“Shh,” Bruce shushes him with a finger to his lips. 

“Idiots, all of you,” Tony mumbles, but there’s a sugary warm feeling surging in his chest that makes the insult sound almost endearing.

He drifts a bit after that, the thoughts not gone, but muted. His head is throbbing in time with every heartbeat, like his brain is too big for his skull and trying to come out. He’s far from comfortable, but his situation could definitely be worse than lying in bed and feeling Buce’s big spoon body heat behind him. 

Bruce’s breaths even out after a while and it’s almost peaceful, but then Tony’s stomach decides that digestion is too much to handle for it right now and attempts to creep up his throat. He tries for deep and even breaths, but soon enough every one of them starts to feel like it might bring something else with it. 

“Aw, shit,” he murmurs when he can taste the remnants of pizza at the back of his throat, then pushes himself up and tumbles out of bed. The headrush that hits has him almost stagger into the wall. 

He makes it to the toilet and clumsily lifts the seat up in the dark before coughing miserably into the bowl, but nothing comes up. His throat is tight with nausea and he gags again, and retches drily. It’s still unproductive, but this doesn’t mean it’s not hurting like a bitch.

Tony can’t stop a quiet whimper from escaping his mouth. Fucking pathetic. He gags again emptily and then presses his forehead against the cool toilet seat, hoping someone will come and simply knock him out. 

He absentmindedly and quite self-pityingly wonders what he did to the universe to deserve this, then scolds himself for the thought. Once, around four in the morning after a long night in the workshop, a very sleepy Bruce had told him that growing up with an abusive parent made you feel like you’d eventually have to pay for every good thing that happened to you, that happiness comes with a price tag, until one day you just start trying not to feel too happy at all for fear of punishment. 

Tony, who firmly believes that every problem can be solved if one is just clever enough, was horrified at the idea. Since then, he’s tried his best to convince Bruce that he does, in fact, deserve unconditional love and happiness, that pain is something that happens despite, not because of, feeling good, and has showered him with as much affection as humanly possible. 

Thinking that he deserves this migraine is stupid, Tony knows that. Although it might almost make him feel better if he knew that there was a reason why his brain is currently on the verge of blowing up.

“Oh, Tony...” He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but suddenly Bruce is there, resting a hand on his back, all warmth and reassurance. How does a person do this -become such a source of calmness in all the daily stress and pain? “I’m sorry that you’re feeling so bad.”

“I’m okay,” Tony croaks, “‘s just a stupid migraine, I’ll be fine. I'm always fine.”

“Mm-hmm," Bruce says wryly. “I know that. But I also know it hurts now, even if it'll pass eventually."

“Just go back to sleep. I know you're tired.”

“This is such a nice bathroom, though,” Bruce says with a shrug. “Really, I've spent nights in much worse places.”

“Yeah, but- ugh.” Saliva floods Tony’s mouth and then he has to lean forward and heave the few bites of dinner he'd managed to get down earlier back into the toilet bowl, every retch making his head throb viciously. Bruce’s hand is calmly rubbing up and down his back and Tony tries to concentrate on that instead of the disgusting taste in his mouth and the smell that makes him want to throw up again.

Bruce has to help him back to bed eventually because his sense of balance is shot, as is his sense of distances and his sense of, well, anything. Tony hates this most about migraines, the slightly surreal feeling as if the world is constantly slipping from his grip and he’s missing all the important details. It’s even worse than the pain and nausea, because the lack of brainpower makes him feel vulnerable, and, worse, unable to protect those he cares about. Although Bruce arguably isn’t exactly in need of protection, at least not of the physical kind. 

“Brucie?” he mumbles through the pillow and the peppermint drop in his mouth that’s supposed to ease the nausea. 

“Hmm?”

“Do you think the Hulk likes it here?”

“Considering that you built him his own playground to smash, I think he’s pretty content to live in the tower.” Tony can practically hear the frown in Bruce’s tone, but his voice stays soft as he replies. “Why do you ask?”

“Just like this?” 

Bruce hums knowingly and pulls Tony closer towards him.

Once, when Tony was sick with the flu and the fever dreams were messing with him so badly that he couldn’t quite differentiate between reality and nightmares anymore, he thought about telling Bruce how growing up with parents that were never really there and then suddenly dead makes you feel like everyone you ever get close to is going to leave eventually, and that maybe letting people close is not worth the pain of losing them. 

In the end, he didn’t say anything. But miraculously, Bruce was still there when Tony’s fever finally broke, as he was after the next bout of flu, Tony’s heart surgery, and dozens of migraines in between. And now, years later, even Tony’s subconsciousness is finally almost convinced that if Tony gives in to sleep now, Bruce will still be there when he wakes up.

___________________

All my fics

Taglist: @toomuchtoread33  @yepokokfine

@badthingshappenbingo This is my fill for the ‘Migraine’ square.

[missbrightsky]

I didn’t know where else to go

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Previous Chapter

Chapter 12: Feyre

At seven-thirty precisely, there was a knock at my door. I yanked it open, already glaring at who I knew would be on the other side.

“How the hell did you get inside my building?” I asked before he could begin to talk.

A feline grin that did stupid things to my insides spread across his face. “You should really move to a better part of the city if any riffraff from off the street can just walk in.”

I narrowed my eyes, not willing to reply.

Rhys only lifted an eyebrow before saying, “Your sweet downstairs neighbor Miss Berry let me in after I offered to help her carry her groceries up. She said that you were a lucky girl to have such a nice, handsome young gentleman paying you a visit.” His grin grew into a smirk as he recounted the praise.

“Lucky fucking me,” I grumbled, stepping out of my apartment. I might have aimed for his toes, but he moved back in time to avoid them being crushed. I locked the door and shouldered past him. He stayed annoyingly close not close enough as we descended into the night. His car was parked right out front, a nondescript, black sedan, the same one from Sunday night. The stupid, long-legged prick managed to beat me to the door, opening it with a grand sweep and bow.

“Darling,” he purred, looking up at me from under his eyelashes, those almost violet eyes simmering with heat and mischief.

I was paying the price for letting the adrenaline get the best of me on Sunday.

I ignored him the best I could, sliding into the interior. Like Cas’s SUV, the car was clean and comfortable. Not a ridiculously high-end model, but something that was still elegant. Rhys shut my door and got into the driver’s side, smoothly pulling into traffic.

“So darling,” my teeth ground at the nickname, his midnight tone, “How was your day at work.

Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t answer, “Fine,” shit.

A sideways glance from the corner of my eye revealed that he knew exactly what he was doing. Prick.

“Just fine?” he pressed on, “Not fabulous or downright terrible?”

“No, just fine,” I hissed.

“Oooooo, what a fine temper you’re in today, you and Amren will be happy to snap at each other while we all watch.”

“Amren’s in a bad mood too?” I blurted and then cursed myself for being curious. Rhys had a way of getting under my skin and then getting exactly what he wanted.

“She doesn’t have any good news for us, hence the meeting,” he replied, any teasing in his voice replaced by frustration.

“Ah,” was all I could say, the rest of the questions would have to wait for later.

The rest of the drive was in silence, both a relief and worry. The news must be that bad if Rhys quit flirting with me to brood instead. I didn’t let myself decide if I was happy or not about that.

I started to recognize the buildings near the compound. Another shipping yard appeared in front of us, this one a bit smaller and looked to be owned by a private company.

Sunday night it had been too dark and I had been too distracted by Rhys to take in many details when Cas drove me home. Now I could see a sign at the entrance to the yard.

Starlight Carriers

Once we entered the perimeter, Rhys turned right and rolled down his windows. A few presses on a number pad had one of the bigger and wider containers opening up, allowing him to drive through.

Rhys must have noticed my analyzing gaze. “The top half of our compound is actually inside the containers, forming a network of hallways and rooms. Most of the above-ground stuff is rooms for our men and supplies. The kitchen, training rooms, infirmary, and garage are all below ground.”

“Holy shit,” I whispered. I knew he and his family had money but this… this was wealth beyond what I thought.

Reading the look on my face, “The underground part was already here, some basement levels of an old building. The shipping containers were Cas’s idea. From there, it was a matter of a few weeks to get everything set up and electricity and water to where we need it. We may have money, but we don’t see the point in spending it recklessly. Most of it goes towards paying the men,” he finished with a shrug.

“Tell that to the K98 sniper rifle I saw on your face,” arching an eyebrow at him.

“You know your guns,” he sounded shocked, good.

“I have to,” was my only response.

“Well, who doesn’t like to splurge every now and then,” he admitted. I gave him a noncommittal hum. This was getting too close to flirting territory again.

When he parked by Cas’s SUV, I got out before he attempted to open my door again. Giving him a pointed glance, he turned and started towards a different door than what we went through a few nights ago. A short flight of stairs later and we were in a large room where the others waited.

The far end was dominated by several TV screens playing various news shows and… one cartoon was playing. Somehow, I knew that Cas was behind that.

“Good, you’re here,” Amren said shortly, that was all the greeting I got from her. she really was in a fine mood.

Trying to break the tension between Rhys and I with distance, I moved to the other side of the room to sit with Mor. A not extremely dramatic move with how much she and I had been texting, but hopefully enough of a line in the sand for him to read.

A mistake, as it turns out because that left the seat directly across from me open which meant that Rhys would either be directly in my eye line or just in the corner of it.

Focus on Amren and the meeting will be over soon.

It turns out that focusing on Amren wasn’t a problem. The news wasn’t good.

“Amarantha knows we’re here.”

That sentence alone set off a chorus of curse words. Based on Sunday night’s event, we had already guessed as much, but it was confirmed now.

Amren continued on, “We still don’t know what was in Sunday’s shipment, but based upon the movement of the men we’ve marked as hers, it’s most likely the bioweapons we’ve been waiting on.” This time, the room was silent. This was the bad news that they’ve been waiting for. A collective noose tightened around our necks.

“We need to find that shipment,” that was Cas, his mind already spinning with ideas.

“I’ve had tails on her men for days, they’re too well trained,” Az said softly, his usual cold mask cracking with a hint of frustration. “Even I can’t follow them,” a harsh admission.

“Someone will slip up,” Mor said, firm in her belief that a break will come.

“We can’t count on that,” Rhys said with an apologetic glance to her and Az, “We need to make a plan of action now.”

“How do you track someone that’s untraceable?” I mused, not realizing that I said it out loud. As a detective, I had to get creative to find who I was looking for. You think it would be easier given that everyone and their mother has a cell phone, but that has just made people more creative. I broke out of my thoughts, realizing that everyone was looking at me.

“What?” I asked, getting an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

“How much do you know about Stingrays?” Rhys asked, his violet eyes sparking with hope.

“I’m guessing you’re not asking about the animal,” I said flatly. I knew exactly what he was talking about. A Stingray was a device that can mimic cell phone towers to get phones to connect to them, therefore allowing the police to learn the phone's location and then track them. It was new and high tech and so, so, so illegal if I tried to access them without anyone else knowing. My precinct was the only one in the city who had access to them. “No.”

“We need access to them.”

“If by some miracle no one ever finds out that I helped y’all, then me trying to access the Stingrays will definitely get me fired, probably in jail.”

“If you can get us access to the Stingrays, then we’ll be able to find out who was there on that night, and then it would be easy to track their phones to where they’re all hiding,” Rhys explained, a pleading tone creeping into his voice. He probably didn’t even notice that his eyes had gone slightly like a puppy dog. Handsome bastard.

“Even if I wanted to, I would need a tech to help me work them, and there’s no one on the force I would trust to help me.”

“Cassian can help you,” Rhys gestured to him. I must have had a surprised look on my face. Cas had a talented mind for tactics and leading men, but technology would not have been my first or last guess.

Cas shot me a lazy grin, “What? You thought I was just a pretty face? Had I not been on the run from Amarantha, I could have gotten into any tech school I wanted.”

I gave him an impressed look, “Let me think about it.”

“We’re losing time as it is,” Amren hissed, silent until now.

“Take a few days, how about Saturday?” Rhys suggested, ignoring Amren. An action that earned him a look that said he should sleep with one eye open tonight.

“No, sorry, I can’t do Saturday.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to my boss's wedding.” A flash of amusement crosses his face and then disappeared. I decided not to waste the brainpower it would take to decode it; with Rhys it could mean anything.

“You need a date?” he asked, humor tingeing his voice.

I gave him my most sarcastic glare, “Yeah, I should definitely bring Velaris’s most wanted crime lord to my police captain's wedding.”

The tension in the room dissolved after that, everyone letting out a laugh, or in Amren’s and Az’s case, a small chuckle.

With a possible plan in the future, the meeting ended. Mor offering to drive me home. I almost turned to Rhys, asking if that was okay, but I stopped myself. It would be good to put that distance between us, especially when he offered to be my wedding date and a vision of him in a tux filled my mind. Asking him about Illyria could come later.

hmu if you want to be added to the fics taglist

[nadunacreates]

NANOWRIMO 2019 • WEEK FOUR

•

WIP: heroes bleed red

THIS WEEK’S WORDCOUNT: 7’054 / 11’669

TOTAL WORDCOUNT: 58’242 / 50’000

•

read on under the cut for some excerpts and other fun stuff.

•

GENERAL RANT:

this week was like the exact opposite of week two. i had such a hard time and really hit that writing slump, hated everything about my story but still forced myself to write at least 500 words a day. i’m not sure if i’ll be able to use a single one of those in the end. i completely lacked the motivation to write this round up, which is why i’m only doing this now, on december 1st and i’m also really just counting that week four and not the last two days. i’ll post a total roundup of the whole month, too, as well as future plans, but i don’t know yet if i’m going to manage to do this today or only tomorrow. anyway, week four was positively shitty all around and thus the following excerpt won’t be great, but… have them anyway.

•

FIRST LINE BIT I WROTE THIS WEEK:

“Sorry,” Kaliope says, and decides to just once in her life fuck it and tell the truth. It’s not it can do much damage, right? She’s not interested in a friendship with Moe, after all, or even getting to know her any more closely than what is strictly necessary for the observation of her enemy. She’ll be keeping an eye on her, as much as possible, and nothing more. It doesn’t matter if Moe likes her or not, whether she thinks of her as a freak or not. Kaliope will not matter more to Moe than any other customer does. So. Truth it is, no matter how bitter it tastes going over her tongue, the regret and fear of rejection just things she doesn’t really feel.

-

yeah, kaliope, keep telling yourself that. so it runs out i’m really bad at writing consistent characterisations and not turning everything into an angst fest. also this is somewhat towards the end of my main characters’ first interaction as civilians, and it’s definitely one of those things that will drastically change in the second draft, if i ever make it that far.

 •

LAST LINE I WROTE THIS WEEK:

Amethyst likes these days, when she’s got enough brainpower and energy left to place these kinds of mind games, think about all the possible consequences to her actions. When she’s not just left playing catch up and trying not to die.

-

amethyst is moe’s hero identity, in case i’ve forgotten to mention this before. which i probably have, knowing me. it’s a bad line of an even worse scene and it’s most likely to get cut, heh

•

AN UNEXPECTED REVELATION THAT HAPPENED:

apparently both moe and kaliope are bad at making friends (or at least feel that way). so both their co-workers decide to friendship-match-make them. which is so not how i planned this whole thing to go, but oh well. now at least i get to write them texting and having moe be oblivious that kaliope is that annoying villain that she likes to complain to her about. identity porn is my jam, even though i feel like i’m really bad at writing it and also i’m giving out spoilers here like warm bread or however that saying goes. although i doubt that anyone is even reading this, or that i might ever get to the point where these things count as actual spoilers because i feel like i’m never going to be able to finish this. one of the reasons is the other “unexpected” revelation, with a lot of emphasis on unexpected, because by now i should really know myself better:

this story will not be done in 50k. is not done in 50k. i barely reached the middle of the first act now, although my outline is patchwork at best. which means that i think this story is going to be at least 175k, which would mean writing more than 1000 words every day until the end of february, sooo. gonna be playing the long game here. which means, in turn, that i’m probably going to be posting about this wip for a long time to come. if anyone wants to opt out of the tag list, feel free to do so, because i feel like my incoherent ramblings are not the most aesthetic things to read, or whatever. but also if you’d like to cheer me up, please do so. i need it ^^°

- the following excerpt is the second part of this match making thingy, happens very soon after the first lines of this week’s writing -

“What are you trying to do?” Moe asks then, and there’s so much suspicion in her voice that Kaliope can basically hear it dripping off of it. She did mention that Farren could get into strange moods, though, so maybe this is just one of their great ideas that Kaliope and Moe will have to wait out.

Maybe not, though, because Emerson suddenly clears their throat, moves down the bench to sit close at Kaliope’s side, and then they slip her own phone back into her hand. Kaliope startles, first, and then she glares. “Where did you get that? Why did you get that?” How didn’t I notice?, most importantly, because what kind of super villain is she if she doesn’t even notice her own phone getting stolen?

“You put it down on the table in front of you,” Emerson explains, calmly, as though this is something entirely rational. “I know you don’t have a code. I just put in Moe’s phone number, don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about— why the fuck would you do that?”

“You need more friends,” Emerson and Farren both say at the same time, because apparently Farren is trying to explain the same thing happening to Moe. It’s making Kaliope feel a little better, to be honest, that even the Great Hero Amethyst didn’t notice that her phone got stolen, that as an actual hero she should be able to prevent that kind of thing, let alone let it happen to herself.

“And Moe is the perfect choice, seriously. You don’t have to do anything but come here a few times a week and let her talk to you during her break.”

“What in all hells? Why are you trying to take our lives in your hands like that? We’re actual grown adults—”

“—and certainly older and more mature than you, Farren,” Moe puts in, and—

“—and certainly older and more mature than you,” Kaliope repeats, “and we don’t need you to friend-match-make us.”

“We were getting there on our own,” Moe puts in, and—

“We were getting there on our own,” Kaliope repeats. “Wait, what? No, we were not!”

“See?” Farren says, probably to Emerson, considering their conversational tone of voice. “I told you they wouldn’t get around to it by themselves. We did a good thing, there, and you don’t have to feel guilty.”

“Oh no,” Kaliope says, “you have to feel very guilty. Keep on right doing that. I’m done with you, you little traitor.” And Kaliope doesn’t even know herself if she’s joking or not, because she does mean it, a little, and at the same time she doesn’t, there’s just— something that she feels, something curling low in her belly and squeezing tight around her chest, something she doesn’t have a name for, something she doesn’t want to find a name for.

It’s an unfamiliar kind of feeling, and she doesn’t particularly like it, wouldn’t want to have it repeated.

•

RANDOM CHARACTER FACTS I DIDN’T KNOW BEFORE:

there are way too many side characters that suddenly got way too much screen time and importance to the whole story. and it seems like i can’t stop making new ones.

there’s the owner of the garage where moe has her second job at, for example. he turned out to be lenny’s grandfather (lenny is one of moe’s best friends from her high school time and it was basically their death that triggered her whole “i’m going to be a superhero now” thing and yeah. it’s probably time i make some proper character introductions. maybe that’ll help me get my motivation back.) and that’s big. also he apparently knows that moe is the hero amethyst? although i’m pretty sure that i mentioned in one of the first scenes that absolutely no one knows about her being amethyst. seriously, this is going to take so so much work to edit.

but yeah, another new character is the wind, apparently, and that’s going to change so much? but also make a lot of the things make more sense?

also there are like four cops or “hero liaisons” as i call them for some reason, and somehow they get to have a lot of impact as well??

look, i have zero control over anything in this story, i’m just glad to get any words out at all and maybe do some world building and character development while i’m at it.

•

SOME LINES THAT I ACTUALLY LIKE, SOMEWHAT:

Moe doesn’t know if she’ll be able to sleep now. […].

She wants to. She wants to get to. No Amethyst, not today.

(And yet, she turns on the radio, puts it on her nightstand, lets the static trickle on and hopes it won’t get interrupted, won’t turn into voices asking for backup to go up against a villain.)

(And yet, she puts her suit on the free space next to the radio, ready to be slipped into at a moment’s notice.)

(And yet, she’ll be ready to leave at that same moment’s notice, no matter the time of day or night.)

•

and that was the last roundup! i’m kinda glad it’s over, save for the total roundup now, because i’m really bad at picking out interesting stuff and not rambling too much and actually stick to a posting schedule and everything else, basically. i hope that at least some of you liked these posts, but well, even if you didn’t, it still helped me reflect on the week and see that i actually managed to get some things done, and yeah, not everything is bad and a lot of it is fixable. much more fixable than an empty page would be, at least, so! and i won nano early, that’s worth something, right?

[studybetterfasterstronger]

a lot of people are taking finals right now so here are some tips i’ve compiled for those who are, such as myself. :^)

if you think i missed a key point, let me know!

finals are...

a chance to prove that you’ve worked hard this semester

one small portion of your entire academic career

worth studying for

finals are not...

worth freaking out over

a reflection of your value

going to change the course of your entire life

able to raise your c to an a

able to drop your a to a c

the end of the world.

while studying for finals...

don’t overlook things you think you know by heart -- everything is worth reviewing

stay calm

listen to music, but don’t get distracted by it. pick a soothing, sans-lyric track and stick to it, or make a studying playlist. just remember the music should aid you in focusing, not be your focus.

drink water and eat small snacks to keep you going and hydrated. try to stick to healthier foods to keep your body and mind going, but it’s okay to indulge a little when you’re stressed.

just because you can keep going doesn’t mean you should. getting a proper amount of sleep is always important. taking ten minute breaks on the hour will improve your studying.

it’s not about how long you study, it’s about how well you study. a one-hour study session can be twice as valuable as a two-hour session if you know yourself and what will work for you. try things and see what helps.

sleep. sleep sleep sleep. sleep will improve your performance. sleep is important. 8-10 hours before your final and you’ll do so much better than you would on 6. if it’s that time of night, an extra hour of sleep will probably help you more than an extra hour of studying.

if you’re frustrated and stuck and nothing is working...

breathe in, breathe out. give yourself at least five minutes to do just that. it might sound boring or pointless, but i promise you this is immensely helpful. do this before moving on to the rest of the list.

do some stretches. go for a walk outside if you can. your mind and your body are connected and if you get physically moving, it’ll really help get your mind moving.

on that note: keep track of your body. are you too cold? or too hot? are you in comfortable clothes? treat your body like you would a sick friend’s. take care of it gently so you don’t need to worry about distractions like physical discomfort.

take a break to clean up your study space. throw out trash. put some books on the shelf. take 5-10 minutes to clear out your space and it might just clear out your mind, too.

get back to studying when you can be optimistic about its outcome.

while you’re taking the actual final...

take as few items with you as possible. studies have proven that having your phone with you or near you, even if it’s shut off, can limit your brainpower and reduce your scores on tests. find a place to keep your phone that’s outside of the room you’re taking the test in or don’t take it with you at all. if you can, take just a pencil, eraser, and water bottle with you to your final. this will make a difference.

try to keep your head in a good space. do some breathing exercises before, during, and after each final.

pretend you’re an expert in what you’re doing. pretend you’re the world’s leading physicist or a revolutionary writer or whatever you need to tell yourself right now.

know yourself. if it helps to check the time, do. if it helps to pretend you have all the time in the world, do. nothing works for everyone.

hope this helps you out! finals can be stressful, but they doesn’t have to be. now go forth and do well on all your tests, essays, and projects!

[descantiques]

Do you ship Posner and Scripps? If you do, then how do you think they got together? And if you don't... why don't you?

i do! i’ve imagined lots of different scenarios, but i think the one that seems most natural and likely to me is that after their acceptance, in the short time before they move on to uni, posner is trying very hard to maintain ties with the few friends he has, and to finally get them to see him as an adult. they have get togethers and nights out, but in the end the only two that give him any sense of reliability are scripps and akthar, and scripps is the greater of the two. they probably go into their first term at school having casual study sessions and grabbing the occasional bite to eat. they become comfortable in a pattern, but they are usually doing their own things and just chatting with each other. posner frequently mentions dakin, and it’s usually a bit of a dead conversation when he does, as even he can see that his chances of winning dakin over are slimmer and slimmer every day. dakin hasn’t fallen in love with him at uni as he’d dreamed it would be, and he’s giving lots of sappy speeches about the pain of love, which scripps endures admirably.

it would be scripps that first realizes the attraction between them. maybe he’s always known, at least a little. he was the first one to see posner’s love for dakin, and was the one to make him privy to it. it’s only fitting that scripps now recognizes some affectionate looks and a particular pleasantness in their shared company. it isn’t entirely comfortable for scripps, at first. he’s generally not the type to get swept up in things; he’s the voice of reason. that is his prescribed position. but it’s hard not to start feeling a pull toward the irrational and romantic with ‘spaniel hearted’ posner, who deeply believes in every amorous sentiment he reads. scripps remembers all the would-bes and should-have-beens that dakin mulled over after what happened with irwin, and ll his talk about ‘the subjunctive.’ he thinks maybe he and posner are better left in such a space, where things are hoped for and never accomplished, but also never broken. besides, he doubts posner even recognizes his own feelings.

there’d be some sort of bubble-bursting moment that goes something like this: posner has one of the first of his breakdowns that will come to characterize the rest of his life. he doesn’t know how to manage them yet, or how to prevent them, and his anxious passions certainly do not help. maybe it’s because he saw dakin finally admit to not being straight, but it’s with another man. or maybe it’s because he’s realizing he’s exhausted with work and is losing the ability to press on when it feels like he’s always doing it alone. maybe he still doesn’t seem to fit in with the other boys, and even though this classmates didn’t even know him as a child, they still treat him as if he were one, as if he still looks barely old enough to be bar mitzvahed. no matter which of these contribute to it, it always ends with posner feeling alone and scared and unloved (”unkissed, unrejoicing, unembraced” and all that). scripps helps him through it and talks him down from a frenzy, and it is then, when he’s got an arm around him and rubs at his shoulder, does posner begin to understand a certain feeling of desire. 

maybe he poses the request as an impersonal one, where posner says he knows he’s going to end up alone, but that he’d like not to enter that darkness without knowing what everybody else gets to know. he asks scripps if he can kiss him. 

scripps knows that even if this is sincere it’s not the time to think of things like that. it would be like kissing him drunk, or asleep. it isn’t about HIM, it’s about wanting to have ANYONE, and as understanding and sympathetic as scripps can be, he’s not selfless enough to stand in for any warm body just to meet this request. he declines, and tells posner he should sleep, or get come cool towels and warm tea to calm him down. he doesn’t scold him, or tell him not to ask again, and secretly he does hope very much he’ll ask again, just… just not like this.

naturally, posner is mortified by the lack of response, and he can see the one good friendship he still has crumbling because he couldn’t think when to shut his mouth. this is different than dakin. dakin never really liked him at all, he thinks, but scripps does. he absolutely will NOT speak of anything like this again.

they spend a week in awkward non-communication. david makes up every excuse he could possibly think of not to see don. obviously don sees what’s going on, but he’s hoping david will figure things out on his own for once and not need him to spell it out, so he accepts the excuses and keeps saying that he’ll be here is david changes his mind.

people don’t really grow so much so fast, though, and fear is a powerful incentive. david does nothing, and the week becomes two, and then three. it is clearly on don to make the move here, and so he does, showing up at david’s room and trying to talk to him about what happened. david is not having it, insisting that he knows it was uncomfortable and it won’t happen again, but don’s like ‘LISTEN, that’s not what i’m saying. i’m going to tell you exactly why that’s not it, and then i’m going to kiss you and i’m telling you now so you won’t freak out and so you’ll pay close attention.’ he tells him that this was never about any kind of discomfort at kissing him, but at the idea that is wasn’t about him at all. david’s slowly losing all brainpower but he manages to clumsily interject that that isn’t true at all, and that OF COURSE it was about him, even if he didn’t know until he asked it, and don’s like to heck with this i had plans and a careful talk laid out but this is all a mess anyway and let’s just stop the damage here. their second kiss can be the real one they tell people about. this first one is just their lips pressed together after a murmured ‘fuck it’ and it’s still and resolved and very, very intentional. 

david doesn’t panic because he knew this was coming, and so he is ON THIS, and he maybe even feels like he might be doing a decent job kissing don back. he actually feels like of nice, like maybe he’s at least a little attractive when his arms wrap around his neck and he leans in just a little. the feeling won’t last forever, in fact it lasts about 7 seconds, as long as this weird first kiss. and then he feels like himself again, but a very unusually happy himself.

they make plans to go out properly sometime, but their real first date is just them studying in david’s dorm after this bizarre conversation with some inoffensive showtune instrumentals in the background.

lmao sorry this got Large but i still think it’s a fair answer to the ask

[alcoholicseraphim]

The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Three- Year I- Crumbled Foundations

"Miss Granger, the Welcoming Feast was mandatory for all students." Minerva stood in front of her, seeming more exasperated than annoyed.

Hermione squinted up at her, trying to banish the last remnants of sleep from her mind. She pushed herself up onto one elbow, feeling her weight sink into the well-worn couch. "Why? The schedules are handed out at breakfast, right?" She looked around the dimly-lit Common Room, realizing that they weren't alone. She'd completely missed the arrival of the other students, which had been the plan. Wait, if it was their first night back, and they were just now coming back from the Welcoming Feast, then why was Minerva there at all? Hermione remembered from reading Hogwarts, a History that the prefects always led the students back to their respective Common Rooms. This was to cement the idea from day one that the prefects were a benevolent authority. Having a teacher, and especially the Head of House, break that tradition surely lessened the effect. As curious as she was, asking questions weren't feasible. Allowing the others to become aware that she had intimate knowledge of the inner workings of Hogwarts and the psychological effects of aforementioned machinations would lead to queries about her background. It was far too early to err so colossally and unnecessarily.

Minerva raised one eyebrow and the side of her pinched mouth curved upwards, an expression that Hermione had come to recognize as well-concealed amusement. She did have a reputation to uphold as lacking completely in any sense of humor. "That is correct. However, you would have been presented, as every student is on their first day."

"It's too late for that now," Hermione said, sitting up. She rubbed at the side of her calf where the pattern of the couch cushions had been imprinted in her skin. "I'll go next year." The last two words were stretched out into a yawn, becoming nearly unintelligible.

Minerva seemed to get the gist. "I will hold you to that, Miss Granger. Have you eaten?"

Oh. The truth was, Hermione hadn't eaten at all since the day before. She knew it wasn't healthy, and it definitely didn't provide necessary brainpower. Her childhood, it had occurred to her in the past, had prepared her for the war. When she was younger, she skipped countless meals because she just had to finish reading. When she became involved in the war, she skipped meals because there just wasn't enough food. Hunger was a staple of the times. Even having been in safer times for several months, old habits were hard to do away with. Still, she'd been asleep until just then, so she supposed it didn't matter all that much in the long run. "No, but I'm fine. I'll just go to breakfast in the morning."

The Transfiguration professor did not seem at all satisfied by that, but she still allowed it. "Go sleep in your dormitory, Miss Granger. It can get noisy down here, especially on the first night back."

Hermione knew all that, of course, and was struggling not to allow memories to overlay the image in front of her. It was safer to go up to her dorm; there were fewer memories, fewer distractions, and fewer questions up there. "Goodnight, Mi- Professor."

Classes began the next day, and Hermione forced herself into a sort of waking-dream state. That way, she would not be overwhelmed with the emotions that came with the memories. It also happened to be the easiest way to avoid the people she'd once known in the future, although that was an unintentional, if happy, outcome. Turning off her emotions was a coping mechanism that she used whenever a situation threatened to overwhelm her. She'd used it many times over the years. The downside was that when she decided it was safe to allow her emotions to come back, she would overload and spend several weeks struggling to rediscover her equilibrium. It wouldn't be uncommon for her to break down in tears or laughter over seemingly insignificant things. Constant irritation and intolerance strove to find balance with empathy and guilt. Hermione knew that during these times she was difficult to be around, and that that fact only gave her mind material to latch onto in order to cut away at her self-esteem. However, being a practical and level-headed person, she could usually counter such negativity with recollections of situations in which she'd helped others.

Even though no one bothered with her, everyone was curious about the new girl. Many were contemptuous, having no patience for someone who wouldn't even try to act normal. Others pestered her with questions over and over, as if she might answer if asked often enough. She gave no answers, which was easier than lying. Some took the hint and backed off, but others were only driven mad with unfulfilled curiosity.

Once a few weeks had passed, Hermione decided it was safe to allow her consciousness to awaken fully. She remained quiet, for no one expected her to speak and she didn't know what effect she'd have on the timeline if she were to make too large of an impact, but she was thinking- and feeling- properly and taking in her surroundings again.

It was several more weeks after her initial revival before the rest of the school was made aware. They were in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Gryffindor and Slytherin. Hermione ignored the chatter around her entirely, focusing intermittently on the lesson.

"Tell me- what weaknesses do the Inferi possess, and how can such weaknesses be exploited?" the professor quizzed, actually glancing away from the board for the first time during the entire class. Habit almost made her hand fly up, but Hermione caught herself and looked around.

There were no hands fluttering in the air. Everyone was still.

Lily Evans was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, her eyebrows furrowed, trying desperately to come up with the answer. Her frustration was evident. It was no surprise; where would a girl like Lily even hear of the existence of Inferi, much less what they were and how to defeat them?

The time-traveler sighed, a steady release of air from her lungs. She raised her hand halfway, slowly, mimicking the casual manner of the other students.

"Yes? Miss Garner?" called the professor. There was a smile on his face that Hermione took to be one of relief.

Ignoring the man's misuse of her surname, she said, "The Inferi are creatures of the cold and dark, and are immune to many spells. However, they are vulnerable when exposed to light and warmth, so fire spells are very effective when defending against Inferi. En masse, they are extremely dangerous due to their superior strength. While not impervious to damage, they feel no pain and are afraid only of light and heat. It's best to cast spells like Firestorm to drive off a large group, or simple a simple Incendio to deal with a few."

The silence was complete, unnerving Hermione. It wasn't one of admiration or even surprise. Her eyes darted around the room, trying to interpret the expressions of the other students. It didn't take long, for such looks were familiar to her. During her years with Harry she'd witnessed suspicion and fear, on the micro and macro scale. Very rarely had these emotions been directed at her, and that in itself was new. Hermione shifted in her seat, struggling to act as if she didn't notice or care. She wasn't sure whether she had succeeded.

"Excellent, excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor," the man coughed. What was his name again? It started with a C or a K or something similar.

Hermione spent the time until the end of class tapping her fingers in a random pattern on her desk, oblivious to the curious gazes focused on her just then.

The professor looked up from the board, where he was writing down some tidbit of information that Hermione already knew. "Miss Granger?"

Still mindlessly tapping on the desk, she mumbled a response.

"Stay after, please. The rest of you may go."

Hermione came to stand beside Kablan's desk, nervously waiting for the room to clear. The chatter was subdued and, it seemed to Hermione, malicious. Ignoring it was impossible.

Kablan looked straight at Hermione, maintaining eye contact. He somehow managed to make her more uncomfortable than she already was. "I see you've taken my suggestion to heart. I hope to see this as a continued pattern, not merely a one-time event."

What suggestion? This had obviously occurred during her waking-dream weeks.

"Yes, Professor," she agreed. Calm, she reminded herself.

"Good. Now, where did you learn what you said a few moments ago?"

"A book, Professor."

"Not the textbook."

"No, Professor."

"What book, then?"

"I don't recall."

She did recall. Never mind Hermione's personal experience with the Inferi, she'd learned about them in The Thin Line Between Defense Against the Dark Arts and the Dark Arts, a tome she'd come across in her grief over Minerva's death.

Hermione really had to remember not to call her that.

Professor Kablan sighed. "Very well. Please inform me if you ever remember."

"I will, Professor."

It occurred to Hermione, walking back to the Common Room, that Professor Kablan had asked that question without first introducing the topic, and without elaborating. Hadn't she just told herself that it was too early to mess up? One would think she would consider the consequences of her actions, being well known for doing exactly that. She should have kept her know-it-all mouth shut.

Tongues were wagging in the Great Hall during lunch that day. Hermione frowned; she hadn't intended to cause a commotion, but intentions didn't change anything. That wasn't her purpose.

Sitting cautiously in an empty section of the bench at the Gryffindor table, Hermione marked the position of every person in the room. Today was different, she knew, and not in a good way.

The people pressed in around her, and Hermione found it hard to breathe. They were talking about her, or was that just her imagination? It wasn't. She already knew it wasn't.

Mid-bite, a shaggy-haired boy popped into the space next to her and placed his arm around her shoulder. Hermione jumped, nearly choking on her sandwich. "Get off of me," she snarled, inadvertently expressing all of her dread and nervous energy in that one phrase.

He hastily removed his arm, using the motion to brush back his hair. Clearly her tone was enough to intimidate even him. This was a sixteen-year-old Sirius Black, and James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew had appeared around him like a fan of shadows. Room had silently been made for them. They were big shots, apparently. Hermione remembered Harry telling her something about that.

She could have sworn that she heard someone hiss, "Bitch," but she may have been mistaken. Her hearing was excellent, so somehow she doubted it.

Sirius cleared his throat, smiling winningly. "Wotcher," he said. "My name is Sirius Black. Hermione Granger, right?"

Hermione muttered a confirmation, then scolded herself internally. The poor boy was greeting her, and he may be flirting too, but for Merlin's sake, that was absolutely no reason to be rude! She knew full well that Sirius flirted with anyone, probably even his worst enemies.

"Nice to meet you, Black. Who are you all, then?" She was referring, of course, to the rest of the Marauders.

Introductions were made, and Hermione stepped up the politeness, feeling slightly guilty for the horrid first impression she'd probably left them with.

James Potter was a bit cold, if unfailingly gallant. The look in his eyes when Hermione leaned over Sirius to shake his hand was definitely one of contempt. Hermione wanted to glare back. He was nothing like the Harry she'd known.

Remus Lupin was surprisingly beautiful. If he hadn't been bitten, he would have definitely been drop-dead gorgeous. Hermione was surprised, and a bit sad for her old friend. If it had taken this much of a toll on his appearance, she could only imagine how much it affected him emotionally and mentally. His handshake was firm and warm, and he smiled back at her before dissolving into disinterest as soon as she stopped looking at him.

Hermione was prepared to hate Peter Pettigrew immediately. She wanted to look at him and see the vile rat right there at the surface, only looking out for himself. Instead, she saw a sweet-looking, pudgy boy with a nervous face and adoration perpetually shining in his eyes. His grip was sweaty, and Hermione surreptitiously wiped her hand off on her robes once he let go. She mustered a smile for him, which Pettigrew returned. Perhaps she should reserve judgement, in this instance. She wondered what it was that transformed that boy into the traitorous man he would become, and whether she could change things.

The company was welcome, which surprised her. They were obviously wary of her, and likely only associating with her because of the new and interesting rumors surrounding her. They didn't pester her with questions and they cheered her up with their antics, though she knew they weren't meant for her benefit, so she supposed she could tolerate them. Just for one meal.

*|II8II|*

She met Lily Evans in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Of course, they'd known each other's names, but had never exchanged introductions or words.

"Lily Evans, nice to meet you."

"Hermione Granger."

They were paired together, trading simple spells that Hermione had mastered in her third year. Lily hardly seemed challenged, either, and they shared a grin.

Hermione was thrilled. Her magic was back, if only partially. It was about time, too.

"What do you say," Hermione whispered conspiratorially, "we step it up a notch or two?"

Lily agreed heartily, and they spent the rest of the class laughing out loud at the strange, obscure charms and jinxes they threw at each other.

Until one of Hermione's failed, of course, and then she felt like crying, because she'd wasted the magic she had. How could she be so idiotic? Of course her magic wasn't back! She would be lucky if it came back at all, after this.

Still, Hermione had to plaster the grin back on her face. Fortunately, Lily hadn't noticed that Hermione's spell had failed.

"Good game," Lily grinned, and from then on, she insisted on pulling Hermione everywhere with her. It felt good to have a friend again, even one as high-strung as Lily Evans.

*|II8II|*

Professor McGonagall turned to the rows of desks, and Hermione observed her face. She had the usual stern countenance, although much younger, only about forty or so. Her hair was no longer a steel grey, but a rich ebony color, doubtless well on its way to its eventual hue.

"Good morning, class. We've studied the theory behind nonverbal spells for the past few days. Now we shall begin to put this into practice. The same will occur in your Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. I have set a match on every desk. It is your task to change it into a needle, as you did in your first year. This time, however, the spell must be nonverbal. Are we understood?" The professor looked around the room for any possible confusion before saying, "Proceed."

Staring plaintively at the match, Hermione weighed her options. The nonverbal part wasn't a problem, of course, it was the spell. Her magic still hadn't returned, and she couldn't risk the spell not working in such a public place.

Eventually, she raised her hand, hoping against hope that she could make Minerva- Professor McGonagall- understand.

McGonagall took one look at the wavering hand and said, "The Headmaster has informed all of the teachers of your situation, Miss Granger. If you would read your Transfiguration textbook instead?"

Ignoring the curious stares and the fact that she'd read it so many times she knew the chapters in order and most of it could be recited verbatim, Hermione pulled out her textbook and started on page one.

*|II8II|*

Sometimes Hermione hated Quidditch.

It was the Saturday a week after getting out of the Hospital Wing, and it was raining hard. She shielded her eyes and glared through the heavy drops at the sky. There were flashes of the crimson from the Gryffindor uniforms, reasonably bright against the dark storm clouds, and occasionally Hermione could make out the canary yellow of Hufflepuff, muted as it was.

That was it, though. She could hardly hear the commentary. In short, she'd come out here for nothing.

How could anyone enjoy this?

If it were Harry up there on his broom, she would have stuck around and shown support, no matter how miserable the conditions. As it was, her presence made no difference to anyone. Hermione stood, weaving her way around legs and bags, before finally getting down from the stands. She'd drawn several indignant and curious stares from the people she passed, all of which she ignored.

Hogwarts was very different when it was empty. The noise outside contrasted strongly with the thick, ringing silence inside the stone castle.

Now would be a most excellent time to get some work done.

Robes swishing after her, Hermione ran up several flights of stairs to the seventh floor. She passed in front of the wall three times, focusing on her need to get to the place where lost things are hidden. Harry had told her where the Diadem was after his sixth year, but he had no idea where he'd grabbed it from. Suppressing a groan, Hermione used the time in which she would not be missed as best she could, but the room was too large. Several hours of methodical search yielded no results.

The game would be over, now, Hermione realized, glancing at her watch. It was past dark.

With a sigh, Hermione decided that the room was simply too expansive to search all in one go. She would come back later that night, search until morning if she had to.

For now, though, she needed to make an appearance at dinner. She had no doubt that she was watched.

Dinner was a tedious affair. Hermione found herself wishing for more enlightening conversation than she was surrounded by; even if it wasn't with her, just something interesting to listen to. Nothing changed.

She left early, headed to the Come-and-Go Room, and continued the search for the Diadem. Hermione spotted the Horcrux mere moments after walking into the room resigned to a long night.

"Yes!" the time traveler whooped triumphantly, doing a small victory dance. Why not? No one was there!

Her joy subsided once more. Hermione unwrapped her scarf from around her neck and wrapped the Diadem in it, careful not to touch it with her bare skin. Two Horcruxes down in just a month and a half, not bad. Not bad at all.

*|II8II|*

Sirius jabbed her in the back, square between her shoulder blades. Hermione ignored him, and he did it again, this time in her side. Her body twisted involuntarily in an effort to get away from his finger.

How was Professor Kablan not noticing this? Ah, yes, he was at his desk, completely oblivious to anything going on in his classroom.

It was the third invasion of her personal space that caused her to acknowledge him, a tug on her hair.

"What do you want?" Hermione snarled, not turning around to look at the boy sitting directly behind her.

"Nothing," Sirius whispered back, and Hermione could hear the smirk in his voice. Closing her eyes and reciting the Greek alphabet mentally, Hermione suffered herself to being poked and prodded until class was over.

Gathering her books, Hermione looked up to see James Potter scowling behind an evil-faced Sirius, Remus Lupin next to him looking as if he wanted to leave without them, and Peter Pettigrew, gazing at her with wide and slightly glossy eyes.

"What do you want?" she asked once more, managing to keep her tone mostly civil.

"Come on," Sirius replied. "You're taking forever."

Hermione didn't want to walk with the obnoxious group, but it seemed she had little choice. Glancing behind her as she was dragged out of the room, Hermione caught the grin on the face of her DADA Professor. Not quite so oblivious, then.

They were loud, which she'd known and expected, and they left her alone to feel uncomfortable, which she was grateful for, although she suspected it had more to do with genuine disinterest on the parts of James and Remus than an effort to be courteous.

James didn't seem overly glad of her presence, which made her feel bitter. He was Harry's father, after all, and they looked extremely similar, so it was almost like being ignored by Harry.

Why had she been brought along again?

The Marauders were a single unit, and there was no room for her. Peter hadn't stopped looking at her, otherwise she would have slipped off into a different corridor. What class were they even going to? Unless they all took Arithmancy, there was no reason for her to tag along with them.

She did turn, then, at the next fork. Peter didn't say anything, which was surprising, although he did seem puzzled. He'd been the only one who'd noticed that she had gone.

Arithmancy was her favorite class, even if she'd taken it before. There was nothing truly set in the curriculum, and the topic could easily be led into something much more advanced than she had any right knowing. She wouldn't talk with the professor during class, as it was understood that no one else really enjoyed the subject, instead electing to waste her lunchtime discussing the magic of Arithmancy with her Professor.

Indeed, she once again observed the vacant stares of her classmates during class. Professor Regent had long since been resigned to it, but it aggravated Hermione.

Her own attention was fixed on the board and the instructor, as was her wont. Hermione only realized later that Remus Lupin did, in fact, take the class, and she was slightly embarrassed for practically running away.

*|II8II|*

"Perhaps," Lily announced in Potions, turning around to face the bushy-haired time-traveler, "you and I should go to Hogsmeade together. You've never been there, right? What do you think?" Her happy grin left very little room for refusal, and Hermione didn't have anything better to do, anyway.

"Sounds fine to me," she replied carefully. Alienating Lily was the last thing she wanted to do so early in the game.

The redhead's smile only got wider, and Hermione noticed that her teeth were incredibly white and perfect. She rubbed her mouth absently, remembering buck teeth. Thank Merlin for Draco Malfoy.

Her eyes travelled further to finally land on Severus Snape. Was it just her, or were his eyes fixed on Lily and her dazzling- well, everything? She filed this information away to ponder later. She looked away before the boy could notice her staring.

Lily probably had many more admirers than just James Potter and Severus Snape. She was a truly enchanting girl, and Hermione's self-esteem took a hit every time she looked at her. It didn't matter too much, anyway, because Lily would end up with James and would birth Harry Potter, a wonderful boy who looked like his father.

She had her doubts regarding the redeeming qualities of the father in question, but that was really none of her business. He was sixteen, after all.

"Hermione? Are you all right?" Lily's worried face hovered in front of Hermione's.

Hermione waved away her concern with a nonchalant, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking, that's all." Lily looked like she wanted to press the issue but didn't. Her new friend was really quite intense, wasn't she?